首发偶发空缺 (临时空缺)-第11部分

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　seemed　quite　foreign　to　him。　In　the　end　she　did　it　for　him。　His　bottom　was　sore：　crusty；　red　and　irritated。　The　nappy　stank　of　ammonia。　She　tried　to　remove　it；　but　he　yelped；　lashed　out　at　her；　then　pulled　away；　scampering　back　down　to　the　sitting　room　with　his　nappy　sagging。　Kay　wanted　to　wash　her　hands；　but　there　was　no　soap。　Trying　not　to　inhale；　she　closed　the　bathroom　door　behind　her。

She　glanced　into　the　bedrooms　before　returning　downstairs。　The　contents　of　all　three　spilt　out　onto　the　cluttered　landing。　They　were　all　sleeping　on　mattresses。　Robbie　seemed　to　be　sharing　a　room　with　his　mother。　A　couple　of　toys　lay　among　the　dirty　clothes　strewn　all　over　the　floor：　cheap；　plastic　and　too　young　for　him。　To　Kay’s　surprise；　the　duvet　and　pillows　both　had　covers　on　them。

Back　in　the　sitting　room；　Robbie　was　whining　again；　banging　his　fist　against　the　stack　of　cardboard　boxes。　Terri　was　watching　from　beneath　half…closed　eyelids。　Kay　brushed　off　the　seat　of　her　chair　before　sitting　back　down。

‘Terri；　you’re　on　the　methadone　programme　at　the　Bellchapel　Clinic；　isn’t　that　right？’

‘Mm；’　said　Terri　drowsily。

‘And　how’s　that　going；　Terri？’

Pen　poised；　Kay　waited；　pretending　that　the　answer　was　not　sitting　in　front　of　her。

‘Are　you　still　going　to　the　clinic；　Terri？’

‘Las’　week。　Friday；　I　goes。’

Robbie　pounded　the　boxes　with　his　fists。

‘Can　you　tell　me　how　much　methadone　you’re　on？’

‘Hundred　and　fifteen　mils；’　said　Terri。

It　did　not　surprise　Kay　that　Terri　could　remember　this；　but　not　the　age　of　her　daughter。

‘Mattie　says　here　that　your　mother　has　been　helping　with　Robbie　and　Krystal；　is　that　still　the　case？’

Robbie　flung　his　hard；　pact　little　body　against　the　pile　of　boxes；　which　swayed。

‘Be　careful；　Robbie；’　said　Kay；　and　Terri　said；　‘Leave　’em；’　with　the　closest　thing　to　alertness　Kay　had　heard　in　her　dead　voice。

Robbie　returned　to　beating　the　boxes　with　his　fists；　for　the　pleasure；　apparently；　of　listening　to　the　hollow　drumbeat。

‘Terri；　is　your　mother　still　helping　to　look　after　Robbie？’

‘Not　m’mother；　gran。’

‘Robbie’s　gran？’

‘My　gran；　innit。　She　dun　…　she　ain’t　well。’

Kay　glanced　over　at　Robbie　again；　her　pen　at　the　ready。　He　was　not　underweight；　she　knew　that　from　the　feel　and　look　of　him；　half…naked；　as　she　had　wiped　his　backside。　His　T…shirt　was　dirty；　but　his　hair；　when　she　had　bent　over　him；　had　smelled　surprisingly　of　shampoo。　There　were　no　bruises　on　his　milk…white　arms　and　legs；　but　there　was　the　sodden；　bagging　nappy；　he　was　three　and　a　half。

‘M’ungry；’　he　shouted；　giving　the　box　a　final；　futile　whack。　‘M’ungry。’

‘You　c’n’ave　a　biscuit；’　slurred　Terri；　but　not　moving。　Robbie’s　yells　turned　to　noisy　sobs　and　screams。　Terri　made　no　attempt　to　leave　her　chair。　It　was　impossible　to　talk　over　the　din。

‘Shall　I　get　him　one？’　shouted　Kay。

‘Yeah。’

Robbie　ran　past　Kay　into　the　kitchen。　It　was　almost　as　dirty　as　the　bathroom。　Other　than　the　fridge；　cooker　and　washing　machine；　there　were　no　gadgets；　the　counters　carried　only　dirty　plates；　another　overflowing　ashtray；　carrier　bags；　mouldy　bread。　The　lino　was　tacky　and　stuck　to　the　soles　of　Kay’s　shoes。　Rubbish　had　overflowed　the　bin；　on　top　of　which　sat　a　pizza　box；　precariously　balanced。

‘’N　there；’　said　Robbie；　jabbing　a　finger　at　the　wall　unit　without　looking　at　Kay。　‘’N　there。’

More　food　than　Kay　had　expected　was　stacked　in　the　cupboard：　tins；　a　packet　of　biscuits；　a　jar　of　instant　coffee。　She　took　two　biscuits　from　the　packet　and　handed　them　to　him；　he　snatched　them　and　ran　away　again；　back　to　his　mother。

‘So；　do　you　like　going　to　the　nursery；　Robbie？’　she　asked　him；　as　he　sat　scoffing　the　biscuits　on　the　floor。

He　did　not　answer。

‘Yeah；　’e　likes　it；’　said　Terri；　slightly　more　awake。　‘Don’　you；　Robbie？　’E　likes　it。’

‘When　was　he　last　there；　Terri？’

‘Las’　time。　Yesterday。’

‘Yesterday　was　Monday；　he　couldn’t　have　been　there　then；’　said　Kay；　making　notes。　‘That　isn’t　one　of　the　days　he　goes。’

‘Wha’？’

‘I’m　asking　about　nursery。　Robbie’s　supposed　to　be　there　today。　I　need　to　know　when　he　was　last　there。’

‘I　told　you；　din’　I？　Las’　time。’

Her　eyes　were　more　fully　open　than　Kay　had　yet　seen　them。　The　timbre　of　her　voice　was　still　flat；　but　antagonism　was　struggling　to　the　surface。

‘Are　you　a　dyke？’　she　asked。

‘No；’　said　Kay；　still　writing。

‘You　look　like　a　dyke；’　said　Terri。

Kay　continued　to　write。

‘Juice；’　Robbie　shouted；　chocolate　smeared　over　his　chin。

This　time　Kay　did　not　move。　After　another　long　pause；　Terri　lurched　out　of　her　chair　and　wove　her　way　into　the　hall。　Kay　leaned　forward　and　shifted　the　loose　lid　of　the　biscuit　tin　Terri　had　displaced　when　she　sat　down。　Inside　was　a　syringe；　a　bit　of　grubby　cotton　wool；　a　rusty…looking　spoon　and　a　dusty　polythene　bag。　Kay　snapped　the　lid　back　on　firmly；　while　Robbie　watched　her。　Terri　returned；　after　some　distant　clattering；　carrying　a　cup　of　juice；　which　she　shoved　at　the　little　boy。

‘There；’　she　said；　more　to　Kay　than　to　her　son；　and　she　sat　back　down　again。　She　missed　the　seat　and　collided　with　the　arm　of　the　chair　on　her　first　attempt；　Kay　heard　the　bone　collide　with　wood；　but　Terri　seemed　to　feel　no　pain。　She　settled　herself　back　into　the　sagging　cushions　and　surveyed　the　social　worker　with　bleary　indifference。

Kay　had　read　the　file　from　cover　to　cover。　She　knew　that　nearly　everything　of　value　in　Terri　Weedon’s　life　had　been　sucked　into　the　black　hole　of　her　addiction；　that　it　had　cost　her　two　children；　that　she　barely　clung　to　two　more；　that　she　prostituted　herself　to　pay　for　heroin；　that　she　had　been　involved　in　every　sort　of　petty　crime；　and　that　she　was　currently　attempting　rehab　for　the　umpteenth　time。

But　not　to　feel；　not　to　care　…　Right　now；　Kay　thought；　she’s　happier　than　I　am。

III
At　the　start　of　the　second　post…lunch　period；　Stuart　‘Fats’　Wall　walked　out　of　school。　His　experiment　in　truancy　was　undertaken　in　no　rash　spirit；　he　had　decided　the　previous　night　that　he　would　miss　the　double　period　of　puting　that　finished　the　afternoon。　He　might　have　chosen　to　skip　any　lesson；　but　it　so　happened　that　his　best　friend　Andrew　Price　（known　to　Fats　as　Arf）　was　in　a　different　set　in　puting；　and　Fats；　in　spite　of　his　best　efforts；　had　not　succeeded　in　being　demoted　to　join　him。

Fats　and　Andrew　were　perhaps　equally　aware　that　the　admiration　in　their　relationship　flowed　mostly　from　Andrew　to　Fats；　but　Fats　alone　suspected　that　he　needed　Andrew　more　than　Andrew　needed　him。　Lately；　Fats　had　started　to　regard　this　dependency　in　the　light　of　a　weakness；　but　he　reasoned　that；　while　his　liking　for　Andrew’s　pany　lingered；　he　might　as　well　miss　a　double　period　where　he　had　to　do　without　it　anyway。

Fats　had　been　told　by　a　reliable　informant　that　the　one　fail…safe　way　of　quitting　the　Winterdown　grounds　without　being　spotted　from　a　window　was　to　climb　over　the　side　wall　by　the　bike　shed。　This；　therefore；　he　did；　dropping　down　by　his　fingertips　into　the　narrow　lane　on　the　other　side。　He　landed　without　mishap；　strode　off　along　the　narrow　path　and　turned　left；　onto　the　busy　dirty　main　road。

Safely　on　his　way；　he　lit　a　cigarette　and　proceeded　past　the　run…down　little　shops。　Five　blocks　along；　Fats　turned　left　again；　into　the　first　of　the　streets　that　made　up　the　Fields。　He　loosened　his　school　tie　with　one　hand　as　he　walked；　but　did　not　remove　it。　He　did　not　care　that　he　was；　conspicuously；　a　schoolboy。　Fats　had　never　even　attempted　to　customize　his　uniform　in　any　way；　to　pin　badges　on　his　lapels　or　adjust　his　tie　knot　to　suit　fashion；　he　wore　his　school　clothes　with　the　disdain　of　a　convict。

He　had　decided　that　he　possessed　traits　that　were　authentic；　which　ought　therefore　to　be　encouraged　and　cultivated；　but　also　that　some　of　his　habits　of　thought　were　the　unnatural　product　of　his　unfortunate　upbringing；　and　consequently　inauthentic　and　to　be　purged。　Lately；　he　had　been　experimenting　with　acting　on　what　he　thought　were　his　authentic　impulses；　and　ignoring　or　suppressing　the　guilt　and　fear　（inauthentic）　that　such　actions　seemed　to　engender。　Undoubtedly；　this　was　being　easier　with　practice。　He　wanted　to　toughen　up　inside；　to　bee　invulnerable；　to　be　free　of　the　fear　of　consequences：　to　rid　himself　of　spurious　notions　of　goodness　and　badness。

One　of　the　things　that　had　begun　to　irritate　him　about　his　own　dependence　on　Andrew　was　that　the　latter’s　presence　sometimes　curbed　and　limited　the　full　expression　of　Fats’　authentic　self。　Somewhere　in　Andrew　was　a　self…drawn　map　of　what　constituted　fair　play；　and　lately　Fats　had　caught　looks　of　displeasure；　confusion　and　disappointment　poorly　disguised　on　his　old　friend’s　face。　Andrew　pulled　up　short　at　extremes　of　baiting　and　derision。　Fats　did　not　hold　this　against　Andrew；　it　would　have　been　inauthentic　for　Andrew　to　join　in；　unless　that　was　what　he　really；　truly　wanted。　The　trouble　was　that　Andrew　was　displaying　an　attachment　to　the　kind　of　morality　against　which　Fats　was　waging　an　increasingly　determined　war。　Fats　suspected　that　the　right　thing　to　do；　the　correctly　unsentimental　act　in　pursuit　of　full　authenticity；　would　have　been　to　cut　Andrew　adrift；　and　yet　he　still　preferred　Andrew’s　pany　to　anybody　else’s。

Fats　was　convinced　that　he　knew　himself　particularly　well；　he　explored　the　nooks　and　crevices　of　his　own　psyche　with　an　attention　he　had　recently　ceased　to　give　to　anything　else。　He　spent　hours　interrogating　himself　about　his　own　impulses；　desires　and　fears；　attempting　to　discriminate　between　those　that　were　truly　his　and　those　that　he　had　been　taught　to　feel。　He　examined　his　own　attachments　（nobody　else　he　knew；　he　was　sure；　was　ever　this　honest　with　themselves；　they　drifted；　half　asleep；　through　life）：　and　his　conclusion　had　been　that　Andrew；　whom　he　had　known　since　he　was　five；　was　the　person　for　whom　he　felt　the　most　straightforward　affection；　that；　even　though　he　was　now　old　enough　to　see　through　her；　he　retained　an　attachment　to　his　mother　that　was　not　his　own　fault；　and　that　he　actively　despised　Cubby；　who　represented　the　acme　and　pinnacle　of　inauthenticity。

On　the　Facebook　page　that　Fats　curated　with　a　care　he　devoted　to　almost　nothing　else；　he　had　highlighted　a　quotation　he　had　found　on　his　parents’　bookshelves：

I　do　not　want　believers；　I　think　I　am　too　malicious　to　believe　in　myself　…　I　have　a　terrible　fear　I　shall　one　day　be　pronounced　holy　…　I　do　not　want　to　be　a　saint；　rather　even　a　buffoon　…　perhaps　I　am　a　buffoon　…　

Andrew　liked　it　very　much；　and　Fats　liked　how　impressed　he　was。

In　the　time　it　took　him　to　pass　the　bookmaker’s　–　mere　seconds　–　Fats’　thoughts　lit　on　his　father’s　dead　friend；　Barry　Fairbrother。　Three　long　loping　strides　past　the　racehorses　printed　on　posters　behind　the　grubby　glass；　and　Fats　saw　Barry’s　joking；　bearded　face；　and　heard　Cubby’s　booming　excuse　of　a　laugh；　which　had　often　rung　out　almost　before　Barry　had　made　one　of　his　feeble　jokes；　in　the　mere　excitement　of　his　presence。　Fats　did　not　wish　to　examine　these　memories　any　further；　he　did　not　interrogate　himself　on　the　reasons　for　his　instinctive　inner　flinch；　he　did　not　ask　himself　whether　the　dead　man　had　been　authentic　or　inauthentic；