his wife’s daily routines.
He took pride in his family and in his family life. His son, Zeb, having turned fourteen, was becoming a young man, in body at least, being still slightly tantrumous in temperament. Whenever Terry looked at him he felt a warmth in his chest, a happiness that life could have allowed him to produce such a thing. A human being had grown from nothing, a whole new person from the love of him and his wife. And now the tiny creature, that he had nursed and nurtured, that had once had hands so minute they couldn’t wrap around Terry’s smallest finger, now his son was beginning to want his freedom. To begin the part of life that Terry had always hoped would hold a father’s greatest joy: watching his son carve his own place in the world; find the things that would make him an individual; perhaps some of the qualities of Kippling’s ‘If’ poem, that Terry had hung in the bathroom.
They ate every night as a stable nuclear unit: father, mother, son. Home-cooked, nutritionally balanced meals,prepared, Terry presumed, with love. He and Zeb never did any of the cooking, but they sometimes did the washing up. Terry believed that his place at the dinner table was to try and discuss adult themes, to build his son’s sense of self, and of right and wrong. Though he could feel his wife wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, he often talked about his work in the secure accommodation, and in particular about the boy, only two years younger than Zeb, who had come into his care. Sometimes he even played up his charge’s positive attributes a little, to try and show Zeb the complexities of life. How nothing was ever as straightforward as it seemed. How even criminals could be victims. How even killers could be in need of love.
Only when he felt sufficient gems of wisdom had been imparted would Terry finish his food. But he was a firm believer in leaving the tastiest part of a meal until last, so right until the final bite he could look forward to the best bit. Sometimes he discovered that the savoured morsel had become too cold or dry by the time it was reached.
Zeb chewed his food more times than was strictly necessary to swallow, and always ate his favourites first. After which he would sit sulkily and grudgingly toying with the rest. Or, if allowed, he would put his plate down for Oscar’s over-enthusiastic, chomping chops.
Zeb’s looks came from his mother: dark hair, brown eyes, skin that tanned at the mention of sunshine. But Terry had always secretly hoped that in teenage years his son was going to show that his character came from his dad. Not that he believed there was anything wrong with his wife’s character: she just no longer seemed to care about things the way he did. Only about money and work.
She was personal assistant to the boss of a big construction company. She did his filing and his appointments, typed his letters. And eventually was persuaded to clutch him to her in regular, rough, stock-cupboard sex.
When she told Terry this, his fingers clawed into the paisley-patterned cloth of the sofa on which he’d been sat. He felt like he had been battered, and had to fight to suppress his own violent thoughts. He threw a figurine of Buddha at the wall, where it smashed and left a dent in the plaster. Only the plump, pink, smiling face survived, of what had been one of Terry’s most prized possessions.
‘Why?’ he had asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe because you seem to care more about your work, about vicious little thugs, than you care about us. Than you care about me.’
He said: ‘You know that’s not true,’ and she admitted that she did. But it was the best she could come up with. Other than that she didn’t seem to love him anymore.
Terry wanted details, and he kept digging until he got them. Cutting himself deeper each time, like a self-harmer – the kids in the home who had discovered the only way to take away pain is to find a fresher, nastier pain.
He took pride in his family and in his family life. His son, Zeb, having turned fourteen, was becoming a young man, in body at least, being still slightly tantrumous in temperament. Whenever Terry looked at him he felt a warmth in his chest, a happiness that life could have allowed him to produce such a thing. A human being had grown from nothing, a whole new person from the love of him and his wife. And now the tiny creature, that he had nursed and nurtured, that had once had hands so minute they couldn’t wrap around Terry’s smallest finger, now his son was beginning to want his freedom. To begin the part of life that Terry had always hoped would hold a father’s greatest joy: watching his son carve his own place in the world; find the things that would make him an individual; perhaps some of the qualities of Kippling’s ‘If’ poem, that Terry had hung in the bathroom.
They ate every night as a stable nuclear unit: father, mother, son. Home-cooked, nutritionally balanced meals,prepared, Terry presumed, with love. He and Zeb never did any of the cooking, but they sometimes did the washing up. Terry believed that his place at the dinner table was to try and discuss adult themes, to build his son’s sense of self, and of right and wrong. Though he could feel his wife wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, he often talked about his work in the secure accommodation, and in particular about the boy, only two years younger than Zeb, who had come into his care. Sometimes he even played up his charge’s positive attributes a little, to try and show Zeb the complexities of life. How nothing was ever as straightforward as it seemed. How even criminals could be victims. How even killers could be in need of love.
Only when he felt sufficient gems of wisdom had been imparted would Terry finish his food. But he was a firm believer in leaving the tastiest part of a meal until last, so right until the final bite he could look forward to the best bit. Sometimes he discovered that the savoured morsel had become too cold or dry by the time it was reached.
Zeb chewed his food more times than was strictly necessary to swallow, and always ate his favourites first. After which he would sit sulkily and grudgingly toying with the rest. Or, if allowed, he would put his plate down for Oscar’s over-enthusiastic, chomping chops.
Zeb’s looks came from his mother: dark hair, brown eyes, skin that tanned at the mention of sunshine. But Terry had always secretly hoped that in teenage years his son was going to show that his character came from his dad. Not that he believed there was anything wrong with his wife’s character: she just no longer seemed to care about things the way he did. Only about money and work.
She was personal assistant to the boss of a big construction company. She did his filing and his appointments, typed his letters. And eventually was persuaded to clutch him to her in regular, rough, stock-cupboard sex.
When she told Terry this, his fingers clawed into the paisley-patterned cloth of the sofa on which he’d been sat. He felt like he had been battered, and had to fight to suppress his own violent thoughts. He threw a figurine of Buddha at the wall, where it smashed and left a dent in the plaster. Only the plump, pink, smiling face survived, of what had been one of Terry’s most prized possessions.
‘Why?’ he had asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe because you seem to care more about your work, about vicious little thugs, than you care about us. Than you care about me.’
He said: ‘You know that’s not true,’ and she admitted that she did. But it was the best she could come up with. Other than that she didn’t seem to love him anymore.
Terry wanted details, and he kept digging until he got them. Cutting himself deeper each time, like a self-harmer – the kids in the home who had discovered the only way to take away pain is to find a fresher, nastier pain.
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