Finding Davey (5 page)

“Departments are closed,” the porter said.

Bray was buffeted by milling youngsters. The technical college hall seemed wide as a football field. The pupils – all “students” nowadays – were attired in various team strips. Everybody seemed to be shouting.

Bray kept his anger down. Normally he would have accepted the porter’s rejection and gone. Now, he had resolve.

“Somebody in computer technology, please.”

“They’ve all left.”

“Where’s the dean’s office?” Bray looked at him.

Agitation finally stirred the man. “Got an appointment?”

Bray saw a sign,
Office of the Dean
, and walked. Down the corridor the hubbub diminished. Carpets began, administrators awarding themselves status symbols. Doors were darker here, but still modern shoddy. The corridor ended at stairs.

He climbed to the floor above, got help from two giggling girls, their arms full of folders.

“Computers? Next floor. Mr Walsingham’s still in.”
One rolled her eyes at some unknowable joke.

“Thank you, miss.”

That set them off again. He heard their laughter all the way to the next level. It was quiet except for a radio. The doors here were plastic veneer monstrosities pinned to warping pine. He felt disgusted. Who on earth?

A door marked with Walsingham’s name stood ajar. He knocked. A man was on the phone. Bray could see the reflection.

“Look, Gordon,” the speaker was expostulating, swinging in his chair. “I
know
it’s class ratios. We’d be deluged in a week.”

An academic row? Bray hesitated.

“It isn’t a question of delegation, Gordon,” Walsingham went on with bitterness. “It’s teaching time.”

Confidential. Bray moved down the corridor to wait. Somebody was tapping a keyboard. Courageously he peered in. A scruffy girl sat at a console, chuckling, smoking a cigarette, utterly absorbed.

Bray was shocked to see a couple on her screen making love. Both were naked, something jerky and Cubist about them. The screen’s periphery was rimmed with symbols. The girl heard him and tapped a key. The screen blanked.

She docked her cigarette, squeezing it slickly.

“You stupid cunt! I thought you were my dad.” She snarled with such savagery Bray recoiled.

“I’m sorry to startle you, miss,” Bray stammered.

“What the fuck you creeping about for? Piss off!”

She looked unwashed, unbelievably unkempt, her shoes caked with mud, her jeans tatty. He wondered why a pupil would still be working, the college closing.

“I’m for Mr Walsingham,” he apologised. “A computer course.”

She sneered. “They don’t start for three months. Dad’s rowing with that fucking Registration pansy.”

Angrily the girl swivelled back, clacked the keys and produced a scene of a blonde performing fellatio on a naked male in what appeared to be a church nave.

“How do you make it show pictures?” And, as she turned to stare, “I’d like to learn.”

“You a dirty old fucker or what?”

He pondered the words. She was manipulating the crudest images he’d ever seen, yet she suspected him? Of what, exactly?

“I must learn to use a computer. I can pay.”

She lit a cigarette, looking quickly round. The room was larger than Bray had realised. Sixteen consoles stood on benches, a blackboard and white screens occupied the end. For a class?

“What sort you got?”

“Computer? I haven’t got one. I don’t know what to buy.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You real or what?”

“I hoped someone might advise me.”

“I’ll get you one cheap. Not nicked.” She sounded hopeful.

“I’m no good with electrics. I’d want it set up.”

“Any fucker can plug it in. They never go wrong, except for hackers and virus wankers.” A sullen interest kindled. “What you want it for?”

“I don’t know. What can it do?”

“Any fucking thing.” And now she really did weigh him up. He was conscious of the age gap, the gender gap, every wretched gap. Except she knew these gadgets and he didn’t. “You don’t know even what fucking
for
? You’re loony.”

Her dreadful language was exhausting him.

“If it turns out to be useless, that’s my…” Bad luck? Luck mustn’t come into it. “Misfortune,” he ended lamely.

“You’re off your fucking trolley.”

“Do they stay on all the time?” Several other screens seemed to have been left on, glowing. It was wasting electricity.

“Best never to switch off.”

“How far can they reach?” He explained at her puzzlement, “I heard they can write between different countries.”

She laughed, shaking her matted hair. Did she ever comb it? “Jesus, you really are thick.” She looked at him. “Got wad?”

“I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”

“Money, you prat. Pay me and I’ll show you. Got a modem?”

“I don’t know what that is, miss.”

“Stop saying miss like that. You’re doing my frigging head in. Kylee.”

He’d never met anyone called Kylee before, said the name over to himself in anxious rehearsal. Her coarse language was increasingly tiresome, and her oddly thin cigarette produced a pungent yet cloying smoke. It made him feel queer.

“How do you do? I’m Mr Charleston.”

“How de fucking do,” she said. He coloured. “Bread. Packet for ten?” And when he looked blank, translated with exaggerated weariness, “You pay me twenty fags every ten minutes, okay?” As he tried to work out the hourly rate she said belligerently, “Dad’d cost you three times that and be fucking useless.”

“I’d have to pay you money, I’m afraid. Are you old
enough to smoke?” He felt drawn in. He wished Mr Walsingham would get off the phone.

“I’m fourteen.” She dared him. “Deal? Or are you going to report me?”

What could he do? Time mattered. Who could wait three months? This girl might be his only ally.

“Deal,” he said. “What do cigarettes cost?”

“Where do you want to
write
to?”

“America, I think.”

“Easy peasy. Who to?”

He said carefully after a protracted pause, “Everyone.”

She eyed him. “What for?”

He could see his mood was infecting her. He looked at the screen. How come the young were so enthralled? He knew they played games, saw them on the second floor in Griffins and Empdale, screens bleeping, children clustered round.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Here, you’re not one of them queer paedies, are yer?”

Her meaning struck him like a blow. His face must have changed because she raised a hand in peace. “Okay, ’kay.”

“Ah, I think I should ask your father for permission before you give a stranger instruction.”

Kylee spat venom. “Look, old man. I’m back with Dad for a wasted fucking weekend because Mum’s getting herself shagged brainless by some burke in Marble Arch. I’m your tug-of-love child.” She spoke the term in a bitter falsetto. Bray felt moved. “I do fuck all every happy weekend. See my problem?”

“I apologise.”

She cackled a laugh and pointed to the screen. “You talk like them Dickens serials on telly. Listen up. We’ll dig skunk as example, okay?”

“Very well.”

A skunk? Many skunks? He supposed she had her reasons. She eyed him as he approached to watch. He noticed then that she had several mini bottles of nail varnish. Her computer keys bore coloured marks. Some keyboard letters were indecipherable under the colours.

“You haven’t a fucking clue, have you? Skunk is cannabis, weed, hash, grass.” She gave a smile like sleet. “Naughty, but it’ll give you an idea.”

Bray sat there ashamed. He didn’t feel out of his depth at work. Wood was malleable, its living spirit within reach of a man’s hands. This machinery was an impenetrable metal world where intangible electrons flew in Outer Space. Yet these unknowable machines just might help.

“Can you explain, please?”

“This is a slow old heap.” She kicked the bench in anger. “The college is too pigging mean.” Her manner became furtive. “Somebody owffed Dad’s – offed its cards in her knickers. Sold it for illicit herbal substances.” She grinned with surprising gaiety. “I’ll
bet
that’s what happened!”

Bray was out of his depth, understanding nothing.

“This isn’t what I must buy, then?”

“One fucking candle power? Watch. I’m going to switch it off, start you from scratch, okay?”

Kylee clicked something, and it resumed its glow. “Time starts now, okay?”

He agreed. She only meant the start of her instruction fee, in cigarettes. Bray meant something different.

The computer world seemed to have no beginning and no end. His mind reeled. Kylee, young enough to be his granddaughter, cursed obscenities at his incomprehension. Twice she made him take her place, only to shove him aside
to restore the screen’s mad universe of signs and numbers. Stupidly he kept forgetting the punctuation, colon, comma, backslash, whatever, until she exploded, actually striking him and yelling, “You gotter say it, you senile prick! Have you no fucking sense?”

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, wondering what he’d got himself into.

She calmed down after a moment. “I don’t know letter. Gerrit?”

He examined the screen, where various emblems were displayed in three lines. He glanced at her, back to the screen, then at her array of coloured nail varnishes. Suddenly it became clear. If he’d had half the sense he was born with, he might have understood. Dyslexia, was it called? Yet if she couldn’t read, how did she manage? Why bother with symbols, letters, numbers on a fluorescing electronic screen if they meant nothing?

“I apologise, Kylee. You’re right. I’m thick.”

She barked her manic laugh. “No, you’re ’kay. I hear it, I do it in my head, see? You poor prats need it written down.”

That had given him his first smile. She had a simple deficiency. Except, he reflected,
was
it a ‘deficiency’? She’d airily said at one point, “No, Owd Un. Back five screens, yer’d gotter different picture, right?” He’d have needed pages of notes to help him remember what the hell she had made the screen do five clicks before. A brilliant child; just different. Like Davey.

Mr Walsingham entered the computer lab. He must have heard his wayward daughter spitting invective at a stranger.

“What’s happening here?” he barked.

Bray rose and waited to be introduced. Kylee took not
the slightest notice, simply kept going.

“Pillocks like you buy toy computers,” she said, “cos you’re prats. Don’t buy shit sticks like this old heap. Buy RAM to spare. My mate’s daft on old shifters, but what’s the fucking point? Everything’s extinct in half a mo’. You’d know that, if you’d half a brain.”

“Erm,” Bray said finally, hesitantly offering his hand to the newcomer. “May I introduce myself? I’m Mr Charleston. I wish to register on a computer course.”

Walsingham glanced from Bray to Kylee, who said, “I told him your college is fucking all use.”

“Private tuition is not allowed.” Walsingham shook Bray’s hand perfunctorily and switched the computer off. Kylee gave an angry squeal. Her father extinguished her cigarette. “Registration is closed. Introductory courses begin in three months. Leave your name downstairs at Information.”

“See?” Kylee snorted and took a backhanded swipe at her father. “Told you.”

“Your daughter has been most considerate, Mr Walsingham,” Bray said helplessly.

“Kylee?”

Walsingham made it a command. He brought out a bunch of keys, evidently locking-up time. Bray moved to the door as Walsingham went out for his briefcase. Bray took his chance, fumbling three notes to the girl. She pulled a comic grimace of mock terror as Walsingham reappeared.

“Sorry you’ve missed the boat, Mr Charleston. College procedures must be followed. Courses fill up from industry, business.”

“Can you suggest somewhere?”

“I said I’d do it,” Kylee put in. “Except you’re a right
frigging tortoise, you.” She cackled one of her laughs, already ahead of them down the stairs.

“I’m sorry about my daughter,” Walsingham said quietly, locking the IT laboratory. “It’s been a troubled year. I’m divorced. She tell you? She announces it like a leper rings a bell.”

“My sympathy, Mr Walsingham.” Bray hesitated. “She’s bright. Can you recommend a private home teacher?”

Walsingham shook his head as they started after Kylee. “Don’t choose from the phone book. Most teach extinct systems.”

“Only, I need to learn speedily.”

“Leave your name. Somebody on the staff might free up a slot.”

Bray’s mind screamed,
Future? There is no future unless
…painstakingly he wrote out his name and address.

“Will this do?” He read his print aloud.

Walsingham and Kylee headed for the car park. Bray caught the bus home.

The episode was painful. He’d made a fool of himself. Worse, he’d failed.

Bray heated his supper, beans on toast, a banana, apple, potato cakes, tea. Buster was dozing listlessly after his feed, bones on Saturday and different biscuits.

Shirley was visiting a psychiatric support counsellor Dr Feering had arranged. Geoffrey was staring unseeing at football results. It was later than Bray thought.

Waiting was their sole purpose now, the phone there on the coffee table. Conversation, once incessant, had gone with Davey.

“Officer Stazio phoned, Dad. No news.”

Stazio loomed in Bray’s mind: stout was he, perhaps chewing tobacco, belly bulging over his belt?

Geoff cleared his throat, looking unseeing at the soccer scores scrolling on TV, colours for score draws, plain for others.

“What?” Bray asked in dread, knowing his son.

“They want some of Davey’s hair.”

Bray stared. “They want…?”

“DNA tests. One will do, they said. To go with the fingerprints.”

That had been a harrowing time, finding books Davey
read in his story hour. Bray had thought of the modelling clay he used to teach Davey. It showed the little lad how to shape wood.

Fingerprints Bray could understand. You discovered if the child had been at this cafe, that garage. Heading where, though? North? Or south, to some quayside and across the sea? Unlikely that whoever had stolen Davey would head for the Bahamas or Antigua, they having historic connections with Great Britain and all that. Except you took DNA samples when you’d found somebody who could no longer say his name, because… To go with the fingerprints. Right.

Bray looked at his son. He was ageing at such speed. So much was on him. His complicated job, money always pressure, fractional losses that magnified to inconceivable amounts.

“Sorry I’m not much use, son.”

“No, Dad, it’s me.” They didn’t see some re-run of a dynamic goal, the crowds erupting.

“You’ve been great, Geoff. I feel I’m letting the side down.”

“I know, Dad.” Bray was appalled to see his son’s cheeks glisten with tears. “I think of things. Us grumbling at Davey playing when he ought to’ve been at his sums.”

“You were right, son.”

“No, Dad. I should have…” A pause, then, “Shirley’s breaking down. I don’t think she’ll recover.”

There, it was out. Shirley’s psychiatrist had given a bad report.

“Women manage better than we do, Geoff. They’re more resilient. We men often can’t cope. I mean, look at us. Officer Stazio probably has all sorts of leads.”

“Anything Davey chewed, Officer Stazio said. Or
maybe if Davey grazed his knee, where it got bloodstained. Or a comb. He has scientists.”

The sportscast ended. Geoff stirred himself. “How did your session go?”

“Oh, a woman doctor. Talked a long time.”

“Have you to go again?”

“I’m to phone for another appointment.” As good a lie as any.

“I won’t go to our counsellor again.” Geoff usually had a glass of wine of an evening. Now, nothing except a late coffee. “I’d rather be here.”

Bray understood. “Dr Feering wants me to have a physical. Nothing serious. Much good, eh?” Bray said. He quickly added, “Let’s keep hope up, son.”

Geoffrey looked. Bray didn’t usually speak in those terms. “Yes, Dad,” he said. “Let’s.”

They went to Davey’s room and found a comb, put it in a plastic freezer bag. They left all the clothes untouched.

“If it isn’t enough we can ask Shirley,” Geoff said. “She’d do this better.”

Bray said goodnight and left. He hadn’t been down to the shed since reaching home. He wanted the shed and garden to become dark. Let an urban fox come sniffing, the hedgehogs come trundling by in the pitch night.

He had bought a paperback to read in the lantern hours. Computer work to do alone, for only he and Davey knew KV. He finally whistled Buster. The dog, a creature of ritual, came astonished and grumpy. Saturday’s late football was for a doze. Bray told him. “No putting it off, Buzz.” Buster came trotting, looking up.

Shirley and Geoff had long since gone to bed. To lie grieving, listening for the phone that might bring Davey back.

Alone in the gloaming Bray sat on his stool, Buster twitching by the shed door. It was cold, a cutting breeze from the sea ten miles away stirring the perfumed wood shavings. Along the shed walls hung pieces of wood, all justly seasoned. He finally lit a candle, saw Buster’s eyes gleam as the dog glanced about as if expecting to see a bright-haired lad appear.

Bray quite liked feeling cold. In normal times, Shirley would forever pull his leg because who on earth didn’t like being warm?

Some pieces were being carved – Davey’s own hands, too, showing consummate skill for a boy. Bray was proud. Geoff had never shown much aptitude in this direction. Maybe folk were right, that skill skipped a generation?

Now, he had no illusions. At first he had believed it was all some ghastly mistake, and Davey would be found on some coach among a Methodist children’s group from Tampa Bay or wherever, and the nightmare would pass.

Several days into the horror, Bray had phoned the American police officer. Officer Jim Stazio.

The man had wanted proof that Bray wasn’t some news reporter or pervert “getting off” on the story. Stazio had insisted on ringing Bray back at the Charlestons’ home number, making sure. Bray learned afterwards that Stazio had checked with the Liaison WPC at Fenwold and the British consul, doubly testing Bray’s identity.

The conversation had taken place when Geoff and Shirley were in mid-flight. Of course they had stayed in Florida, going over photographs and security camera tapes until they were advised to go, the ultimate deception. The police simply meant
Go away for Christ’s sake and can’t you see the obvious?

Shirley and Geoff did the same tortured rounds of
interviews and tearful question sessions with local Fenwold’s liaison police. It had ended in a fiasco.

On that call, Bray had his questions worked out to the letter for Officer Stazio. He had them written and numbered. He thought them over.

“What are the chances, Mr Stazio?”

“I gotta be frank, Mr Charleston. We got a Child Abduction Unit keeps records, provides data.” Then had come that hesitation that shot Bray’s hope dead. “Chances are small.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Bray, there’s weirdo, weirder and weirdest. Expect the worst, hope for some fluke. All kindsa shit flying here, political shit, police shit, commercial shit.”

Bray closed his eyes in pain. Question Four couldn’t be avoided. He’d rehearsed it using a midget tape recorder.

“How many do you recover, Officer Stazio?”

“Few. When you say recover, Bray, you’re qualifying that before hoping too much, right? Y’understand what I’m saying?”

“Safe, then?”

“There’s some natural theft out there. Child stealers sell kids to rich folk who can pay. Even now papers are full of all kindsa embryo things, old biddies with no man around, still they get themselves made pregnant in clinics. Seems unnatural to me, but they do it all the time.”

“What does natural theft mean?”

“Thieving a child, buy one, to raise as their own.”

Bray almost lost track, but this was important.

“Who would buy a child?”

“I dunno what kinda news you get, Bray, but here people go abroad to adopt. Romania, the Balkans, anywheres there’s war, Asia. You’ll have heard of Vietnam
Americans and Philippinos?”

“They just want to adopt?”

“Seems so.”

Bray prompted Officer Stazio by grunts and false starts, encouraging him to speak on. The man seemed relieved to do so, prevent himself being “put on the spot” – one of his frequent phrases. Bray listened.

At the end he spoke his thanks. From novels, American police seemed to get little gratitude so, he reasoned, appreciation might stimulate Officer Stazio to more zeal. Bray replaced the receiver, and went to replay Stazio’s words over and over. The day before making the call he had bought a tape deck from a pimply young electrical retailer.

Meticulously, he had labelled the miniature tape,
Officer Jim Stazio, USA
. He carried it out to the shed and placed it in a wooden sawdust box.

Since that first call he had had further conversation with Jim Stazio. Probably pointless, Bray thought, but who could tell? He had asked that Stazio avoid mentioning to Shirley and Geoff that they ever spoke, saying it might distress them. Stazio agreed.

This evening he decided against playing over his phone conversations with Officer Stazio. Not tonight. Too many decisions. Tomorrow he had so many journeys to make, so many people to wring dry of information.

Instead, he leant forward and turned the screw-bar on the far wall of the cramped little shed, and swung the
right-hand
leaf aside. He felt breathless, opening the door on Davey’s drawings.