The Enumerations Page 21

  127.

  Dominic is at his computer. It’s two in the morning and he has slipped out of bed, leaving Kate undisturbed. Her light snoring is reassuring; if he wakes in the middle of the night he knows where he is, where he is meant to be. It was like that even when Noah was still at home, when life was far from normal.

  Now, though, he’s coming adrift. The cursor hovers over the file that says Noah. It’s always been there, just like the one that says Maddie. If Kate came across it she’d think nothing of it, assume it was filled with reports and assessments, scans of documents, articles he hasn’t read. But Noah’s file is a loaded gun, safety off, cocked and ready to fire. It’s the bullet his wife hears in her dreams that has her sitting upright clutching him, whimpering, ‘Dominic, Dominic,’ and has him holding her close, patting her back to sleep.

  He doesn’t open it. There’s no need. He simply copies the latest email from his son into the file that carries his name and deletes it from his inbox. How much longer can he do this, though? Noah is too clever, too quick; he’ll never stop asking questions, looking for answers that Dominic is unwilling to give.

  128.

  Day 38 / 20:23

  Another good time …

  Spit and Spot.

  Spit is a rambunctious bundle of fur, but Spot is timid. He approaches everyone and anything with caution.

  Noah’s father was never that keen on them having an animal, but shortly after the home invasion he agreed when his wife said, ‘It’s another deterrent, Dominic. A black dog, everyone says. Maybe if we’d had one …’

  His mom hadn’t finished her sentence. She didn’t need to. The next weekend, she took Maddie and Noah to tears to choose their dog.

  It was early when they got there, a cold Saturday morning. Cage after cage of wagging tails, barks and whines.

  ‘This one’s called Spot,’ said Maddie, looking at a large black dog cowering in the corner of the cage he shared with two other rescue animals. He had a white patch over one eye, giving him the raffish air of a pirate. But there was nothing raffish about this boy.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly big,’ Noah’s mom said, ‘but he’s not exactly fearsome, is he? What could have happened to him to make him this scared of people?’

  ‘Here boy, come. C’mon Spot.’ Noah crouched at the fence and waited.

  Maddie bounced from cage to cage, wanting them all, loving them all, but their mother had been firm. ‘One only. I promised your father, kids.’

  Noah waited in the same place. ‘Here, boy.’

  ‘It says he’s an African Sheprador,’ Maddie said, reading the description attached to the fence. ‘Africanis, German Shepherd and Labrador Retriever. That’s a good mix, hey Mom? And he’s four years old, like we agreed.’

  They’d decided to choose a full-grown dog rather a puppy. ‘Puppies always go first, they always get homes,’ Maddie had said. She’d been researching rescue dogs ever since their dad had given permission for a pet. ‘Let’s choose an older dog, okay Noe?’

  When Spot finally sidled forward and pressed his muzzle against the mesh, Noah looked at Maddie. She nodded. Spot had chosen them.

  On the way out they were ambushed by a quivering nose, a hopeful yip that begged, ‘Choose me too, choose me too!’

  ‘Oh, Mom!’ Maddie was close to tears. ‘I just love her.’

  Their mother bent and the small dog snuffled at her hand through the fence. ‘She’s a real little spitfire,’ she said.

  And that was it. The Groomes and their two dogs, bundled into the car.

  Happy days. And they will never be here again.

  129.

  Kate sits down to send an email, then stands and wanders outside into the heat. She can’t settle. And for once, it’s not because of Noah.

  She forgets to collect Dominic’s suits from the cleaner; she forgets to phone the Pool Guy to look at the pump again. They ran out of milk but she forgot to add it to her list and now Dom will have to collect some on his way home. If she were to say to him, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been so distracted, thinking about Noah and how he’s getting on …’ her husband might sigh, but he’d understand.

  Today, she nearly forgot to collect Maddie from gymnastics. She had to dash to the car, get to school as fast as she could. She, the mother who’s always on time for her children, made her daughter wait in the schoolyard.

  She finds herself apologising all the way home, even though Maddie isn’t upset.

  ‘It’s not a problem, Mom, I didn’t have to wait that long.’

  But the thing is, she had to wait.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mads.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mom,’ Maddie says for the tenth time. And then she adds, ‘There’s so much for you to think about, no wonder you got the time mixed up.’ Then she starts to tell her about how Miss Wilcox said that if she continues as well as she’s doing, she’ll definitely be selected for the school team.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Maddie, it really is! I’m proud of you, darling. Dad’s going to be so happy. And Noah, we mustn’t forget to tell him on Sunday.’

  What Kate can’t quite admit to herself is that the thought of going to Greenhills this Sunday is making her more nervous than she’s felt in ages. Giddy, almost. She wants to see Noah, of course she does, but she’s also looking forward to talking to Mr Bill, seeing his warm smile, sitting and chatting about her son.

  Mr Bill’s face doesn’t close against hers when she talks about Greenhills and how everything is going.

  130.

  Juliet is at her desk. This is the time of day she hates the most, the half hour after lunch when they are expected to open their journals and write.

  She looks at the line she’s just written.

  My mother doesn’t really miss me and I don’t blame her.

  Her knees jiggle under the table.

  There you go, Ellen. Plenty of meat there for you to chew on. But it’s true. No smokescreen today for Juliet, no hiding behind her words and leaving it up to the therapist to snip away at them.

  The thing is, Ellen’s on to her. Juliet thought it would take so much longer, but she’s underestimated her. She’s no fool; she isn’t taken in by Juliet’s subterfuges.

  So, maybe that’s why Juliet has written that first line.

  Or maybe it’s Noah and his family, his mom and sister who’ve come to see him every Sunday without fail. You can tell just by looking at them that they miss Noah.

  131.

  ‘Blues and black, my favourite colours,’ Juliet laughs as she looks around the circle. Oh God, how many times has she sat like this, leaning forward so that whoever sits next to her gets a good eyeful of her bra? Then smiling as she sees them looking. The trick is to sit like that for a while, let them relax, and then jerk your head to the side and catch them in the act. Then she’ll smile at them sadly; a sorrowful lift of her lips.

  ‘Black-and-blue, the colour of bruises, you know? And then they turn yellow and a sort of purplish-green just before that.’ She looks around the circle and they shuffle their feet or shift in their seats and Ellen asks her if she wants to add anything. She ducks her head and says ‘No’ in a tiny voice.

  Ellen pauses, and then continues, but Juliet knows she’s seen through her to the truth: No one has ever hit Juliet; she’s never suffered the painful bruises she loves to describe. Ellen will bide her time and call her on it when she needs to. That’s fine. It gives her time to spin a few more yarns, shake the others out of their stupor, and, quite honestly, do anything to stop Soppy Sadie boring them all to tears with another sad story about why she steals. It was only a chain for God’s sake, Juliet wants to yell at her. Cheap jewellery. And for that they put you in here, to torture us with your endless whining?

  ‘I know why they did,’ she says to Noah later, sitting in her usual place. ‘I’d do it too, if she was my daughter. Get her out of my house and into HappyHomes as fast as I possibly could, before she drove me insane.’

  He has his back to her and h
e’s filling in yet another block on yet another chart, but Juliet doesn’t mind. This has become their ritual. ‘Teatime with Noah’, Juliet calls it, and as long as she uses her own mug, they’re cool.

  132.

  Day 40 / 20:16

  ‘Why don’t you just give up?’ Juliet asks, looking at his lopsided Family Tree. ‘Why don’t you believe him when he says he doesn’t know, or, if he does, he doesn’t want to talk about it?’

  Noah can’t give up, nor can he use his stash of words to tell her how it feels to be gripped by this need to find out. The answers are out there, and until they are found his Family Tree will bend even further to the right, crowded on his mother’s side, underpopulated on the other. If only he had one name, one thread to pull at.

  He’s trying to allow himself the words to tell her, but can’t force them past his clenched teeth.

  Juliet steps up to him, pats him quickly on the back. ‘It’s okay, Noah,’ she says. ‘Seriously, it’s okay. I’ll help you, I promise. Maybe we can ask Maddie, too. We’ll both help you.’

  After she leaves he sits at his desk and looks at his journal. He picks up (down-up-down-up) his pen, blocks his ears. He has to get his thoughts sorted out on this one.

  If he writes it down, it might make more sense. He’s been kidding himself all along, he’s given up too easily. It isn’t his father’s fault he can’t finish this task. If Noah wants to find out more, it’s up to him to do more digging. Go deeper, head in a new direction. See what can be unearthed. See what, or who, emerges from the shadows. That’s his task, and Juliet’s set the idea free.

  133.

  Gabriel walks into the children’s home, his feet dragging behind Mrs Social-Worker who has bustled him out of the car, talked him through the doors and into a room with a large counter and two ladies sitting behind it. One of them looks up as they enter, the other’s fingers rattle the keys of her typewriter. There’s a ping! as she gets to the end of the line, and a wham! as she shoots the carriage back to the left.

  Yes? Non-Typing Lady says, and Mrs Social-Worker pushes Gabriel between the shoulder blades, and he’s at the edge of the counter, looking up at her.

  Gabriel Felix says Mrs Social-Worker. His paperwork was delivered this morning.

  Felix, Felix, Non-Typing Lady’s shuffling through a pile of files so high it looks like they’ll topple any second, but she lays a hand flat on them and the manila tower stops swaying. Her hand is broad, her nail varnish chipped, and Gabriel wonders if her fingers would be thinner if they were being exercised over typewriter keys.

  Another ping! and another wham! And then Non-Typing Lady’s looking down at him and saying, The admission’s in order. Sit there. Mr de Wet will see him soon.

  Mrs Social-Worker sits and the grip on his hand forces him to follow her lead. She has a name, but Gabriel can’t remember what it is. He can’t remember anything except the police station last night, Mum walking past him, staring straight ahead, not looking at him, not even when he calls out. And then, behind her, a lady holding Harry. She doesn’t say anything either, just glares at him and shakes her head and Gabriel feels shame filling him, even though he has nothing to be ashamed about.

  Come on, the policeman is saying, we’d better get you washed and out of these clothes. You stink. And then they’re telling him to shower and wash properly, to get the smell of petrol off his hands, the smell of smoke out of his hair and off his skin. He doesn’t like the clothes they gave him: the trousers are too long, the shirt is a funny colour and the jersey is itchy at his neck.

  And now, here he sits, waiting for someone called Mr de Wet.

  134.

  Maddie doesn’t mind Sundays any more. She used to. Hanging around the house, homework still to be done. Heavy, unending Sunday afternoons. But now they’re different. Now it’s into the car, with her mom, off to see Noah. Her dad never goes to Greenhills, not even for meetings with Ms T. Not since they came home that last time, looking like survivors of a bomb blast, faces white, eyes blank.

  Since then, her dad hasn’t been home much, leaving early and working late at the office. Her mom takes her to school most days, which is fine because Maddie likes being in the car with her – she doesn’t have to fill the silence with music, the way she has to with her dad. And it’s always his choice of music, ‘Either that or the news, Maddie,’ and sometimes, when she thinks she can’t handle another plinking note of Chopin, she opts for the news, only that’s often worse. She hates starting the day with soundbites about crime and murder and arguments between politicians.

  Sometimes she thinks she’d like to live on a desert island. She’d happily be a Robinson Crusoe. She’d take Noah, of course. There’d be white beaches, blue waters, small fish scurrying in rock pools, coconuts galore. Maddie watches Survivor, so she knows how it’s done, how to do it, how to survive.

  But now that she can look forward to seeing Noah, Sundays are so much easier. Her mom’s calling, ‘Maddie, are you ready?’ She is. No going to see Noah unless her homework is done. And it always is. She’s not going to risk missing a visit for the sake of algebra or social science.

  That’s another good thing about Sundays. She does homework the moment she gets it – no waiting till the last minute, no dilly-dallying, finding other things to do. Visits to Greenhills have cured Maddie of procrastination – something no one could have predicted.

  So here they are, in the car, and her mom’s saying something about Juliet. Her tone of voice makes Maddie sit up and pay attention.

  ‘I hope we can see Noah on his own,’ she’s saying.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know, Mads. Without Juliet. It’s not that I don’t like her …’

  Maddie waits for the ‘but’.

  ‘… but I would like our visiting time to be spent with Noah. It’s our only chance to see him.’

  So her mom’s going to ignore the big ‘but’ about Juliet – the one she really means.

  ‘I like Juliet,’ Maddie says. And she does. She likes the way she always has time to talk to her, how she laughs at Noah and names his weirdness as if it’s nothing to get all panicky about or go all silent around, like her dad does.

  Maddie’s been noticing the cracks more and more since her brother left. Bizarre, really. She’d have thought that with him gone, life would be a bit easier, especially as far as her dad was concerned. But the silences between her parents are getting longer, and they never do anything together any more. When Noah was around they had a common worry – without him, nothing seems to be holding them together.

  Her mom’s silent, probably thinking more about Juliet, reluctant to say any more, but Maddie knows. She looks at her, the frown deep between her eyes, and feels an aching pity.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mom,’ she says. ‘Juliet doesn’t see Noah that way.’

  ‘That way?’

  ‘I mean she’s not interested in him in that way. You know. For sex.’

  ‘For sex?’ Her mom’s voice is faint.

  ‘Sure. Mom, you know. That’s why Juliet’s in there. But you don’t have to worry. She told me Noah’s her friend. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her mom’s voice is even fainter.

  Kate imagines talking to her mother, telling her that her husband isn’t interested in her any more, not in that way, but the thought fails her before she even gets to thinking about how her mother would respond.

  Maddie touches her mom on the leg. ‘Noah’s safe with Juliet. Plus, she’s good for him.’

  ‘Good for him?’ Kate’s still digesting ‘that way’.

  ‘Yes. You know. She treats him like he’s normal.’

  They’re approaching Greenhills now and soon they’ll be signing in and the high gates will swing open and then close behind them.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be speaking to Mr Bill today?’ Maddie asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. If he’s there.’

  What Kate doesn’t say is that she hopes he is. How easy it i
s to talk to him – share her fears and worries.

  ‘So you won’t mind then,’ her daughter asks, ‘if I talk to Juliet?’ Her face is anxious.

  Kate smiles. ‘I don’t mind at all, Mads,’ she says, ‘as long as you and Noah are happy.’ As long as that girl keeps her claws out of my son. And, she allows herself the next thought, as long as I have Mr Bill to talk to.

  The guard’s at the window and Kate’s filling in the paper on the clipboard. Name, date, person to visit, time of entry, car registration number. Kate scribbles it down and the gates swing open. There are plenty of parking spaces to the left of the house and she chooses one in the shade. She and Maddie are always the first to arrive and among the last to leave. Nothing hurries their departure; their time with Noah is precious and Kate wants to see as much of him as possible. So why is she scanning the rolling lawn for signs of Mr Bill? He isn’t there, but her son is, sitting on their bench under the oak tree, looking at his watch.

  ‘You run on ahead, Mads,’ Kate says. ‘I’ll catch up.’

  Kate doesn’t have the freedom to run like Maddie does, because today she is wearing slip-ons with a slight heel, the ones that make her ankles look even more delicate, her calves even longer. Before she left she’d looked at herself in the mirror, critically, appraisingly, but didn’t allow herself to ask why she was choosing her outfit so carefully when she was going to see her son, who never really notices what she is wearing.

  ‘We’re going now,’ she’d said to Dominic. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’

  He’d looked up briefly from his computer, said an equally brief no, then added that he’d be going for his run in a few minutes.