Free Speak No Evil by Martyn Waites Page A

other. Her telling him she was lucky to have him, he was the only one who understood her and had stood by her. He telling her how much he loved her and how they would get through this. What a great family they made. What a lovely lad Jack was. By which time Jack was usually in his room, headphones clamped to his ears, trying to block it all out.
    He knows Rob loves his mother. And he’s grateful to him for taking some of the pressure of looking after her off his young shoulders. And he’s good to Jack too, in his own way. But he gets depressed and when Rob gets depressed he drinks. And that’s when his problems start.
    He put his school bag down, walked towards the living room. Pushed open the door. His mother, Anne Marie, was sitting on the sofa. Hands bandaged, head back, eyes closed. Mug of tea beside her, cigarette burning in the ashtray. Scott Walker singing softly from the corner of the room. The one about angels again. The Spirit House had been moved too. Brought further into the room.
    Jack breathed out, relieved. She was back to normal. Calm. For now. He felt a stab of guilt at his earlier actions, at his anger over her situation. She was his mother. And he loved her. He just wanted to feel happy and safe. Knew that she did too.
    She heard him approach, opened her eyes. Smiled.
    â€˜Hello, love,’
    He said hello in return.
    She kept looking at him, long enough for Jack to start feeling uncomfortable. She did this often. It was usually the prelude to something. But it was never predictable, never the same thing twice. She patted the seat next to him.
    â€˜Come and sit here, son. Sit with your old mother.’
    Reluctantly he went over and sat next to her on the sofa, perching on the edge, not committing himself to full relaxation.
    Your old mother. She was just coming up for fifty. Not that she ever mentioned it, but he knew her age. Had seen her date of birth on an official form and he never forgot things like that. But she looked older. As if she had experienced more of life, the wrong sort of life, than should have been allowed in her years.
    She looked at him, smiled. Draped her arm around him, the bandaged hand flopping down over his shoulder.
    â€˜Good day at school, son?’
    He grunted, unsure of what to say. She got like this all the time. Soppy-happy. Usually after a crying or screaming fit. Her way of saying sorry, he supposed.
    â€˜Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She took another deep draw of her cigarette, let it go. Watching the smoke dissipate, smiling like she had just released white doves into a clear blue sky. She looked at the ashtray. Sighed. ‘I’m feelin’ better now. Your old mother’s feelin’ better now.’
    Jack said nothing.
    â€˜I’ve cleaned up the broken glass in the kitchen. The pane fell out. That’s how I got these.’ She raised up her bandaged hands. ‘How I got these …’ She trailed off again. ‘I’ve put some cardboard in …’
    Jack nodded, listened to the music, that strange mix of beauty and strangeness she found so compelling. He knew she wouldn’t have done a good job, knew he would have to replace the cardboard.
    â€˜Yes, I’m feelin’ better now.’
    He felt her hand on his shoulder shake. Knew the sign: she was building up to another crying fit. He had to do something, head it off.
    â€˜The police Were at school today,’ he said.
    Her hand stiffened. ‘What did they want?’ Her voice hard, anxious.
    Jack continued. No going back now. ‘Some kid got knifed last night. On the estate.’
    She took her arm away. ‘What happened?’
    He shrugged again. ‘Dunno. Just got knifed.’
    â€˜Did you know him?’
    Jack shook his head. ‘We got our lessons cancelled. They brought counsellors in. Police are all over the place. Journalists an’ all.’
    Her hand was fully withdrawn. She put both of them in her lap. Her