other pressed over the wound. Blood seeps between his fingers. Kira, still standing in the centre of the room, is ashen. I pick my way carefully through the broken glass on the floor, then crouch on the carpet in front of Jake. It stinks of alcohol.
‘Let go.’
He winces as he peels his fingers away from his foot. The wound isn’t more than half a centimetre across but it’s deep and blood is still gushing out. I wrap the towel as tightly around it as I can in an attempt to stem the flow.
‘Hold it here.’ I gesture for Jake to press his hands over the towel. ‘I need to get a safety pin.’
Seconds later I’m back in the bedroom and attempting to secure the makeshift bandage around my son’s foot. There are dark circles under his eyes and the skin is pulled too tight over his cheekbones. Mark and I weren’t the only ones who didn’t sleep last night.
‘What happened, Jake?’ I ask carefully.
He looks past me to Kira who is pulling on some clothes. Her lips part and, for a second, I think she’s about to speak but then she lowers her eyes and wriggles into her jeans. Downstairs the back door opens with a thud as Mark makes his way back into the house, then there’s a click-click sound as he paces backwards and forwards on the kitchen tiles. In a minute he’ll be up the stairs, asking what the hold-up is.
I sniff at Jake. His breath smells pungent. ‘Were you drinking that rum before I came in?’
‘Mum!’
‘Well? Were you?’
‘I had a few last night, that’s all.’
‘And then some.’ I pluck a large piece of glass from the carpet. Most of the label is still affixed. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I’m stressed, okay?’
‘I haven’t got enough for a taxi,’ Kira says plaintively, reaching into her jeans pocket and proffering a palm of small change.
‘Claire?’ Mark’s voice booms up the stairs. ‘It’s eight o’clock. We have to go. Now!’
‘I need to leave,’ Kira says. ‘There’s a college trip to London today – we’re going to the National Portrait Gallery – and I’m supposed to be at the train station for half eight.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I gesture for her to stop panicking. ‘Give me a sec.’
‘Mark?’ I step out onto the landing and shout down the stairs. ‘Have you got any cash on you?’
‘About three quid,’ he shouts back. ‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Right.’ I step back into Jake’s bedroom. ‘Kira, I’ll give you a lift to the train station. And as for you, Jake …’ There’s no blood on the towel I’ve pinned around his foot but he’ll still need the wound to be cleaned and a tetanus jab. If there was time I’d drop Kira at the station and then take Jake to the doctor’s but it would mean doubling back on myself and I can’t be late for the appeal. Why did this have to happen today of all days?
‘Okay.’ I make a snap decision. ‘Jake, stay here and sober up and I’ll drive you to the GP’s when I get back. If you need anything, Liz is next door. She’s not working until later.’
‘No, I’m coming with you. I need to go to the press conference.’ Jake grimaces as he pushes himself up and off the bed and hops onto his good foot so we’re face to face. Unlike Billy who shot up when he hit twelve, Jake’s height has never crept above five foot nine. The boys couldn’t have an argument without Billy slipping in some sly jab about his older brother’s stature. Jake would retaliate and then World War III would break out.
‘Claire!’ Mark shouts again, louder this time. He’ll fly off the handle if he sees the state Jake is in. ‘Claire! DS Forbes is here. We need to go!’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ I hiss at Jake as Kira pulls an apologetic face and squeezes past me. She presses herself up against the linen cupboard on the landing, pulls on her coat and then roots around in the pockets.
‘Billy was my brother,’ Jake says. His face crumples and for a split second he looks like a child again, but then a tendon in his neck pulses and he raises his chin. ‘You can’t stop me from going.’
‘You’ve been drinking,’ I say as levelly as I can. ‘If you want to help Billy, then the best thing you can do right now is stay at home and sleep it off. We’ll talk when I get back.’
‘Claire!’ Mark shouts from the top of the stairs.
‘Mum …’ Jake reaches a hand towards me but I’m already halfway out the door. I yank it shut behind me, just as Mark draws level.
‘Is Jake ready?’
‘He’s not well.’ I press my palms against the door.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Stomach upset,’ Kira says, her soft voice cutting through the awkward pause. ‘He was up all night with it. It must have been the vindaloo.’
I shoot her a grateful look. Poor girl, getting caught up in our family drama when the very reason she moved in with us was to escape from her own.
Mark glances at the closed door behind me, then his eyes meet mine. ‘Are we off then?’
‘I need to drop Kira at the train station for her college trip. You go on ahead with DS Forbes and I’ll meet you there.’
‘How’s that going to look? The two of us turning up separately?’ Mark looks at Kira. ‘Why didn’t you mention this trip last—’ He sighs. ‘Never mind. Forget it. I’ll see you there, Claire.’
He hasn’t changed his trousers. The greasy oil stain is still visible, a dark mark on his left thigh, but I haven’t got the heart to mention it.
Neither of us say a word as we pile into the car and I start the engine. The silence continues past the Broadwalk shopping centre and down Wells Road. Only when I stop the car at the traffic lights by the Three Lamps junction and Kira pulls her iPod out of her jacket pocket do I speak.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Sorry?’ She looks at me in alarm, as though she’s forgotten I’m sitting next to her.
‘You and Jake, earlier.’
‘It was just …’ She stares at the red stop light as though willing it to change to green. Without her thick black eyeliner and generous dusting of bronzing powder her heart-shaped face looks pale and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose makes her look younger than she is. ‘Just … a thing … just an argument.’
‘It looked serious.’
‘It got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’
‘I’m guessing Jake didn’t go to bed last night.’
‘No. He didn’t.’
‘Oh God.’ I sigh heavily. ‘Now I’m even more worried about him.’
‘Are you?’
I feel a pang of pain at the surprise in her eyes. ‘Of course. He’s my son.’
‘He’s not Billy, though, is he?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.’
I