Seven Days(75)

And his dad would always reply the same way, absolve him of his guilt with a simple ‘You don’t have to’.

But this time he looked at him, his eyes narrowing.

‘You can pay me back by stopping taking those damn drugs,’ he said. ‘And coming home.’

James swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘I don’t take them much,’ he said. ‘And I’ll stop soon. This is temporary – I’m having a hard time at the moment. It’s not as bad as you think.’

‘It’s every bit as bad,’ his dad said. He put his hands on James’s. ‘Why do you do it, son? Why do you take them?’

‘Because … because …’ James felt the warmth of his father’s hands on his. ‘It helps. I lost my way a bit, and it helps.’

‘I can help. Mum can help. There’s a way out of this, James. All you have to do is say the word and we’ll be able to get you through this. We can get the right treatment, take care of you at home. You can recover. You can take as much time as you need. You’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you.’

‘I know. I know. And I will, but …’ But all he could think was I need the prick of that needle and the rush and then the oblivion, everything else is too hard, too damn hard, and I can do that later, recover later, get help later, but now, now I need the needle and the pain to go away and the darkness that follows.

‘You can start to work again. Take your time learning a trade. Become a teacher. Anything. The world is a wonderful place, James. Life is a wonderful gift. Don’t waste yours.’ His dad cupped his chin. His hand was warm. It smelled clean. ‘And I can help you. Come with me and leave that life behind.’

James was gripped by an all-consuming panic at the thought of going with him, of walking away from what he knew, from his friends.

From the next high.

‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘Sorry. I can’t. Not now.’





3


He fingered the notes in the pocket of his jeans. Ten twenties; two hundred pounds. It was what his dad normally gave him. They met about once a fortnight, and it was enough to get him through.

And he needed it today. Needed it more than normal after the conversation with his dad.

Life is a wonderful gift.

He didn’t know how his dad could say that. How he could even think it, not after what had happened to Maggie. James thought about her every day. He had since she had gone. He had wondered where she was and what had happened to her and in his head he saw her suffering violent and endless torture, heard her screams and cries for help and was powerless to do anything.

In his dreams, he rescued her. In the daytime he endured her suffering.

And his dad said life is a wonderful gift? It wasn’t. It was anything but.

He’d made up his mind that his was over. In truth it had been over for a while. There was nothing worth living for. Every day was such a fight. All he had was the drugs, and that was no life.

He was going to get a massive dose. Take it all. Dissolve into a state of bliss.

Mum and Dad would be sad, but it was better for them in the long run. He was worthless, a pathetic, useless excuse for a son who caused them nothing but trouble and pain. It was time to set them free.

It was time to set himself free. The sense of relief now he had made the decision was overwhelming.

He felt the notes in his pocket. Two hundred pounds. More than enough to buy what he needed.

Thanks, Dad, he thought.





Martin


He didn’t cry until he was back in his car. He would have preferred to wait until he got home but the car was as far as he could make it. He had walked through the town centre, eyes ahead, back straight, lips pressed together, holding his face as expressionless as he could, rehearsing what he would say if he bumped into someone he knew who wanted to stop for a chat.

Great to see you but I’m late for a train. Sorry. Have to run!

No one had stopped him and he was grateful to the universe for that small mercy. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to get out even those few sentences without his words dissolving into tears.

He sat behind in the front seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, and cried, loud and hard, his shoulders heaving with each fresh sob.

His boy – his son, the baby he had held – was vanishing before his eyes. Maggie had gone quickly; James was slowly fading away. He’d been shocked to see him. His face was drawn, his eyes sunken and red. There was a grey pallor to his skin, and the smell – they’d been camping once in France and in one corner of the campsite there was a stream that he discovered was effectively an open sewer. That was what James reminded him of.

He didn’t know why. Why James was doing it, why Maggie had been taken, why he was being punished. What had he done to deserve this? Why him?

He wiped the tears from his eyes. While he was with James he’d wanted to stay calm, let him know he was loved and that his parents were there for him, whatever happened. What he wanted to do was grab his son and drag him home and lock him in his room until he was better, but he’d spoken to a bunch of different experts and one thing was clear: James could only get better if he wanted to. It had to come from him. Martin could try to get him to see how desperate the situation was – stage an intervention of sorts – but it would only work if James wanted it to.