Exile

Chapter 29

James Harris had been staring at his feet for twenty minutes. A prominent purple vein throbbed under his eye. Bunyan and Williams stood near him, asking questions and waiting for answers that never came. The only times Harris seemed alive were the four times Alan had come back downstairs, banging loudly on the living-room door before opening it and coming in. The first couple of times he claimed he had forgotten something and went back upstairs slowly, carrying a broken toy or a pen. Then he started coming down to get things for the babies, a drink of juice and a bit of bread. Harris sat up when the boy came in, waking up, sitting tall and giving his eldest son trouble for coming back to save him. At the last visit Alan started crying in the kitchen and wouldn't tell anybody why. He climbed onto his father's knee and refused to get down. Williams took Bunyan into the hall. "Phone Carlisle on your mobile," he muttered. "Tell them we might need an interview room. And try and get hold of the emergency social work here, tell them about the kids."

Bunyan looked back into the living room. "Why won't he talk?"

"Jesus, I don't know, but he's obviously got something to say, hasn't he?" He stepped back into the room. "Mr. Harris, we're going to phone the social-work department so that someone can sit with the boys for a while, and we'd like to take you to Carlisle police station to conduct a formal interview."

Harris stood up, letting Alan slide down his legs. "No," he said weakly. "No. Don't. Please don't."

"We need you to talk to us and we can't talk here with the boy coming in and out."

"I'll talk," breathed Harris. "I'll talk. Isa'll sit with them. Try Isa." He bent over and picked up the cushion on the chair. Underneath, in the hollow that springs should have filled, was a shallow pool of correspondence and bits of paper. Harris lifted some pages and found an unfolded fag packet with a number written in pencil. "Here," he said. "She'll come."

Bunyan slipped out into the hall and tried the number on her mobile but it rang out at the other end. She looked up. Williams and Harris were staring at her.

"Isn't there anyone else?" she said. "A neighbor or someone?"

"Is she not in?"

"There's no answer."

Alan stood on the chair and lifted up his arms. "Mrs. Lindsay's a neighbor," he said simply. "She's got babies anyway and I'll give her a hand. She likes my drawing as well." He smiled up at Williams.

"Right," said Williams hopefully. "What number house does she live at?"

"Next door," said Alan, trying to get between his father and the big policeman. "I'll go an' chap her for ye."

"Maybe your daddy should do that."

They all looked at Harris. He walked over to the door with the energy and bounce of a sleepy octogenarian.

"I'll just come with you," said Williams, trying to sound light-hearted so as not to frighten the boy, taking hold of Harris's arm as he came past.

Bunyan could hear them on the veranda, walking along to a door and knocking, waiting for the answer. In the street below someone was shouting as an engine revved furiously. The next door opened to a gruff female voice. Alan smiled up at Bunyan, a cluster of sharp teeth set in a little pink face. "I'm not well."

"You've got a cough," said Bunyan.

"How can a lady be a debt man?"

"D'you think we're debt men?"

"Aye." He was grinning, trying to appeal to her.

"Nooo," she said, and felt her voice changing. "We're not debt men, we're policemen."

Alan's face fell and his eyes flickered to the front door. "What do ye want him for?" he said quickly.

"Just a chat."

The boy seemed panicked. His eyes darted around the room. If Alan had been older Bunyan would have thought he was looking for a weapon.

"You're not gonnae…" Alan caught his breath. "Ye won't jail him, will ye?"

"We're just going to talk to him, here, in the house."

The little boy frowned. "What'll happen to the babies if ye jail him?" he said, but Bunyan knew what he was asking.

"You'll all be fine," she said. "We're just going to have a little chat, that's all. We won't be long."

Williams and Harris came back through the door. Harris's eyes were redder than before: the purple pressure under his eyes was building. Alan ran forward and grabbed Harris around the thigh. "I'll stay," he said. "I'll stay with yees."

"You can't stay, darlin'," said Bunyan.

Alan smiled up at Williams, frightened and hopeful. "Let me stay, I want to stay with yees, ye can talk to me, I'll tell ye things, I'll tell ye." Harris tried to shake the boy off his leg but Alan clung on. "I'll stay – Mrs. Lindsay only likes babies anyway. She doesn't want me."

Harris put his hand on the boy's head and pushed him away. "Get upstairs and dress," he said.

Alan stepped back and looked at him, muttering a random string of dirty words under his breath. He turned and scampered up the stairs noisily on all fours.

"You should have told the children about their mother," said Williams. "This makes it very difficult for us."

James Harris slumped against the wall, his mouth hanging open.

"Why didn't you?"

But Harris was staring at his feet. "I just… I couldn't," he said.

They could hear the boy upstairs, singing loud mock opera in a kiddie baritone. A door slammed open, smashing off a wall, and Alan clattered down the stairs carrying the smallest child, holding the little man under his arms, walking with his legs open so he didn't step on his feet and hurt him. He dropped the little boy onto his feet at the bottom of the stairs and the baby staggered into the living room, holding on to the wall.

"One more to go," sang Alan, and ran back upstairs again.

Tearfully, Harris put the little hat on the boy and kissed his face as if he'd never see him again.

Bunyan took Williams aside, and pointed upstairs. "That child is going mental," she said sternly.

"He's just worried," said Williams.

An upstairs door slammed open again and Alan shouted a strangled rendition of the climax to "Ness'un Dorma." He arrived at the top of the stairs with his laces undone, tugging a gray V-neck over his vest with one hand, holding the older baby's hand. He sang as the baby walked down the stairs one at a time, repeating his favorite bits when he got to the end. He was out of breath when he got to the hall and stood panting and looking at his dad. "I'll stay," he said.

"You can't stay," said Harris, bending down and picking up the smallest baby. He took the other boy's hand. " 'Mon," he said, herding Alan with his knees, out of the door and into the neighbor's hallway.

Mrs. Lindsay stood by the door, holding it open as she smoked a Super King fag. She was an eighteen-year-old with two small babies of her own and a voice like Orson Welles. "When'll ye be back for them?" she graveled.

They looked to Williams for an answer but he wasn't in the business of comforting anyone.

"Not too long," said Bunyan.

" 'Cause I need tae go out later. I cannae watch them past five."

"We should be finished by then," said Bunyan.

"Thanks, hen," muttered Harris, and the policemen took him next door.