Free Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay by Susan Mac Nicol

photographer and
had his own photographic lab out the back, in the garage. Terry
went out there, picked up a container of some fluid Jax’s dad was
using for the photo development and took it back inside.” His tone
was grim. “The fluid contained some sort of acid. He threw it into
Jax’s face while he lay there bleeding on the floor with broken
ribs, internal bleeding and a bad concussion. Then he left.” Randy
heaved a deep sigh.
    Tate gasped in horror. He might have been
tortured and beaten himself but the thought of someone that young
being subjected to the same pain and misery he’d experienced was
horrific.
    “Christ. What happened then?”
    “Luckily, two things helped him keep some of
his sight and negate the damage. His eyes were closed at the time
because he’d been beaten half unconscious. But unfortunately it’s a
natural reaction to open your eyes when something splashes in your
face and it didn’t save his sight altogether. Secondly, the
housekeeper had come back to check on the oven; she was one of
those OCD individuals who thought she’d left it on.
    She heard his screams and had the presence of
mind to flush his eyes out with soda water or milk or something,
and called nine-nine-nine. It took Jax months to recover and he’s
also had a lot of plastic and eye surgery. What you see today is
worlds apart from what he looked like straight after the attack.”
He sighed. “He sees better when he tilts his head up apparently. If
he looks at you straight on, it’s all black and he can’t see shit.
It’s a bit of a quirky mannerism but it works for him.”
    Tate was speechless. “Where’s his family now?
Why is he here instead of with them?”
    Randy’s face saddened. “Terry was arrested
and because he was over eighteen—just—he got a prison sentence for
grievous bodily harm. I don’t know whether he’s still inside or
not. Jax’s dad passed away about three months after the incident—a
heart attack. Jax was still in the rest home at the time, having
all the recuperative surgery. His step-mother sold the house,
packed up and left. No one knows where she went. Jax was an only
child so he had no one else. He did have a trust fund though, a
good one that paid for everything and became his when his father
died. It’s administered through his father’s lawyers and Jax
becomes complete custodian of it when he’s twenty-one.”
    Tate still wasn’t clear. “If he has all that
money… no offence, but why is he here, in a halfway house?
Shouldn’t he have his own home with a guardian and doctor at his
beck and call?”
    Randy’s eyes lit up. “You’d think that,
wouldn’t you? We met at the hospital he was in. Jen and I were
visiting another child, we got talking to Jax and over the months
we became friends. When he heard what we did for a living, Jax
asked if he could come and stay here and help us. The doctors said
it would be good for his recovery, to feel useful, and if that’s
what he wanted, then let him.”
    He picked up another biscuit. “He’s just
never left. He’s part of the extended family really. He’s a
stubborn little blighter, extremely independent and intelligent
indeed.” He popped the whole biscuit in his mouth and Tate watched,
fascinated, as his muzzled jaw moved up and down.
    He finally drew his gaze away. “What’s he
studying?” Tate asked curiously.
    “He missed some school because of the attack,
but he caught up and now he’s doing his A-Levels in psychology via
distance learning with a local college. He has special
software—non-visual desktop access or NVDA—set up on his PC which
he can use when he doesn’t want to strain his eyes too much. The
last thing we need is the last remaining vestige of sight he has
disappearing altogether, so we’re quite strict in trying to enforce
his eye rest sessions. The college has been good about bending over
backward for him, even given him some textbooks in Braille, which
he can read. Plus he attends a couple