A Line of Blood (17 page)

‘You see, son, your father’s case is what they call an automatic referral.’

‘What, Mum?’

‘Well, they explained that because your father’s death occurred within twenty-four hours of his entering hospital, then they refer his death to the coroner. They always investigate. He’s to be autopsied, and they haven’t the staff.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said.

‘Yes, well, it’s a bind. I don’t know when I can bury him.’

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Aye, son,’ she said simply. ‘Aye.’

Max had been navigating quietly around us, sensing the fragility of the truce between Millicent and me. He made his own meals, bought fruit from the shop, and made a point of making coffee – badly – and bringing us each a cup, talking softly to me, stroking his mother’s cheek, asking us whether we wanted water, or juice, or a piece of cake. He could go to the shop again, if we wanted. Max behaved, in short, impeccably. Normally, we would have teased him for this, asked him what he was planning, what terrible secret he was hiding. But now we too behaved like textbook parents.

Millicent and I did not argue in front of Max; nor did we speak much. We kept our voices low, and behaved deferentially towards each other for his sake. We ate at different times, staggered our coffee breaks and went to bed separately. Once, at the dark of night, I woke with an erection and found Millicent’s arms tightly wound around my chest. I wanted to wake her, to have her witness how I recoiled from her nakedness, to have her feel my power as I shook her off; instead I unwound myself from her embrace and turned her gently on her side. I watched the tremors of her eyelids, sensed through them the darting movements of her pupils, wondered what it was she dreamed. I watched her chest rise and fall, saw words half-form on her lips, and hated myself for wanting her so badly, for craving intimacy after everything she had done.

Max spent Friday evening in his room. At eight he borrowed the lamp from Millicent’s desk. At eleven I realised that his bed time had long since come and gone. His door was shut. I knocked and went in. Max was lying on his back on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Beside his pillow lay his grandfather’s fishing bag, spools of fishing line and cigar boxes around his legs.

‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, with studied nonchalance. I followed his gaze. In the narrow beam of Millicent’s lamp was a shoal of metallic fish. Barbed hooks hung from iridescent bodies.

‘Wow,’ I said.

Max had created a living shoal, the larger fish at the back, chasing down the smaller fish, the very smallest fry turning and spreading as they reached the far wall. Yellow eyes, scales of blue, gold and green; the nylon fishing line almost invisible. There were at least a hundred artificial fish, steel spinners and wooden lures, rubber sand eels with red-painted gills, jointed wobblers, all brought to life by the hands of a child.

‘Can you see the bubbles, Dad?’

‘Those are amazing, Max.’

Max had arranged his grandfather’s transparent bubble floats to enhance the drama of the scene: a cluster at the implied surface, larger bubbles rising slowly up from down below.

‘Your mum needs to see this,’ I said. ‘You should call her.’

‘Don’t you think she’s a fucking bitch, though? For what she did to you?’ He ran the words together:
fuckingbitchthough
.

‘No, Max. No, I really don’t.’

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Don’t call your mum that.’

‘All right. I won’t.’

‘I don’t want you to take my side. Call her in.’

‘In a minute. Can you see the squid hiding from the fish?’

Subject changed. Just like that. Speed of the child mind.

‘The squid are brilliant.’

‘Also, Dad?’

‘What, Max?’

‘What’s this?’

He held up a straight wooden shaft, about eight inches long, wider at the top than at the bottom. The metal core shone dully in the beam of Millicent’s light.

‘That’s called a priest.’

‘Did Grandpa use it for killing fish?’

‘Yes, that’s what it’s for.’

‘It’s a bit sticky, even though it’s clean.’

‘I don’t think that’s fish blood. I guess it’s probably resin from the wood.’

‘Oh,’ said Max. He sounded almost disappointed. ‘What are the pliers for?’

‘For helping you get the hook out of a fish.’

‘Like if it’s a big fish and it swallows the hook or something?’

‘Yes, Max.’

‘Yuck. Cool, though. Dad, can we go fishing together?’

‘If you like.’

‘I don’t have a rod or anything.’

‘I’ll talk to your grandma, Max. I’m sure you could have one of Grandpa’s old ones.’

‘OK,’ he said. He thought for a moment. ‘I want to come to Grandpa’s funeral. I don’t want to see him dead or anything, though.’

‘No, love, it won’t be an open casket.’

‘I mean, it’s not like I’m not scared or anything. I know what a dead man looks like.’

‘I don’t think your grandpa looks anything like the neighbour did, Max.’

‘Tarek said they put makeup on dead people.’

I looked down at my son as he lay on his bed staring up at the beautiful, twisting mass of fish that he had created.

‘Move up, little man,’ I said. ‘Make room.’

We lay looking up at Max’s shoal. I could see Max grinning to himself from the edges of my vision, feel the pride radiating from him.

‘Do you like it, Dad?’

‘Max,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve managed to take something that wasn’t beautiful, and turn it into something that is. Send your grandma a picture.’

He turned and faced me. I stayed where I was, looking up at the ceiling.

‘Do you miss Grandpa, Dad?’

‘Yes. Yes, I really do.’

‘I can tell, because you look quite sad.’

‘I left things unsaid, you know.’

‘Is Grandma really sad?’

‘She is.’

‘More than you?’

‘More than I think I can imagine.’

‘Because I don’t want to send her a picture if it’s going to make her cry a lot.’

‘Send her a picture, love.’

He curled into me and I stretched my arm under his shoulder. We lay looking upwards for a very long time.

On Saturday morning Fab5 rang, suggesting Frisbee at the park.

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but I have to bring Max.’

‘You got it.’

‘He’s going to want to play football. And I at least have to ask Millicent.’

‘Whatever you need.’

I expected Millicent to refuse, but she agreed to come, and put on a pair of running shoes that she hadn’t worn in years. At the park she behaved as if she was pleased to see Fab5, let him lift her from the ground.

‘Ready to get your ass kicked, hen?’ he said.

‘Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen, of course.’

‘It will.’

‘Who said this was sarcasm?’

We played scorer-goes-in, using trees as goalposts, every man for himself. Millicent and I hardly scored. Max and Fab5 ran rings around us, matched each other goal for goal.

I looked up at Millicent, and felt again that near-smile, the beginning of the thaw.
This
, I thought. Love expressed through the doing of stuff. We need to do more of
this
.

She reached out, rubbed my arm. ‘We stink at soccer, don’t we?’

I looked over at Max, as he sent the ball arcing towards Fab5. Fab5 jumped and caught it, then kicked it far off down towards the cricket pitches at the end. Max tore after it, and we watched him as he ran.

‘You and I,’ I said, ‘stink at this. Our only hope is that.’

She leaned back against me, still watching Max, and drew my arms around her, nestled her head against my chest. ‘We’re not really in-the-moment people, are we?’

I kissed the top of her head. Perfume, and the shrill tone of her sweat. I crossed my arms over her breasts. ‘You smell good,’ I said. ‘The sun is shining.’

‘What is this, spontaneity 101?’

‘I love you,’ I said. And for a moment I felt a rush of something very pure. She looked up at me, her eyes glistening.

Then I felt foolish. I looked round at Fab5, expected him to be laughing at us, but he was watching something down by the far end of the park. I followed his gaze, saw a police car as it glided past. The car drove on.
Probably nothing.

‘What is it, honey?’ Millicent drew away, looked up at me.

‘Nothing,’ I said.
It was nothing.
I looked back at Max, who had turned and was racing back up the park towards us. ‘Come on, Max. At him.’

Max scored twice more. So did Fab5. Fab5’s forehead shone with sweat. Birds and traffic. Max tireless in the heavy sun.

This time it was Millicent who saw it. She gave a little jerk of the chin, threw a meaningful glance, then turned and kicked the ball hard at Max, who stood braced in the goal mouth. The police car. It was back now.

Max slid out a foot, and the ball spun upwards into his hands. Fab5 clapped. Millicent clapped.

The police car had drawn up in a parking space fifty metres beyond us.
Probably nothing.

I ran a few metres towards the car, then turned to face Max. ‘Max,’ I shouted. ‘To me!’ I pointed at my head.

Max punted the ball. I missed it deliberately, then chased after it towards the police car.

‘Da-ad …’

I recognised the officer in the front seat. A cold dread came upon me. They were going to do it now, then.
In front of my son.

I turned and kicked the ball as hard as I could. It landed short. Millicent walked slowly over towards it. Then she turned, and kicked the ball hard towards Max, who made a point of catching it in one hand.

I walked stiffly back towards my family.
Why now? Why here?

Max kicked the ball towards Millicent. Fab5 intercepted it, and kicked it straight at the goal. Max jumped, stretching high, but the ball passed above him.

‘Ya wee beauty!’ shouted Fab5.

‘No way!’ shouted Max.

‘Is it my fault you can’t reach, wee guy?’

‘Mum?’

Millicent gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘What do I know?’

I caught her eye and saw in her look the same fear that I felt. I nodded. She nodded. She had seen the car.

‘Ice cream,’ I said. ‘Mum’s buying.’

‘Can I have a Magnum, Mum? And a Fanta?’

‘You’re going with her.’
Keep it light. Keep it normal.
‘One or the other, Max. Not both.’

‘Why? Why can’t
you
go?’

‘Just go, Max.’

‘But Fab5 and me are the best, so you and Mum should go.’

‘Max.’

‘What?’

‘Do you want an ice cream or not?’

‘Why do you always have to be so mean, when you’re pretending to be generous?’

‘I told you to go, Max.’

Max stood, arms folded, resentment and defiance. ‘You don’t decide over me.’

‘Actually, I do, Max.’

‘Honey.’ Millicent slipped her arm through Max’s, and whispered something to him. Max looked up at me again, then nodded. They set off together towards the corner of the park. How did she always know the right thing to say?

Fab5 and I sat on a bench. The police car waited. The door did not open. We watched Millicent and Max disappear across the grass and the drying mud. Then we watched the police car again.

‘They’re wrong, you know,’ said Fab5.

‘About what?’

‘London. Like it’s all bad weather and mouthy cockneys.’

A second car drew up beside the first. Unmarked. The uniformed officer opened his door and went to stand by the passenger window of the unmarked car. I wondered what would happen if I stood up and walked away. But this had to be faced.

‘We haven’t seen any cockneys,’ I said.

‘Any
how
…’ He raised his dark glasses, looked searchingly at me.

‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks for asking.’

Fab5 nodded. I could see Millicent and Max crossing the street at the far end of the park. Fab5 was watching them too.

‘I’m almost starting to think she doesn’t hate me,’ he said.

‘You took Max to school.’

‘And?’

‘Actions count for Millicent. It’s harder for her to hate you when she sees you doing right.’

The uniformed officer was still talking to his superior through the car window. What was taking them so long?

‘She found some letters I maybe shouldn’t have kept. What?’

‘What was in the letters, friend?’

‘Nothing that she didn’t already know.’

The uniformed officer had turned to face us. He was staring openly now.

‘I’ve been faithful to her from the day we met. She must know that. Why? What did you tell her?’

‘I told her what you were like.’

‘Cheers.’

‘You slept with a
lot
of women. Truth, friend.’

They were out of the car, now, looking at us: the two plain-clothes officers who had interviewed Millicent and me. What was keeping them?

‘Again, Fab5, cheers.’

‘You changed. I told her that too.’

The detectives were halfway across the grass now, flanked by the uniformed officer. They would be with us in a moment.

Fab5 took off his dark glasses.

‘It’s going to be OK, Alex, man.’

‘Is it?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

At the far end of the park I could see Max and Millicent. Max was carrying what looked like a small cardboard box, slowly, and with infinite care.

‘Fab5,’ I said, ‘how do you manage to be such a twat and such a
mensch
at the same time?’

‘Practice,
Habibi
,’ he said, ‘practice.’

‘I should stop taking you at face value.’

‘You’re welcome, Alex.’

Fab5 stood up and nodded at the police officers, then set off to intercept Millicent and Max.

From the back of the marked police car I watched my friend, my wife and my son. It was an interview, the police had said, nothing more.

Fab5 had caught up with Millicent and Max; they stood, easy in the sunlight, talking as if all was well with the world. Grass and trees, dogs and traffic: London pastoral.

The three police officers leaned against the car, talking lazily. Why three? And why here? Was this some sort of message to my family? To my eleven-year-old son? I felt the anger begin to rise in me.