Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“Not that night?”

“No. That night he said yes. The first time. It was like he… you know… wanted to lose his virginity. I don’t know why. I suppose he just felt it was time.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much at first. I think he was disappointed. A lot of people are the first time.”

“So what did you do?”

“We smoked some more and it seemed to work. It was pretty strong stuff, opiated hash. He got all giggly at first, then he went sort of introspective.”

“So what went wrong?”

“It was when Ryan put that Neil Byrd CD on. You know, that new compilation, The Summer That Never Was.”

“He did what?” Annie could imagine what effect something like that might have on Luke if he was under the influence of strong cannabis. Maybe it wasn’t a seriously dangerous drug, but it could cause paranoia in people, and it intensified and exaggerated emotions. Annie knew; she’d smoked it more than once in her teenage years. Reining in her temper, she asked, “How did Luke react to the music?”

“He freaked. He just freaked. Ryan was thinking it would be a neat idea to do a Neil Byrd song, you know, with Luke singing. I mean, it’d get a lot of attention.”

“Didn’t you realize how confused Luke was about his real father? Didn’t you know he never listened to Neil Byrd’s music?”

“Yes, but we thought this was a good time to try it,” Liz protested. “We thought his mind was, you know, open to new things, mellow from the dope, that it was more likely he’d see how beautiful his father’s work was.”

“When he was disoriented, ultrasensitive?” Annie shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a lot more stupid than I thought you were. Stupid or so selfish and blinkered it amounts to much the same thing.”

“But that’s not fair! We didn’t mean any harm.”

“Fine,” said Annie. “Let’s just say you were guilty of poor judgment and move on. What happened next?”

“Nothing at first. It seemed as if Luke was just listening to the song. Ryan was playing the chords along with it, trying a little harmony. All of a sudden Luke just went crazy. He knocked the guitar out of Ryan’s hand and went over to the CD player and took the CD out and started trying to break it in two.”

“What did you do?”

“Ryan struggled with him, but Luke was, like, possessed.”

“What about the blood?”

“In the end Ryan just punched him. That was where the blood came from. Luke ran into the bathroom. I was just behind him, to see if he was all right. There wasn’t much blood, it was only like a nosebleed. Luke looked in the mirror and started going crazy again and banging the mirror with his fists. I tried to calm him down, but he pushed past me and left.”

“And that was it?”

“Yes.”

“Neither of you went after him?”

“No. We figured he just wanted to be by himself.”

“A disturbed fifteen-year-old having a bad drug experience? Oh, come on, Liz. Surely you can’t be that stupid?”

“Well we were stoned, too. I’m not saying we were, like, the most rational we could be. It just seemed… I don’t know.” She lowered her head and sobbed.

Though she believed Liz’s story, Annie found it hard to dredge up any sympathy. Legally, however, any charges that could be brought against them were minor. If reckless negligence could be proved, then they could, at a stretch, be convicted of manslaughter, but even though they had given Luke drugs, Annie reminded herself, she still didn’t know how he had died, or why.

“Do you know where he went after he left your flat?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Liz between sobs. “We never saw him again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you or Ryan give Luke any Valium, to calm him down, perhaps?”

Liz frowned and looked at Annie through her tears. “No. We didn’t do stuff like that.”

“So you never had any Valium in the house?”

“No.”

“And there’s nothing more you can tell me?”

“I’ve told you everything.” She looked up at Annie with red eyes. “Can I go home now? I’m tired.”

Annie stood up and called for a uniformed officer. “Yes,” she said. “But don’t wander too far. We’ll be wanting to talk to you again.”

When Liz had been escorted away, Annie closed the interview room door behind her and sat down again and held her throbbing head in her hands.

“Another drink, Alan?”

Banks’s beer glass was half-full, and he had just arranged to go out drinking that evening with Dave Grenfell and Paul Major, so he declined Mrs. Marshall’s offer and ate another potted-meat sandwich instead. Besides, the beer was a neighbor’s home brew, and it tasted like it.

“You know, I’m glad we did this,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “The service. I know it probably seems silly to some people, after all this time, but it means a lot to me.”

“It doesn’t seem silly,” said Banks, looking around the room. Most of the guests were family and neighbors, some of whom Banks recognized. Dave’s and Paul’s parents were there, along with Banks’s own. Pachelbel’s “Canon” played in the background. Graham would have hated it, Banks thought. Or probably not. If he’d lived, his tastes would no doubt have changed, as Banks’s had. Even so, what he really wanted to listen to was “Ticket to Ride” or “Summer Nights” or “Mr. Tambourine Man.”

“I think it meant a lot to all of us,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Marshall said tearfully. “Are you sure you won’t have some more?”

“No, thank you.”

Mrs. Marshall wandered off. Banks noticed Bill Marshall in his armchair by the fireplace, a blanket over his knees despite the muggy day. The windows were all open, but it was still too stuffy in the house. Banks saw Paul talking to a couple he didn’t recognize, probably old neighbors, and Dave was chatting with Graham’s sister Joan. His own parents were talking to Mrs. and Mrs. Grenfell. Feeling the call of nature, Banks set his glass down on the sideboard and went upstairs.

When he had finished in the toilet, he noticed that the door to Graham’s old room was open, and he was surprised to see that the space-rocket wallpaper he remembered from years back was still on the walls. Drawn by the odd sight, he wandered into the small bedroom. Of course, everything else had changed. The bed was gone, along with the small glass-fronted bookcase Banks remembered, mostly full of science fiction. The only familiar object stood in a case leaning against the wall. Graham’s guitar. So they had kept it all these years.

Certain that no one would mind, Banks sat down on a hard-backed chair and took the guitar out of its case. Graham had been so proud of it, he remembered. Of course, he had wanted an electric one, a Rickenbacker like the one John Lennon played, but he had been chuffed to death with the secondhand acoustic his parents had bought him for Christmas 1964.

Banks remembered the fingering, even after so long, and strummed a C chord. Way out of tune. He grimaced. Tuning it would be too much of a job for the moment. He wondered if Mrs. Marshall wanted to keep it as a memento, or if she would consider selling it. If she would, he’d be glad to buy it from her. He strummed an out-of- tune G seventh, then moved to put the guitar back in its case. As he did so, he thought he heard something slip around inside it. Gently, he shook the guitar, and there it was again: something scraping inside.

Curious, Banks loosened the strings so that he could slip his hand inside. With a bit of juggling and shaking he managed to grab hold of what felt like a piece of stiff, rolled-up paper. Carefully he pulled it out, noticing the dried Sellotape Graham had used to stick it to the inside of the guitar. That made it something he had tried to hide.

And when Banks unrolled it, he saw why.