“We have a policy in our house that nobody mentions that girl’s name.”
“Why’s that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Natasha didn’t cripple Callum.”
Theo doesn’t say anything. His gaze shifts and he studies cobwebs hanging from the lights. I notice his tattoo again.
“You were in the army.”
“Yeah.”
“See any action?”
“The Falklands.”
He licks his lips and drapes his hands over his thighs. “You got children, Professor?”
“Two girls.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen and seven.”
He nods. “We were only blessed the once. You read those stories about women popping out babies like they’re Pez dispensers even though they can’t afford to feed them. I’m not just talking about in Africa and poor countries. Look at the single mums in this place-never working, living off welfare, having three kids with as many different men. It’s fucking criminal, you know.”
I don’t answer.
Theo scratches his cheek with three fingers.
“Cal doesn’t normally play in this league. He’s part of the Olympic squad.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s going to be a big year for him.”
His eyes mist over. “He used to play football. When he was twelve he was taken down to Arsenal to look around the Emirates Stadium and meet some of the players. There was talk of a contract.”
“What happened?”
“Becky didn’t want him leaving home. Only child. You understand?”
“I do.”
“We had a few arguments but she was right. She let him go at sixteen. He was in their youth training squad. You should have seen him. So much speed and poise. He could ghost into positions like he was invisible, you know, and then pounce.” Theo takes a deep breath and then stares at his shoes. “He was going to fly so high, that boy. But then some whackjob, rattling with pills, drives a car into him and takes off his legs. I can remember the day. I can tell you the time and place. You don’t forget details like that. You don’t forget how someone puts your boy in a wheelchair. Destroys his dreams.”
“I talked to Aiden Foster earlier.”
Theo nods and glances at the game.
“He’s due out next year.”
“Yeah, well, he’s done his time,” says Theo. “They’ll let him go and he’ll have two good legs for the rest of his life. Won’t matter. He’s always going to be a deadbeat scumbag, a poster-child for losers.”
“Did you blame Natasha too?”
“She wasn’t behind the wheel.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looks at me, holding a pocket of air in his cheeks. “She provided the drugs. She started the fight. What do you think? If that bitch hadn’t… if she… my boy would…” He can’t finish. “Ah fuck it, I don’t want to talk about this.”
For a long while he remains silent, watching the game, not concentrating.
“Aiden Foster never called. He didn’t write a letter. He didn’t say he was sorry. Wait, no, that’s not true. His legal team came to us and wanted to organize a meeting between Cal and Aiden, a reconciliation, they said. They turned up with a TV crew. They wanted to film the whole thing, so they could show the judge and get Aiden a lesser sentence. Maybe if Aiden had showed up without the cameras. Maybe then I’d have believed him.”
The referee has blown time. Handshakes. High-fives. Callum rolls away from the circle, crossing the polished boards. A good-looking boy with shoulders like a butterfly swimmer, he has a flop of blond hair that he flicks back, showering the sprung floorboards with beads of sweat. He looks like he should be advertising Gatorade or appearing on a BBC sports quiz show or dating a hot-looking girl. Theo tosses him a towel. Callum chugs the contents of a water bottle, wiping his mouth, tossing the empty bottle into his kitbag. He misses.
“First one I’ve missed today,” he says, grinning.
“This is Joe O’Loughlin,” says Theo. “He’s working with the police. He wants to ask you about ‘you know who.’ ”
“You can say her name, Dad.”
Callum shakes my hand. Apologizes for the sweat.
“I told him you don’t know squat,” says Theo.
“Why would anyone think I did?” asks Callum.
“That’s what I told him. I said you didn’t. I said you’ve got more important stuff to think about. That girl was nothing but trouble.”
“Don’t talk about her like that, Dad. She’s dead. What happened is in the past.”
Callum spins the chair to face me. “What happened to her? I mean… where has she been all this time?”
“We don’t know.”
“They must have some idea.”
“Do you have one?”
The pause extends a beat past comfortable. Callum shakes his head.
Theo tells him to put on a sweatshirt so he doesn’t get cold.
“The Olympics-that’s a big deal,” I say, noticing the British team logo on his kitbag.
“Yeah, it is.” He rocks backwards, balancing the chair on two wheels. “It was my dad who suggested wheelchair basketball. He took me to see a game. I told him if I can’t play on my feet, I don’t want to play.”
“What changed your mind?”
He shrugs. “Before this happened to me, playing sport came naturally. Football. Training. I didn’t have to think. After my injury I became more self-conscious about my body and staying healthy. I started this to keep fit. Now it makes me happy. Earns me respect.”
“You must have regrets.”
“About what?”
“Being disabled.”
“I lost my legs. Now I have these.” He opens his kitbag and shows me two prosthetic limbs, skin-colored and sculpted to look real. Trainers are laced to the feet.
“Who do you blame?” I ask.
“Do I have to blame someone?”
“Most people do.”
“Why?”
“It helps them come to terms with things.”
“You mean it gives them an excuse?”
“Maybe.”
He shakes his head. “When I woke up in hospital and looked down at where my legs used to be, I went through that whole hard-nosed, why-me response. I denied it, grieved over it, screamed at the unfairness and wanted to crawl into a dark hole. I did for a while. I hated Aiden Foster. I hated Natasha McBain. I hated everybody who was able-bodied and walking around on two legs.”
“What changed?”
He shrugs. “Time passed. I stopped making excuses. Winners don’t make excuses. When I’m on a basketball court, or staring at a flight of stairs-I don’t make excuses. I find a way.”
Strapping on his legs, he tugs down his tracksuit pants then rubs a towel over his hair, drying the sweat. Theo has gone to get the car.
“If you see Mr. and Mrs. McBain-tell them I’m sorry for their loss. Tell them I didn’t blame Natasha.”
“What about your father?”
He glances at the double doors and smiles sadly. “Don’t judge him too harshly. He shattered his knees in a skydiving accident and the army pensioned him off. The pain doesn’t go away.”
“And your mum?”
“She left us years ago.”
“Did she leave him or you?”
“Does it make a difference?”
A car horn sounds from outside. Theo is waiting.
Balancing on his wheels, Callum spins his chair and rolls away, his shoulders flexing like a boxer throwing punches at a bag. He has to turn to move backwards through the swinging doors.
The woman at the front desk yells goodbye and a chorus of other voices wish him good luck. Callum grins and waves back, sitting up straight in his wheelchair-a man with useless legs trying to stand as tall as his dreams.
Once Tash got an idea in her head she didn’t let it go. Running away was her new project. Her eyes would light up from the inside when she made plans, talking about how we’d live in London and hang out with celebs.
Getting more and more excited, she’d spin sentences together each beginning with “and then.”
“And then we’ll find somewhere to live, not a squat, but somewhere nice in Fulham maybe, or Notting Hill. And then we’ll get jobs. I could be an actress or a model. I don’t mind getting my kit off. Just the top half like Katie Price, you know. Glamour shots. Lots of girls do that. They make loads.”