Cameron stares at the wall with dry eyes, his thin lips pulled tightly across gritted teeth. Following his gaze, I search for the thing that’s dragging his attention away from the sergeant sitting opposite him, but the only thing there is the pockmarked, steel-coloured wall. The paint is thick, shiny and dull, dull, dull.
If Dulux made it they’d probably call it ‘Suicide Grey’.
He’s scared, I know he is. Beneath the cockiness and swagger that form a tight shell around his body there’s a frightened little kid. I know it from the occasional look he gives me, and from the way his eyes soften and liquefy when they tell him his rights. It’s that little kid that keeps me here, sitting beside him as a responsible adult, trying to get him to answer the questions.
“We’ve got CCTV evidence,” Sergeant Collier says. “Shows you stuffing that paperweight in your pocket like it’s a Mars bar. Are you still denying it?”
Cameron shrugs and I want to shake him. His lack of cooperation is infuriating. Not only to the policeman, whose narrow eyes show the impatience of a man who is tired of being lied to. I, too, want him to hurry up, to admit to the crime and let them get on with it. Simon was expecting me home an hour ago. I’ve not had the chance to call him or send him a message. I’m going to be in big trouble when I finally do.
“Cameron, maybe you should answer his questions.”
He folds his arms tightly across his pigeon chest and flashes his bleached blue gaze across the room. “Have you found my dad yet?”
They sent a policeman to locate Mr Gibbs two hours ago. We waited for an hour before Cameron finally crumbled and agreed to be questioned in my presence. He refused to have a duty solicitor present; claimed all they were good for was getting him found guilty and locked up. How a thirteen-year-old knows anything about duty solicitors, I’ve no idea. I suppose he’s been around a lot of crime.
“Nope.” Sergeant Collier has a self-satisfied smirk. I can understand why Cameron took an instant dislike to him. I’m not that keen, either.
“I want to wait for him.”
“You agreed to questioning,” Collier points out. “If we can’t find your dad we’ll have to keep you here overnight.”
A flash of unease passes over Cameron’s face. Blink and you’d miss it. “Whatever.”
“Wait a minute.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the plastic-coated table. “Let’s not be hasty.”
Collier looks at me. “I’m not hasty.”
Oh, joy. Now I’ve alienated him as well. “Can I have a word with Cameron? In private.” The leaflet they gave me when I agreed to accompany Cameron told me I can request to be alone with him. Collier wasn’t there when I got it, though. For a moment he just glares at me. Steely eyes. Unbending gaze. He gives me the jitters. “Please?”
“I suppose so.”
“Don’t do us any favours,” Cameron mutters, and I want to hit him. My knuckles tingle. He’s driving me crazy. His one-way route to self-destruction seems to have picked up a hitchhiker, and unfortunately it’s me.
“Can you rein it in for a minute?” I hiss. Cameron looks shocked at my vehemence, but wisely says nothing. Perhaps he’s not such an idiot, after all.
“You can have ten minutes, I’ll get a cuppa.” Collier pauses the recording and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him. I stare at the closed door for a minute, as though I’m waiting for him to come back. What I’m actually doing is counting to ten. Trying to calm myself down.
It’s not working.
Eventually, I turn to look at Cameron. “What the hell are you doing?”
He rocks slowly on his chair—back and forth. Each time he tips I think he’s going to fall over, but he doesn’t. It’s as if he has an innate sense of balance, tuned to a hair trigger.
“He’s pissing me off.”
“Don’t swear.” It’s an automatic reaction.
Cameron giggles. Not a laugh, it’s too high pitched for that. “You’re worried about my language?”
I push off the table and stand up. “No, Cameron, I’m not worried about your language. I’m worried about your future. You’ve been caught red-handed stealing from a shop. The police have CCTV evidence and witnesses, yet still you’re being bolshie and uncooperative.”
“Mickey always tells me to keep my mouth shut if the pigs pull me in.”
There are so many shades of wrong with his words I don’t know where to start. Sighing, I take the easiest route. “Who’s Mickey?”
“My cousin.” He rocks forward, then adds, “He’s sixteen.” As if that explains everything.
“And what makes your sixteen-year-old cousin the expert on being arrested?” Do I really want to know?
Cameron shrugs. “Been busted a few times. Dealing, thieving. GBH.”
Lovely.
“Beating somebody up is a bit different to a first offense,” I point out. “If you cooperate, the likelihood is you’ll only get a reprimand.”
And maybe I’ll get out of here before Simon throws all my stuff out on the street.
“I don’t care.”
I come to a stop in front of him, resting against the table. “Well, you should care. This isn’t funny, Cameron, this is your life you’re pissing up the wall—”
“Language.”
“Shut up and listen for a minute. This is your first time in this police station. The first time you’ve been arrested. If you don’t buck up your ideas it won’t be your last. Do you really want to end up like Mickey, or any of those other thugs constantly being hounded by the police?”
His face falls. “I’m not sure I get the choice.” And in that voice there’s something I want to cling to: a lack of certainty, a wavering fear.
“You do. You get the choice. And I want you to make the right one.”
His brow pulls down, as if he’s trying to listen to a foreign tongue.
“Because it doesn’t have to be like this, Cameron. You don’t have to be that guy who just drifts. The one who ends up serving time in a shitty jail and comes out to kids who don’t know him and a girl who can’t stand the sight of you.” I bite my lip, trying not to get too emotional. “We all have to make decisions. What road to take, which route to choose. Make the right one.”
His eyes meet mine. “I don’t know what to do.” It sounds like a plea.
I soften. “Let me speak with the sergeant. Tell him you want to talk. We’ll see what he can offer?” Taking a deep breath, I reach out to touch his shoulder. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
I’m not stupid. I know it’s not a breakthrough. It might not be anything at all, but I let a little bit of hope bloom in my heart. Maybe, in the end, he will still end up like his jailbird cousin Mickey, or his slacker, absentee dad, but I truly hope he doesn’t.
It takes another hour for the on-call social worker to pick Cameron up. By this point we are both drained—emotionally as well as physically—and he barely rolls his eyes when he sees it’s Ryan Clark. The unfortunate-looking guy has the nickname ‘superboy’ because he looks about twelve and is anything but a superhero. Still, Cameron goes quietly with Ryan, only stopping to flash me a cheeky wink before he follows him out of the door.
Then there was one.
It’s past ten by the time I emerge from the police station and out into the cool evening air. I’m immediately shrouded by a misting of rain. It hangs in the atmosphere and coats my hair, tiny beads clinging to my eyelashes. When I blink, I can feel the cool wetness against my cheek.
The road outside is bathed with an amber glow, the streetlamps illuminating the city as far as the eye can see. It’s never truly dark here in London, not even in the dead of night. Streets and alleys which were once contaminated by thick, cloying smog are now polluted by light.
At first I don’t notice him. It’s not until Niall steps out of his car and walks toward me, his fingers running through his hair like a nervous comb, that I finally realise he’s here. When he comes to a stop in front of me I feel my heart clench for a second. In the half-light he looks more glorious than ever. I stare up at him, his eyes dark in spite of the lamps, and it all comes crashing down on me. The stress of the police station, the misery of knowing Cameron could self-destruct; my fears about Simon’s reaction.
The fact Niall’s here, waiting for me, when I feel so exhausted.
I do a stupid thing. I start to cry.
Even as the first tear falls, I am embarrassed. A stolen sob escapes my lips. I feel exposed, as if he can see beneath my skin right to the real me.
I don’t even know when it happens. One minute I’m staring up at him, his face blurred through a curtain of tears, the next minute I’m in his arms, my chest tight against his. He buries his face in my hair. It muffles his words, but not enough for them to disappear.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
His jacket is open, and when I wrap my arms around his waist, my hands slip underneath. They rest on his back, just above his waistband. The warmth of his body radiates through his thin shirt. As he holds me I take in deep gulps of the fresh night air, the misty rain coating my lips as I breathe.
There’s a part of me that wants to stand here forever. I don’t have to think about how angry Simon is going to be, and how scared I am to turn on my phone and see dozens of missed calls. Even better, for a moment I can forget all about Cameron Gibbs and his mixture of fear and bullishness that both infuriates me and tears me apart. Right now, with Niall, I can just be. It’s a luxury I want to hold on to.
But it isn’t mine to have.
“What happened?” He cups his hand around the back of my head, fingers tangling in my damp hair. It feels good. Too good. I take a step back and his arm falls back to his side.
“They gave him a reprimand.” I push my wet fringe from my eyes. God only knows how bad I look; pale face, running mascara, red eyes.
“That’s good, right? Just a warning?”
I shake my head. “It still goes on his record, that’s what they said.” That hurts more than anything. Cameron’s record was clean, unblemished. What’s done cannot be undone.
“But nothing else? No court appearance?”
“No.” That’s something positive, at least. “And hopefully he’s learned a lesson.” Catching Niall’s eyes, I frown. “What are you doing here, anyway? Are the rest of the kids okay?”
“They’re fine. I bought them all dinner; they were happy as sandboys.” He runs his hand through his hair, and the rain keeps it swept back off his face. It glistens under the light of the streetlamps. “They all asked when we can go again.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How about never?”
“My thoughts exactly.” He laughs. It only lasts for a moment before he turns serious again. “I owe you a big apology.”
“What for?”
“You told me this would happen. That we couldn’t keep control. I should have listened to you.”
“I was thinking the kids would run in the gallery and talk too loudly. Not this.”
A smile threatens at his lips. “You set your sights way too low.”
“Maybe next time we can aim for grand larceny.”
“Hey, I thought we said there wouldn’t be a next time.”
Good point, I think. One night in a police station is more than enough; I don’t want to go there again. Not that I’ll be allowed to, if Simon has anything to do with it. Maybe he’s right. I can’t seem to do anything right. Daisy is still in hospital, Cameron is still headed for a life of crime, and I appear to be doing everything I can to mess up my marriage.
“I need to call my husband.” I don’t know why I can’t say his name. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”
“We should get out of the rain,” Niall suggests, dipping his head so I can’t see his expression. “My car’s over there. I can give you a lift home.”
“I’ll call a taxi.”
“Don’t be silly.” He’s already walking toward his car, an old, beat-up Ford Fiesta. I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but this rusty, downtrodden vehicle wasn’t it.
It’s unpretentious. For some reason, that warms me inside.
“Is this yours?”
“Yeah.” He presses his key and the locks click open. “Why?”
Because I think of you as a glamorous genius. Because I expected your car to be more rock and roll.
Because I love the way you constantly surprise me.
“No reason.”
Inside, it’s damp and musty, like a pair of shoes left out in the rain. He’s tried to disguise the odour with an air freshener that hangs from the mirror, but the cardboard tree is no match for the more powerful smell. I sit down on the fabric passenger seat, kicking an empty plastic Coke bottle with my feet. The car is full of rubbish—used wrappers, stacks of papers, even a couple of canvasses.
“It’s a bit of a mess.” He states the obvious.
“It suits you.”
Niall gives me a “what’s-that-supposed-to-mean?” look and turns on the ignition. Even though the dial is turned right up, the heater pumps out cold air. He leans forward and turns the fan down. “It should warm up in a minute.”
My handbag is on my lap. I unzip it and take out my iPhone. I turned it off when we arrived at the station, mostly to preserve a battery that can no longer hold its charge. It takes a moment for the screen to light up. As I stare down at it, a huge rock of fear settles at the bottom of my stomach, curdling the contents until I can almost taste my own nausea.
“You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. I’m scared my husband hates me, and that he’s left a message to that effect on my phone. I feel like a kid waiting outside the headmaster’s office. The phone trembles in my hand as alerts begin to flash across the top of the screen. Emails from clothes websites I used years ago, tweets I’ve been mentioned in.
There are also four texts and three voicemails. Like the scaredy-cat I am, I check the tweets first. Someone from the clinic has asked if I’m okay. Some guy I’ve never heard of before has started to follow me. There’s a retweet of a book I recommended.
I read the texts next.
Where are you? Simon’s just called me. That one’s from Lara.
I’ve just spoken to Niall Joseph. Cameron Gibbs probably deserves locking up. Give me a call when you get out, okay? Lara, again.
I hope you don’t mind, Lara gave me your number. How are you holding up in there? Niall.
I glance over at him. “You texted me?”
“Yeah, I was worried about you. The woman at the station desk wouldn’t tell me anything.”
I don’t know why, but his concern touches me. When he catches my eye I try to give him a smile. It comes out watery and twisted.
Only one text is from Simon. Call me.
I will, I tell myself, I’ll definitely call him, but first I check my voicemails, wanting to know what mood he’s in. Whether I should steel myself for the worst.
“Beth, I thought you’d be home by seven. It’s now... um... half past. We need to leave soon, so hurry back, okay?”
The next one sounds angrier. “It’s now quarter past eight. I’m going over to Bryan’s, you’ll have to meet me there. Call me please.”
The last one was left ten minutes ago, according to the log. “I’ve just spoken to Lara, because I was worried sick you were at the bottom of a ditch somewhere. I’m bloody livid. You promised. You said the clinic wouldn’t affect our lives, then I hear you’re in some police station in South London. Call me when you get out. We need to talk.” It sounds ominous.
The message ends and I delete the call. I don’t want to listen to it again. All I’ll do is try to analyse exactly how pissed off he is. Simon’s a man who holds his emotions close—calm, collected, perhaps occasionally calculating. Unlike me, he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Public school and a stint in the army would have beaten it out of him, if his parents hadn’t already got there first.
“Are you okay, Beth?”
I glance up at Niall, and realise he’s waiting for a response. A glib, feather-light reply lingers on the tip of my tongue, and I’m all ready to tell him I’m fine.
But I’m not.
“Simon’s really pissed off with me. I missed an important dinner with some clients.” I look down at my phone, watching the screen fade to black. “I don’t know why I just told you that. It doesn’t matter, not really.”
“Of course it matters. Let me drive you home and speak with him, tell him it’s all my fault.”
I try to imagine that scenario. Niall standing at the door and explaining to Simon why he’s driven me home. I picture Simon’s thin lips and folded arms as he listens to Niall. Then to my fumbled explanations as to why Niall waited for three hours in the rain just to drive me home.
That’s not going to happen.
“It’s fine. He’ll get over it.”
“You don’t look fine. You look upset and scared.” Niall reaches across and squeezes my hand. “You look like you need a friend.”
That’s exactly what I need. Somebody to talk to, someone who won’t tell me what a let-down I am. I never imagined that Niall Joseph would volunteer for the job. Squeezing his hand back, I look down at my legs, following the criss-cross weave of the dark-wash denim jeans that cover my thighs.
“That sounds good.”
His hand is still holding mine. “Let me take you home first, though. You look exhausted. Things will be better after a good night’s sleep.”
I lean my head on the itchy backrest. The rain patters on the metal roof, like a gentle drum. Our warm breath has steamed up the windows, turning them opaque and white. As a child I used to love to draw my name through the fog, watching the water run down the window in thin rivulets. God, I wish I could go back to those days.
“I don’t want to go home.”
“No?”
“No.”
He pauses for a minute, then leans forward and wipes the windscreen with his hand. “Then where do you want to go?”
It’s almost eleven at night. Raining and cold. My husband doesn’t know where I am. I should go home and throw myself on his mercy.
“Let’s go to a pub.”