‘No, I kind of get why you couldn’t do that, Alex.’ She laughed gently. ‘I really did not see that one coming.’
I laughed too, then stopped, brought up short by the flash frame of the neighbour that cut hard into my thoughts: the broken body in its broken bathtub, the blooded eye cold against the London heat. Water falling through space.
Three frames of the wrong kind of reality.
‘What is it, Alex, honey?’
Erase. Breathe.
‘Alex, are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Breathe.
Millicent looked concerned, put a hand on my arm.
‘I’m fine.’ I breathed.
‘You’re fine?’
‘I’m fine.’ I breathed again. ‘You said you didn’t suck, Millicent.’
‘No, I sucked a little, but I didn’t stink.’
‘They gave you flowers.’
‘It was an evening transmission. I guess they already bought them before the show.’
‘But they liked you. Come on.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes shone. ‘Yes, I guess they did like me. Because also they gave me this. Look.’ From her bag she produced an envelope.
I took it from her.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘A contract.’
‘A letter of engagement. They emailed it to me. At four thirty this morning.’
‘You can’t have sucked at all, Millicent.’
‘They’re on summer schedule. They need cover. Tuesdays eight to ten. Four weeks.’
‘Wow,’ I said again.
‘Yeah, wow,’ she said. ‘That’s good, right?’
‘It’s brilliant, and you know it.’
My America.
We sat grinning at each other on our low wall.
Manifest destiny.
The meeting with Mr Sharpe lasted ten minutes. Max spent the first five looking out of the classroom window. When I described my fear that what he had seen might have traumatised him, must have traumatised him, Max looked round at me, then at Mr Sharpe. Then he yawned and went back to looking out of the window.
Mr Sharpe listened closely. When I had nothing more to say, he sat, drumming his fingers lightly on his desk, looking from Millicent to me, and back again. He opened a notebook that had been lying on the desk.
‘So, Mrs … I’m sorry, Ms Weitzman.’
‘Millicent.’
‘Hmm. Quite so. You asked that Max be present at this meeting. May I ask why?’
‘You wanted to be here,’ I said, ‘didn’t you, Max-Man?’
‘Yes,’ said Max, still looking out of the window.
‘And why was that, Max?’ asked Mr Sharpe, closing his notebook and placing it carefully back on the desk.
‘I don’t know, Mr Sharpe.’
‘Do you have anything to add to what your father has told me?’
‘No, Mr Sharpe.’
‘All right, Max. Run along and join your friends, then.’
Max left the room, closing the classroom door with exaggerated care. Millicent and I exchanged a look. Run along? Still, there was something strangely comforting about this odd little man with his easy paternalism and his brilliantined hair.
Through the wired glass I saw Max linger for a moment, then he disappeared down the corridor.
‘So, Millicent and …’
‘Alex.’
‘Millicent and Alex. Quite. Max seems well-adjusted, well-parented, if I may use that expression. You may be sure that I shall keep an eye open for any sign of the trauma that concerns you.’
‘That’s most kind of you, Mr Sharpe,’ said Millicent.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I found myself saying. ‘Really very kind indeed.’ The man’s formality was catching.
Mr Sharpe smiled a benign smile. ‘Of course, it’s summer break soon, and Max will be leaving us in a few short weeks. Was there anything else?’
‘Not unless there’s anything you would like us to address at home,’ I said, surprised that he hadn’t mentioned Max’s swearing.
‘No, as I said, a well-brought-up boy. Nice circle of friends, never in trouble. Studious, but not a prig. Neither a victim nor a bully. He listens in class, he does his homework, he reads well. He will settle well into secondary school life; I have no doubt of it. I’m not really sure what more I can say.’
‘Well parented, you said?’ asked Millicent.
‘Yes, a credit to you and your husband.’
‘He doesn’t seem in any way odd to you?’
‘Dear me, no. Why?’
We didn’t see Max as we left the school.
‘Shouldn’t that man be a country schoolmaster somewhere in the middle of the 1950s?’ I said.
‘I kind of liked him,’ said Millicent.
‘Me too. Strange that Max likes him so much, though.’
‘Kids don’t like teachers who want to hang out; they don’t like for adults to talk about hip hop and social networking. They want to know where the line is, and what will happen when they cross that line. Especially boys. They’re kind of hardwired conservative at that age.’
‘But how does that work here in Crappy?’
‘So many questions, Alex. Aren’t you tired?’
Seventy hours of footage sitting on my computer. Five days to view it.
Across the road from the neighbour’s house an ambulance stood parked. Three police cars boxed in the parked cars on our side of the street.
The door of the house on the other side of ours opened. Mr Ashani, all flower baskets and civic pride. His house was freshly painted, his cream slacks smartly pleated; his smile had God on its side.
‘Mr and Mrs Mercer,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘We see too little of each other.’
‘Hey, how are you, Mr Ashani?’ said Millicent, offering up her cheek.
‘French style,’ said Mr Ashani. ‘Nice.’ He kissed her briskly, once on each cheek, then held out his hand to me. I tried to grip it as firmly as he gripped mine. ‘Nice,’ he said again. His right eye had the first faint suggestion of cataract clouding its surface, but his skin was flawless. I had once asked him his age, and he had laughed. ‘Oh, you mean the old black-don’t-crack thing, sir?’ I should have asked him again, but I was afraid of appearing rude, or worse.
‘Waiting for the dead man?’ said Mr Ashani.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, not at all.’
Mr Ashani laughed, coughed a little, and laughed again.
‘Not you, Mr Mercer.’ He nodded towards the ambulance. The