11

  His school day passed slowly.

  There was big – and rather exciting – news with regard to his maths test though. It was absolutely mind-boggling, but he’d managed to achieve an absolutely eye-watering 91%.

  That was impressive, to say the least, given how much he loathed and detested that subject.

  Not being able to borrow rulers and digital calculators from his fellow male students, without first donning a pair of surgical gloves, probably didn’t help.

  Still, he always got to sit next to Louise.

  She’d even promised him a birthday kiss, although he’d mercifully got out of that predicament by convincing her that buying him a dozen Black Jacks was really much more appropriate.

  Ninety one per cent. Wow!

  That was the sort of thing that might just retain his father’s attentions. Once they’d first been attracted by other – far less conventional – means.

  In the general scheme of things, Michael associated himself with winners.

  Only winners.

  Whether it was getting his car valeted by the best firm in the country or whether it was buying a pair of trousers from an establishment that had the inside leg measurements of the most powerful men in the land, the standard was expected to be high. He played golf with winners, even going so far as to – charitably – share the spoils of victory with them, on a regular basis, in order to perpetuate that myth.

  Even as the most sedentary of armchair football supporters, he’d made absolutely sure to always be on the winning side, which had, ultimately, caused him to have more regenerations than Doctor Who. The rise of Manchester United as a, fairly consistent, sporting superpower during the past twenty-five years had proved extremely timely, and had helped to eliminate from his mind the guilty memory of The Season He’d Been Forced To Support Blackburn Rovers.

  Not that he would ever have been seen dead actually being herded through the home turnstile at anything like as plebeian as a football match: even amongst a group of fellow, high-achieving, prawn sandwichers. It was more a topic of conversation really, especially given the, rather wide, cross-section of people he regularly had dealings with. There was very little point in trying to win the trust of Phil the Fingers, or any similarly qualified client, by starting a chat with him about the works of William Shakespeare.

  Unless you wanted a First Folio ‘liberated’ from somewhere with no questions asked, that is.

  By rights, of course, he ought to have supported Leyton Orient, a decent – though not entirely successful – little club. His true boyhood club, back in the days of the two-up, two-down: with the ice inside the windows and the toilet in the garden and the gnawing, grinding poverty. Had he stayed true to his roots then that would, most certainly, have been his club.

  But then, had he stayed true to his roots, he would never have achieved anything.

  He had his own father to thank for that: if ‘thank’ could ever really have been described as being the right word. The – somewhat unpalatable – truth was, Michael had descended from a long line of manual labourers.

  He hated having to even confront that fact.

  He could barely even get the words out of his central vocabulary.

  Not through the shame of what he was: no, no, no.

  It was the terror of what he might have been, had he not managed to escape his destiny.

  And his past.

  And his father.

  He’d been a dustman, his father.

  Honest and hard-working, just about scraping by.

  A man of limited conversation but with a very definite presence. A presence that had become more and more overwhelming and oppressive as his son’s childhood had progressed. Because, once it had become obvious that Michael possessed the personal attributes that might just be able to propel him out of such an existence and into the realms of the centrally-heated white collars, his father had decided to provide whatever motivation his own son might’ve needed, in the only way he could.

  Which had amounted to nothing more, and nothing less, than cold, calculating, violence.

  Michael had been utterly petrified of him, which had, at least, saved him from the worst of his father’s potential.

  Within those four miserable walls, Tom Lovewell’s word was The Law. There were no appeals; there were no arguments.

  Not if you knew what was good for you.

  Nevertheless, Mr Lovewell had been proud – very proud indeed, in fact – of the greedy, work-obsessed egomaniac that he had helped to create. He would always find time to mention his son’s innumerable successes, down at the working men’s club. Although his son could never quite bring himself to make mention of his father at all.

  That was a world he had forgotten.

  It had no bearing on his later life.

  No bearing, whatsoever.

  The anticipation and excitement were almost too much.

  An after-school shopping trip into town had disposed of that forty quid quite nicely. He’d made some pretty impressive purchases actually, even if he did say so himself. The thirty pence he’d wasted on a birthday card to himself was a bit pathetic though, especially as he was planning on filling it in on behalf of his mother: wherever the hell she was.

  He wouldn’t show Michael that, it was too ridiculous. But the rest of the items from his shopping spree had been chosen with his father, very much, in mind. He’d be impressed with his good taste and his keen eye for a bargain, he really would.

  It was merely a question of getting his attention in the first place.

  To that end, Humphrey had – initially – decided to stash most of his new stuff within the deepest recesses of his wardrobe. She always snooped in there, Mrs Milton: that’s how come she’d found the vodka bottles.

  Mind you, it had taken her a good while.

  Weeks in fact

  .

  He didn’t have that sort of time to play with, in this case, hence his decision to simply leave the bags out there, in the hallway. He was sure he could rely upon her: she wouldn’t be able to miss them out there. He sincerely hoped she’d be impressed by his efforts, because he was going to have to rely upon her further to give his father an accurate report of precisely what he’d been up to.

  Now then, which of his gifts would win the battle for her attention?

  The false fingernails, they had to be a pretty good bet.

  That was if the boob tube hadn’t already distracted her completely.

  Oh yes!

  Golden it was, with delightful little bows and sequins.

  Matched with his new purple velvet jodhpurs it was going to simply wow everyone he met!

  He added his Boy George pull-out to the shopping bags too, just for good measure. Then he grabbed himself a celebratory bag of Salt ‘n’ Shake and settled down in front of the television.

  ‘Between seven and eight’.

  That’s what he was waiting for.

  Sometime between five and six, he heard Mrs Milton dialling a number on the telephone.

  It would have to be a call to his father. Even she wouldn’t have the audacity to ring her Auntie in Inverness, not with Humphrey in the house.

  So, she must have found the bags.

  What was more, she’d appreciated his efforts to such an extent, that she’d decided to move their collective appointment forward, by a whole two hours.

  This was simply marvellous!

  He was going to get his father’s attention.

  And he was going to maintain it too, even if he did have to compete with that mighty triumvirate of The Law, The Golf Club and The Wine Bar.

  He waited for his opportunity to speak with the great man himself but, alas, the wait was in vain. There was a brief discussion about something and then the receiver was quietly replaced. Mrs Milton returned to her reconnaissance duties and he was left, once more, to his own devices.

  And the national news.

  He wasn’t normally all that interested in boring, irrelevant, current affairs but the news, that evening, was a whole other animal.

  The lead story was dull enough but what followed immediately after it most definitely wasn’t. Something about a rather prolific career-criminal’s trial, which had been brought to a rather abrupt – and completely unexpected – halt, that day, following the man’s sudden decision to change his plea to ‘Guilty’. Up until then it’d looked as though he was going to get off, apparently: even in the face of overwhelming circumstantial evidence.

  That was a testament to the brilliance of his defence barrister.

  There was a rather good court artist’s impression of him.

  It captured everything; the arrogance, the superciliousness, even his name.

  Michael Lovewell, QC.

  Oh dear.

  Humphrey felt ever so slightly ill.

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  It must have been only forty five minutes or so later that he saw his father’s car turn into their driveway. That was some going by anyone’s standards, to get from his chambers in London – where he must have been when he spoke to Mrs Milton – all the way back to Brentwood in that time.

  In the rush hour.

  Now, was that likely to be a good thing, that was the question.

  The way the engine stopped, the door opened, the driver exited and the door slammed shut again – seemingly all in the one movement – was rather unsettling and did seem to suggest that no, it was not likely to be a good thing.

  But Humphrey could do nothing now but wait.

  He could be patient.

  He could be very patient. There was nothing else for it, not now.

  Unless he could somehow find a way of retrieving those carrier bags. That Boy George picture, at the very least. He could always claim Mrs Milton had been on drugs or something and had imagined it.

  Except that – oh dear, oh dear – she’d met his father at the door.

  Yes, of course she had.

  He heard the rattle of the plastic bags and then two lowered voices. He heard the front door slam and, through the window, he saw Mrs Milton hurrying to her car.

  That was a coincidence: she seemed to have two brand new twenty pound notes as well.

  Fancy that.

  Humphrey heard the door to his father’s study slam shut.

  Mrs Milton drove away.

  After precisely eight minutes, he heard the study door opening again.

  He felt a sudden urge to visit the toilet.

  Too bad he’d have to go out there, into the hallway, to get to it.

  For some reason, the thought of meeting his father at that moment filled him with a significant level of dread.

  His father was in the driving seat now, not him.

  The leap into the unknown was exhilarating, if not slightly terrifying at the same time.

  He’d forced Michael into having to make the next move.

  Humphrey had that power.

  ‘Boy!’

  This was it then.

  His one shot at the big time.

  He stayed right where he was just long enough to be absolutely sure that his father would notice the somewhat rebellious nature of the action, before semi-confidently making his way to the study. The door was open and he could see Michael inside, standing by the window, looking out at the garden beyond and at that beautiful apple tree.

  Humphrey wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to knock or not.

  After some deliberation, he decided against it and instead walked into the centre of the room, as casually as he could.

  His father didn’t seem to even notice.

  It was a depressing room, stuffy, with windows that never seemed to open. It was filled to the brim with boring-looking books and dull-looking documents and wall-to-wall legal paraphernalia.  But there was something interesting in there – today, at least – because Humphrey could see his birthday bags sitting – rather too prominently – in the middle of his father’s desk. A tumbler of whisky lurked beside them.

  Presumably, that was – at least – the second libation so far to the memory of Michael’s lost legal pride.

  It took several seconds for the great man to realise Humphrey was there. That wasn’t a particularly encouraging start to things. Even when he did turn round and look in his son’s general direction it was up for debate whether he’d actually seen him. He didn’t speak to him either, as he moved away from the window and back over to the desk.

  Was he going to wish him a ‘Happy Birthday’?

  Apparently not.

  Not unless silently downing ten units of alcohol in one gulp qualified?

  Perhaps it was some sort of mysterious toast?

  Humphrey considered whether now was a good time to draw attention to himself, perhaps by thanking his father for that money.

  No, bad idea.

  Almost as bad an idea as buying those purple velvet jodhpurs and then leaving them in a bag for his father to find like that in the first place.

  Given the events of that afternoon in Court Number One, he might just keep quiet for now. Until he could come up with a reasonable explanation for the jodhpurs, at any rate.

  Louise!

  That was perfect. There wasn’t one item in that bag that she wouldn’t have worn, however briefly. And, quite clearly, the picture of Boy George was hers too. She obviously admired the man’s make-up.

  That was the story then. She’d back Humphrey up, more than happily. Although, she might just want a little something in return for such a favour, which might be dangerous.

  In fact it might be infinitely more dangerous, in the long term, than being alone, in that room, with Michael now.

  ‘I lost a case today, boy. This evening a man sits in a prison cell. Because of me.’

  His father pointed towards a copy of the ‘Evening Standard’, which had been left open on the armchair at the relevant page.

  Humphrey glanced at it.

  He’d never been one to judge folk on their appearances, but the man in that photograph looked like a crook.

  Either that or a politician.

  Or both.

  It probably didn’t help that it was a police mugshot they’d used in the headline, not something professionally done by Lord Lichfield.

  Anyone would look like a criminal in a police mugshot, it stood to reason.

  Beneath the photo was a list of the chap’s former crimes and even a transcript of the confession he’d asked his barrister to read to the court.

  He’d been as guilty as sin, quite obviously.

  For heaven’s sake, the cell he was destined for, that evening, had been preserved by the prison governor just the way the bloke had left it when he’d been given parole for the last job he’d been caught, fair and square, for.

  Humphrey was beginning to get the distinct impression though that neither the man nor his crimes were even relevant.

  Michael Lovewell did not lose.

  Not ever.

  He poured himself another drink.

  There’d been a more than good chance of a ‘Not Guilty’.

  Had he not destroyed the reputations of each and every witness that the Crown had brought before him?

  Had he not poured sufficient scorn and cold water over the prosecution’s entire, pathetic, concoction?

  This would have been the absolute crowning pinnacle of his legal career: thus far.

  Instead of which, his dozy client had lost faith in him.

  He’d had one eye on a reduced sentence for being ‘honest’, instead.

  What in hell was the world coming to?

  He wasn’t even bloody guilty, Michael was sure of that.  Guilty of lots of things, yes, but not of that particular crime.

  The jury would have seen that.

  They didn’t even know about his past so why had he panicked?

  Was it a lack of faith in his lawyer or in the system itself?

  Either way, it was a sad indictment of things. And on a personal level, if he’d managed to get his client off this one, what would it have meant?

  Fame; distinction; the respect of his peers, not to mention another nought on the end of his prices.

  Perhaps more important, even than that, he could have looked himself in the mirror and been proud of a job well done.

  Now what did he have?

  He had that boy staring at him, that’s what.

  His father was finally looking at him.

  Hooray!

  Right.

  It was time to make his move.

  ‘I came top in my maths test today, Dad.’

  Michael frowned very slightly, nothing more.

  ‘You got a hundred per cent.’

  Who did he think he was talking to then, bloody Pythagoras?!

  ‘No, Dad. Ninety one per cent.’

  Humphrey was quietly confident. His first attempt at getting his father’s attention had, presumably, been forgotten about. Thank Christ.

  This one couldn’t possibly fail though.

  Not on his birthday.

  His father clutched his whisky glass tightly to his chest.

  He spoke, slowly.

  ‘So, you got ninety one per cent.’

  ‘That’s right, Dad. Top of the class, I was!’

  He’d never been able to say those words before. Apart from in pottery. His pots really were something else. But he’d never considered that to be the sort of thing that would ever really have impressed a man like Michael. A man who wasn’t even looking at him at all now.

  Even when he spoke, he looked like he was addressing his own desk.

  ‘A class full of half-wits was this?’

  Wait a minute.

  This was a very nasty turn of events.

  Why wasn’t he impressed?

  Ninety one per cent in a maths test should have been impressive. On the face of it, it was nothing short of a miraculous achievement, given the fact that the last maths test he’d taken, he’d managed to achieve the less than princely sum of twelve per cent. And even that had included two whole per cent because he’d managed to spell both halves of his name right.

  His teacher, Mr Evans, had at least tried to make the score seem a little more respectable, bless him.

  Heavens, the day Humphrey had been forced to confess to that meagre twelve per cent he really had anticipated the worst reaction from his father.

  A lecture, certainly.

  Possibly something even worse.

  Yet on that occasion, Michael had just sniffed and then gone back to reading his newspaper.

  What was occurring now, then?

  What had happened, in the last week and a half, to change the great man’s attitude?

  Had the poles shifted in the meantime or something?

  He had a feeling something might just happen this time.

  Possibly something bad.

  Potentially, something very, very bad indeed.

  Nevertheless, there was no doubt in his mind that he did have something approximating Michael’s attention.

  Something approximating his sustained attention too: ordinarily, he’d have shoved ten quid in Humphrey’s direction by now in order to get rid of him.

  This extensive father and son time was something else entirely.

  Michael looked towards Humphrey. He didn’t see him at all this time, but just happened to look in his direction.

  Yes, nothing less than a hundred per cent would do, from now on.

  Nothing.

  He was just going to have to work harder, that was all.

  He could still achieve great things. He’d come from nothing, he’d already done well. He would just need to ensure that he did better – much better – from now on.

  He poured himself yet another drink.

  That was something his own father used to do.

  Before he belted him.

  He would have been disappointed in him tonight, no question.

  He was a failure.

  Although, at least he was getting himself drunk on the finest single malt and not disgusting bottles of milk stout.

  Ninety one per cent.

  Was that really supposed to be impressive, nine per cent short of perfection? In other words, a complete and utter waste of everyone’s time. His own father would have belted him hard for a lack of effort like that.

  No excuses could have prevailed.

  He really had been a heartless devil.

  Michael himself, on the other hand, was clearly too soft.

  Humphrey was never going to achieve success, in his own life, if he continued to labour under the misapprehension that scraping together a score of ninety one per cent was anything, whatsoever, to be proud of.

  He got to his feet, still clutching that glass.

  He turned away from Humphrey once more.

  ‘Ninety one per cent? You’re a failure, boy.’

  That really was a beautiful apple tree.

  Over fifteen years old it was.

  Fifteen.

  Oh, God.

  He could feel his son’s eyes, staring at him.

  It would be that – pathetic – little puppy dog face; the one he always wanted to chuck a bucket of water over.

  ‘How come I wasn’t a failure when I got twelve per cent? You didn’t even bat an eyelid when I got twelve per cent.’

  Somebody had spoken there.

  Who was that: was that Humphrey?

  What was he doing there?

  Ah yes.

  The fingernails.

  The boob tube.

  Those jodhpurs.

  Michael should have been drowning his sorrows amongst friends, or at least acquaintances, down at the clubhouse. They’d have understood him; understood what he was going through. Instead of which, he was here; with an imbecile who thought ninety one per cent was something special.

  An imbecile he now turned slowly around to face.

  ‘But you never, for one moment, thought I’d be impressed by that twelve per cent, did you? That’s the difference. You knew that wasn’t good enough. Whereas you did think I would be impressed by today’s… failures.’

  That last word was said with such venom.

  He hadn’t even meant his son’s mathematical efforts. He’d very much meant his own, self-perceived, legal ones.

  Humphrey stood before him, clearly confused.

  Indeed, Michael was pretty confused at that moment too.

  He drained his glass completely of its contents and then, somewhat shakily, set it down. He seemed to have reached one of those awful crossroads in life. Whichever path he chose, he would – ultimately – be drink-driving his way along it, now.

  He had to face a few facts. Humphrey was never going to achieve great things.

  At least, not in any field worth mentioning.

  He was as thick as a brick for a start.

  Not that such a thing would – necessarily – have prevented him from carving out a successful path in quite a variety of high-profile careers. Anything from finance to politics could have been open to him, if only it had been anything like that simple.

  The problems ran deeper, much deeper.

  Humphrey was a good person, a nice person.

  His own person, quite obviously.

  He was a sensitive soul, a mere glance at the items in those shopping bags was more than enough proof of that.

  However, there was a fine line between ‘sensitive’ and ‘wet’.

  He’d promised the boy’s mother that he would take care of him. Hell, he’d forbidden the bitch from taking him herself, such was his determination to do right by the boy.

  He’d certainly done nothing tangible, up to now.

  He was a failure in that department as well then, was he?

  He was a failure and Humphrey was so pathetic that his undoubted destiny, was to be walked on and abused his entire life.

  That reflected badly on Michael.

  However you looked at it.

  Unless Michael himself could do something to change things.

  Here.

  And now.

  What would his own father have done to him, faced with ninety one paltry per cent and a pair of purple jodhpurs?

  Somewhere, probably drowning in a tumultuous sea of single malt, a lone voice of reason told him to think again. To look closer at his own failings – perhaps – before launching into a course of action from which there could be no return journey.

  He could still just depart from the scene, leaving Humphrey to his mediocrity and to his womenswear and to his picture of that quite remarkable creature with the make-up.

  But then what?

  No. Significant action was needed.

  He grabbed his empty glass, walked an impressively straight line back across the room and poured himself yet another drink, albeit one much smaller in comparison to its predecessors.

  He didn’t hear that voice again.