sherry from a bottle by her chair. He didnât resist. He drank.
âI want you to listen to us, Thomas.â
The three women were now sitting, watching him. The big one continued, still smiling, still vast with welcoming flesh.
âYouâve got a big future, Thomas. You are going to get what you want.â
âWhat you deserve,â added the thin one. Her voice was dry and brittle, a voice heard in bus queues.
The African woman spoke, her accent so strong he almost didnât understand what she said.
âThat is not the same thing. We are telling him about his dreams. Not his nightmares.â
âDonât confuse him.â
The great warm brown face in front of him was kind, affectionate. She didnât want him upset. He could feel her affection for him. Her maternal care. The care heâd always longed for but learned couldnât be trusted. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted a drink of water. He wanted milk and a dash â no, cup of tea. Milk and a dash was what heâd drunk as a child in rare moments of comfort at hismotherâs hands. Cup of tea was better. He wanted to leave. He couldnât.
âThomas, what is it you want?â
Shackleton found it difficult to formulate the words. As if in slow motion he said, âCommissioner. Metropolitan Police â¦â
He couldnât read the womenâs expressions. Their faces were closed as if they hadnât heard him.
âI want ⦠to be ⦠the Commissioner.â
They nodded.
âBut ⦠Carterâs favourite. Geoffrey Carter â¦â
He didnât feel drunk, just distant, as if watching himself down the wrong end of a telescope. He knew it must be a dream because he never told anyone his wants, his needs. No one. Jenni told him what he wanted.
The blue-black face and blank eyes of the African woman came close to his.
âCarterâs story is not your story. You want what you want, heâll get what he gets.â
The other two faces crowded in on him.
âSo you be careful, Thomas, careful you stay in your story â donât you go stray into someone elseâs or youâll go mash up the future. You mash up the future and that will bring badness. Death in your soul. You hear me, Thomas? You hear me? The Wages Of Sin Is Death.â
Their voices were as distant as a nurseâs calling from the other side of an anaesthetic but they were conjuring pictures of his future. They had made him articulate his desire and in escaping into the air his words had made that desire concrete. His ambition now roosted in the dark trees like maggotpies, choughs and rooks.
Gordon rang the doorbell. Lucy watched from the darkness of her living room. She couldnât see Shackleton in the car. She had seen the end of the siege on television. Watched Tom help his badly burned colleague through the blue-and-white tape. Listened to him talk, relieved and quietly courageous, now his car was home. But no Tom.
The front door opened and Jenni stood talking to Gordon for a moment, then the two of them went to the car, followed by Jason, Tamsin and Jacinta. Lucy watched dully as they pulled Shackleton, inert, from the back seat. They looked so close she felt excluded,irrelevant. They carried him into the house. The security light went off. Lucy felt as though she was straining to see through black glass.
Inside the house an argument had started about what to do with Tom. Jenni was convinced he was drunk and was disgusted. Gordon tried to reassure her he was ill and exhausted. Jason seeing his burns insisted on calling a doctor.
âGod ⦠he stinks. Where has he been?â
Gordon didnât reply. Whatever he said to Mrs Shackleton would be wrong, it always was.
âGordon, you weasel, why does the Chief smell like that?â
Gordon gave his impression of a deaf mute with learning difficulties.
âAll right, take him upstairs, to the guest bedroom. That stink will
âI want you to listen to us, Thomas.â
The three women were now sitting, watching him. The big one continued, still smiling, still vast with welcoming flesh.
âYouâve got a big future, Thomas. You are going to get what you want.â
âWhat you deserve,â added the thin one. Her voice was dry and brittle, a voice heard in bus queues.
The African woman spoke, her accent so strong he almost didnât understand what she said.
âThat is not the same thing. We are telling him about his dreams. Not his nightmares.â
âDonât confuse him.â
The great warm brown face in front of him was kind, affectionate. She didnât want him upset. He could feel her affection for him. Her maternal care. The care heâd always longed for but learned couldnât be trusted. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted a drink of water. He wanted milk and a dash â no, cup of tea. Milk and a dash was what heâd drunk as a child in rare moments of comfort at hismotherâs hands. Cup of tea was better. He wanted to leave. He couldnât.
âThomas, what is it you want?â
Shackleton found it difficult to formulate the words. As if in slow motion he said, âCommissioner. Metropolitan Police â¦â
He couldnât read the womenâs expressions. Their faces were closed as if they hadnât heard him.
âI want ⦠to be ⦠the Commissioner.â
They nodded.
âBut ⦠Carterâs favourite. Geoffrey Carter â¦â
He didnât feel drunk, just distant, as if watching himself down the wrong end of a telescope. He knew it must be a dream because he never told anyone his wants, his needs. No one. Jenni told him what he wanted.
The blue-black face and blank eyes of the African woman came close to his.
âCarterâs story is not your story. You want what you want, heâll get what he gets.â
The other two faces crowded in on him.
âSo you be careful, Thomas, careful you stay in your story â donât you go stray into someone elseâs or youâll go mash up the future. You mash up the future and that will bring badness. Death in your soul. You hear me, Thomas? You hear me? The Wages Of Sin Is Death.â
Their voices were as distant as a nurseâs calling from the other side of an anaesthetic but they were conjuring pictures of his future. They had made him articulate his desire and in escaping into the air his words had made that desire concrete. His ambition now roosted in the dark trees like maggotpies, choughs and rooks.
Gordon rang the doorbell. Lucy watched from the darkness of her living room. She couldnât see Shackleton in the car. She had seen the end of the siege on television. Watched Tom help his badly burned colleague through the blue-and-white tape. Listened to him talk, relieved and quietly courageous, now his car was home. But no Tom.
The front door opened and Jenni stood talking to Gordon for a moment, then the two of them went to the car, followed by Jason, Tamsin and Jacinta. Lucy watched dully as they pulled Shackleton, inert, from the back seat. They looked so close she felt excluded,irrelevant. They carried him into the house. The security light went off. Lucy felt as though she was straining to see through black glass.
Inside the house an argument had started about what to do with Tom. Jenni was convinced he was drunk and was disgusted. Gordon tried to reassure her he was ill and exhausted. Jason seeing his burns insisted on calling a doctor.
âGod ⦠he stinks. Where has he been?â
Gordon didnât reply. Whatever he said to Mrs Shackleton would be wrong, it always was.
âGordon, you weasel, why does the Chief smell like that?â
Gordon gave his impression of a deaf mute with learning difficulties.
âAll right, take him upstairs, to the guest bedroom. That stink will
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