Someone Else's Son Read online

  Someone Else's Son

  SAM HAYES

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2010 Sam Hayes

  The right of Sam Hayes to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 7980 4

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  AUTUMN 2008

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  AUTUMN 2008

  FRIDAY AND SATURDAY, 24 AND 25 APRIL 2009

  AUTUMN 2008

  SATURDAY, 25 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  SATURDAY AND SUNDAY, 25 AND 26 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  SUNDAY, 26 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  AUTUMN 2008

  MONDAY, 27 APRIL 2009

  JANUARY 2009

  MONDAY, 27 APRIL 2009

  JANUARY 2009

  FEBRUARY 2009

  TUESDAY, 28 APRIL 2009

  FEBRUARY 2009

  TUESDAY, 28 APRIL 2009

  THE PAST

  WEDNESDAY, 29 APRIL 2009

  MARCH 2009

  THURSDAY, 30 APRIL 2009

  MARCH 2009

  THURSDAY, 30 APRIL 2009

  FRIDAY, 1 MAY 2009

  MARCH 2009

  FRIDAY, 1 MAY 2009

  THURSDAY, 9 APRIL 2009

  FRIDAY, 1 MAY 2009

  JUNE 2009

  Sam Hayes grew up in the Midlands, and has lived in Australia and America. She now lives in Warwickshire with her husband and three children. Her novels BLOOD TIES, UNSPOKEN and TELL-TALE were highly acclaimed and are also available from Headline. For more information about Sam Hayes, visit her website www.samhayes.co.uk

  For Polly, my beautiful daughter, with all my love.

  You are an inspiration.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Grateful thanks as always to Sherise and Anna for your dedication, hard work, insights and experience – it’s all so very much appreciated. Many thanks to Sam – it’s a pleasure working with you (your enthusiasm is contagious!), and also Celine for keeping me organised. Sincere thanks, of course, to everyone at Headline for getting my books on the shelves.

  Much love to my dear family, Terry, Ben, Polly and Lucy, and to Grawar for Bat-phone talks and Avril for keeping my feet off the ground.

  Finally, to Sandra who is still waving her magic wand . . .

  FRIDAY, 24 APRIL 2009

  Before she knew what was happening, the knife was in and out of his body. Over and over, sinking deep. It cut through the air, mesmerising them, slowing their lives, condensing everything to the beautiful moments just before it happened, just before it entered him, just before their worlds changed for ever.

  She didn’t know how to make it stop; couldn’t make it stop.

  They stared at each other one last time. A love affair packed into a second. Blood flowed between them. What was he telling her?

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Fucking twist,’ one of the youths yelled, already running. They danced on brilliant trainers; a pack fleeing. Their shiny tracksuit bottoms dragged in the puddles; their liquid eyes gleamed from adrenalin, drugs, alcohol – any fuel for their fire.

  The vinegar from the chips still stung her lips. Slow motion, he dropped to his knees, then his body folded to the ground. She couldn’t believe he’d stood this long. She tried to catch him. His head hit the tarmac. She screamed but nothing came out. His eyes bulged.

  She pressed her hand to his ribs, his stomach, but there were too many holes. Scalding blood flowed between her fingers, although she could already feel it cooling.

  ‘Don’t die,’ she sobbed, dropping her head on to his body. Where was everyone? ‘Help me!’ she screamed. All in class. No one else bunking off today. ‘I’ll get help,’ she said frantically, not daring to take her hands off his wounds. How had it come to this?

  His chest suddenly heaved up with a bubbling wheeze before it collapsed again, as if it was the last breath he would ever take. Otherwise, he didn’t make a sound.

  ‘Help!’ she cried again, scrambling to her feet. She had to do something. She spun around, desperately looking for someone, anyone. All she saw were the blank faces of the ugly buildings, the empty school grounds – a desolate wasteland. She pulled her phone from her pocket. She dialled 999. Gave details. Screamed for them to hurry. He was dying. Please be quick.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she begged. She was beside him again, applying pressure as the operator had instructed. His expression was blank, empty, staring – not even showing any pain. It was so far removed from just ten minutes ago when they’d shared a joint and a tray of chips.

  ‘I can’t live without you,’ she cried, thinking of everything. She couldn’t do it alone. Tears fell from her face and melted into his blood. ‘I won’t live without you.’ The sobs burst from deep inside. Spit and phlegm, tears and blood choked her words. ‘Bastards,’ she screamed out.

  ‘Stay with me. Stay with me,’ she said, panting, rocking, pressing. Where was the ambulance? She tried to pull herself together, scanning through the fragmented memories of the first-aid classes she’d taken last year. Quick-fire revision for a real-life exam no one wanted to take. ‘OK, OK.’ She helped herself first. She was no good to him in a panic. She fought hard to keep the shots of breath down. She would pass out if they got any faster.

  What had she done?

  ‘Shock,’ she whispered, refusing to think of it now. Quickly, she let go of the wound on his side and pulled her arms from her jacket. Her limbs shook as she struggled free, draping the coat over him. He was shaking every few seconds – a deep vibration that she felt resonating up through her arms and straight into her heart.

  She’d never told him that she loved him.

  She saw the pool of blood, dark as death, seeping through the coat at the same time the siren reached out to her.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ she cried. ‘The ambulance is coming. Please don’t die.’ Her arms shook from the strain of clamping his wounds. She was leaning on him, her left forearm tracking a series of deep bleeds while her right arm took care of several more under his ribs.

  Suddenly, she he
ard voices, all around her.

  ‘Young male, about sixteen, seventeen . . . multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Major blood loss, blow to the head . . . BP falling, pulse weak . . .’

  She heard all these things as she was prised out of the way. ‘Fifteen,’ she whispered from the periphery of the scene, but no one heard. ‘He’s fifteen.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ a male voice suddenly snapped at her. Was she in shock too? She couldn’t move. A hand fixed round her arm. ‘Jesus Christ, tell me what’s happened, girl.’ He yanked her round, their faces close. Then he was on his phone, calling for people to come, calling for more help, gripping her as if she was getting a telling-off for bunking lessons. ‘Jack, it’s serious. Get down here now,’ he barked into his phone.

  She looked up at him. Mr Denton. Her maths teacher.

  ‘Well?’ He shook her. His face was red.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I was coming back from the sports centre and . . . and I just found him lying here all messed up.’ She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. What was she supposed to tell him?

  How could she tell anyone?

  Her entire body shook. She stared down at the blood-soaked ground. He had help now, and that was all that mattered, wasn’t it? She’d say she didn’t know what happened, that she’d had nothing to do with it. She would just go home, call the hospital later to see how he was. It would all be OK. Not as bad as it seemed.

  ‘Did you see anything? A fight? Was anyone else around? Speak, girl!’

  She shook her head. She saw the stretcher being lifted away, sealed inside the ambulance.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ someone said. Another screamed at the blood clotting on the ground. Hands clapped over mouths, eyes wide, people gathering and gawping.

  She looked up. The headmaster was striding across the school grounds towards the mayhem. The buildings – our ship, as he called it in assembly – had faces crammed at every window. Pupils and staff spilt out on to the far end of the rectangle of dull tarmac that caged twelve hundred teenagers during mid-morning break and lunchtime.

  Police swarmed through the school gates. They raced down to where he had dropped, gauging the blood, the denim jacket, the spread of chips, as if that would tell them exactly what had happened. They took control. Everyone was ushered back. Somehow, Mr Denton let go of her arm; somehow, she got swallowed up by the crush of students, teachers, people off the street, and somehow she managed to slip out of the school grounds without anyone knowing she’d gone.

  She reckoned, as she ran and ran, that it was all going to be fine.

  AUTUMN 2008

  Carrie Kent smiled routinely. As if she damn well needed telling. She touched her earpiece. The director was telling her to dig deeper, push harder. Get him to crack, Carrie. She wasn’t going any easier on the guy because of his age or the circumstances. She knew exactly what she was doing – toying, entertaining, making great TV.

  There’ll be a fight, she thought, she hoped. A quick glance as she turned and paced the set for effect told her that she was flanked offstage by security – two burly men dressed in black with shaved heads, arms folded. All good. She swung round to face camera two, dividing her gaze between an audience that had barely breathed in ten minutes, the row of Britain’s best no-hopers that her researchers had dealt her this week, and the viewers. Classic Carrie, the producer had once said. She liked that.

  ‘So what you’re telling me, Jason . . .’ She paused, pulled a concerned face, then continued. ‘Is that your baby nephew is actually your son and you’re claiming this little family tree gem in order to get back at your brother?’

  She walked up to him slowly, with the camera zooming in from behind. She knew the skirt looked good. ‘Get back at him for what, exactly, Jason?’ she whispered, bending down.

  The mike would still pick her up. ‘Because, forgive me, but I still don’t quite understand. We’ve seen the report. Watched your family . . . er . . . dynamics at work in your home . . .’ A quick turn to the camera, an exasperated look. ‘There aren’t any, are there, Jason? Your family is dysfunctional and, at sixteen, you’re already a loser.’ She thought of her own son, only a year younger, but immediately refocused, not wanting the viewers to pick up on anything personal. Then, bordering on a yell, she said, ‘Did you or did you not sleep with your brother’s twenty-seven-year-old wife when you were just fourteen?’

  She stepped back, gave the youth the stage. It would go one of two ways – he would cry like a baby or fend off an attack from his brother, who was sitting only five feet to his left, perched on the edge of his seat and waiting to pounce.

  Oddly, the boy didn’t do anything.

  ‘What we want to know, Jason, is who should little Tyler call Daddy? You or your brother?’ The expected rumble of audience disapproval flew around the studio.

  Good work, came through her earpiece.

  That did it. The brother, who hadn’t said much so far, launched himself at Jason, swearing, yelling, toppling him backwards off the chair that was designed to be just a little unstable. Carrie waited a beat, knowing security had been briefed to do the same – they wanted a scuffle, but not bloodshed. People might still be eating breakfast.

  Carrie stepped back as security marched on stage and pinned the brothers back in their chairs. ‘Now just settle down, the pair of you.’ Her voice was commanding. The studio silenced. She spoke first to Jason, then to the camera. ‘I think it’s time we brought on Bobbi-Jo and heard what she has to say about all this, shall we? Followed by the results of the DNA test.’

  Carrie allowed the strand of blond hair to cut across her cheek. Nice, she heard the director say in her ear. ‘Join us back on Reality Check after the break to find out who little Tyler’s daddy really is. Don’t go away.’ Then her famous eye-hand signal, warning the viewers that she was watching them, that her cameras could soon be delving into their lives.

  ‘Off-air,’ the director called out. ‘Two minutes forty-five.’ It was three minutes in reality, but they always ran fifteen seconds ahead. Working in live television, despite the unpredictable contents of the show, suited Carrie perfectly. Everything was precise, controlled and scheduled. Just the way she liked things.

  The audience shuffled, mumbled and whispered. Carrie ignored the line-up of dysfunctional guests on her stage. She strode off set, sat on her own chair, sipped specially imported Swiss mineral water, allowed the make-up girl to touch up her cheeks, her eyes, and the stylist to set back that loose strand of hair so that when she tipped her head a certain way, it could fall free all over again.

  ‘One minute ten,’ she heard in her ear. Just how would she get this tough little nut to crack before the results? She stood, stared at him sitting rigid with fear on stage. Bobbi-Jo was in the wings opposite: fat, red-faced, eager to get on television to brag about sleeping with an underage boy.

  Carrie felt for them, really she did, each and every one of her guests. She was all too familiar with the burning deep inside her chest – the guilt, the sadness that their lives, despite appearing on her show and the help they offered afterwards, would never really change. Then came the rush; the warm lake of security that swept through her, that kept her going, that made her so damned good at her job.

  I’m not like them.

  Gloss was slicked across her lip. She strode back on stage, faced the camera, smiled and prepared to take apart the miserable family sitting behind her.

  Brody Quinell was lying in the dark wondering what stank. Maybe it was the takeaway cartons from the other night, or it could be the drains again. Perhaps it was coming from the flat above. They were pigs. He didn’t really care. He liked lying in the dark, feeling the autumn sun stream in through the window, warming his skin, imagining he was on the beach. Jamaica. He could hear music – the dull thud-thud of a bass line. But it wasn’t reggae and there were no steel drums. Some emo punk dirge. But he quite liked it. It made him resonate. Down the hall, someone screamed and a toddler wailed.
The music went up louder.

  Brody’s mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. It would be the university. He didn’t want to think about work today. He just wanted to lie in the dark and be left alone. He sat up suddenly, finding the floor with his feet. ‘He did?’ He wiped big hands over his tired face, reigniting himself. ‘Are you sure?’ The slow, definitive yes brought Brody fully upright. ‘Shit,’ he said. He felt around for his clothes. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Hold fire. Don’t let this get out, right? Don’t talk to anyone.’

  Hopping into his jeans, Brody called Fiona. ‘Come on, come on . . . answer . . . Fiona, you have to get over here right away. Something’s happened.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied in her usual hyper-efficient manner. ‘Everything’s in hand, Professor.’ Then there was a knock at the door. With the phone still pressed to his ear, Brody fumbled his way across the room and answered it with one leg still out of his jeans. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  ‘I see you’re all ready,’ Fiona said, striding in. She snapped her phone shut. ‘It stinks in here, Brody.’ She sniffed her way to the kitchen and knocked the top off the bin. She pushed down the contents and tied the bag.

  ‘My housekeeper’s been off sick.’

  ‘You don’t have a housekeeper. But if you did, I’m pretty certain that, yes, she would be sick.’

  Brody heard Fiona pull the rubbish sack from the bin and dump it outside on the concrete balcony that ran round the interior of the block, connecting up the hundreds of dismal flats. A group of kids jeered from one end of the run, calling out obscenities to Fiona. She shut the door.

  ‘Do you want me to dress you or are you going to do it yourself?’ she said.