Fragile Cord Read Free

growing
increasingly concerned. The doctors, having done as much as they
could, gave the family as wide a berth as they could while everyone
held their breath. There was nothing more anyone could do now but
wait.
    The sun shone brightly overhead
as Coupland located his car, passing the subdued Sexual Health
patients smoking outside as they waited for the number they’d been
allocated - a cloakroom ticket drawn from a recycled tissue box -
to be called. Each stood several feet apart, stealing furtive
glances at the person closest to them whilst trying to look
nonchalant, as though waiting for a friend. Just then the automatic
doors to the clinic opened spewing out a middle-aged man who stared
at the ground all the way to the sheltered bus stop. Coupland
looked away, fighting the temptation to compound his guilt by
gawping.
    Coupland’s shirt clung to his
back like a second skin. He pulled at his clothes, undoing another
shirt button in response to the unrelenting heat. He’d kept his
jacket on while he’d interviewed Melanie out of respect, but now,
free of the restrictions of his own sense of protocol he shrugged
it off, rolling-up his shirtsleeves before climbing into his
car.
    Just then a
woman passed by, holding the hand of a small boy. The woman was
flushed, the overhead sun an increasing irritation compounding her
discomfort; the boy complained of being thirsty. Pulling
impatiently on her son’s hand the woman cajoled him with the
promise of his favourite juice but could he just walk a little faster? The
exchange reminded Coupland of his own childhood, how it seemed to
consist of a series of promises and deals: sweets if you eat your
greens, stickers following a trip to the
dentist, a present from Santa if he was a good boy. Life was a
series of reasonable barters, something to strive for, but
achievable and seemingly fair.
    Maybe it was the job that had
made him a cynic, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy,
his mother teaching him one set of rules, the school of hard knocks
eventually teaching him another. He thought of Ricky Wilson’s
children keeping a vigil by their father’s bed. They’d discovered
the hard way that life wasn’t perfect.
    That fairness doesn’t come into
it.
    Ever.

2
    The woman stood with an expression of
open incredulity at the scene of destruction before her. The room
had been ransacked, every drawer upturned, the contents strewn
across the floor in a mindless, haphazard way. Piles of clothes lay
crumpled, trodden underfoot amid the debris that represented their
lives.
    ‘I’m sorry mummy.’
    Detective Constable Alex Moreton looked
long and hard at the seven-year-old boy in front of her and not for
the first time wondered how such a perfect little person could
create so much devastation.
    Ben was small for his age, his mop of
unruly hair and fragile features usually protected him from much of
his mother’s wrath, but on this occasion he was not to be so
lucky.
    ‘For pity’s sake Ben,’ she bawled at
him, exasperated, ‘look at the state of your room! I want it tidy
before you leave for school this morning.’
    She could but live in hope.
    Padding back to the bedroom she walked
round to Carl’s side of the bed, shaking him awake.
    ‘C’mon love, I need you up keeping an
eye on His Nibs while I go for a shower. I want to go in
early.’
    Six foot five
with a head of dark curls – Carl was an adult version of Ben.
Correction, an adult- sized version of Ben – she still wasn’t convinced about
his maturity. With strong broad shoulders and a boyish grin he had
a way of looking at her that exasperated yet excited her at the
same time – on most days anyway. She looked at his sleep-filled
features doubting he’d even heard her. It was alright for him, she
thought resentfully, he worked from home, didn’t have to contend
with the rush-hour traffic to get to the other side of town. He
worked for himself as a freelance web designer, didn’t have to show
willing like