Skunk hung up and returned to staring out the window. Across the way, life seemed to be back to normal. Mrs Buckley was on her hands and knees in the front garden and Mr Buckley's car wasn't on the driveway, so he was most likely at work. Skunk didn't know where Broken was. Jed had several theories: A, he was in an asylum; B, he had been locked up for murdering babies; C, he had been locked up for murdering babies, escaped, and was now living rough in the fields behind Botleigh Lakeside. Skunk wanted to go over and ask Mrs Buckley where Broken had got to, but was put off by Jed's theory D: Broken had been locked up for murdering babies, escaped, and was now being sheltered by Mr and Mrs Buckley who – in a desperate attempt to keep him from butchering them in their sleep – were keeping him supplied with eleven-year-old girls to be slaughtered and turned into lampshades.
In truth, Broken Buckley was sharing a small room in a secure unit with three other men who were broken the same way Broken was broken. Each day a male nurse would inject him in the left buttock and he would lie down and drift off to sleep. Or stare. Or sob. In the evenings, Mr and Mrs Buckley would phone the centre and ask to speak to Rick. As the phone was in the residents' common room, quite often, nobody answered. On the few occasions when somebody did answer, he or she failed to grasp they were using a phone. They picked it up, they stared at it, then let it drop and shuffled away. The mouthpiece hung limp on its cord. Hello? Hello? Hello? Eventually, Mrs Buckley would crack and hang up. She would turn her back on her husband. She would sob in the palms of her hands. Mr Buckley would stand helpless beside her. At night, they would lie in bed without speaking and worry themselves sick about Rick. How was he doing? How was he coping? Was he being well fed? Mrs Buckley imagined him sobbing. Mr Buckley imagined him slowly getting better as psychiatrists and social workers discovered the things that were wrong in his head. Please, he kept thinking, please let them discover the things that are wrong in his head. Mr Buckley had tried to do this himself after his trip to see Dr Carter, but it had proved to be beyond him. ‘Son,’ he would say on the landing outside Broken's bedroom door. ‘Son? Can I come in? Can we talk?’ No answer. Mr Buckley would rattle the handle. The chair on the other side would hold firm. ‘You can't stay locked away in there forever,’ Mr Buckley would say. ‘You'll have to come out in the end.’
No answer. Never any answer.
Never any response at all.
One time, Mr Buckley retreated down the stairs and waited. At 3 a.m. the following morning, his patience was finally rewarded when Broken shuffled out of his bedroom and made his way down to the kitchen. Mr Buckley stood in darkness and watched his son make his way to the fridge and stand with his hands pressed flat against its white surface. Broken stayed that way for a long time, then quietly pulled the door open and began to pick from the plate of food Mrs Buckley had left there in the hope he would come down and eat it. In the yellow glow of the fridge light, Mr Buckley felt sick at how pale his son was and the scratch marks on his face and his arms. Oblivious to the fact he was being studied, Broken continued to eat. A cold sausage, a boiled egg. He drank milk. After a few minutes, the cool refrigerated air began to remind him of fresh air, and this, in turn, reminded him of the day Bob Oswald attacked him. No longer hungry, Broken dropped the ham sandwich he'd been eating and pushed the fridge door shut. He put his hands to his face. Inside, whispered, breathless, he said, over and over, I feel dirty, I feel dirty, I feel dirty, but he didn't make any sound. In contrast, Mr Buckley said, ‘Son?’
Broken froze at the suddenness of the voice. A sick giddiness swept through him. He said nothing, did nothing, was still.
‘Son,’ Mr Buckley said. ‘It's OK. I just want to talk to you. That's all I want to do.’
Broken stayed huddled in darkness. Behind him, out of more darkness, Mr Buckley said, ‘I just want to know how you are. That's all. I just want to know how you're doing.’ His voice was shaking. He didn't know why. It was only his son he was talking to. Mr Buckley stepped forward. ‘Son, please. Just tell me. What's going on in your head? Why are you hiding away in your bedroom? Is there anything I can do to help? Is there anything anyone can do to help? Anything at all?’ He took another step forward. Broken didn't hit him. He just screamed and flung his arms out. Mr Buckley jumped back and banged his hip against the work surface. A cup rolled off the edge and smashed to bits on the floor. Above their heads, there was the sound of sudden movement, then Mrs Buckley came running down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘What's going on?’ She switched the light on. ‘Rick?’ she said. ‘Rick? Are you OK? Is everything OK?’ She held her arms out and stepped towards her son. He screamed in her face and pushed her away. Mrs Buckley stumbled backwards. Broken ran past her. His footsteps pounded the stairs. His bedroom door slammed. Silence fell. Mr and Mrs Buckley stood helpless within it, he with shards of china glittering all around him, she staring at the half-eaten sandwich Broken had dropped on the floor.
Finally, she said, ‘He was eating, David. He was eating. You know how little he eats these days. Why couldn't you leave him alone?’
‘We've left him alone for too long, Veronica. Look at the state he's got into.’
‘He is not in a state. He's going to be fine.’
‘He is not going to be fine. How can you say that?’ ‘Because, David, he is.’ Mrs Buckley picked the ham sandwich off the floor and fed it into the waste disposal unit, then went back up to bed. Mr Buckley used a dustpan and brush to throw the shattered cup away then went upstairs to join her. The two of them lay together, alone, and stared into darkness from different directions. Neither wished the other goodnight.
The next day, Mr Buckley stayed up again, but Broken remained in his bedroom. And the next day. And the day after that. Scared that his son was starving to death, Mr Buckley tried to get into his bedroom once more, but a chair remained wedged between the floor and the handle. As Mr Buckley pushed and pushed against it, Broken lay on his side with the knife he had taken from the kitchen soon after Bob Oswald attacked him. He held it in a tight, sweaty palm with the blade rising up at an angle. Sometimes, he pointed this blade towards the window. Sometimes, he pointed it towards the door. Other times, during the worst times, he turned round and round in a circle, because he was frightened of being attacked from behind, without warning, but couldn't see all ways at once. Broken was always afraid now. He couldn't make sense of it all. He had only been washing his car. Why had Bob Oswald attacked him? Broken didn't know, Broken couldn't imagine, so he clutched his knife and lived in fear of Bob Oswald while, outside, Mr Buckley tried to get into his room.
‘Son? Son? Open this door. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know how you are. Please, son, please. I'm worried sick about you. Your mother's worried sick about you.’ Mr Buckley stood back. He shook his head. Mrs Buckley was standing behind him. She said, ‘You'll have to go back to the doctor.’
‘What's the point in going back to the doctor? Carter's useless. A bloody fool.’
‘Yes. I know. But you'll have to go back to him, David.’ She nodded towards the shut bedroom door and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I don't think he's eaten in days.’
‘I know that, Veronica, I know that, but I don't think starving yourself to death constitutes aggressive behaviour, do you?’
The two of them stared at each other, then Mrs Buckley began to cry. Mr Buckley said sorry and put his arms around her. She stiffened and pushed