A Line of Blood

by McPherson, Ben

  Tonight I simply watched Max, wondering what to do, and what to tell Millicent when she came home.

  A father leads his son from the world of the boy into the world of the man. A father takes charge, and does not without careful preparation expose his son to the cold realities of death. A father – more specifically – does not expose his son to the corpse of the next-door neighbour, and – most especially – not when that corpse displays an erection brought on by suicide through electrocution.

  The tension in the limbs, that rictus smile, they were not easily erased. What did Max know about suicide? What could an eleven-year-old boy know about despair? I had to talk to him, but had no idea what to say. This was bad. Wasn’t this the stuff of full-blown trauma, of sexual dysfunction in the teenage years, and nervous breakdown in early adulthood? And though I hadn’t actively shown Max the neighbour, I had failed to prevent him from seeing him in all his semi-priapic squalor. What do you say? Maybe Millicent would know.

  ‘Can I have some more cheese, Dad?’

  I said nothing.

  Maybe I should ring Millicent again. The phone would go to voicemail, but there was comfort in hearing her voice.

  Max went to the fridge and fetched a large block of cheddar, then took the bread knife from the breadboard. He sat back down at the table and looked directly at me, wondering perhaps why I’d done nothing to stop him. Then he cut off a large chunk. I noticed the bread knife cut into the surface of the table, but said nothing.

  The cat was at the sink. She looked at Max, eyes large, then blinked.

  Max went to the sink and turned on the tap. The cat drank, her tongue flicking in and out, curling around the stream of water.

  ‘Can I watch Netflix?’

  I looked at my computer, at the light that pulsed gently on and off. No. Seventy hours of footage to watch, and a week to do it. I have to work. I really should say no.

  ‘Dad?’ said Max.

  I nodded. Work seemed very distant now. Max stared.

  ‘I’m not taking a plate,’ he said at last.

  ‘OK.’

  At eleven thirty I heard Millicent’s key in the lock. I was sitting where Max had left me at the kitchen table, my own sandwich untouched; the tap was still running.

  I heard Millicent drop her bag at the foot of the stair. For the first time I noticed the sound of the programme on the computer: helicopters and gunfire; screaming and explosions. Millicent and Max exchanged soft words. The gunfire and the screaming stopped.

  ‘Night, Max.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  The sound of Max going upstairs; the sound of Millicent dropping her shoes beside her bag.

  ‘So, Max is up kind of late.’ Millicent came into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway for a moment, and I saw her notice Max’s plate, the stack of uneaten bread, the bread-knife cut in the table surface. She turned off the tap, then sat down opposite me. She made to say something, then frowned.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Hey.’ Her voice drew out the word, all honey and smoke.

  When Millicent first came to London it had felt like our word. The long Californian vowel, the gently falling cadence at the end, were for me, and for me alone. Hey. There was such warmth in her voice, such love. In time I realised hey was how she greeted friends, that she had no friends in London but me at the start; the first time she said hey to another man the betrayal stung me. Don’t laugh at me for this. I didn’t know.

  ‘So,’ said Millicent. ‘I didn’t stink.’

  I don’t know what you mean.

  ‘In fact, I think I did OK. I mean, I guess I talked a little too much, but it went good for a first time. Look.’

  A bag. A bottle and some flowers. There’s a dead man in the next-door house.

  I looked up at a dark mark in the wall near the ceiling. Round, like a target. Draw a straight line from me through that mark, and you’d hit the neighbour. Seven metres, I guessed. Maybe less.

  Millicent looked at me, then reached out and took my hand in hers, turning it over and unclenching my fist.

  ‘You are super-tense.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You’re OK?’

  No. I was as far from OK as I could imagine but the words I needed wouldn’t form. ‘Yes,’ I said at last.

  ‘You forgot.’ It took a lot to hurt Millicent, but I could feel the edge of disappointment in her voice. The interview, on the radio. Of course.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Radio.’ Why can’t I find the words?

  ‘OK,’ she said. She looked at me as if I had run over a deer. ‘But you didn’t listen to it. I mean, it’s also a download, so I get that maybe it’s not time-critical, but I guess I was kind of hoping, Alex …’

  I breathed deep, trying to decide how to say what I had to say. From the look of Millicent, Max had told her nothing of what we’d seen. I wondered where the police were. Maybe bathroom suicides were a common event around here. What do you say?

  ‘What is it, Alex?’

  From upstairs I heard Max flush the toilet. I thought of the bathroom in the house next door, of the bath five metres from where he was now.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘OK.’ I took Millicent’s hand in mine, looked her in the eye. ‘OK.’

  ‘You’re scaring me a little, Alex. What’s going on?’

  Three sentences, I thought. Anything can be said in three sentences. You need to find three sentences.

  ‘OK. This is what I need to tell you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The neighbour killed himself. I found him. Max saw.’ Nine words. Not bad.

  ‘No,’ she said. Very quiet, almost matter-of-fact, as if refuting a badly phrased proposition. ‘No, Alex, he isn’t. He can’t be.’

  ‘I found him. Max saw.’ Five words.

  She stared at me. Said nothing.

  ‘I should have stopped him from seeing. I didn’t.’

  Still she stared at me. She brought her right hand up to her face, rubbing the bridge of her nose in the way she does when she’s buying time in an argument.

  ‘I haven’t talked to him yet about what he saw. I know I have to, but I wanted to talk to you first.’ Because you’re better at this than me. Because I don’t know what to say.

  Still Millicent said nothing.

  The doorbell rang. Millicent did not move. I did not move. It rang again. We sat there, staring at each other. Only when I heard footsteps on the stairs did I stand up and go to the front room. Max had the door open. He stood there in his lion pyjamas, looking up at the two policemen.

  ‘Upstairs, Max,’ I said, trying to smile at the policemen, aware suddenly of the papers strewn across the floor, of Millicent’s pizza carton and my beer cans on the side table. ‘I’ll be up in a minute, Max,’ I said, guiding him towards the stair.

  ‘It’s OK. Night, Dad.’ He kissed me and slipped away from my hand and up the stairs. I nodded at the policemen and was surprised by the warmth of their smiles.

  We agreed that it would be easiest for them to enter the neighbour’s property through our back garden. Save breaking down the front door and causing unnecessary drama. Better to keep the other neighbours in the dark for the time being.

  The policemen weren’t interested in explanations; they didn’t care what Max and I had been doing in the neighbour’s house, seemed completely unconcerned with what we had seen. That would come later, I guessed. They said no to a cup of tea, nodded politely to Millicent, who still hadn’t moved from her chair, and disappeared into our back garden. I went upstairs, and found Max in the bathroom, standing on the bath and looking out of the window as the policemen scaled the wall.

  ‘Bed, Max.’

  ‘OK, Dad.’

  When he was tucked up, I drew up a chair beside the bed.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘I thought I’d sit here while you go to sleep.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. Really.’

  Three heavy knocks at the front door.
A dream, perhaps?

  2

  Millicent’s side of the bed was empty. We had lain for hours without speaking, neither of us finding sleep. Then she had reached across for my hand, encircled my legs with hers, and held me very tightly. I had felt her breasts against my back, her pubic bone against the base of my spine, and I’d wondered why we rarely lay like this any more.

  After some time, Millicent’s breathing had slowed and her grip loosened into a subtler embrace. I became more and more aware of her pubic bone, still gently pressing against me. But at the first stirring in my penis I remembered the neighbour’s half-erection in the bath. I stretched away from her, and she went back to her side of the bed.

  ‘Millicent?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she had said.

  Now I got up and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I opened the door to Max’s room for long enough to see the calm rise and fall of his chest. Asleep. Clothes folded. Toys in their place. I watched him for a while, then went downstairs. Three minutes past six.

  The cat tripped into the living room, tail high, limbs taut. She danced around my feet, and I reached down to her.

  ‘Hello, Foxxa.’ She sniffed approvingly at the tips of my fingers; then she pushed on to her hind legs, running her back upwards against the palm of my hand, forcing me to stroke her. For a moment she stood, unsteady, looking up, eyes bright and wide, as if surprised to find herself on two feet. Then she lowered herself on to all fours and wove a figure-of-eight around my calves, catlike again.

  A mug on the living-room table: Millicent had drunk coffee in front of the television. I saw that the front door was unlocked, and found the kitchen empty. The cat followed me in, ate dried food from her bowl.

  Millicent had left a folded note.

  Alex,

  We need to

  talk Max (3)

  talk school (1)

  talk shrink (2)

  talk police (?)

  But please, none of this before we speak.

  M

  The coffee-maker was on the stove, still half-full. I checked the temperature with my hand. Warm enough to drink. I stood on the countertop and felt around on top of the cupboard, just below the plaster of the ceiling. Marlboro ten-pack. I took one and replaced the packet.

  We had started hiding cigarettes from Max. He didn’t smoke them, as far as we could tell, but a pack left lying on the kitchen table would disappear. Millicent was certain that he sold them, but Max disapproved of our smoking with such puritanical disdain that I was sure he destroyed them.

  In the garden I pulled the love seat away from the wall and drank my coffee, smoked my cigarette. On a morning like this, Crappy wasn’t so bad. No dogs barked, no one shouted in the street, no police helicopters watched from above. We should sort out the garden though. The garden was a state.

  I stood on the love seat, looked back over the wall. Poor man, with his trimmed lawn, his verdant bower and his successful suicide attempt. From here there was nothing – nothing – that betrayed our neighbour’s sad, lonely death.

  I pushed the love seat back against the wall and stood up, finished my cigarette, tried to plan the day. Quiet word with the teacher. Phone calls to the shrink. The police, I imagined, would make contact with us.

  What had Max seen? When he had climbed the stairs behind me, what had he seen? That jolt, that first image, that’s what stays with you, isn’t it? Contorted face or pitiful erection? Rictus or dick? Which would be more traumatic for a boy of his age?

  I flicked my cigarette butt over the wall and went back into the house. Max was in the kitchen, all pyjamas and tousled hair, rubbing sleep from his eyes. I bent down to hug him. He sniffed dramatically.

  ‘You’ve been smoking.’ But he threw his arms around my neck and hung there for a moment, then sat down at the table. I searched his face for some sign of something broken in him, but found nothing.

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m going to be coming with you to school today. I need to tell your teacher what you saw.’

  ‘His name’s Mr Sharpe.’

  ‘… to tell Mr Sharpe what you saw.’

  ‘You forgot his name, didn’t you?’

  ‘Max. Can you listen?’

  ‘What? And why do you have to tell him?’

  ‘Because what you saw was very upsetting.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘You might be upset later.’

  He shrugged. ‘Can I be there when you tell him?’

  ‘Sure. OK. Why not.’

  I kept expecting the police to knock on the door. Typical of Millicent to be out at a time like this.

  I made a cooked breakfast to fill the time before we left. I let Max fry the eggs, which surprised him. It surprised me too. We ate in silence, then shared Millicent’s portion, enjoying our guilty intimacy. Max went upstairs. I put the plates and pans in the dishwasher and set it running. Millicent didn’t need to know.

  Max came downstairs, dressed and ready to go. I texted Millicent to say I was taking him to school.

  There was a man standing outside our house. He was casually dressed – leather jacket, distressed jeans – but there was nothing casual about his stance. Perhaps he had been about to knock, because the open door seemed to throw his balance slightly off. Max had flung it wide, and there stood the man in front of us, swaying, unsure of what to say.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Max. ‘Are you a policeman?’

  The man nodded, ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He carried a briefcase that was far too smart for his clothes.

  ‘I could tell you were,’ said Max. ‘Are you going to arrest someone?’

  The policeman ignored the question. ‘Mr Mercer?’ he said. I nodded, and he nodded at me again. He told me his name, and his rank. I immediately forgot both.

  ‘You got a minute?’

  ‘I was going to take Max to school.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Max. ‘I can just go.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to your son actually, if that’s all right. With your permission, and in your presence.’

  No.

  ‘My name’s Max,’ said Max.

  I looked at Max. You want to do this? He nodded at me.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘You’re giving your consent?’

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘yes.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Max.

  The policeman explained that this was not an interview, although he had recently been certified in interviewing children. He gave me a sheet of paper about what we could expect from the police and how to make a complaint if we were unhappy. Then he took out a notebook. I handed the paper to Max, who read it carefully.

  First sign, I thought. First sign that this is taking a wrong turn and I end it and ask him to leave. He’s eleven.

  I brought a chair in from the kitchen for the policeman. Max and I sat on the sofa. The policeman asked me where Millicent was, and I told him she was out. He asked me where she worked, and I said that she worked from home. He asked me where she was again. I said I wasn’t sure.

  He made a note in his notebook.

  ‘She often goes out,’ said Max. ‘Dad never knows where she is.’

  ‘Max,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you don’t.’

  The policeman made a note of this too.

  ‘Mum values her freedom.’

  The policeman made yet another note. Then he took out a small pile of printed forms on to which he began to write.

  ‘How old are you, Max?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘And is Max Mercer your full name?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t have a middle name.’

  ‘And you’re a boy, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  They exchanged a smile; I realised that the policeman was simply nervous.

  ‘Can I sit beside you?’ said Max. ‘Just while you’re doing the form?’

  Th
e policeman looked at me.

  ‘If that’s OK with your dad.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I asked him if he wanted a coffee; he asked for a glass of water instead. I went through to the kitchen. Was he nervous, I wondered. Or are you playing nice cop?

  ‘I’m white British,’ I heard Max say, ‘even though British isn’t a race but the human race is. We’re not religious or anything. And my first language is English, so I don’t need an interpreter.’

  He was reading from the form, I guessed, checking off the categories: so proud, so anxious to show how grown-up he could be. ‘For my orientation you can put straight.’

  ‘That’s really for older children,’ I heard the policeman say.

  ‘But can’t you just put straight?’

  ‘All right, Max. Straight.’

  I came back in with the water. The policeman got up and sat opposite us again in the kitchen chair, writing careful notes as his telephone recorded Max’s words.

  ‘What were you doing before you found the neighbour, Max?’

  ‘Not much. Like reading and homework and stuff. I’m not allowed an Xbox or anything. And Mum was out, and Dad was working. He lets me borrow his phone, though.’

  The policeman sent me an enquiring look. Then he made another note. I was wrong. It wasn’t nervousness; it was something else. There was a shrewdness to him that I hadn’t noticed at first, and that I didn’t much like. ‘We’re good parents,’ I wanted to say to him. ‘We love him unconditionally. We set boundaries.’ Don’t judge us.

  He was good at speaking to children, though: I had to give him that. Max told him everything. That we had been looking for our cat, that the cat had led us into the neighbour’s house, that the back door had been open, and that the cat had disappeared up the stairs.

  ‘Is it better to say erection, or can I say boner?’ said Max.

  ‘Just say whichever you feel more comfortable saying,’ said the policeman.