فصل 42

42

SEAN

For several days after my mother died, I didn’t speak. Not a single word. So my father tells me, in any case. I don’t remember much about that time, although I do remember the way Dad shocked me out of my silence, which was by holding my left hand over a flame until I cried out. It was cruel, but it was effective. And afterwards he let me keep the cigarette lighter. (I kept it for many years, I used to carry it around with me. I recently lost it, I don’t recall where.)

Grief, shock, it affects people in strange ways. I’ve seen people react to bad news with laughter, with seeming indifference, with anger, with fear. Jules’s kiss in the car after the funeral—that wasn’t about lust, it was about grief, about wanting to feel something, anything, other than sadness. My mutism when I was a child was probably the result of the shock, the trauma. Losing a sister may not be the same as losing a parent, but I know that Josh Whittaker was close to his sister, so I am loath to judge him, to read too much into what he says and does and the way he behaves.

Erin called me to say there had been a disturbance at a house on the southeastern fringes of town—a neighbour had called, saying she’d arrived home to see the windows of the house in question broken and a young boy on a bike leaving the scene. The house belonged to one of the teachers at the local school, while the boy—dark-haired, wearing a yellow T-shirt and riding a red bike—I was fairly certain was Josh.

He was easy to find. He was sitting on the bridge wall, the bike leaned up against it, his clothes soaked through and his legs streaked with mud. He didn’t run when he saw me. If anything, he seemed relieved when he greeted me, polite as ever. “Good afternoon, Mr. Townsend.”

I asked him if he was OK. “You’ll catch cold,” I said, indicating his wet clothes, and he half smiled.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Josh,” I said, “were you riding your bike over on Seward Road this afternoon?” He nodded. “You didn’t happen to go past Mr. Henderson’s house, did you?”

He chewed on his bottom lip, soft brown eyes widening to saucers. “Don’t tell my mum, Mr. Townsend. Please don’t tell my mum. She’s got enough on her plate.” A lump formed in my throat, and I had to fight back tears. He’s such a small boy, and so vulnerable-looking. I kneeled down at his side.

“Josh! What on earth were you doing? Was there anyone else there with you? Some older boys, maybe?” I asked hopefully.

He shook his head, but didn’t look at me. “It was just me.”

“Really? Are you sure?” He looked away. “Because I saw you talking to Lena outside the station earlier. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her, would it?”

“No!” he cried, his voice a painful, humiliating squeak. “No. It was me. Just me. I threw rocks at his windows. At that . . . bastard’s windows.” “Bastard” was enunciated carefully, as though he were trying out the word for the first time.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

He met my eye then, his lower lip trembling. “Because he deserved it,” he said. “Because I hate him.”

He started to cry.

“Come on,” I said, picking up his bike, “I’ll drive you home.” But he grabbed hold of the handlebars.

“No!” he sobbed. “You can’t. I don’t want Mum to hear about this. Or Dad. They can’t hear this, they can’t . . .”

“Josh”—I crouched down again, resting my hand on the saddle of his bike—“it’s all right. It’s not that bad. We’ll sort it out. Honestly. It’s not the end of the world.”

At that, he began to howl. “You don’t understand. Mum will never forgive me . . .”

“Of course she will!” I suppressed an urge to laugh. “She’ll be a bit cross, I’m sure, but you haven’t done anything terrible, you didn’t hurt anyone . . .”

His shoulders shook. “Mr. Townsend, you don’t understand. You don’t understand what I’ve done.”

• • •

IN THE END, I took him back to the station. I wasn’t sure what else to do, he wouldn’t let me drive him home and I couldn’t leave him by the side of the road in that state. I installed him in the back office and made him a cup of tea, then got Callie to run out and buy some biscuits.

“You can’t interview him, sir,” Callie said, alarmed. “Not without an appropriate adult.”

“I’m not interviewing him,” I replied tetchily. “He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home yet.”

The words triggered a memory: He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home. I was younger than Josh, just six years old, and a policewoman was holding my hand. I never know which of my memories are real—I’ve heard so many stories about that time, from so many different sources, that it’s difficult to distinguish memory from myth. But in this one I was shivering and afraid, and there was a policewoman at my side, stout and comforting, holding me against her hip protectively while men talked above my head. “He’s frightened and he doesn’t want to go home,” she said.

“Could you take him to your place, Jeannie?” my father said. “Could you take him with you?” That was it. Jeannie. WPC Sage.

• • •

MY PHONE RINGING brought me back to myself.

“Sir?” It was Erin. “The neighbour on the other side saw a girl running off in the opposite direction. A teenager, long blond hair, denim shorts and white T-shirt.”

“Lena. Of course.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. You want me to go and pick her up?”

“Leave her for today,” I said. “She’s had enough. Have you managed to get hold of the owner—of Henderson?”

“Not yet. I’ve been calling, but it’s going straight to voice mail. When I spoke to him earlier he said something about a fiancée in Edinburgh, but I don’t have a number for her. They may even be on the plane already.”

I took the cup of tea in to Josh. “Look,” I said to him, “we need to get in touch with your parents. I just need to let them know that you’re here, and you’re OK, all right? I don’t have to give them any details, not right now, I’ll just tell them that you’re upset and that I’ve brought you here to have a chat. That sound OK?” He nodded. “And then you can tell me what it is that you’re upset about, and we’ll take it from there.” He nodded again. “But at some point, you are going to have to explain the business about the house.”

Josh sipped his tea, hiccupping occasionally, not quite recovered from his earlier emotional outburst. His hands were wrapped tightly around the mug, and his mouth worked as he tried to find whatever words he wanted to say to me.

Eventually, he looked up at me. “Whatever I do,” he said, “someone is going to be upset with me.” Then he shook his head. “No, actually, that’s not right. If I do the right thing, everyone is going to be upset with me, and if I do the wrong thing, they won’t. It shouldn’t be like that, should it?”

“No,” I said, “it shouldn’t. And I’m not sure you’re correct about that. I can’t think of a situation in which doing the right thing will make everyone upset with you. One or two people, maybe, but surely if it’s the right thing, some of us will see it that way? And be grateful to you?”

He chewed his lip again. “The problem,” he said, his voice trembling again, “is that the damage is already done. I’m too late. It’s too late to do the right thing now.”

He cried again, but not like before. He wasn’t wailing or panicking; this time he cried like someone who has lost everything, lost all hope. He was in despair, and I couldn’t bear it.

“Josh, I must get your parents here, I must,” I said, but he clung to my arm.

“Please, Mr. Townsend. Please.”

“I want to help you, Josh. I really do. Please tell me what it is that’s upsetting you so much.”

(I remembered sitting in a warm kitchen, not my own, eating cheese on toast. Jeannie was there, she sat at my side. Won’t you tell me what happened, darling? Please tell me. I said nothing. Not a word. Not a single word.)

Josh, though, was ready to speak. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He coughed and sat up straight in his chair. “It’s about Mr. Henderson,” he said. “About Mr. Henderson and Katie.”