Chapters (67)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
‘You’ll do as I say. Now get upstairs, wash your face and hands, brush you hair. Five minutes.’
‘Please.’
Vince pointed again. Brooklyn ran.
It was just after nine and he had kept the boy from school in order to do what he hoped to God would make him see sense, understand what it was all about, and be frightened, yes, be told some facts. He was young enough for it to go home and stay home, but old enough, or so Vince thought, to face what he was sure was going to be a scary encounter and a lecture he would never forget. The other boys had left for the school bus without being told anything and he did not know how much Brookie had talked to them, how much he had hidden, though the business of the phone was out there.
He had asked himself enough times if it had been his fault, because he spent too little time with his sons, was working until all hours, couldn’t be up to speed with their friends, what they did, where they went, if they were in any sort of trouble. He blamed himself but he blamed their louse of a mother more, and how could she never ring to ask how they were doing, let alone see them, send them birthday and Christmas stuff? They barely mentioned her now and Vince knew they were better off, but she was their mother and he couldn’t make up for all of it, whatever she’d been like.
Brookie came slowly down the stairs. His face was still wet, his hair flattened. Vince wanted to hug him but he felt he had to keep things cool until they’d got the visit over with. He handed the boy his jacket, looked at his shoes and went to find a brush and a cloth. ‘Look at you.’
Brookie did not look, nor meet Vince’s eye. He brushed at the shoes hard, getting the worst of the mud off.
‘Right.’
He did not speak all the way except to answer a question when he had to, and in the end his father gave up and they were silent. He had not called in ahead, and if it wasn’t a good time, he’d ask what that was and just drive on to school.
As they went in through the doors of the police station, Brookie reached for his father’s hand and gripped it for a second, a thing he had not done since he was five years old. The feel of it made Vince stop.
‘Listen, it’s just going to be a talk.’
Brookie gripped more tightly. ‘Will I go in a cell?’
‘Of course you won’t, you daft bugger! What made you think that?’
‘Because . . . we’re in a police station.’
‘Everything all right?’
Serrailler had seen them as he came down the stairs on his way out.