“OK, so why did you get on so well at first?”
Edward thought for a long moment. “He has the biggest TV out of everyone I know.”
“And?”
“Size is important.”
“What about before you went round his house the first time?”
Edward took his time to ponder this. “He saved me from Simon. And he, he just ‘gets’ me. In a way no one else can. I can be open to him and he won’t judge me. I can’t think of anyone who can make me feel better by just smiling at me.”
“And others? Friends, teachers. Helen and Michael at home. Me. How do we compare?”
“I don’t worry about him judging me, because he understands me. Everyone judges each other. I can flirt with girls but it’s like, they talk, y’know? Between themselves, when I’m not around.” He looked at Dr Wells. “I dunno, it’s complicated. I can’t explain it easily. It’s just different with him.”
“What I want to know is how Tom hurt you the other day. Clearly something happened between the pair of you, regardless of what Simon did.”
Edward chose not to answer. He kept swinging his legs back and forth, scuffing the soles of his shoes over the faded rug. Dr Wells took this cue as a directive to move on. “Would you say your time in care made you stronger? Feeling better able to fight back?”
“Maybe. I mean, it was scary in the toilet with Simon. I thought I was going to die. Again,” Edward added. “The boxing classes I take helped my confidence, a bit,” he qualified.
“Anyone would be scared in that situation, regardless of their fear of death,” Dr Wells said.
“They left the scissors with me in the toilet to make it look like I was trying to hurt myself,” he said, keeping his eyes fixated on a ceramic vase sitting proud on a mantelpiece at the side of the room. He could not identify the flowers, but admired the vibrant petals bursting forth on vivid green stalks.
“And you were almost always with Tom since you first encountered Simon back in the autumn.”
“Pretty much,” said Edward. His voice trailed off as he found himself seduced by the startling allure of the flowers. Resting against the dull backdrop of the wallpaper, they spoke to him. Of hope and possibility. Of a future he might never see…
Dr Wells had clocked his absent-mindedness and for a moment she pored over her notes again.
“Can I ask, you mentioned that Simon mocked you for calling your friend ‘Toshy’. You’ve referred to him by his proper name here today. Why have you dropped that nickname?”
“Does it matter? Toshy is a precious, cringey name anyway,” said Edward.
“So, why did you blame Tom earlier? You told me yourself, there’s no way he could have known what was about to happen.”
“As if things couldn’t get any worse,” said Edward, talking to the flowers. “Story of my fricking life. Of course things got worse.”
◆◆◆
By the time Tom had discovered Edward, the scene hadn’t changed much. Edward lay on his back, surrounded by spattered blood and scattered possessions. The motion sensitive light in the toilet was re-activated by Tom’s arrival.
“Christ, Ed I’m so sorry. What did they do?” Tom said.
Edward assumed this was rhetorical and did not answer. “How did you find me?” he asked. His retinas had managed to adjust to the sudden burst of light.
“I gave Simon and his mates something to think about and they told me where you were,” came Tom’s response. He sniffed and stifled a coughing fit. “Wow, that smell.”
Edward stared at Tom, who examined his cuts and bruises. Their eyes met and held. Tom was evidently troubled to see such distress in his friend. Edward was trying to read deeper into his friend’s soul, searching for answers.
“Simon said that you told me something earlier this week. What made him come after me to ‘take the piss’? Those were his words.” Tom’s expression spoke volumes and Edward recognised this discomfort and pressed for the truth. “Why tell him something that you hadn’t told me? And Lottie, too.”
Tom made a valiant attempt to deflect the conversation by pointing out some of Edward’s wounds. Unimpressed with his stalling, Edward shimmied up against the wall. He pointed an accusatory finger at the boy he presumed to be his best pal and closest confidante.
“Why were you talking to him in the first place?”
Tom bowed his head in resignation and sighed. In his hand was a clump of bloody toilet tissue he had used to mop up some of the bodily fluids from the floor and Edward’s face. He chucked the wad on the ground and sat, legs crossed, beside Edward.
“Ed, man there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he began. “It’s not pretty and I wanted to tell you when we next meet up round my house.” Perhaps he half-expected Edward to cut him off. When it was clear that Ed would not interrupt, Toshy drove home the killer blow.
“Mate, he must have overhead me telling the others in class. I’m moving school in September.”
◆◆◆
Dr Wells watched Edward, whose attention had switched to the clock occupying space on the bland wall. In the quietness, Edward could hear its soft ticking. He tried to time his breaths to those ticks and soon found himself hypnotised by the seconds hand.
Maybe this CBT brainwashing stuff works after all, he thought.
“How did you feel when Tom said that?” she asked him.
“Gutted. Like I’d been stabbed in the back, not by Simon but by my best mate. It shook me right up.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Angry. He’s betrayed me and I want to get him back for making me feel this way.” Edward said this while looking at different features in the room. He tried to set his sights on anything other than his therapist.
“You’re feeling vengeful.” Dr Wells took care to not inflect any part of this statement.
“He doesn’t know how much it hurts. Not just the fact he’s moving school, but the fact everyone else knew but me.”
“Tom must have had his reasons. When we’re angry, we often let the rage mask over our better judgement.”
“As if you know what it’s like,” Edward mumbled.
“Is that what made you decide to come and see me today? I’m sure you’ve had an eventful time since our last meeting. What was it about the last few days that made you book an appointment?”
“That’s the thing, most stuff I did this year were with him. We would have a laugh together. Now, what is there?”
“He’s only going to a different school. You can still meet up in the evenings and on weekends. Go to each other’s house, play video games, do homework and lark around outside. That won’t change, will it?” the doctor suggested.
Edward could not disagree but refused to say as much.
“And Helen and Michael’s reaction? I suppose you must have made it clear you wanted to move to the same school as Toshy.”
Edward frowned, drawing his eyebrows closer and creasing his forehead in frustration. “Them? They didn’t give a damn,” he shouted. Moving towards the nearest wall, he lashed out at thin air with an outstretched clenched fist. “They don’t give a fucking damn.”
“Edward, please, take a seat and we can finish up. I understand your grief and your feeling of betrayal. How everything seems to be going against you,” Dr Wells said.
Edward was unmoved. He stood almost at eye level with the vase on top of the mantelpiece, tightening his fists and listening for the ticking of the clock.
“Shall we meet again next week? I’ll recommend a new course of tablets to help ease your anxiety,” she added.
“No!” shouted Edward. “You’re fake, this whole thing is fake. The flowers are plastic, the clock is showing the wrong time, you don’t even know me! This whole thing is crap.” He felt more than a passing temptation to pick up the vase and hurl it at the clock, at her head, out of the window. The possibilities were many but instead he stomped to the door, prised it open and slammed it shut behind him.
Edward had long since left the building.
XI
Edward walked home seething. It was not a long way, although he passed some of the less desirable estates in the area. His thoughts seemed to meander, not unlike the route he found himself walking.
The noises of working-class suburbia distracted him. He passed one house with a feisty bull terrier barking as it chased a swarm of flies gathered around its head in the front garden. Outside another terraced property, two young children were bouncing on a trampoline, squealing with delight as the sun’s rays bore down on them. As he turned down a side street, he could hear rowdy neighbours laughing and sharing explicit stories beside a communal barbecue.
He returned home, treading up the paved driveway to the front door. He let himself in and was confronted in the hallway by the burly figure of Michael Regis bearing down on him. Arms folded, he sported a curious combination of sleeveless string vest and cargo shorts that were too big, even accounting for his ample waist.
“He’s here, honey. You can put the phone down,” he called into the lounge.
Helen set foot gingerly into the hallway. She held a phone in one hand and fiddled with the frilly cotton on her pleated skirt with the other.
“Oh Edward, what is this about?” She was close to tears and Edward cringed.
Michael shepherded them both into the living room and sat down on the sofa with his wife. Edward sunk back into the reclining armchair, ruminating with a sense of déjà vu. He had never felt so distant, so unrelated to this couple. Sure, he had always known they could never come close to filling in the lost shoes of his biological parents. Usually, he had been too happy, too grateful, to let that bother him. Anything was better than the care home. This occasion was different. He peered emotionless at Michael and Helen’s exasperated faces as they sat across from him.
He remembered Dwayne’s glowing tan and contagious, reassuring smile. He remembered Linda’s youthful eyes and rebellious streak. They were so much fun, so full of life. Caring and carefree in equal measure. These imposters could not hold a candle to Dwayne and Linda Kreus.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were visiting the therapist again?” asked Michael.
“We were worried sick to the pits of our stomachs when she phoned,” added an emotional Helen.
Edward frowned and pointed sequentially to cuts on his lip, cheek and temple. “Don’t these count for something?” he demanded.
“Come off it Edward, you told us you got those cuts playing rugby again,” said Helen.
“I was beaten up at school on Monday, OK?” Edward moaned, accentuating the pain for maximum effect.
“Then you should have said so,” Helen said.
“You cannot keep these things from us Edward. If you’re being bullied or have concerns, they need dealing with,” Michael intervened. “Helen, love, do you think you should have a word with the Board?”
“Good grief, of course we will. I’ll convene the governors and organise an emergency PTA meeting.”
“Enough already!” yelled Edward. He was livid and gesticulated wildly. “What would have changed if I told you the truth? We’d be sitting here talking about it, exactly like we’re doing now.”
“You cannot talk to us like that Edward! Wind your neck in son,” Michael shouted back.
“The therapist said that you told her about your friend moving school. Is that what this is all about?” said Helen, attempting to broker a truce.
“It might have something to do with it,” Edward muttered. Looking back up at them, he added, “Would you ever think of sending me to that school?”
Helen placed her hand on her husband’s thigh and frowned. “From what we understand, Tom is going to a highly selective school. It’s so competitive, we don’t want to put you through that.”
“We want the best for you Edward, my boy,” Michael explained. “We don’t think you’re quite ready just yet.”
“But you’ve seen my report, I’m a star pupil,” Edward argued.
His parents stared at him blankly. In fact, this was news to them. Edward’s report had not arrived in the post. He galloped to the porch, where his bag lay in a heap beside the door. After some rummaging, he pulled out the blood-stained, dog-eared white booklet from several days ago. He handed it to them with gusto.
“Rugby, eh?” Michael grumbled sarcastically as his stubby fingers rubbed over the stained report.
Like jurors deliberating, they conferred as they perused the pages of his report. Edward was on tenterhooks, keenly anticipating good news when they finished reading it.
It was Helen who spoke first when they had read the document. “It’s good, Edward. Very kind, positive words from your teachers. But I don’t think you understand quite how challenging it is to get into a selective free school like the Martlets,” she explained.
Michael’s addition to the conversation was somewhat more forthright. “You got a grade 6 in Maths, son,” he pointed out.
Edward was not fazed by this. “That means nothing, my maths teacher was a dick. I was nearly top of the class in the tests at the end of term. He’s got a problem with me but it doesn’t matter,” he insisted.
Still unconvinced, Michael and Helen set the report down on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them.
“One report does not make a difference, overall. There’s entrance exams and other criteria you need to meet.”
“Saying ‘Oh, my teacher was a meanie’ does not qualify as an acceptable excuse. Certainly not for getting accepted into the Martlets,” Michael pointed out.
Edward’s optimism disintegrated and with it, his placid demeanour.
“To hell with you! Maybe I’d have been better off saying my parents are the dicks. Neither of you has a clue, so what’s even the point in me trying?” he bellowed, his voice cracking as the tears formed.
Next was Michael’s chance to vent. “Time for you to face the realities of life, young man. You are not going anywhere, except to your room, now!” he roared.
Edward did as instructed and stood up to make his way into the hall. He tried to rip up a cushion but only succeeded in flinging it across the room.
“Just as well you never did have kids before me,” he growled. “They’d be taken away.” With that, he stormed to his room, refusing to glance back in the direction of his parents. Not for the first time that day, he slammed a door shut behind him.
If Helen and Michael thought they could draw a line under that saga, they had another thing coming. It was clear that Edward was not a boy who would shy away from setting things right. Come hell or high water, he was going to see Thomas Osbourne. And sooner rather than later at that.
◆◆◆
Back in the living room, Edward’s guardians leaned their heads together. Michael planted his ruddy face in the palm of his hands. Helen could only look distantly at the floor; neither being in the mood to talk.
“We were right not to bring politics into this,” she said, more to herself than Michael. “He wouldn’t have understood if we sat here and told him we simply don’t believe in grammars.”
“I just can’t believe he spoke to us like that,” Michael said. “How dare he? Cheeky little sod.”
“Now, now. Don’t be like that. He’s clearly upset and after all he’s been through, we ought to be more supportive,” Helen maintained.
“That argument doesn’t wash with me anymore. He’s been to hell and back, I get that, but this backchat is not the stuff of some tormented child who’s unable to overcome a terrible tragedy. This is pre-pubescent entitlement and hysteria, simple.”
“Michael!”
“What? Well, I’m right aren’t I? I mean, OK, if you’re so defensive of him, let’s c
hange our lives and up sticks to get him closer to that bloody toff sanctuary.”
“I’m getting a bit fed-up of your attitude. A little compassion, a little empathy would go a long way here.”
“He needs to learn, first respect; second, to appreciate that he cannot have his way all the time. Life doesn’t work like that.” He lowered his voice to a hush, as though wary he might summon demons from the banks of his own memories. “He said he’s glad we never had kids,” he hissed.
“Michael, he’s not to know that we can’t—”
“I sacrifice everything so he can get the best shot at life after his parents died. I’m four years in remission, drier than the Mojave, and this was our last chance to become a family at last,” he proclaimed. A hint of anguish gripped his words and seemed to resonate with his wife.
Helen could not summon the strength to argue. She sat back on the sofa, one leg resting on top of the other and covering her forehead with her hand. Michael sensed it was better to not press his point further; instead he offered to make her a cup of tea.
“I’ll need something stronger than that,” came her reply. “Better check on him, to be on the safe side.”
Michael did as he was told, stomping to his son’s door. Helen ventured to move her face from behind her hand.
“He’s not in his room,” he declared.
Helen resumed planting her head in her hand. “We know he’s gone to his friend. I’ll ring his mother now,” she called back.
“I’ll go and fetch him,” Michael said as he stormed to the porch. As he put his shoes and coat on, he called in to the lounge. “Do you want to make dinner this evening?”
“Not really, I think we can have a fish supper tonight.”
Michael sighed from the doorway. “I’ll pop into the chip shop on my way back with him. Not sure he deserves it but—”
“No, Michael. He deserves our love, and he also deserves getting the very best help.”
◆◆◆
Screams of Thy Neighbour Page 8