Read All the Colours of the Town for Free Online Page A

too abruptly, for he looked up, wary.
    ‘Say it again, son?’
    His shoulder came up and he buried his face in his neck.
    ‘Adam pushed me.’
    I remember looking at the pasta – spiralli, it was – swirling in the boiling pot, and finding it hard to draw breath. I wanted to sink to my knees, a feeling prompted by two consecutive thoughts: this might be true ; and I have no way of knowing . I crossed to the table and hunched down beside him.
    ‘What happened, kid? When did Adam push you?’
    My voice was soothing, low: if I spooked him now, it was over; I’d never get to the truth of it.
    ‘Don’t know.’ He looked at the ceiling where the steam was massing. ‘Smoke! Daddy, I want pineapple juice!’
    ‘OK.’
    I fixed his drink and then held it away from his outstretched hand.
    ‘James. Listen to Daddy. What happened, James? Why did Adam push you?’
    He reached for the plastic cup, his little fist flashing open and closed.
    ‘Want it!’
    ‘James!’
    I touched his shoulder.
    ‘Kid. This is important. This is really really important. Did Adam push you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Did Adam push you?’
    ‘What, Daddy!’
    ‘Was he kidding on? Was it just pretend?’
    He looked up and seemed to decide. He nodded. His lips stretched in a coy grin.
    ‘Just p’etend!’
    He took the cup in both hands and buried his nose in it.
    I opened the window and steam billowed out.
    *
     
    That night, when the boys had their bath, I studied their bodies for signs of abuse. They stood on the mat in their blithe nakedness: damp, fuzzy-duck heads; big goose-bump-stippled bellies; tiny pricks; and plump, slightly knock-kneed legs. Once I’d patted and rubbed them dry I scooped my fingers into the big tub of Epaderm, rubbed my hands together and then smeared their bodies till they shone like seals. Then I unscrewed the tube of Fucibet and dabbed a spot of cream on wrists, elbows, ankles, the joints of the fingers, the backs of the knees. Then I worked these in with my thumb.
    There was nothing – other than the eczema patches – to cause concern. Roddy had a fading, pistachio-coloured bruise at the tog of his leg, but Roddy always had bruises and when I asked him about it he couldn’t remember. Probably he had fallen off his scooter.
    I phoned Elaine when the boys were in bed.
    ‘Don’t be daft, Gerry. It’s just something he says.’
    ‘You think?’
    ‘He says it all the time. He said it about Stacey, remember ?’
    This was true. Stacey was the ‘tweenie-room’ supervisor at the Rocking Horse. When Elaine took the nursery manager aside, and then Stacey was summoned, there was a difficult scene, with tears and testimony and earnest declarations. Stacey’s shock was so patently genuine , her hurt so real, that Elaine felt embarrassed, and sorry for having mentioned it at all.
    ‘It’s something kids say. It doesn’t mean anything.’
    ‘I don’t know. The way he plays with his knights, the little action figures? Was he always this … bloodthirsty ?’
    ‘What are you saying, Gerry?’
    ‘I’m just saying.’
    ‘Gerry. If my boyfriend was hitting my children, believe me, I would know. I’m not some junked-out lassie on a sink estate. He’s not a hitter, Gerry. He doesn’t even raise his voice. He doesnae swear.’
    Unlike you , said the silence.
    ‘Right.’
    She rung off shortly after, sounding a little sore. I sat in the living room with the Weekly Guardian and a bottle of Rolling Rock. But I couldn’t read. I kept picturing Adam standing over my sons, his black eyes narrowed, white teeth bared below a black moustache. From the boys’ perspective, the figure foreshortened, he’d be as tall as a building.
    I finished my beer and fetched another. I thought of Big D. I was already in my teens when Big D came into the picture – Derek Maxwell, Mum’s post-divorce boyfriend – and the question of discipline never arose. Though on one occasion it nearly did. We were in London for a weekend break, one of Big