Chapter 21

 

“I feel awful dragging you out like this to take me home,” April told Henry, “I did tell your dad I’d get a taxi.”

“It’s okay,” he replied unconvincingly, “I like driving.” His demeanour spoke volumes. He might like driving, but taking his dad’s date home was probably the last thing he wanted to do.

“I am grateful. Even though it’s not far, a taxi would have been expensive.” She pulled a face, “I’m afraid money’s a bit tight at the moment.”

“He’d have paid.”

“Yes, you’re probably right, but I wouldn’t have let him.”

“Why?” his eyes were focussed on the road as they joined the mainstream traffic.

“Because I wouldn’t. I don’t like to be beholden to anyone.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s rich, that’s why women go for him. No need to make out you’re any different.”

She frowned. “You’re very cynical for someone your age.”

He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the road. It struck her that driving and talking would suit him as he wouldn’t have to interact face to face. She’d read that many with autism found eye to eye contract, stressful.

“Are you angry because your dad likes me, or are you angry because your mum died?”

“I couldn’t give a fuck about him,” he snapped. “And I told you, I’m over my mother, so I don’t want to talk about her.”

“I wasn’t asking you to talk about her; I was asking if you’re angry about her death. She can’t have been that old.”

“She wasn’t,” he said coldly.

“Well, all I’m trying to say is, it’s understandable you’re grieving. It’s been a massive trauma and your life has changed. It must be hard to adjust.”

Still no answer. She remembered another autism fact. They were resolute. Once they made their mind up, they rarely budged. He’d said he didn’t want to talk about his mother, so he wouldn’t.

Try something else.

“Your dad was telling me he wants you to get an apprenticeship. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“What would you like to do, then?”

“It doesn’t matter, ’cause he won’t let me do it.”

“How about telling me anyway, I’d like to know.”

“Art . . . I’d like to study Art.”

She widened her eyes, “I’m guessing you must have a flair for that, then?”

He shrugged, “Sort of.”

“Have you shown your dad any of your work?”

“He wouldn’t be interested.”

“Why not? Art’s his business.”

“He wouldn’t. Anyway,” he scowled, “can we shut up about him?”

“Yeah, that’s fine by me. I’m not that interested in him anyway.”

“Why are you having dinner with him, then?”

“He asked me. It was hard to say no.”

“So next time he asks, you’re gonna say no?”

“Probably not. Look, Henry, you’re,” she tilted her head making out she wasn’t sure, “seventeen, right?”

He nodded.

“So, you’re not a child?”

The question didn’t require a response. He’d know what she was implying.

She carried on. “I’ve been cooped up in prison for almost two years. I’m only on parole; therefore, I have to make cleaning the gallery, work. I don’t mind cleaning your house while your cleaner’s off either because I need the money. The fact that your dad likes me is an added bonus because I like him. If something was to happen between us, then that’s great. But I’m realistic. I’m an ex-jailbird, and rich men like your dad, don’t fall for the likes of me. They just want a bit of fun, and right now, I’m up for some of that. If I get to go out to nice places, and eat good food because your dad’s rich, then I’m grateful. If there’s anything wrong with that, tell me?”

“No,” his voice was low and dull, “I suppose.”

He turned right and her flat came into view. An announcement from the sat nav told them they had reached their destination.

“Just pull up on the left past the post box,” she directed.

“Which is yours?” he scowled slowing the car down and staring at the rows of pre Second-World-War terraced houses.

She knew why. Notting Dale was hardly a salubrious area. It was an area of high unemployment and headline grabbing crimes.

“The white one at the end,” she said and he eased his way towards the pebble-dashed four-storey and applied the handbrake.

He screwed his face up, distastefully. “It’s shit round here.”

“Yep,” she agreed, “it is. But this is all I can afford right now. I’m not living in a dump like this for long, though; I’m going to be moving on soon.”

His eyes moved around the dilapidated flats and bedsits. “What if you can’t? What if this is it?”

“It won’t be. I won’t allow it. I’ve got something going for me that will get me out of here.” She paused giving him the opportunity to ask what, but he remained awkward and silent.

Keen to make the point, she carried on. “I’ve got ambition. I know I’ve broken the law, but I’ve learnt from that. That’s the thing about mistakes, it’s crucial to learn from them.” She thought about his drug-taking, “Only a fool repeats the same mistake twice, and I’m determined not to go down that road again. I’m going to make something of my life.”

He stared ahead, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. “You think you can move on from a criminal record?”

“I know I can,” she answered firmly.

Did he know she was aware of his drug conviction?

He turned his head and looked directly at her which in the short time she’d known him, was unusual. But his eyes looked vacant, empty, almost as if he was looking straight through her. His next statement took her completely by surprise.

“I’ll show you some of my paintings if you like?”

Although his expression was pitiful, she caught a glimmer of something else in his eyes.

Hope.

Don’t make a fuss. He might change his mind.

“That’d be nice; I’d like to see them.” She reached for the door handle. “Right, I’d better get in. Thanks for the lift. I’ll see you tomorrow then, maybe?”

“Okay.”

She got out of the car and stood to wave him off as he pulled away. He flicked his hazard warning lights back at her, and she watched until he disappeared around the corner before making her way up the endless flights of stairs to her top floor flat.

Would he listen to her advice? Taking drugs was a huge mistake, but not a life sentence. He could move on from it. As a police officer, she spent so much time with young people on the merry-go-round of addiction. By the very nature of being teenagers, many start off smoking cigarettes and enjoying alcoholic drinks, but those with an addictive predisposition quickly move onto harder stuff such as cannabis, ecstasy and cocaine. And once they had, they had a huge mountain to climb down from. Dylan had implied Henry’s drug-taking had been serious, but he was now off them, so at least he had a chance. If Dylan was any kind of father, he should be bending over backwards to help him stay off them, yet it was already evident the chasm between him and his son was a wide one.

Her heart went out to Henry. It was the rawness of losing his mother that thumped her hard in the gut. The pain never actually went away.

You just learn to live with it.

But you never truly get over it.