What Came Before He Shot Her

saying, “C’n we go home? Joel, can we go?”

            Carole seemed to rouse from some waking sleep at this. Suddenly she noticed Toby cowering and Kendra standing above him. She said in a voice growing ever louder, “Who’s this? Who are these people, Joel?

            Who’ve you brought with you? Where’s Nessa, then? Where’s Ness?

            What’ve you done with Ness?”

            Joel said, “Ness wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t . . . Mum, this here’s Toby and Aunt Kendra. You know them. Course Toby’s gettin big now. Near eight years old. But Aunt Ken—”

            “Toby?” Carole Campbell went inward as she said the name, attempting to sort through the train wreck of her memories to find the relevant one. She rocked back on her heels and considered the little boy before her, then Kendra, trying to make sense of who these people were and, more important, trying to understand what they wanted of her. “Toby,” she murmured. “Toby. Toby.” Suddenly her face filled with light as she managed to attach Toby  to an image in her mind. For his part, Joel felt an answering relief and Kendra felt the passing of a potential crisis.

            But then, as if on the edge of a coin, Carole’s comprehension slipped, and her expression crumpled. She looked directly at Toby and put her hands up—palms outward—as if she would fend him off in some way. “Toby!” she cried out, his name no longer a name to her but an accusation.

            “Tha’s right, Mum,” Joel said. “This’s Toby. Tha’s who this is, innit.”

            “I should have dropped you,” Carole cried in reply. “When I heard the train. I should have dropped you but someone stopped me. Who? Who stopped me from dropping you?”

            “No, Mum, you can’t—”

            She clutched her head, fingers deep in her ginger hair. “I must go home now. Sraightaway, Joel. Ring your father and tell him I must come home and God, God, God, why can’t I remember anything anymore?”

            Chapter

      5 Since part of his job was to know when the pupils in his PSHE group were floundering in one area or another—after all, the class wasn’t called Personal Social Health Education for nothing—Mr. Eastbourne, who otherwise was mentally, spiritually, and emotionally consumed by an unfortunate relationship he was attempting to foster with an oft-suicidal, out-of-work actress, eventually noticed that Joel Campbell needed a bit of special attention. This became apparent to him when a colleague routed Joel from his lunchtime hiding place for the third time, delivering him to Mr. Eastbourne for an intimate colloquy that was supposed to reveal the nature of the boy’s problems. Anyone with eyes could see the nature of the boy’s problems, of course: He kept to himself, had no friends, spoke only when spoken to and not always then, and spent his free time attempting to blend into the notice boards, the furniture, or whatever else comprised the environment in which he found himself. What remained to be excavated from Joel’s psyche were the reasons for the problems.

Mr. Eastbourne possessed one quality above all others that made him an exceptional instructor in PSHE: He knew his limitations. He disliked faux bonhomie, and he understood that spurious attempts to be matey with a troubled adolescent were unlikely to produce a positive result. So he availed himself of a member of the school’s mentoring programme, a human inventory of community members who were willing to assist pupils with everything from reading to relieving anxiety. Thus, not long after the visit to his mother, Joel found himself being ushered into the presence of an odd-looking Englishman.

He was called Ivan Weatherall, a white man on the far side of fifty who favoured hunting jackets with tatty leather in all the appropriate places as well as baggy tweed trousers worn too high on the waist and held there with both braces and a belt. He had appalling teeth but exceptionally nice breath, chronic dandruff but freshly washed hair. Manicured, closely shaven, and polished where polish was called for, Ivan Weatherall knew what it was to be an outsider, having endured both fagging and bullying at boarding school, as well as possessing a libido so low as to make him a misfit from his thirteenth birthday right into his dawning old age.

            He had a most peculiar way of speaking. So anomalous was it to what Joel was used to—even from his aunt—that at first he concluded Ivan Weatherall was having a monumental joke at Joel’s own expense. He used terms like Right-o, I dare say, Spot on, and Cheerio,  and behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his blue eyes locked on Joel’s and never looked away, as if he were waiting for a reaction. This forced Joel into either giving him one, meeting his gaze, or looking elsewhere. Most of the time he chose to look elsewhere.

            He and Ivan met twice a week during PSHE, tucked away in an office made available for the mentoring programme. Ivan began their relationship with a formal bow from the waist, and, “Ivan Weatherall, at your service. I haven’t seen you hereabouts. How pleasant to meet you. Shall we perambulate or is remaining stationary your preference?”

            To this bizarre opening, Joel made no reply since he thought the man was having him on.

            Ivan said, “Then I shall make the decision. As rain appears imminent, I suggest we avail ourselves of what seating accommodations are on offer.” Then he ushered Joel into the little office, where he deposited his gangly frame into a red plastic chair and hooked his ankles round its front legs.

            “You’re a relative newcomer to our little corner of the world, I understand,” he said. “Your habitation is . . . where? One of the estates, I believe? Which one?”

            Joel told him, managing to do so without looking up from his hands, which played with the buckle on his belt.

            “Ah, the location of Mr. Goldfinger’s grand building,” was Ivan’s reply. “Do you live inside that curious structure, then?”

            Joel correctly assumed that Ivan was referring to Trellick Tower, so he shook his head.

            “Pity,” Ivan Weatherall said. “I live in that general area myself, and I’ve wanted to explore that building forever. I consider it all a bit grim—well, what can  one do with concrete besides  make it look like a minimum-security prison, don’t you agree?—and yet those bridges . . . floor after floor of them . . . They do make a statement. I dare say one still wishes that London’s postwar housing problems could have been solved in a more visually pleasing manner.”

            Joel raised his head and ventured a look at Ivan, still trying to work out if he was being made fun of. Ivan was watching him, head cocked to one side. He’d altered his position during his prefatory remarks, leaning back so that his chair rested only on its two back legs. When Joel’s eyes met his, Ivan gave him a little friendly salute. “Entre nous, Joel,” he said in a confidential tone, “I’m a type one generally refers to as an English eccentric. Quite harmless and engaging to have at a dinner party where Americans are present and declaring themselves desperate to meet a real  Englishman.” They were hard enough to come by in this part of town, he went on to tell Joel, especially in his own neighbourhood, where the small houses were mostly occupied by large Algerian, Asian, Portuguese, Greek, and Chinese families. He himself lived alone —“Not even a budgerigar to keep me company”—but he liked it that way, as it gave him time and space to pursue his hobbies. Every man, he explained, needed a hobby, a creative outlet through which one’s soul earned expression. “Have you one yourself?” he inquired.

Joel ventured a reply. The question seemed harmless enough. “One what?”

            “A hobby, a soul-enriching extracurricular endeavour of one form or another?”

            Joel shook his head.

            “I see. Well, perhaps we can find you one. This will, naturally, involve a minor bit of probing with which I will ask you to cooperate to the best of your ability. You see, Joel, we are creatures of parts. Physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, and psychological parts. We are akin to machines, if it comes down to it, and every mechanism that makes us what we are needs to be attended to if we are to function both effi ciently and to our utmost capacity. You, for instance. What do you intend to do with your life?”

            Joel had never been asked such a question. He knew, of course, but he was embarrassed to admit it to this man.

            “Well, then, that is part of what we’ll search for,” Ivan said. “Your intentions. Your path to the future. I myself, you see, longed to be a film producer. Not an actor, mind you, because at the end of the day I could never abide people ordering me about and telling me how to act.