Someone Else's Son Read online

  Brody lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to think first.’

  ‘Don’t you want to get straight down . . .’ Fiona stopped. She knew better than to interrupt him, he reckoned. If what he’d just been told was true, then he damn well deserved a smoke. He’d discovered a genius.

  ‘Like I said, when I’ve finished my cigarette.’ Brody felt around the floor for the ashtray. He knew it was around there somewhere. When he couldn’t find it, he flicked the ash out of the tiny window opening. It blew right back in, but he didn’t notice.

  Fiona paced Brody’s small living room. He knew she hated coming inside. Usually he was ready and they would head straight out. She said it was depressing with its sickly orange and brown carpet, nicotine-coloured walls and dark, dusty furniture. Nothing was put away. He’d lost count of the times she’d tried to get him to move out. He flatly refused.

  ‘Can’t you suck a little harder?’ she said.

  ‘I’m thinking.’ Brody put on a shirt, belted his jeans and walked around the room, knowing every square inch. He leant on the back of a chair. ‘Thing is,’ he said slowly, ‘what do I do with him now?’

  ‘Write the introduction, publish the paper and give him another one to do.’ She rattled her car keys. ‘Which you’re never going to be able to do unless you put that thing out.’

  ‘It’s the bigger picture we’re looking at now. What this solution means for the rest of the mathematical world.’ Brody was getting excited. ‘Even fucking Einstein couldn’t do it, Fi.’ He strode across the room, catching his leg on the coffee table. He took Fiona’s slim shoulders between his big dark fists. ‘Correction. It’s not a big picture any more. It’s an enormous one. That boy’s sat silent in my class for months. I knew he was different.’

  ‘Thanks, but I quite liked my suit without the cigarette ash.’

  Brody was sweating, perhaps with anticipation, perhaps with fear of what it all meant. Ricky was his responsibility now. He was the one who had slipped the unproven statistical theory into the student’s assignment in the hope that the sullen, shy and friendless boy would rise to the challenge. ‘This is life-changing,’ he said, dropping the butt out of the window.

  He linked arms with Fiona and allowed her to take him to the car. He belted himself in and heard the engine tick over. He heard the mid-morning news on the radio, quickly followed by a click as Fiona turned it off.

  ‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘I want to get there now. I want to see it for myself.’

  Then there was silence. The engine cut out.

  ‘What’s going on, Fiona? Drive me to the university.’

  ‘No,’ she said quite simply. ‘I want you to move out of this dump.’

  ‘What?’ Brody was incredulous. He banged the door with his fist. ‘Just get driving, Fiona. I want to see Ricky before the story breaks.’

  ‘No.’

  Brody heard the keys being taken out of the ignition. ‘Now don’t be stupid, woman. This isn’t what I damn well pay you for.’

  ‘You don’t pay me. The university pays my salary.’

  ‘Same darn thing.’ They both knew that what he meant was, without him, she wouldn’t have a job. ‘Drive me or I’ll walk.’

  ‘Then, unless you agree to getting a new flat or a nice house somewhere, you’ll have to.’

  Brody heard her little gasp. She had just told him to walk to work and clearly regretted it. He said nothing.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ She jammed the keys back into the ignition and started the engine, but Brody was already out of the car. He leant back in through the open window.

  ‘Fine. You want me to walk, I’ll walk.’

  ‘No, no . . . don’t. I just don’t like seeing you living in . . .’ Fiona hesitated, ‘. . . in there.’

  ‘Honey, then don’t look.’ Brody laughed. ‘I don’t.’ He turned, snapping a telescopic white stick out of his bag. Like a beagle, he sniffed the air. He angled his face skyward, paused for a moment, then swung through a hundred and eighty degrees.

  He knew Fiona would be watching, stunned how he knew the exact direction of the university. So he didn’t get killed on the road, she tailed him in first gear all the way.

  Half an hour later, Brody gave up and was back in the car.

  ‘I did say white, Martha.’ Carrie spoke softly, which was, as Martha knew from experience, worse than yelling. ‘White.’ A whisper. She really didn’t want to shout.

  Carrie pressed the pedal of the gleaming bin and allowed the Swiss chocolates to fall from her hand.

  ‘But the box was white, pet.’ Martha shrugged.

  ‘The chocolates. I wanted white chocolates, Martha.’ Carrie shook her head and brought her vibrating phone to her ear. ‘Yes, Leah. What’s up?’ She walked across the kitchen to the vast expanse of window that gave way to a view of the garden with its steel waterfall, glass walkways and Japanese plants. ‘Me? Uptight?’ Carrie laughed. ‘Why on earth would I be uptight?’ She paced through the vast hallway and into the drawing room, making sure Martha was out of earshot. ‘The stupid woman got milk chocolates. Not white. This whole cooking thing is getting to me.’

  Carrie kicked off her shoes and curled up on the leather chaise that had recently been delivered. She was glad Leah had called. ‘Do I really have to do it?’ she begged – and Carrie rarely begged – her mood softened by her friend and producer’s lilting Irish accent. It reminded her of her country house. Of the garden. Of grass. Of everything green and lush. Of when things were normal.

  ‘Can’t you come over early? You know I don’t do kitchens.’ Carrie examined her hands, wondering if there was time for a manicure before they arrived. ‘Five o’clock, honey. Please. And get some nice white chocolates on the way over. Swiss.’

  Carrie disconnected before Leah could argue. She joined her housekeeper back in the kitchen. Things needed to be sorted.

  Martha was virtually invisible, her white uniform blending against the glossy white cupboards. All that stood out was her grey-black hair, her blue eyes. Eyes that didn’t believe what Carrie had just done. That little box would have probably racked up fifty pounds on the food hall account.

  ‘You really don’t want them?’ Martha swallowed and blinked. ‘I need a thank-you present for my surgeon. The tumour hasn’t spread.’

  ‘What?’ Carrie glanced up. She smiled and waved her hand. She was on the phone again. ‘No, no. Take them, Martha.’ When there was no reply, she left her phone on the stone worktop. ‘And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful before.’ She reached out for her housekeeper’s shoulders, her hands hovering above the older woman. Martha had been with her for nine years. She knew a lot about her. Too much, she sometimes thought. ‘What time are the caterers coming?’ She folded her arms across her cashmere sweater. Touching her wouldn’t be right.

  Martha’s skin paled, making her even more invisible. ‘Caterers?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carrie laughed, bordering on nervous. ‘The caterers. I told you to book them a week ago for this wretched dinner tonight.’

  ‘But . . . but you said you wanted to cook for yourself. That home cooking was in fashion and everyone was doing it to save money.’ Martha held her breath. ‘The ingredients are being delivered later, pet.’

  Calmly, just as Martha had seen her do on TV before she let rip at one of her guests, Carrie fell silent. She made a slit of a smile before narrowing her eyes. Her chin jutted forward just a little more than normal, and her shoulders tensed. A single vein on the side of her neck – not usually visible – ticked in time with her heartbeat.

  ‘When I said home cooking was in,’ she said slowly, ‘I didn’t mean that I would be doing any actual cooking.’ She allowed a little laugh, knowing that she was unable to lose her cool in front of the housekeeper. If she sacked her, she’d probably sell her story to the papers, despite the confidentiality agreement.

  Carrie sighed. Television had taught her control, if nothing else. Keeping her voice level was easy. Things could still be sorted. Just. She had people. She had enough money to book an entire restaurant – hell, buy an entire restaurant – if necessary. Leah had said that the producer from the States would appreciate some English hospitality. English hospitality was what she would give him.

  ‘Where’s Clive today?’ Carrie thought fast. Was her Hampstead house, all four thousand white square feet of it, really enough English hospitality? It was a little Spartan. She hadn’t thought this through properly. ‘Damn it, Martha. Get me Clive.’

  Carrie went to lie down. It was only eleven thirty. Things could be done. This could be sorted. She reached for the remote control and drew down the blackout blind. She felt a headache coming on. Moments later the phone beside the bed rang.

  ‘Clive, thank God. Can you fly three of us to Charlbury later? You’re an angel. You and Sally go somewhere nice this weekend on me. Love you.’ She hung up. Then she touched the direct dial button to Charlbury Hall. ‘Answer, answer . . . come on.’ She breathed deeply, just how her therapist had shown her. ‘Daniel. I’ll be home for dinner tonight with two others. Can you make it English? Very English . . .’ She was about to hang up. ‘And you have my permission to use wines from the second cellar.’

  Carrie nodded, satisfied the evening was sorted. She flopped back on to her bed, smiling as she tried to imagine herself in the kitchen, jiggling plates and ingredients, making a meal. Ridiculous, was her last thought as she dozed off, dreaming about Reality Check going Stateside.

  Dayna Ray doodled on the cover of her exercise book. She’d scalloped all four edges in blue, coloured them in, and now she was doing it again in green. In the middle of it all she’d drawn a heart. She thought she might write that new kid’s name inside it, but not yet. She wanted to mull him over some more first, find out who he was, where he’d come from.

  The teacher was harping on about something. Stupid equations. Quadratic something or others. Who cared? She hooked her foot around the strap of her pack and slid the bag towards her. She pulled out a packet of crisps, coughing loudly as she tore it open.

  ‘Give me one,’ Neil whispered across the gap between their desks. Dayna pulled a face that told him to get his own, but the idiot’s hand shot up above his head. Dayna rolled her eyes and passed across the packet when whatshisface up front wasn’t looking. Denton was off sick.

  ‘Don’t bloody take them all,’ she spat.

  ‘Who’s talking back there?’ The teacher swung round to the class. None of them was paying attention or taking note of what was on the whiteboard. Most were texting under their desks, some were reading magazines, one was asleep. ‘What’s the matter with you lot?’ he barked. ‘Lazy little sods.’

  Dayna glanced up. There was a knot of laughter from the kids to her left. Maybe something good was going to happen, like when the last supply teacher ran out in tears and they had the whole lesson to mess about.

  She always listened in English, though. It was the only subject she liked; the only reason she bothered coming to school at all. All those stories; all those crazy lives, some even wilder than her own. ‘Give them back, you idiot.’ Dayna leant across the gap and snatched at the crisps, but her chair toppled and she ended up on the floor. The class howled and whooped. Bits of balled-up paper rained on her head.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  Dayna looked up. The teacher was looming over her. His skin was pockmarked. He had small hands. ‘Dayna, sir.’ She stood up and righted her chair. Her hip hurt. ‘Dayna Ray.’ She slung her pack over her shoulder. She’d be sent out for sure. Good, she thought.

  ‘Well, Miss Ray, you can pay a visit to the head’s office for being so stupid.’ There was a rumble of disapproval around the class. Not because the others didn’t want her to get slammed by Jack the Crack, no. They were annoyed because they knew that she’d effectively just been given the day off.

  ‘Not fair, sir. If we all fall off our chairs, can we go too?’

  ‘Silence, you idiot.’ The supply teacher scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘Take this to Mr Rushen. Let him deal with you, you stupid girl.’

  ‘Are you allowed to call me that, sir?’ Dayna stared up at him through eyes rimmed with kohl. What was she saying? ‘To call me stupid.’ Another ripple of laughter. A whistle. No one had ever seen Dayna cause a fuss. She reddened and distracted herself by seeking out that new boy, whatever his name was. He wasn’t joining in with the predictable catcalls. She couldn’t help it that her eyes narrowed to focus on him; to check out what he was doing over there in the corner. Reading, she thought, as she walked towards the door. He was reading a book and it didn’t look like a maths textbook. Her stare fixed on him as she turned the handle to leave the class.

  At that exact moment, the boy looked up and caught Dayna’s eye. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t make any smart remarks like the others did as she left. Slowly, the new boy in the corner with his black hair and his skinny neck and his ripped jeans offered a flicker of a wink before turning back to his book.

  ‘Get out of my sight, stupid, stupid girl . . .’ Dayna heard the teacher say as she walked out. She had no intention of going to the head’s office, but equally she had no intention of going home or hanging out at the shops either. It was English after break and she wanted to go. She’d written an essay. Besides, she wanted to find out more about New Boy. It had been a week since term began and he hadn’t said a single word to her yet. She wasn’t sure he’d said a single word to anyone.

  ‘A loner,’ she said to herself in the mirror, leaning against the sink in the girls’ loos. ‘We have lots in common already.’

  The door banged open. ‘Who you talking to, freak?’ said one of a pair of sixth-formers. They came up to Dayna, who was pretending to wash her hands. She’d hoped to hide out for a bit.

  ‘No one.’ Dayna shrugged and looked at the floor. She knew the routine. Her cheeks were burning and her mouth went dry, a bit like when she’d had to taste bleach. There were no paper towels so she wiped her hands on her school trousers. She bent down for her pack.

  ‘What we got in here, then?’The older girls yanked it from her and unzipped it. They rummaged through the contents.

  ‘Hey,’ Dayna said, lunging for it. ‘Give me that back.’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ the blonde one said. They disappeared into a cubicle with it, leaving Dayna kicking and thumping the door.

  ‘Yuk, that stinks,’ one of them said. ‘Jesus, look at that.’ Then she heard paper ripping and what sounded like the contents of her bag being emptied out. A couple of pages of a precious book fluttered out from underneath the door.

  ‘Just fucking stop it, will you?’ Dayna fought back the tears. Not much made her cry. She’d learnt to be tough, to hide it all away, to keep the bad stuff inside. It generally worked. She gave one extra hard kick on the door just as the girls came out.

  ‘Dirty little emo,’ one of them said. They left the loos arm in arm, their straightened hair falling in highlighted lines down their backs.

  In the cubicle, Dayna found most of her belongings stuffed down the toilet. What wouldn’t fit was trodden into the filthy floor. She pulled her pack from the pan. It dripped on to her sweater. A couple of books – including the one she’d been decorating in maths – were sodden and fit for the bin. Her make-up bag had been emptied into the sanitary disposal unit, and the little bit of money that was in her purse was missing.

  ‘Bitches,’ she said. Then she felt it start – a burning in her chest, speeding through her body with every banging heartbeat. She grabbed the edge of a basin. ‘Breathe slowly,’ she told herself when her chest rose and fell in increasingly shallow bursts. The room started to spin. She dropped to the floor, anticipating the blackout that would follow. She didn’t want to smash her head on the tiles. This didn’t happen often but when it did, she knew she’d been pushed to her limits.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s all OK,’ she repeated. Everything suddenly appeared colourless, washed out, unreal. As usual, her eyes fogged and her limbs tingled. The inside of her mouth was dust and the beginnings of a migraine buzzed across her forehead. She breathed. She stared. She counted. She focused, just as the books had told her to do.

  Don’t let them win, something told her. You’re better than they are.

  Her mouth suddenly filled with saliva. Please don’t be sick, she prayed. Dayna gripped on to a dusty old pipe that ran behind the basins. It was warm. It sent ripples of comfort through her hands, up her arms and down to the rest of her body. She screwed up her eyes and carried on counting – up to ten over and over again. She rocked. She nursed herself through it.

  Then, as quickly as it came, the attack subsided. She’d won. It was the only thing in her life she could control.

  When the bell rang, Dayna got up off the floor and left the toilets. In another thirty seconds, the break-time stampede would begin. It marked the start of half an hour’s mayhem.

  She walked briskly through the building, went outside and slipped round the back of the science labs. She pulled the half-finished joint from her pocket and stared at it. She glanced around, full of the feeling that someone was watching her. They were always taking note, scrutinising her, laughing at her, telling her what a loser she was.

  ‘Don’t cry, you silly bitch,’ she said, digging her nails into her palms. She kicked the wall of the building, lighting the joint and sucking slowly. She wanted it to last. She’d sold the silver bracelet her real dad had given her as a baby on eBay for this hoard. It was worth it. A couple of lungfuls and she felt better. She glared at a couple of younger kids who dared come near, willing them to leave her alone. She hated them all. A chilly early autumn wind cut between the science block and the boundary fence, making her shiver.

  Dayna pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and stared into its mirrored back. She licked her finger and wiped beneath her eyes, trying to get rid of the smudged make-up. She saw the black and orange streaks of her hair in the body of the phone. She thought she looked like a wildcat as she put the mobile away, disgusted with herself. She finished her smoke.