Made To Be Broken by Rebecca Bradley Page B

No obvious external signs of trauma, and witnesses said it was pretty sudden, so I thought we’d better bring you down to the scene to have a look in situ.’
    Jack pulled on his blue medical gloves, hitched his white paper trousers up at his knees, providing a flash of his striped orange and pink socks, and crouched down in the walkway to the side of the boy and peered up at him from his lower vantage point without touching anything.
    ‘He’s got a nasty bruise to his forehead, but from how he’s resting. I imagine that will be corroborative with witness statements of him bashing his head against this bar he’s up against.’
    I looked out the window. To my side, I could see a woman waving her arms around wildly at Martin, her face turning a shade of puce I hadn’t seen on a live person before. Martin stood stock still, his hands resting low and relaxed on his belt buckle with his pocket book and pen in his hands. I tuned back to Jack who was talking about vomit colouring and smell. I looked at Aaron who was paying rapt attention. I could rely on him to catch me up.
    ‘So,’ Jack said, rubbing his knees as he unfurled himself from his crouched position, ‘we’ll transfer the young man to the QMC and see what is going on. I must say, Hannah; I don’t like the look of this. I do not like it at all.’

26
     
    I paid for a tea and thanked the owner of the coffee shop for allowing us to commandeer his space. He nodded continually as he spoke, enthusiastic about helping out the police, especially when it involved a death. Yet again I envisaged a tall story that someone could go home and tell their family. But if that’s what it took for people to help us, then that’s what it took. Many more people were a lot less willing to help out and would rather spit in our faces than give us the time of day.
    I placed my drink on the table and seated myself next to the man who was already there nursing a hot chocolate.
    ‘Thank you so much for talking to us. For stopping and giving us your time.’
    He looked up. Strong lines etched on his face deepened as he smiled at me. ‘My pleasure, young lady.’
    I smiled back at him. ‘I’m always happy to be called young.’
    ‘Ah, you’re a babe in arms, girl. It’s when you get to my age, you know what real age is and you wish you could do it all again. It disappears so fast.’ He sighed. ‘Just look at that youngster today. Not a chance to live his life before it’s gone. Make sure you enjoy yours, won’t you?’
    I put my hand on top of his, where it was resting on top of the table. His skin felt thin, papery to the touch. I feared I could tear it if I wasn’t gentle enough. ‘I certainly will, Mr Cleaver.’ Martin had told me his name before I came over to see him. He was eighty-two years old and looked every day of it. I hoped he’d lived it, that the lines and tiredness had been hard earned. I took my hand away.
    ‘What can you tell me about this morning?’
    His eyes held a deep sadness. ‘I can’t tell you anything I’m afraid. I was sitting on the lower deck, I’m too old to get up those winding stairs, you see. But I see the young lad every day. Same bus every morning, without fail. I hear people tut as he gets on. I know why, the way he looks, but he’s young. He can do what he wants while he’s young.’ He paused and looked hard at me. ‘They tut at you when you’re old as well, you know.’
    ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ And I was. Why were people so frustrated with our elderly? Did they not expect to age? And had they forgotten what it was like to be young? Both ends of our lifespan seemed to annoy the average person living life in between.
    ‘He’d not been up there long when I heard a commotion. I have my hearing aid in and it’s bloody good. There were people shouting. I heard the word druggie . I knew they’d be shouting at him. I like to people watch and at this time of day there really aren’t any druggies getting on the bus. I