I don’t answer, just shake my head.
“And your son, Jack, you said he went to Sladkovsky’s?”
“Yes, when we were out of options. Jack had a few treatments, and then we stopped.”
I don’t know why, but I take out the photo of Jack I carry around in my wallet and give it to Nev.
“Ah,” Nev says, smiling. “I think I remember him from your emails. He’s a nice-looking lad. Can definitely see the resemblance.”
I take the photo back and look at it again. It was taken in a children’s playground, close to Regent’s Park, just around the corner from Dr. Flanagan’s office on Harley Street. I feel empty, as if I have been fasting: a gripy hollowness that cannot be filled.
A football hits the window again, and I can hear the glass shudder and bend. Nev does not even flinch. In the corner of the room there is a pile of folded clothes, and I can see that he is ironing his daughter’s school shirts.
“So why did you stop then?” I say.
“Stop doing stuff for Sladkovsky you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the truth?”
“It would be nice.”
“I paid off the debt,” Nev says, shrugging. “I was free. They dropped all them legal proceedings.” Nev stops speaking and looks down into his lap. “Look, I... I really am very sorry, about what I’ve done, about what happened to your Jack.”
It bothers me hearing him say Jack’s name. It seems improper, as if Jack should only be spoken of in hushed reverence. Not by a stranger. Not by Nev.
“Did the money buy that then?” I say, nodding at a huge high-definition television in the corner.
“You gonna think I’m lying, but I actually won it. In a raffle, like.”
“Right, Nev, because you’d never lie to me, would you? You’d never do that.”
I shift in my seat. The foam in the cushions is old, and I am sinking into a gap in the middle. I look at Nev telling his sob story, his wiry body hunched over in his chair.
“Do you know how much hope you gave me? And not just me, but hundreds of other parents in exactly the same situation. You won’t remember this, Nev, but I remember. I remember when I got an email from you. I was at our house in London, on the patio. I think I must have read it a hundred times. ‘Good news,’ you said. ‘Another clean set of scans for Josh.’ Still today, I remember those words, because they meant everything to me. I used to read that email over and over again, on my computer, on my phone...”
I stop. There is nothing more to be said. I stand up to leave and Nev remains seated, motionless, crumpled in the corner. I walk over to him, and he thinks I am going to hit him and he cowers, sinks farther back into the cushions.
“You’re pathetic, Nev. Absolutely pathetic.” I want to punch him, to smash in his face, but I do not trust myself, scared that I would become unhinged, so I turn around and walk out. As I close the front door behind me, I can hear him crying.
Outside, the kids who were playing football are now huddled next to the car and I see him again, the boy I thought was Josh. Up close he looks different. His blond hair, which before seemed to shine, is greasy and unkempt. He has cold sores around his mouth, as if he has been sniffing glue.
“You like watching kiddies play football, do you, mate?” Josh says. He is older than I thought, only about half a head shorter than me. He is swigging from a big yellow can of energy drink, and spits some thick stringy spittle onto the ground. When I look at him now, he does not look anything like Josh—his face is much sharper, harder; his hair a different hue. Was it just wishful thinking, a trick of the mind?
“Fuck off,” I say.
“Fack off,” he says, imitating my London accent, and they all laugh, mimicking my southern vowels. “Bit far from home aren’t you, mate,” and the other kids cackle again and move closer as I walk to the car.
“Is that the one who gave you a hundred quid to suck him off, Gary?”
They all laugh, like a deranged Greek chorus. At the back of the group, I can see the two boys who told me where Nev lived, their baseball caps pulled down over their faces.
As I close the car door, the boys move closer, en masse, like a well-drilled regiment. My hands are shaking and I fumble with the keys, and have to grip the steering wheel to keep them steady. I screech away, hearing the chant of “Pe-do, Pe-do!” as the kicks and stones rain down on the car.
4
Subject: Re: Re:
Sent: Fri Jun 2, 2017 11:45 am
From: Rob
Recipient: naws09
Hello, hope everything is good with you and you’re feeling a bit better. You asked in your last message why I took my son to Dr. Sladkovsky. Well, the short answer is because I’m stupid, because I was desperate, because I couldn’t accept that my son was going to die.
I’m not making excuses. My wife, Anna, could see Dr. Sladkovsky was a fraud. She told me, over and over again, but I didn’t listen. I treated her terribly and, understandably, she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I wish I could make it up to her, do something about the pain I’ve caused, but I think it’s too late now.
Other than that I’m fine. As ever, thanks for listening. How are you doing?
Subject: Re: Re:
Sent: Fri Jun 2, 2017 1:27 pm
From: naws09
Recipient: Rob
Hi, Rob. Not so bad, thanks, a little lost in my thoughts these days. (That happens when I don’t do much but work and come home to an empty house.)
I wish so much I had my old life back. Sometimes I look at Facebook and see what I was doing that
