Secret Smile

'Like I said, I know Simon. I've known him for nearly a year now. And I'm a bit worried about him.' I sat down on the edge of the sofa. 'I think he might not be very well.'

'Are you a doctor?' She flicked away the lollipop that was being waved in front of her face as if she were swatting a fly.

'No.'

'He should go to a doctor. What am I supposed to do about it. He's a grown-up.'

'I don't mean ill like that – I mean… well, his behaviour has been rather disturbing and

'Oh. I see. You mean ill in the head, do you? Mmm?' She suddenly sounded like Brendan.

'I'm not sure. That's why I wanted to talk to you.'

'There's nothing wrong with Si.' She stood up with surprising agility and the children fell back into the depths of the sofa, letting out yelps of surprise. 'Who do you think you are?'

'I didn't…'

'Get out!'

'I just want to help,' I lied.

The anger suddenly went out of her. 'I could do with a fag,' she said. She picked a video up from the side table and slid it into the player under the TV. Cartoon characters ran across the screen. She turned the sound up high and then, reaching up to a shelf, brought down a tin of biscuits and fished out three chocolate bourbons which she pushed into three eager hands.

I followed her into the kitchen where she sat down heavily on a chair. She poured herself a large glass of fizzy lemonade and lit a cigarette.

'Is he in trouble?'

'I don't know,' I said cautiously, aiming for a vague and misleading truthfulness. 'It's more that I want to prevent trouble, if you see what I mean. So I thought I'd come here and just talk to someone who knew him before he got taken into care.'

'What?'

'I thought…?'

'Care?' Her laugh was a high, thick wheeze. 'Where did you get that idea from?'

'You mean, he didn't get sent away?'

'Why would he, with our mum and then our nan there to look after us? We were never in care. You should be careful what you say.'

'I must have got the wrong end of the stick,' I said in a placating tone.

She pulled on her cigarette and then released a trail of blue smoke.

'Si wasn't a bad boy,' she said.

'What about school?'

'Overton. What about it? He was good at lessons, but he hated people telling him what to do or criticizing him. He could have done all right if they hadn't…' She stopped.

'If what?'

'Never mind.'

'Did they punish him?'

'They don't like boys like him being clever.'

'He was expelled?'

She ground out her cigarette, swilled back the remains of her lemonade and stood up. 'I'd better see what they're up to in there,' she said.

I stared at her. 'What happened then, Susan?'

'You can see yourself out.'

'Susan, please. What did he do after he was expelled?'

'Who are you anyway?'

'I told you, I know Brendan.'

'Brendan? Brendan? What is all this?'

'Simon, I meant.'

'I've had enough of people poking their noses into our business. Live and let live, I say. I don't believe you want to help Si, anyway. You're just snooping.'

Again, with that word, uttered with such hostility, I heard a weird echo of Brendan. He might have left his past, changed his name, reinvented himself utterly, and yet still at some deep level he remained connected to it all.

'Get out of my house,' she said. 'Go on. Fuck off before I call the police.'

So I left, out into the fresh air and a sky that was clearing after heavy rain, with blue on the horizon and the deep grey separating out into clouds. I drank some water and popped a Polo into my mouth then started the van. I headed back the way I'd come, through the gleaming wet streets, but after a few minutes stopped again. Brendan didn't let things go, I thought grimly. Never.

I wound down the window and when a woman walked past I leaned out and said, 'Excuse me, could you tell me where Overton High School is?'

Children were coming out of school, weighed down by backpacks, carrying musical instruments and PE bags. I sat and watched them for a few minutes, unsure what I was doing here. Then I got out of the van and wandered over to a couple of women standing by their cars chatting.

'Sorry to bother you,' I said.

They looked at me expectantly.

'I'm moving to the area,' I said. 'And my children – well, I was wondering whether you'd recommend this school?'

One of them shrugged. 'It's all right,' she said.

'Does it do well academically?'

'All right. Nothing to write home about. Your Ellie does well, though, doesn't she?' she said to the other woman.

'Is there much bullying?'

'There's bullying in every school.'

'Oh,' I said, stumped. Then: 'I had a friend who came here about, let's see, twelve or thirteen years ago. He mentioned something about an episode.'

'What d'you mean?'

'I can't remember now what it was, exactly. Just, he said something…' I allowed my words to trail away.

'I don't know. Things are always happening.'

'That'd be the fire,' said the other woman. 'It was before our time of course, but people still talk about it.'

I turned to her, my skin prickling. 'Fire?'

'There was a fire here,' she said. 'You can see. A whole Year Eleven classroom was burnt to the ground, and half the IT area.'

She pointed across the yard to a low red-brick building that was newer than the rest of the school.

'How awful,' I said. I felt hot and then cold all over. 'How did it happen?'

'Never caught no one. Probably kids fooling around. Awful what they get up to nowadays, isn't it? There's Ellie now.' She raised an arm to a lanky girl in plaits walking our way.

'So no one was caught?'

'Good luck with the move,' said one of them over her shoulder. 'Maybe see you again, if you decide to come here.'

I got back into the van and put another Polo into my mouth. I sucked on it, feeling its circle become thinner and thinner until it broke and dissolved. I turned on the ignition, but still sat with the engine idling, staring at the new classroom, imagining a blaze of leaping orange flames. Simon Rees's revenge. I shivered in the warmth. Like a sign I knew how to read, like graffiti scrawled on the walclass="underline" Brendan woz 'ere.

CHAPTER 34

Don was his own worst enemy, in all sorts of ways. He smoked too much. He kept irregular hours. He existed in a general state of vagueness which I began to think was largely deceptive, but not entirely. When I was sealing the floor, he wandered in with two mugs and I had to wave him back before he caused disaster. I joined him out in the corridor and he handed me a coffee and started thinking aloud about other things that needed doing in his flat. Did I think the window frames looked a bit worn? (Yes, I did.) Could anything be done about the cracks in the living room door? (Yes, if money were no object.) I sniffed at the strong black coffee to try to rid myself of the resinous reek of the floor lacquer.

'It's dangerous to think of things as you go along,' I said. 'That's how costs spiral out of control.'

'I've heard that,' Don said, sipping his coffee. 'The problem is that it's easier to think up ideas once the work has started. Don't you find that?'

I shook my head.

'There's always more you can do,' I said. 'Always something else that can be fixed. What I like is getting a job finished.'

'You don't want more work?'

'That's a funny thing,' I said. 'I have this feeling that not only I should be working at the moment. Shouldn't you be as well?'

Don looked a bit shifty.