Off the Record by Craig Sherborne

Author:Craig Sherborne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2018-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

18

It was not how Emma saw things. She gave Ollie ten dollars to buy parmesan down the shops for tonight’s pasta and the moment he closed the door she stormed into the kitchen, launched into a swearing fit, lots of shits and fucking hells, very un-Emma. I was the selfish fool who wanted a clone of me like a trophy. I was the egotist with no natural care for his son, just a fantasy that I’d have a wordsmith junior.

‘And where has that left Ollie, Callum? With this black mark against him.’

‘That school can go fuck itself.’

‘So what now for him?’

‘I’m glad he’s out of that boy factory. What kind of place picks on the Ollies in the class so the bright kids flourish and keep the aggregate high? Where’s the justice in that? You’re blaming me but I smell conspiracy.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Callum.’

‘Laugh if you want to.’

‘You smell conspiracy in a glass of water. You’re in the conspiracy business. And while I’m on the subject, I have the sense Ollie is spying on me. Always snooping about. Have you put him up to this?’

‘You’re paranoid.’

‘When I ask him he goes white in the face.’

‘We talk, me and the boy. I’m sure he does with you. I’m always saying look after your mother. Maybe he misunderstood me. I’ll take my share of blame for Ollie but you’d better do the same. This Gordon person coming on the scene. If you want a boy to act immorally then just unsettle his home life with strange men.’

Emma sucked her breath in and grabbed a colander to throw. But that’s not my Emma. She wouldn’t throw a cornflake. She put the thing down. My logic had got to her. Desperate, crude logic but with enough truth in it to render her guilty. I heard my phone ringing deep in the breast of my suit coat. I was letting it ring out but the noise grated on Emma. Answer it, she said. Please just bloody well answer it.

I poked the satin of the pocket open and strode into the lounge for privacy. I expected it was Ryan saying All done. Or Katie up in Myrtleford. If she didn’t get the whys and hows of the murder by morning I’d want her back in the city to save motel tariffs. I had faith in Katie to do good foot-in-the-door. That’s another skill you can’t teach a person. It’s either in them to barge their way into a house or else they’re doomed to stand on the front step yelling, Was your family born Satanists?

It was neither Ryan nor Katie. It was Mr Oxford, in a voice meek-toned and deferential. He asked for a moment of my time. To clear the air. To start afresh our sensitive dealings.

‘I was contacted by your colleague, Ryan Scullen,’ he said. ‘It’s my hope that we can resolve this matter without publicity. Perhaps reach a kind of compromise.’

‘You really do like informals. It’s a tic with you.’

He wasn’t baited. He took the insult good-humouredly.

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