Say You're Sorry (30 page)

“Why did she write to you?”

“She said she was sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“What do
you
fucking think?”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“Oh, yeah, I put it in my scrapbook with my pressed flowers and needlework.”

Aiden thinks that’s funny. He wants an audience.

“Did you write back?”

“Why would I write to her? She put me in here. She put Callum Loach in a wheelchair. If it weren’t for that little prick-tease, none of this would have happened.”

I can see Ruiz’s shoulders flexing beneath his shirt. It isn’t so much Aiden’s whining that he dislikes, but his cocky self-importance and how he wants to blame his own immeasurable stupidity on a schoolgirl because the alternative requires too much self-analysis and accountability.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about the letter?” I ask

“Why should I? Nobody did me any favors.”

Taking a photograph from my jacket pocket, I place it on the table between his elbows. The image is from the post-mortem. Natasha’s thin body laid out on the stainless steel bench, swollen and exposed, her eyes blank. Aiden is staring at me, unwilling to look. Slowly he lowers his gaze. Hesitates. Recovers.

“She’s not so pretty now,” he says, turning his face away from the photograph.

“You still think she got what was coming to her?” asks Ruiz.

Aiden smiles ruefully, showing all the compassion of a shark loose in a colony of seals.

“Been going to church while I been in here. Learned a few things. It’s like the Bible says: ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ Man, woman, same difference. She got what she deserved.”

As we leave the prison, Ruiz takes a boiled sweet from his tin and sucks it hard as though wanting to get a bad taste from his mouth.

“You know how most people in prison deserve to be there.”

“Yeah.”

“Some deserve it more than others.”

L
ate afternoon I drive across Oxford in mist that can’t decide if it wants to be rain, or perhaps it’s the other way around. The streets are crowded with cars and tourist coaches. The schools are closing, holidays starting, last-minute Christmas shoppers buying last-minute gifts. At the colleges, parents are arriving to fetch their offspring home from university. Trunks are hefted down narrow stairways and loaded into car boots.

It makes me remember my own university days. I had expected a four-year slumber party full of sex, alcohol and soft drugs. Instead, I fell in love with a string of unattainable girls, who thought I was great fun to have around, but not very shaggable. They seemed to prefer rugby players or boys called Rupert whose parents had country estates. Normally all I could offer was my undying love and a bottle of warm Lambrusco Bianco.

Victoria Naparstek comes to mind, her shy eyes and over-wide mouth. I remember seeing the same gratitude in her eyes that I felt was in mine; an appreciation that she was there and that I hadn’t completely embarrassed myself.

Parking outside the sports center, I push through the double doors and hear the echo of basketballs rattling backboards. At the front counter, a woman is wearing a tracksuit on her thin frame and twenty years of sun damage around her eyes. I ask for Callum Loach.

She points through another set of doors. “He’ll be inside with the Ayatollah.”

“Sorry?”

“Theo. That’s his old man.”

There are three basketball courts side by side, but only one is being used. Theo Loach is pacing the edge of the court. Yelling instructions, he ducks and weaves as though he’s shadowboxing or playing the game from the bleachers. A Para tattoo on his right forearm has faded into a blue stain.

“Hey, Cal, watch for the quick break. That’s it… cover him.”

I’ve never seen a wheelchair game of basketball. The speed surprises me. With a flick of forearms, competitors are hurtling up and down the court.

I recognize Callum from his photograph. He’s sitting in a lightweight chair with wheels that are canted inwards and give the impression they’re collapsing into his lap.

Theo yells, “Good block! See who’s open. That’s it. Go… go!”

Nursing the ball on his lap, Callum pushes twice on the wheels and dribbles, leading a charge of pumping arms and blurring wheels.

“All the way!” shouts Theo.

Callum shoots and lands the basket, colliding with an opposing player and toppling sideways. The chair seems to roll 360 degrees and he flips it up again, laughing and high-fiving his teammates.

Theo rubs his hands together as if keeping them warm. Then he looks up.

“Can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak to Callum.”

“Game’s almost over.”

I take a seat on a bench and rest my jacket over one thigh. Theo is no longer paying as much attention to the action. Periodically, he glances my way until curiosity gets the better of him.

“I’m Cal’s father. What’s this about?”

“You’ve heard the news about Natasha McBain?”

“Sure.”

“I’m assisting the police in the investigation.”

“What’s that got to do with Cal?”

I delay answering. The silence fills with a referee’s whistle, a foul and a free throw. Theo’s face is as round as a pie tin under a baseball cap. He takes a seat next to me, his knees creaking.

“We have a policy in our house that nobody mentions that girl’s name.”

“Why’s that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Natasha didn’t cripple Callum.”

Theo doesn’t say anything. His gaze shifts and he studies cobwebs hanging from the lights. I notice his tattoo again.

“You were in the army.”

“Yeah.”

“See any action?”

“The Falklands.”

He licks his lips and drapes his hands over his thighs. “You got children, Professor?”

“Two girls.”

“How old?”

“Fifteen and seven.”

He nods. “We were only blessed the once. You read those stories about women popping out babies like they’re Pez dispensers even though they can’t afford to feed them. I’m not just talking about in Africa and poor countries. Look at the single mums in this place—never working, living off welfare, having three kids with as many different men. It’s fucking criminal, you know.”

I don’t answer.

Theo scratches his cheek with three fingers.

“Cal doesn’t normally play in this league. He’s part of the Olympic squad.”

“Congratulations.”

“It’s going to be a big year for him.”

His eyes mist over. “He used to play football. When he was twelve he was taken down to Arsenal to look around the Emirates Stadium and meet some of the players. There was talk of a contract.”

“What happened?”

“Becky didn’t want him leaving home. Only child. You understand?”

“I do.”

“We had a few arguments but she was right. She let him go at sixteen. He was in their youth training squad. You should have seen him. So much speed and poise. He could ghost into positions like he was invisible, you know, and then pounce.” Theo takes a deep breath and then stares at his shoes. “He was going to fly so high, that boy. But then some whackjob, rattling with pills, drives a car into him and takes off his legs. I can remember the day. I can tell you the time and place. You don’t forget details like that. You don’t forget how someone puts your boy in a wheelchair. Destroys his dreams.”

“I talked to Aiden Foster earlier.”

Theo nods and glances at the game.

“He’s due out next year.”

“Yeah, well, he’s done his time,” says Theo. “They’ll let him go and he’ll have two good legs for the rest of his life. Won’t matter. He’s always going to be a deadbeat scumbag, a poster-child for losers.”

“Did you blame Natasha too?”

“She wasn’t behind the wheel.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at me, holding a pocket of air in his cheeks. “She provided the drugs. She started the fight. What do you think? If that bitch hadn’t… if she… my boy would…” He can’t finish. “Ah fuck it, I don’t want to talk about this.”

For a long while he remains silent, watching the game, not concentrating.

“Aiden Foster never called. He didn’t write a letter. He didn’t say he was sorry. Wait, no, that’s not true. His legal team came to us and wanted to organize a meeting between Cal and Aiden, a reconciliation, they said. They turned up with a TV crew. They wanted to film the whole thing, so they could show the judge and get Aiden a lesser sentence. Maybe if Aiden had showed up without the cameras. Maybe then I’d have believed him.”

The referee has blown time. Handshakes. High-fives. Callum rolls away from the circle, crossing the polished boards. A good-looking boy with shoulders like a butterfly swimmer, he has a flop of blond hair that he flicks back, showering the sprung floorboards with beads of sweat. He looks like he should be advertising Gatorade or appearing on a BBC sports quiz show or dating a hot-looking girl. Theo tosses him a towel. Callum chugs the contents of a water bottle, wiping his mouth, tossing the empty bottle into his kitbag. He misses.

“First one I’ve missed today,” he says, grinning.

“This is Joe O’Loughlin,” says Theo. “He’s working with the police. He wants to ask you about ‘you know who.’ ”

“You can say her name, Dad.”

Callum shakes my hand. Apologizes for the sweat.

“I told him you don’t know squat,” says Theo.

“Why would anyone think I did?” asks Callum.

“That’s what I told him. I said you didn’t. I said you’ve got more important stuff to think about. That girl was nothing but trouble.”

“Don’t talk about her like that, Dad. She’s dead. What happened is in the past.”

Callum spins the chair to face me. “What happened to her? I mean… where has she been all this time?”

“We don’t know.”

“They must have some idea.”

“Do you have one?”

The pause extends a beat past comfortable. Callum shakes his head.

Theo tells him to put on a sweatshirt so he doesn’t get cold.

“The Olympics—that’s a big deal,” I say, noticing the British team logo on his kitbag.

“Yeah, it is.” He rocks backwards, balancing the chair on two wheels. “It was my dad who suggested wheelchair basketball. He took me to see a game. I told him if I can’t play on my feet, I don’t want to play.”

“What changed your mind?”

He shrugs. “Before this happened to me, playing sport came naturally. Football. Training. I didn’t have to think. After my injury I became more self-conscious about my body and staying healthy. I started this to keep fit. Now it makes me happy. Earns me respect.”

“You must have regrets.”

“About what?”

“Being disabled.”

“I lost my legs. Now I have these.” He opens his kitbag and shows me two prosthetic limbs, skin-colored and sculpted to look real. Trainers are laced to the feet.

“Who do you blame?” I ask.

“Do I have to blame someone?”

“Most people do.”

“Why?”

“It helps them come to terms with things.”

“You mean it gives them an excuse?”

“Maybe.”

He shakes his head. “When I woke up in hospital and looked down at where my legs used to be, I went through that whole hard-nosed, why-me response. I denied it, grieved over it, screamed at the unfairness and wanted to crawl into a dark hole. I did for a while. I hated Aiden Foster. I hated Natasha McBain. I hated everybody who was able-bodied and walking around on two legs.”

“What changed?”

He shrugs. “Time passed. I stopped making excuses. Winners don’t make excuses. When I’m on a basketball court, or staring at a flight of stairs—I don’t make excuses. I find a way.”

Strapping on his legs, he tugs down his tracksuit pants then rubs a towel over his hair, drying the sweat. Theo has gone to get the car.

“If you see Mr. and Mrs. McBain—tell them I’m sorry for their loss. Tell them I didn’t blame Natasha.”

“What about your father?”

He glances at the double doors and smiles sadly. “Don’t judge him too harshly. He shattered his knees in a skydiving accident and the army pensioned him off. The pain doesn’t go away.”

“And your mum?”

“She left us years ago.”

“Did she leave
him
or you?”

“Does it make a difference?”

A car horn sounds from outside. Theo is waiting.

Balancing on his wheels, Callum spins his chair and rolls away, his shoulders flexing like a boxer throwing punches at a bag. He has to turn to move backwards through the swinging doors.

The woman at the front desk yells goodbye and a chorus of other voices wish him good luck. Callum grins and waves back, sitting up straight in his wheelchair—a man with useless legs trying to stand as tall as his dreams.