rose and waited to be introduced. Kylee took notthe slightest notice, simply kept going.
“Pillocks like you buy toy computers,” she said, “cos you’re prats. Don’t buy shit sticks like this old heap. Buy RAM to spare. My mate’s daft on old shifters, but what’s the fucking point? Everything’s extinct in half a mo’. You’d know that, if you’d half a brain.”
“Erm,” Bray said finally, hesitantly offering his hand to the newcomer. “May I introduce myself? I’m Mr Charleston. I wish to register on a computer course.”
Walsingham glanced from Bray to Kylee, who said, “I told him your college is fucking all use.”
“Private tuition is not allowed.” Walsingham shook Bray’s hand perfunctorily and switched the computer off. Kylee gave an angry squeal. Her father extinguished her cigarette. “Registration is closed. Introductory courses begin in three months. Leave your name downstairs at Information.”
“See?” Kylee snorted and took a backhanded swipe at her father. “Told you.”
“Your daughter has been most considerate, Mr Walsingham,” Bray said helplessly.
“Kylee?”
Walsingham made it a command. He brought out a bunch of keys, evidently locking-up time. Bray moved to the door as Walsingham went out for his briefcase. Bray took his chance, fumbling three notes to the girl. She pulled a comic grimace of mock terror as Walsingham reappeared.
“Sorry you’ve missed the boat, Mr Charleston. College procedures must be followed. Courses fill up from industry, business.”
“Can you suggest somewhere?”
“I said I’d do it,” Kylee put in. “Except you’re a rightfrigging tortoise, you.” She cackled one of her laughs, already ahead of them down the stairs.
“I’m sorry about my daughter,” Walsingham said quietly, locking the IT laboratory. “It’s been a troubled year. I’m divorced. She tell you? She announces it like a leper rings a bell.”
“My sympathy, Mr Walsingham.” Bray hesitated. “She’s bright. Can you recommend a private home teacher?”
Walsingham shook his head as they started after Kylee. “Don’t choose from the phone book. Most teach extinct systems.”
“Only, I need to learn speedily.”
“Leave your name. Somebody on the staff might free up a slot.”
Bray’s mind screamed,
Future? There is no future unless
…painstakingly he wrote out his name and address.
“Will this do?” He read his print aloud.
Walsingham and Kylee headed for the car park. Bray caught the bus home.
The episode was painful. He’d made a fool of himself. Worse, he’d failed.
Chapter Eleven
Bray heated his supper, beans on toast, a banana, apple, potato cakes, tea. Buster was dozing listlessly after his feed, bones on Saturday and different biscuits.
Shirley was visiting a psychiatric support counsellor Dr Feering had arranged. Geoffrey was staring unseeing at football results. It was later than Bray thought.
Waiting was their sole purpose now, the phone there on the coffee table. Conversation, once incessant, had gone with Davey.
“Officer Stazio phoned, Dad. No news.”
Stazio loomed in Bray’s mind: stout was he, perhaps chewing tobacco, belly bulging over his belt?
Geoff cleared his throat, looking unseeing at the soccer scores scrolling on TV, colours for score draws, plain for others.
“What?” Bray asked in dread, knowing his son.
“They want some of Davey’s hair.”
Bray stared. “They want…?”
“DNA tests. One will do, they said. To go with the fingerprints.”
That had been a harrowing time, finding books Daveyread in his story hour. Bray had thought of the modelling clay he used to teach Davey. It showed the little lad how to shape wood.
Fingerprints Bray could understand. You discovered if the child had been at this cafe, that garage. Heading where, though? North? Or south, to some quayside and across the sea? Unlikely that whoever had stolen Davey would head for the Bahamas or Antigua, they having historic
“Pillocks like you buy toy computers,” she said, “cos you’re prats. Don’t buy shit sticks like this old heap. Buy RAM to spare. My mate’s daft on old shifters, but what’s the fucking point? Everything’s extinct in half a mo’. You’d know that, if you’d half a brain.”
“Erm,” Bray said finally, hesitantly offering his hand to the newcomer. “May I introduce myself? I’m Mr Charleston. I wish to register on a computer course.”
Walsingham glanced from Bray to Kylee, who said, “I told him your college is fucking all use.”
“Private tuition is not allowed.” Walsingham shook Bray’s hand perfunctorily and switched the computer off. Kylee gave an angry squeal. Her father extinguished her cigarette. “Registration is closed. Introductory courses begin in three months. Leave your name downstairs at Information.”
“See?” Kylee snorted and took a backhanded swipe at her father. “Told you.”
“Your daughter has been most considerate, Mr Walsingham,” Bray said helplessly.
“Kylee?”
Walsingham made it a command. He brought out a bunch of keys, evidently locking-up time. Bray moved to the door as Walsingham went out for his briefcase. Bray took his chance, fumbling three notes to the girl. She pulled a comic grimace of mock terror as Walsingham reappeared.
“Sorry you’ve missed the boat, Mr Charleston. College procedures must be followed. Courses fill up from industry, business.”
“Can you suggest somewhere?”
“I said I’d do it,” Kylee put in. “Except you’re a rightfrigging tortoise, you.” She cackled one of her laughs, already ahead of them down the stairs.
“I’m sorry about my daughter,” Walsingham said quietly, locking the IT laboratory. “It’s been a troubled year. I’m divorced. She tell you? She announces it like a leper rings a bell.”
“My sympathy, Mr Walsingham.” Bray hesitated. “She’s bright. Can you recommend a private home teacher?”
Walsingham shook his head as they started after Kylee. “Don’t choose from the phone book. Most teach extinct systems.”
“Only, I need to learn speedily.”
“Leave your name. Somebody on the staff might free up a slot.”
Bray’s mind screamed,
Future? There is no future unless
…painstakingly he wrote out his name and address.
“Will this do?” He read his print aloud.
Walsingham and Kylee headed for the car park. Bray caught the bus home.
The episode was painful. He’d made a fool of himself. Worse, he’d failed.
Chapter Eleven
Bray heated his supper, beans on toast, a banana, apple, potato cakes, tea. Buster was dozing listlessly after his feed, bones on Saturday and different biscuits.
Shirley was visiting a psychiatric support counsellor Dr Feering had arranged. Geoffrey was staring unseeing at football results. It was later than Bray thought.
Waiting was their sole purpose now, the phone there on the coffee table. Conversation, once incessant, had gone with Davey.
“Officer Stazio phoned, Dad. No news.”
Stazio loomed in Bray’s mind: stout was he, perhaps chewing tobacco, belly bulging over his belt?
Geoff cleared his throat, looking unseeing at the soccer scores scrolling on TV, colours for score draws, plain for others.
“What?” Bray asked in dread, knowing his son.
“They want some of Davey’s hair.”
Bray stared. “They want…?”
“DNA tests. One will do, they said. To go with the fingerprints.”
That had been a harrowing time, finding books Daveyread in his story hour. Bray had thought of the modelling clay he used to teach Davey. It showed the little lad how to shape wood.
Fingerprints Bray could understand. You discovered if the child had been at this cafe, that garage. Heading where, though? North? Or south, to some quayside and across the sea? Unlikely that whoever had stolen Davey would head for the Bahamas or Antigua, they having historic
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