MAUREEN

So I went home, and I put the television on, and made a cup of tea, and I phoned the centre, and the two young fellas delivered Matty to the house, and I put him in front of the TV, and it all started again. It was hard to see how I'd last another six weeks. I know we had an agreement, but I never thought I'd see any of them again anyway. Oh, we exchanged telephone numbers and addresses and so forth. (Martin had to explain to me that if I didn't have a computer, then I wouldn't have an email address. I wasn't sure whether I'd have one or not. I thought it might have come in one of those envelopes you throw away.) But I didn't think we'd actually be using them. I'll tell you God's honest truth, even though it'll make me sound as if I was feeling sorry for myself: I thought they might see each other, but they'd keep me out of it. I was too old for them, and too old-fashioned, with my shoes and all. I'd had an interesting time going to parties and seeing all the strange people there, but it hadn't changed anything. I was still going back to pick Matty up, and I still had no life to live beyond the life I was already sick and tired of. You might be thinking, well, why isn't she angry? But of course I am angry. I don't know why I ever pretend I'm not. The church had something to do with it, I suppose. And maybe my age, because we were taught not to grumble, weren't we? But some days - most days - I want to scream and shout and break things and kill people. Oh, there's anger, right enough. You can't be stuck with a life like this one and not get angry. Anyway. A couple of days later the phone rang, and this woman with a posh voice said, 'Is that Maureen?'

'It is.'

'This is the Metropolitan Police.'

'Oh, hello,' I said.

'Hello. We've had reports that your son was causing trouble in the shopping centre on New Year's Eve. Shoplifting and sniffing glue and mugging people and so on.'

'I'm afraid it couldn't have been my son,' I said, like an eejit. 'He has a disability.'

'And you're sure he's not putting the disability on?'

I even thought about this for half a second. Well, you do, don't you, when it's the police? You want to make absolutely sure that you're telling the absolute truth, just in case you get into trouble later on.

'He'd be a very good actor if he was.'

'And you're sure he's not a very good actor?'

'Oh, positive. You see, he's too disabled to act.'

'But how about if that's an act? Only, the er, the wossname fits his description. The suspect.'

'What's the description?' I don't know why I said that. To be helpful, I suppose.

'We'll come to that, madam. Can you account for his whereabouts on New Year's Eve? Were you with him?'

I felt a chill run through me then. The date hadn't registered at first. They'd got me. I didn't know whether to lie or not. Supposing someone from the home had taken him out and used him as a cover, sort of thing? One of those young fellas, say? They looked nice enough, but you don't know, do you? Supposing they had gone shoplifting, and hidden something under Matty's blanket? Supposing they all went out drinking, and they took Matty with them, and they got into a fight, and they pushed the wheelchair hard towards someone they were fighting with? And the police saw him careering into someone, and they didn't know that he couldn't have pushed himself, so they thought he was joining in? And afterwards he was just playing dumb because he didn't want to get into trouble? Well, you could hurt someone, crashing into them with a wheelchair. You could break someone's leg. And supposing… Act............