Someone Else's Son, page 9
‘No, I—’
‘Fine. Go tell your editor that you couldn’t be bothered to report on one of the biggest breakthroughs in coefficient regression since Legendre and his least squares.’ Quinell balled the paper tightly and bounced it back and forth between his large hands.
The woman watched as her notes teetered on destruction. He doubted she’d remember anything of what he’d told her. It was gobbledygook to the lay person.
‘My mother always told me not to go off with strangers. I imagine that includes dinner with you,’ she said.
‘And my mama told me never to date a white girl, but that hasn’t stopped me asking. I think you should go tell your mother—’
‘Telling her anything will be difficult. She died two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Brody Quinell’s manner suddenly changed. His face became serious and one hand reached out to her shoulder although didn’t quite touch. He noticed her face soften, her eyes open wide as her brow lifted.
‘Thank you. But you still shouldn’t have ruined my notes.’
He stopped playing with the paper ball for a moment and let out a noise, more a roar than a laugh. ‘But you wrote—’
‘Stop!’ she said, half smiling, looking around for her photographer. Her pencil crept between her teeth. Brody could see he was winning.
‘So what’s your name?’ he asked, reckoning she was about twenty-three or -four.
She swallowed. ‘Caroline Kent,’ she said quietly.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kent.’
Then Dr Brody Quinell – up-and-coming mathematician in the field of statistical science – spread his lips wide and stuffed the paper right in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he chewed and chewed. ‘Mmm, tha’s goood shit,’ he got out. ‘Reckon I’m so stuffed full I won’t be needing any dinner at all tonight.’
Carrie Kent, ace reporter with a final warning on a job that many young women fresh out of university would lose a few fingers for, her boss had said, decided she would try a tape recorder on Dr Brody Quinell. She knew she’d drawn the short straw by being given this story, but she was serving time under the science editor as part of her internship with a huge periodical conglomerate. She was determined to prove herself.
The recorder was hidden in a small evening bag. She lifted her napkin and set the purse down on the table with the half-open flap facing him. She’d expected more burger bar than expensive cuisine and was surprised at his tailored suit. He’d made an effort. Earlier, he’d perched on the wall outside the university wearing ripped jeans and a faded shirt. His research work over the last four years had resulted in a paper that was causing quite a stir in the States. It was Carrie’s job to discover and report on the personal side of Dr Brody Quinell for SciTech magazine.
‘The jeans aren’t the only thing that’s ripped, eh?’ Leah, her photographer and best friend, had said when she saw Carrie eyeing up the doctor’s lean physique.
‘Not my type,’ Carrie had whispered back, just wanting to get the story and leave. But gradually she’d warmed to the man, convinced him to take her notes from his mouth, flatten them out, and go over the technical points that she simply couldn’t read any more. Eventually, she agreed to go to dinner with the persuasive maths star – he’d been working with NASA, he confided, and had once dated an astrophysicist. He promised her exclusive details of how his research was going to be used and he would even tell her what he had in his refrigerator. If it got back to the editor that she’d passed up the chance, her job would be on the line for sure.
‘Nice restaurant.’ Carrie glanced around at the elegant wallpaper and pristine tablecloths. Conversation hadn’t exactly flowed since they’d arrived. She glanced at her watch.
‘You think?’ Dr Quinell replied, already appearing bored as if his great mind simply wasn’t being stimulated enough.
Carrie smiled coyly, praying she wouldn’t ruin things. She smoothed out her napkin. ‘Yes, I do.’ This was awful. She wasn’t going to get anything from him.
He shrugged. ‘We’ll find out, won’t we?’ He stared hard at her. Carrie was unable to look away. Something passed between them. She felt herself break out in a sweat. Finally, Carrie asked for some water. She fiddled with her hair – anything to override the bolt of electricity that shot out from her heart.
They’d barely finished their starters when he suggested they leave.
She sat in stunned silence but, inside her mind, it took her only a second to decide. It couldn’t be worse than staying here, having him stare at her, break her down like one of his stupid equations. She didn’t want to be something he could figure out. That was what she was supposed to be doing to him.
Then that shard of excitement again, straight through her middle.
He had an apartment, he said, with wine and plenty of food. They could relax more. It would be a glimpse into his personal life – for the article, she tried to convince herself as her mind forged ahead to other things.
Carrie swallowed, stood, and picked up her bag. She’d never done anything like this before. ‘Sure,’ she replied as if she were merely accepting another glass of wine. She would get the story – an exclusive – and then go home.
But there was something about Dr Quinell, she thought as they waited for a cab; something that made her stomach wring itself out. But that same something also made her want to slap him as hard as she could for unsettling her. He was infuriating yet intriguing, powerful yet oddly vulnerable, Carrie discovered, when she saw his apartment. It was basic. He’s been single for a long while, she deduced. That or he made a point of not letting women influence him one bit. His living space was utilitarian and devoid of personal belongings. Not even a picture on the wall or a single cushion on the grey sofa.
Carrie stood alone in the sparse apartment and felt like a very small number in this great man’s world. His genius had aided the exploration of Mars. Suddenly her article for SciTech seemed wholly unimportant.
Two hours later, Carrie was feeling as if she’d been to Mars and back. As for the process, she couldn’t quite work out how it had happened. Just something about the man she was meant to be interviewing, something about the sum of them both after a few more words and a bottle of wine.
‘Again?’ Brody asked. It wasn’t really a question. He clambered on top of her for the third time, his shiny black skin such a contrast to her milky white colour, and twenty minutes later he rolled off. ‘Not bad,’ he said, eyes closed, sheet tangled around his waist.
Carrie reached across the bed and slapped him hard. She felt utterly satisfied. Then she reached for her bag and took out the tape recorder. She spent the next four hours grilling Brody about his life, his loves, his achievements and ambitions. He was, not surprisingly, his most amenable yet. Carrie didn’t even notice when the mini-cassette reached the end and clicked off. Eventually, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep. When she woke, quite against her better judgement and large amounts of good sense that usually dominated her life, she wondered if this was anything akin to love.
THE PAST
Max had grown up with something weighing him down and, try as he might, he couldn’t name or identify it. He didn’t like it – just as some kids were fat or had a limp, or spots or eczema. That was their thing. They got on with being teased and that was the end of it. No one wanted to be different.
One girl in his kindergarten class had an extra finger on her right hand. A little wiggly stump without a nail. Her parents wanted to have it removed when she was younger, but she’d refused. She thought it made her special. The other kids ripped into her about it, but Max loved her for it. She had something extra too, like him, only he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he’d been born with, just that he knew he had it – something unusual sitting on his shoulder. Something heavy that he dragged around every day of his life; something that ate into him; something that watched him, spied on him, like his own personal god. Or demon, he concluded as he grew up.
During his early years, Max believed that he was special, that this thing somehow protected him. He knew he was different from the other kids – he was mixed race for a start, one of only a handful at his school. He knew his parents paid a lot of money to send him to Denningham College and wondered if that was the source of his angst. He was never happy there.
Teasing, bullying, racism, violence or plain nastiness is simply not tolerated at Denningham. Any pupil caught partaking of such contemptible crimes will be immediately removed from the school. Here, we pride ourselves on good behaviour and tolerance of all.
The headmistress’s words rang loud and clear at the start of every term. No one took any notice. Max still got his hair washed in the urinals; still had his possessions taken, broken or sold; still got the silent treatment as his entire year was cajoled into not speaking to him for a term. And he always slept badly in the dorm. He woke early to take his shower before anyone else was up for fear of being ridiculed about his skinny body. He couldn’t bear it if he had to do those vile things in front of them all again.
Denningham College treats everybody the same. You are all equal.
During his school years, Max grew and matured and developed a strong bond with the Thing. It sat right there on his shoulder, watching him when he sobbed at night, criticising him when he was a fool, egging him on when he was shy, holding him back when he wanted to have a go. It interfered in every aspect of his life so that when he reached puberty, Max’s school sent a letter home informing his mother that he talked to someone. Someone that wasn’t there.
Carrie Kent had her secretary book him an appointment with a top Harley Street psychologist.
‘And has this thing always been with you, Max?’
Max liked the way the woman said thing just like he did – as if it was real, yet unnameable. A thing not to be messed with, to be spoken of carefully. This thing was powerful. It ruled his life, didn’t it?
‘Sure.’ Max was twelve. He was clever but never got good grades. ‘Always.’
‘And does this thing have a name?’
Now she was being silly. ‘It’s not a person. Of course it doesn’t have a name.’
‘But you talk to it as if it’s a real person?’
Max shrugged. He kicked his foot against the corner of the woman’s desk. Was she a doctor? He didn’t know. He stared at his mother, sitting next to him, keeping silent, knotting her fingers round and round in an annoying tumbling dance. He wished she’d go away. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about the Thing in front of her, and worse, he’d been told to get a haircut before he came back to school. He would have to ask his mother, but he could already see her staring at her watch, rolling her eyes, instructing her driver to take him to some poncy salon full of women while she raced back to the studio.
‘No one else to talk to, is there?’ He felt his mother’s frown bring the mood in the dismal room down even further. She had a knack of doing that. A certain way of commanding everyone around her. If Max did it, he’d be called spoilt and moody. When his mother did it, she got famous.
‘How come, Max? Don’t you enjoy school?’
‘It’s all right.’ Max stuffed a hand into his pocket. He felt a packet of Polos, or what was left of them. Probably only about three, all warm from his leg. He salivated a little. The Thing told him to eat one so he did. His mother sighed. The other woman smiled and shook her head when he offered her one. Then she wrote something down on the pad resting on her knee. She had nice knees, Max thought, like Miss Riley at school. The other kids were mean to her, too.
‘What I’m trying to say is, wouldn’t it be better to talk to real boys your own age rather than this thing, rather than talking to yourself?’
There was a big silence. Max felt as if he could have fitted his entire life into the void that swallowed up the room. She actually believed he was talking to himself. What was he going to answer? He had no idea. The Thing sometimes surprised him, made him say stuff that either got his head kicked in during free time after supper or, more likely, meant he took to the dorm early, feigning illness, just to sleep, just to escape the great weight of everything.
The void didn’t get filled. Instead, the psychologist put down her pad and pen and turned to Max’s mother.
‘I think your son’s depressed, Mrs Kent.’ She spoke in a low voice.
That was it. Her diagnosis. Depression.
At twelve, Max knew exactly what that was.
‘Well. Thank you, doctor,’ Max’s mother said. Now they could get on with life again.
Max turned his head slowly round to his mother. She looked relieved – the way her eyes narrowed as if there was a smile beneath them. Well, there was, but not a smile of pleasure. More a smile of, what next? A smile thanking God that it wasn’t terminal, that she could just send him back to school with a packet of pills and a few sessions with a counsellor and she’d never hear anything more about the whole annoying incident. That’s what the Thing told him, anyway.
Max took the remaining Polo from his pocket. He crunched it slowly, not taking his eyes off his mother.
AUTUMN 2008
Max had no problem carrying the large box. The happiness in his heart, the grin on his face pretty much made it float weightless in his arms.
‘I won, oh yeah. Knew it. Just knew it.’
The side of the box cut into his skinny arms, but he didn’t care. This one rocked. This was the best yet. This one, thinking about it, had been easy. ‘It’s all about the purpose,’ he muttered. He thought of Dayna’s face when she opened it; thought about helping her lug it home after he’d surprised her with it at the shed when they met later. He could meet her family, maybe stay for tea. He’d do it all properly, make sure it was OK with her folks. They could use the computer too . . .
He stopped.
Up ahead was a group of four lads loitering at the head of the alley he wanted to take to get to the railway. He squinted, recognising one of them. He had a crew cut and was sometimes at school. Max knew they’d clocked him by the way they suddenly fell into formation and moved forwards. Shit.
Max glanced to his right. There was a shop. He started to cross the road, unable to see round the box very well.
‘Oi!’ one of the gang yelled.
The thud thud of trainers on tarmac fell into rhythm with his heart.
‘Oi, fuckhead.’ There was a hand on his shoulder just as he reached the middle of the road. ‘What you got there?’
He was surrounded. Four kids about his age, one on each side of him, gave him no choice but to follow them back across the road and down towards the alley. The rear fences of a street of council houses formed one boundary of the narrow short cut. A mix of iron railings topped with spirals of barbed wire, kicked-in wooden slatted fences, palettes and junk, old settees and cars made an assortment of endings to the depressing patches of garden behind.
Max took all this in as he was frog-marched further down the alley. He’d never noticed the houses before as he’d dashed to his hut, eager to escape from the world. A world that really didn’t understand him. But now, trapped, hedged in by four thugs who stank of booze and menace, time slowed painfully. He knew he was going to feel every kick, every jab, every cruel word as they relished taking what they believed was theirs – his soul.
‘I said, what the fuck is it?’ The hood was pulled over the youth’s head. His shoulders were narrow, hunched beneath his clothes – a naturally aggressive pose as well as helping to conceal his face from the dozens of cameras that had already tracked their movements round the neighbourhood.
‘Just a box.’ Max’s voice failed him and went high-pitched. The four youths laughed. The computer’s brand and logo was printed on all sides.
‘I’m pissin’ myself, man.’
Then the kick in the back. A line of pain passed through his kidneys and spiralled down to his groin. He doubled over and the box slid from his arms, down his knees and on to the ground. His feet prevented a hard landing. It was a present for Dayna.
The box was yanked from him. They kicked and punched him some more before ripping it open.
‘Don’t. It’s mine,’ Max said, straightening up, trying to block out the pain. ‘Just leave it, will you?’
They ignored him and pulled out the polystyrene. Their eyes bulged as they hoisted the sleek machine from its housing. Max smelt new plastic as polythene bags of cables and instructions and discs fell on to the dirt. The flat screen monitor slipped from its packaging and tumbled back into the box.
‘Shove it in and let’s go,’ one grunted. Yeah, they were all thinking. Let’s fucking get it shifted down the pub. Two of them picked up the overflowing box. Max received another kick and got a streak of phlegm spewed down his jacket. ‘Fuckhead freaking motherfucker . . .’ and they strode off, trying to maintain their usual gait while scarpering with the loot.
Max stared after them. His body hurt. His head was worse still. How would he tell her? What would he give her now? Max began to shake. His fingers itched and burnt. The anger, the shame, the frustration, the stupidity, the inevitability boiled his insides until all he could do was run and run. His feet stumbled and scuffed up the dirt, his clothes snagged and tore as he ducked under the wire cordoning off the railway land, and the pain messed with his brain until he finally made it to his shed. His hands fumbled to get the lock off. He charged inside, bolting the door behind him.
Max fell down on to the car seat. He wept. He hated himself for it. When she came, he wouldn’t answer the door. He’d promised her a surprise and had let her down. The only thing for it, that voice in his head told him firmly, was to pretend that he didn’t exist.
Dayna didn’t understand. The padlock was open and hooked through the bolt on the outside, but the door seemed locked from the inside. It wouldn’t budge even when she pressed the toe of her shoe against the wood. She’d knocked of course, but Max wasn’t in there. She checked her phone. One thirty, as they’d agreed. She’d raced out of English, knowing he’d already be down here. She keyed in a short text message: where r u? She finished with an X but deleted it before sending.
