He decided not to mention that to his wife.
'I don't know why we're bothering,' she said as he went back into the kitchen. 'It's not as though she ever does anything for us.'
'No,' he agreed, peering through the window. 'But then she doesn't like people very much, does she?'
There was a surrealistic quality to the scene that met Deacon's eyes as he and Siobhan approached the open sitting-room door. Far from being marooned in a chair as Siobhan had described, his mother was upright, leaning on Terry's arm, and peering at a painting on the wall. 'Of course I can't really see it now,' she was saying, 'but if I remember correctly it's a George Chambers Junior. Can you make out the signature in the bottom left-hand corner?'
Terry made a pretense of reading the artist's scrawl. 'You've got an amazing memory, Mrs. D. George Chambers Junior it is. Did he always paint the sea, then?''
'Oh, I'm sure he must have done other things, but he and his father were famous marine artists of the last century. I bought that years ago for twenty pounds in a down at the heel gallery in South London somewhere and I had it valued at Sotheby's a week later for hundreds. Goodness only knows what it's worth now.' She urged him to move on. 'Do you see a portrait of me in the alcove? A big bold one with lots of rich color. Read the signature on that,' she said triumphantly. 'He's a wonderful artist and it was such a thrill to be painted by him.'
Terry stared in agony at the canvas.
'John Bratby,' said Deacon from the doorway.
Terry flashed him a relieved smile. 'Yeah, well done, Mike. It's a John Bratby, all right. Mind you, Mrs. D, considering how beautiful you are, do you really reckon he's done you proud? It's bold, like you said, but it ain't pretty. D'you know what I'm saying?'
'Yes I do, but my character isn't pretty, Terry, and I think John captured that perfectly. Can we turn round?''
'Sure.' He assisted her to face her son.
'Come in, Michael,' said Penelope. 'To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?'
He smiled uncomfortably. 'Why do you always ask the hardest questions first, Ma?''
'Terry seemed to find it easy enough. When I asked him who he was and what he was doing here, he said you and he had a visit from the-er-old Bill this morning and it seemed like a good idea to get out of London for a while. Is he lying to me?'
'No.'
'Good. I'd rather you came because you're on the run from the police than because you've been talking to Emma. I won't have any more browbeating, Michael.' She nudged Terry in the ribs. 'Take me back to my chair, please, young man, and then go and sort out some drinks for us in the kitchen. There's gin, sherry, and wine but if you'd rather have beer, I expect there's some in the cellar. Siobhan will help you find it.' She resumed her seat. 'Sit down where I can see you, Michael. Did you shave before you left?'
He took a chair, facing the window. 'Afraid not. I didn't have time before the police came, and forgot about it afterwards.' He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. 'The eyesight's not
She ignored the remark. 'Who is Terry and why is he with you?'
'He's a lad I interviewed for a story on homelessness, and when I discovered he had nowhere to go for Christmas, I suggested he stay with me for a few days.'
'How old is he?'
'That has nothing to do with why the police came this morning, Ma.'
'I don't remember saying it did. How old, Michael?'
'Fourteen.'
'Dear God! Why aren't his parents looking after him?'
Deacon gave a hollow laugh. 'He'd have to find them first.' He was shocked by how much his mother had changed. She was an older, smaller, thinner shadow of herself, and the piercing blue gaze had dimmed to grey. He had prepared for a wounded dragon who could still breathe fire, but not for one whose fires had gone out. 'Don't waste your sympathy on him, Ma. Even if he knew where his parents were, he wouldn't go back to them. He's far too independent.'
'Like you, then?'
'Not really. I was never as self-sufficient at his age. He has social skills that I still don't possess. I could no more have walked into this room at fourteen, and struck up a conversation with a complete stranger than fly over the moon. What did he say to you, as a matter of interest?'
A faint smile hovered round her lips. 'I called out when I heard him tiptoeing along the corridor. I said: 'Whoever that is will they please come in here?' And when he came in he said: 'Have you got ears in the back of your head or what?' Then he took great trouble to assure me he wasn't a burglar but that, if he were, there were some 'well brilliant' pictures that might take his fancy. I gather this house resembles a palace while your flat is as boring as a men's public lavatory. What are you going to do with him when Christmas is over?'
'I don't know. 1 haven't thought about it yet.'
'You should, Michael. You have a nasty habit of taking on a responsibility lightly and then discarding it when it bores you. I blame myself. I should have forced you to face up to unpleasantness instead of encouraging you to avoid it.'
He looked at her. 'Is that what you did?'
'You know it is.'
'No, I don't. What I know is that I watched you martyr yourself for no good reason, and I made up my mind
