On the high-dependency unit, Jo Soulsby lay motionless in bed, her head heavily bandaged, her face covered with abrasions. Sandra Baker, a pretty nursing sister, was checking a drip at her bedside. Jo opened her eyes ever so slightly. The nurse’s image was blurred. It faded away to nothing as she drifted back to unconsciousness.
Hours later – or was it days? Jo couldn’t possibly tell – she was wading through a confusion of thick muddy memories when a hand gently stroked her arm. Then came a voice . . . it sounded familiar, but Jo wasn’t altogether sure to whom it belonged.
‘Can you hear me? Mum?’
Tom Stephens’ voice seemed faint and far away. Jo felt like she was being hauled back to consciousness through a keyhole. She opened her eyes, straining to focus. All she could see was a dark shadow looming above her, then little by little a profile began to register. Her eldest son was tall and blond with a tanned complexion and a striking resemblance to his father. He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.
Jo’s face was so bruised it was difficult to manage even the faintest smile. Her lips felt rubbery and numb, like she’d been anesthetized by a dentist. Her mouth was parched. She swallowed painfully and tried to answer. The noise that came out sounded nothing like speech.
‘Don’t talk . . .’ Tom said. ‘James is on his way. I thought he’d be here by now.’
No sooner had he uttered the words than the door burst open and – like an uninvited gatecrasher – James Stephens fell through it, stopping dead when he saw the state his mother was in. He was a paler version of Tom: tall, with ashen blond hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He threw down his backpack and grinned nervously.
‘Some people will go to any lengths to get attention,’ he said.
Winking at Tom, James leaned over the bed and kissed his mother, cradling her injured face in his hands. Jo pointed at a water jug on the cabinet beside her bed. Pouring a small amount into a glass, he lifted it to her mouth and wiped a dribble from her chin with the sleeve of his jumper. His mother’s voice was hardly audible when she whispered in his ear . . .
‘You smell like a brewery.’
James pointed at his own chest. ‘Moi?’
Jo nodded, ever so slightly.
‘Makes two of us,’ he said.
Leaving her side to collect a chair from under the windowsill, James shot a worried look at Tom. But by the time he’d returned to Jo’s side, his cheeky smile had reappeared. He placed the chair back to front at the head of the bed, straddled it and leaned forwards, placing his chin on his forearms.
He looked his mother straight in the eye. ‘Let’s get one thing straight: I haven’t come all this way for a lecture, I get enough of those in Sheffield. I was worried about you. I had a few pints on the train to ease my nerves, that’s all. Now I’ve seen you’re perfectly OK, I promise to remain teetotal for the rest of my days. Deal?’
But Jo had already fallen into a deep sleep.
They left a message by her bedside to say they’d be back the following morning, drove home in silence and let themselves in. Tom headed straight for the bathroom. He was bursting for the loo. James went into the kitchen, took off his jacket and threw it over a chair.
His wallet fell out on to the floor.
He bent down to pick it up, filled with anger and regret.
The wallet was lying open, the photograph inside nearly as old as James was – its subject, an immaculately dressed man about town. He stared at it intently. Other fathers posed with children on their knee dressed in Paddington Bear pyjamas listening to stories to match. Not his. His father was an egotistical megalomaniac, a selfish bastard who didn’t deserve to be in his wallet at all – never had – never would be again. He took the photograph out, tore it into little pieces and threw it in the bin.
‘Old girlfriend?’ Tom asked, entering from the hallway, coat still on.
‘Something like that.’ James sat down.
Tom followed suit. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes I’m OK!’ James sighed loudly. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered. You think the police are aware that Mum had been drinking?’
A worried look crossed Tom’s face. ‘D’you think she had?’
‘Don’t be so naïve!’ James eyed him with disdain. ‘She reeked of the stuff.’
An uneasy atmosphere descended like a thick black cloud.
Resting his right elbow on the table, James made a fist with his hand and used it to support his right cheek. Fleetingly, he saw his father – not Tom – on the other side of the table. The image spooked him. He rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to relax. A trick of the light, nothing more; it was getting late. On second thoughts, there was more than a passing resemblance: the hair on the back of Tom’s hands, the shape of his fingers, the line of his jaw, his facial expressions . . . James ran a hand through his hair and yawned, acting cool while a ghost walked over his skin.
‘What’s up?’ Tom said, reacting to the intensity of his brother’s stare.
James looked away, too tired to engage in any meaningful conversation.
‘James? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing . . . I was up half the night and some dickhead with a computer game prevented me from getting any shut-eye on the train. I’m off to bed.’
‘Not yet, I want to talk about Mum,’ Tom said. ‘She could be in real trouble.’
‘Oh, lighten up!’ James put his size elevens on the table, then removed them and stood up, scraping the chair on the hard wooden floor as he got to his feet. ‘Just be thankful she didn’t kill anyone, including herself. It was a fucking accident, that’s all. Things’ll be fine.’
‘She never drinks and drives.’
‘So? She made an exception. We all get bladdered sometimes, even you.’
Tom’s expression darkened. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it across the table. ‘It was at the house when I got here,’ he said.
James took the card, a frown slowly appearing on his brow as he read it. It was a police calling card, a handwritten message from DC Andrew Brown urging their mother to get in touch. He shrugged and stuffed it in his pocket.