contributions had appeared as well.
This one was an early diary, June 1981, and looking at the crayoned sandcastle, Faraday was suddenly back on the beach at Eastney. J-J was four, a boisterous little blond kid with his mother’s grin and his father’s patience and a bunch of friends from the neighbourhood kindergarten who spoke the rumble-tumble language of infants world-wide. J-J’s nanny had the weekends off. Dad was in sole charge.
The kids were building an elaborate fortification against the rising tide. At Faraday’s prompting, it had drainage channels, paper Union Jacks and a big fat sand palisade behind a semi-circular apron of pebbles to cushion the breaking waves.
The kids had danced around, shrieking with excitement, determined that their castle should survive, and then suddenly there came the heavy drone of Merlin engines and a Lancaster bomber appeared, flying parallel with the shore, and the other children ran down to the tideline, pointing up at the huge plane as it soared into a graceful wingover, leaving J-J squatting on the wet sand, slowly patting a turret into shape, quite oblivious of the commotion behind him.
That was the moment when Faraday realised that J-J would always be different, that there would always be parts of the world beyond his reach. And that was the moment, too, when J-J glanced round, and saw that his buddies had left him. By the time he joined them in the shallows, the Lancaster was a speck in the distance, heading for an anniversary fly-past over the naval dockyard. He tried to share his friends’ excitement, to pretend that he too had seen the huge black beast, but Faraday recognised the bright little smile for what it was. The boy was being brave.
Walking home that afternoon, he clung to Faraday’s hand. At tea, he barely touched his boiled egg. With the plates and cups cleared away, Faraday drew big fat aeroplanes on the A4 pads he kept everywhere to hand, and when the sketches drew no response, he began to circle the room, his arms outstretched, banking and weaving around the furniture, until the sight of J-J’s face brought him to a halt. The child was weeping – and the moment etched itself deep into Faraday’s unconscious because his tears were silent. He made no show of his grief. He didn’t howl, like normal kids. He just sat there, with the tears rolling slowly down his face, utterly inconsolable.
That night, with J-J in bed, Faraday had sought advice and, days later, as soon as his shifts permitted, he made the visit to the library. Within a week, birds had begun to appear in the diary, little stick creatures flying over the smudgy blues and greens of the harbour and the foreshore, and by the end of the year Faraday had recognised the wisdom of his friend’s suggestion. When he met her at the school carol service, an oddly joyous event scored for kids who hadn’t got the faintest idea about music, she’d been delighted by J-J’s progress. He was happy again, and secure, and watching him trying to figure out what to do with a tambourine, she put Faraday’s own thoughts into words. Birds can be kinder than people, she’d said.
Six
Faraday, for once, had left his mobile downstairs. Roused from deep sleep, he fumbled his way towards the bedroom door and then negotiated the stairs one by one in the half-darkness. Beside the sofa, he struggled to get the world into focus.
‘Who is it?’
‘Cathy. There’s been a shooting.’
Faraday rubbed his eyes. The paleness of the light beyond the curtains told him that it was still early.
‘A shooting? Where?’
‘I’m still trying to find out. It’s complicated.’
‘Who’s dealing with it?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
‘Not from our end, no.’
Faraday could sense the panic in her voice. Cathy never panicked. He glanced at his watch. 06:39.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you at the office.’
Cathy was sitting on her desk, swallowing her second coffee by the time Faraday
This one was an early diary, June 1981, and looking at the crayoned sandcastle, Faraday was suddenly back on the beach at Eastney. J-J was four, a boisterous little blond kid with his mother’s grin and his father’s patience and a bunch of friends from the neighbourhood kindergarten who spoke the rumble-tumble language of infants world-wide. J-J’s nanny had the weekends off. Dad was in sole charge.
The kids were building an elaborate fortification against the rising tide. At Faraday’s prompting, it had drainage channels, paper Union Jacks and a big fat sand palisade behind a semi-circular apron of pebbles to cushion the breaking waves.
The kids had danced around, shrieking with excitement, determined that their castle should survive, and then suddenly there came the heavy drone of Merlin engines and a Lancaster bomber appeared, flying parallel with the shore, and the other children ran down to the tideline, pointing up at the huge plane as it soared into a graceful wingover, leaving J-J squatting on the wet sand, slowly patting a turret into shape, quite oblivious of the commotion behind him.
That was the moment when Faraday realised that J-J would always be different, that there would always be parts of the world beyond his reach. And that was the moment, too, when J-J glanced round, and saw that his buddies had left him. By the time he joined them in the shallows, the Lancaster was a speck in the distance, heading for an anniversary fly-past over the naval dockyard. He tried to share his friends’ excitement, to pretend that he too had seen the huge black beast, but Faraday recognised the bright little smile for what it was. The boy was being brave.
Walking home that afternoon, he clung to Faraday’s hand. At tea, he barely touched his boiled egg. With the plates and cups cleared away, Faraday drew big fat aeroplanes on the A4 pads he kept everywhere to hand, and when the sketches drew no response, he began to circle the room, his arms outstretched, banking and weaving around the furniture, until the sight of J-J’s face brought him to a halt. The child was weeping – and the moment etched itself deep into Faraday’s unconscious because his tears were silent. He made no show of his grief. He didn’t howl, like normal kids. He just sat there, with the tears rolling slowly down his face, utterly inconsolable.
That night, with J-J in bed, Faraday had sought advice and, days later, as soon as his shifts permitted, he made the visit to the library. Within a week, birds had begun to appear in the diary, little stick creatures flying over the smudgy blues and greens of the harbour and the foreshore, and by the end of the year Faraday had recognised the wisdom of his friend’s suggestion. When he met her at the school carol service, an oddly joyous event scored for kids who hadn’t got the faintest idea about music, she’d been delighted by J-J’s progress. He was happy again, and secure, and watching him trying to figure out what to do with a tambourine, she put Faraday’s own thoughts into words. Birds can be kinder than people, she’d said.
Six
Faraday, for once, had left his mobile downstairs. Roused from deep sleep, he fumbled his way towards the bedroom door and then negotiated the stairs one by one in the half-darkness. Beside the sofa, he struggled to get the world into focus.
‘Who is it?’
‘Cathy. There’s been a shooting.’
Faraday rubbed his eyes. The paleness of the light beyond the curtains told him that it was still early.
‘A shooting? Where?’
‘I’m still trying to find out. It’s complicated.’
‘Who’s dealing with it?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
‘Not from our end, no.’
Faraday could sense the panic in her voice. Cathy never panicked. He glanced at his watch. 06:39.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you at the office.’
Cathy was sitting on her desk, swallowing her second coffee by the time Faraday
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