The second Jake’s bedroom door slams shut I head for the kitchen and yank open the cutlery drawer. I riffle through the different compartments and count out the steak knives.
I find three and put them on the kitchen table, then pull open the door to the dishwasher. It’s mid-cycle—Jake must have put it on shortly before I returned home—and a cloud of steam hits me full in the face. When the steam has dissipated I pull out the cutlery basket and pick through the spoons, forks and knives.
I pull out two steak knives by their handles and line them up with the others on the table. Five knives.
I go through the cutlery drawer again, lifting up the metal tray to see if a knife has found its way underneath but there’s nothing there apart from a rusty bottle opener. I look in the dishwasher, both trays this time, then pull the bottom one out and feel around in the drum of the machine. Nothing.
The utensils pots near the oven are next. The missing knife isn’t in with the wooden spoons or the spatulas, nor is it in the knife block. I rummage through the junk drawer beneath the microwave but there’s no knife there either. The only other place to check is Jake’s room.
I have to knock three times before my son responds.
When I open the door he is lying on his bed in his boxer shorts, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked beneath his armpits. I can see the wariness in his eyes. He thinks I’ve come to have another go at him about cheating on Kira.
“What is it, Mum?”
“Just looking for dirty dishes.” Normally I’d find plates on the carpet, mugs on the chest of drawers and breakfast bowls stacked on top of each other on his bedside table, but his room appears to be completely free of either crockery or cutlery.
“I put the dishwasher on earlier.”
“Yes, I saw.”
“You don’t need an excuse if you want to come and talk to me, you know.”
“I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”
“I deserved it,” he says flatly. “You screaming at me earlier. It’s been a long time coming. I’m surprised you didn’t hit me.”
“I’d never do that.”
“I know, and I’ve always found that weird. When me and Billy were at primary school the other kids would come in sometimes and they’d tell everyone how they’d been walloped the night before because they’d stolen something or talked back to their parents or whatever. It wasn’t just one kid—loads of kids in my class were hit by their parents and I didn’t get it. Me and Billy answered you and Dad back all the time. We played up. We didn’t do what we were told. Billy even nicked money out of your purse one time and—”
“I didn’t know that!”
“He was sneaky like that.” He smiles. “We both were. We were little shits, just like the kids in school who got smacked by their parents, but you two never touched us.”
“That’s because our parents hit us and we swore we’d never do the same to our kids.”
“Me and Billy—neither of us were angels.”
“I know that,” I say softly, “but I still love you. There’s nothing either of you could do that I couldn’t forgive.”
“Seriously? So if I told you that Billy had killed someone or I’d raped someone you’d still forgive that?”
I stare at him in horror. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Nothing that bad . . . but . . . I . . .” His chin drops to his chest. “I said and did some horrible things the night Billy ran away.”
I put a hand on the door frame. “Like what?”
“After Dad went to the pub and you went to Gran’s, Billy started dicking about with his lighter, holding it under a cushion and saying he was going to burn the house down to pay Dad back. I lost it. I told him that everything Dad had said was right. That he was a loser and an embarrassment to the family.”
“That’s no worse than the things your dad said.”
“It gets worse. Billy told me I was going out with the town slut and that everyone was laughing at me behind my back. I lost it and I hit him. I punched him in the face. I split his lip.”
I try to cover my shock with my hand but I’m too slow and he hears me gasp.
“Kira heard the whole thing.” He turns to look at me. “She was standing at the top of the stairs. I ran up to her, thinking she’d thank me for sticking up for her, but she just . . . she just sort of froze, so I asked her if it was true. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there.
“I was so angry I went into my room and cracked open a bottle of whisky and drank it. Next thing I knew it was morning and Kira was in bed beside me and I was so hungover I could hardly open my eyes.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Why haven’t you told me this before? Does Dad know? Did you tell the police?”
“I thought Billy would come back. I thought he’d done it to get attention and I wasn’t going to play along.” He takes a deep breath. “When we realized that he wasn’t dicking about and the police interviewed us I told them the truth. They asked if anyone could corroborate my statement and I said that Kira could. They never talked to me about it again. I should have told you and Dad too but you were both so cut up and I didn’t . . . I didn’t want you to hate me.”
“Oh, Jake.”
“No, Mum. Don’t hug me. I don’t deserve it. If I hadn’t hit him Billy wouldn’t have left and Jason Davies wouldn’t have got hold of him. My brother’s been murdered and it’s all my fault. It’s my fucking fault!”
He moves in a blur. One second he’s sitting on the bed, the next he’s up on his knees. He swings back his right arm and smashes his fist into the bedroom wall, then follows it with a punch from his left hand.
“Stop! Jake, stop! Don’t do this!”
I use all my body weight to try and pull him away but it’s like wrestling a bull as he punches the wall again and again and again, driving his fists into it, smearing it with blood.
“Please! Stop! Please!”
Jake pauses, fist pulled back, and as quickly as his rage boiled to the surface it dies away and he slumps onto the bed and curls up in the fetal position, his knuckles raw and bleeding.
“Jake.” I press myself into the curve of his back and wrap my arms around him. “Jake, it’s not your fault. Listen to me, please. I could never blame you for what’s happened. Never. Never.”
He howls with anguish and then bursts into tears. I hold him as he cries, his body shuddering in my arms just the way it did when he was a toddler.