Towers of Silence

Chapter Thirty

You cannot imagine how delighted I was when the train arrived on time to take me to Piccadilly. If only there’d been a buffet too. I was weak with hunger. How did Adam go without food so long? I thought teenagers were constantly grazing, needing vast amounts of food to fuel their rapidly growing bodies. Was he too lovesick to eat? Too disturbed? I rang Susan Reeve en route.

“I’m on the train,” I said and cringed at the cliché, though I had the carriage to myself so no one could hear me. “I’m on the way back from York, Adam is getting the Manchester coach. He’ll probably be another three hours at least.”

“What’s he been up to?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” I described our afternoon without going into too much detail. I’d rather tell her in person, particularly about Adam becoming upset.

“It was just an ordinary house?”

“Yes.”

Adam’s adopted. The thought dropped into my mind like a brick. It fit the scenario. Tracking down a name, an address. Turning up secretly. Unable to go ahead and make himself known. Absurd? Possible? Wouldn’t Susan Reeve have told me though? Unless it was a big secret. I couldn’t raise it on the phone.

“Can I call round in the morning and tell you all about it then?”

“Yes. I’ll ask him where he’s been,” she said, “when he comes in. See what he has to say for himself.”

“Don’t give anything away,” I warned her.

“Oh, no. I won’t.”

“He’ll be exhausted, too,” I said, wanting to protect the tearful boy from any more strain that day.

“I don’t know what’s going on; it doesn’t make sense. I’m so glad you’ve been there, though. I’d have been out of my mind by now but just knowing you were keeping an eye on him…” Her voice trembled with the dread images of all that could have been.

A mug of strong tea and a fried egg sandwich, followed by a tin of rice pudding with cranberry jelly allayed my hunger. I browsed through the evening paper as I slurped. There was a heart-rending lead story about the little girl who needed a kidney for Christmas and a plea for more people to join the donor scheme. I flicked through and studied the page with ideas for last minute presents but none of it would do for Ray. He wanted a CD. I wouldn’t even have to go into town; there was a shop the other side of the park, on Fog Lane, that sold recent releases and did a roaring trade in second-hand music too. But what CD would he like? I should ask Laura maybe, he might have dropped her a hint. I turned the pages back to a report on the ill health of the city. We were already top for coronary illness and lung cancer, infant death rates and dental decay. The latest study showed a similarly gloomy picture for mental health. Suicide rates and depression levels rising. One forthright GP said the biggest challenge and the only effective one to improve health was to tackle poverty. A voice in the wilderness. Poverty wasn’t sexy. The poor don’t vote. Another health worker blamed the breakdown of traditional communities and of marriage, the isolation of families. A third of those interviewed were depressed. It was a shocking figure.

I thought of Adam, bullied at school and now deeply unhappy. Why? Who or what was he looking for in York? Had he ever been happy and settled? His mother clearly loved him, and she was warm, likeable. What was going wrong for Adam?

And Roland. The loss of his mother was bound to disturb him. He’d be dealing with it for the rest of his life. Would he heal? Would he reach the point where life felt worthwhile? Where he could trust and love again?

They both had people who cared and neither of them were living in the harsh material conditions that crushed so many childhoods. Would that be enough?

Prompted by thoughts of Roland I stirred myself to use the phone and check my messages.

Connie Johnstone had rung and left a message.

“I’ve talked it over with Martina and Patrick. We’d still like you to carry on, and Roland knows that but I’ve told him there’s no pressure on him to be involved at all. When we meet again we’ll come to you or we’ll sort out a time when Roland isn’t around. That’s it for now. If there’s any problem you can ring me. Thank you. Goodbye.”

On the whole I was pleased. Glad that I could pursue the leads I had; show the photos to Sharon and maybe make some progress on that front, and I was relieved that the decision to carry on had been discussed among them and that Roland’s opposition was acknowledged and out in the open. But I was a little worried about his removal from the process. Wasn’t it a bit too pat to think his absence equalled acceptance – ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’ sort of thing? And there was still the niggling feeling that Roland’s attitude might conceal more than his grief. A notion that I couldn’t shake.

Laura was visiting Ray. He’d got Moby on in his room; he only ever puts music on when she’s visiting. As I went upstairs to look in on the children, I could smell her perfume. I found it overpowering but said nothing. I couldn’t think of a way to mention it that wouldn’t be hurtful.

The children were both asleep as I’d expected. Tom was hidden beneath the duvet. I pulled it back a little so his head was uncovered. Sweat had dampened the curls around his temples and they were flattened like feathers against his head. I kissed him.

I went over to Maddie and bent to kiss her. She brushed at me with her hand and turned onto her other side. There was a thick green felt pen on the bed, a pool of dark green ink on the sheet. Washable, supposedly. I’d heard that one before. I moved it onto the bedside table. Had Ray paid Vicky Dobson? I’d have to remember to check with him in the morning.

I wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. I needed a bit of quality time. I wanted to see Stuart but he’d be busy at the cafe bar. Twenty-four hours. I sorted out clothes for the following night, checked that the things I liked didn’t need washing. I should talk to him about how we arrange our dates. It would be so much easier if we set a date each time we parted. Then I wouldn’t get in a state wondering whether to call or get fed up with him for not calling me. But would that seem too rigid? Were we ready for that? Was he? All I could do was talk to him about it. And about Christmas too. My idea of a night away on our own. See what he thought.

Time to relax. I’d got a Sopranos episode on tape still to see. That and a couple of glasses of Shiraz would do very nicely.