Duncan demolished his cupcake almost as fast as Andy had done and belched, arms stretched out like an opera singer. If Kathleen could see him now! ‘Delicious. I needed that. Sometimes a sugar rush is the only way to go.’
‘Bad day?’
‘Oh, well, you know . . . Dean.’
Dean was a ‘troublemaker’, in Duncan-speak. Translation – wee bastard. Face like a rat and habits to match. His first written warning had been for pissing in another kid’s bag.
‘He broke into the sports equipment cupboard and liberated the basketballs and footballs while he was meant to be playing five-a-side with Jemma’s group. I was in the meeting room. One of the kids suddenly pointed at the window and there was Dean, plus Darren and Stu, kicking the balls across the road into the oncoming traffic. Could have caused a smash.’
‘So that’s him out, eh?’
The rules of the programme were strict – three strikes and you’re out. And Dean had already had two written warnings about his behaviour.
‘We’re giving him one last chance.’
She knew how that meeting would have gone. Jemma and Ross, the other mentors, would have wanted Dean gone because he led the other kids astray. But Duncan was the Programme Leader, so it would ultimately have been his decision. ‘You old softy.’
He half-smiled and changed the subject. ‘So, Andy came over?’
‘Aye.’
‘You don’t like Andy, do you?’
‘I’ve no feelings about him either way. But he seems a weird choice of best pal for Nick.’
‘Oh, well. They were thrown together as toddlers, Carol and Kathleen being thick as thieves, and I suppose . . . Well, Nick doesn’t always find it easy to make friends.’
Interesting. ‘Do you think Nick might have some . . . socialisation issues?’ Maggie knew all the buzz words from her time in the system.
Duncan took another slurp of tea. ‘Not in the usual sense. He’s socially adept with adults. But with his peers . . . I don’t know. I suspect he won’t find his “people”, as they say, until uni. He’s one of those irritating kids who excel academically without even trying – and he’s not above rubbing the other kids’ noses in the fact. In his prelims this year, he got a hundred per cent for maths, and over ninety per cent in all his other subjects – ninety-seven per cent for chemistry, ninety-three for history . . .’
Typical of Duncan to have memorised the numbers. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he was such an OTT da, given that he’d chosen a career helping young folk and that he’d been a single parent for the last eighteen months, but she sometimes wondered if Kathleen’s death had made him fixate on Nick too much.
She nodded, digging her fingernail into a knot in the surface of the table and thinking of the way Nick had looked at Andy, his best pal – his only pal, from the sound of it. With no emotion. Watchful, assessing. Waiting for a reaction.
It was the same way he looked at her.
There was something not right about the boy.
And for the first time, she admitted it to herself:
She didn’t like Nick.
‘Well, I don’t think it’s healthy,’ she said.
‘I know – must be about a week’s worth of the recommended sugar intake.’
‘Naw, I mean Nick having no friends. Apart from Andy.’ Who hardly even counted. ‘Don’t you think there might be a bit more to it than the other kids being jealous? I know you think he’s coping okay with Kathleen’s death, but is he, really? Or is he pushing people away?’
‘I am the cat who walks by himself,’ said Nick’s voice, and Maggie jumped in her chair. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. ‘Thanks for your concern, Mags, but I’m fine.’ He dumped a pile of kids’ books on the table and turned to Duncan. ‘Found these at the bottom of a cupboard. Thought the rug rat could have them.’
Duncan pulled a book towards him. ‘Where the Wild Things Are. We used to call you King of the Wild Things – remember?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I was – am – a brat.’ Nick grinned. ‘Embarrass me in front of Mags, why don’t you.’ He was looking over Duncan’s shoulder while he turned the pages. ‘I used to love this one. Especially the part where Max puts on the wolf outfit.’
To give them some space, Maggie heaved herself upright, muttering something about the laundry, and headed off down the passage that led off the kitchen to all the other wee back rooms.
And stopped.
On the flagstones of the passage was a scattering of yellow plastic.
Her set of measuring spoons.
Smashed to bits on the floor.
The measuring spoons Mrs Greenlees had given her when she left school with her one O Grade in Home Economics. The measuring spoons that meant more to Maggie than any of her other possessions.
With a wordless sound, she put a hand on her belly and squatted down and then she somehow managed to get down on her knees so she could reach them, so she could reach the pieces and touch them. And then Duncan’s arms were round her and he was asking what was wrong, was it the baby, and she was shouting, struggling free of him, rounding on Nick, who was standing there looking at her, of course he was, the fucking wee bastard.
‘He’s done this! He’s smashed my spoons!’
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Uh – what?’
‘My spoons!’ She threw the handful of yellow plastic pieces at him, and he dodged out the way, his face going: Nothing to do with me.
‘Maggie,’ went Duncan in her ear, putting his arms back round her. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay.’
‘I haven’t done anything, Dad.’ Nick had picked up a piece of yellow plastic and was examining it. ‘I guess this is her measuring spoons? They’ve been stood on?’
‘He did it!’ Maggie pushed Duncan away and grabbed at Nick, grabbed for the yellow plastic in his hand. ‘Leave that alone, you wee fucker! Leave it!’
‘Uh, okay.’ With exaggerated care, Nick set the shard of plastic back down on the flagstones. ‘Dad, I don’t think this is good for the baby.’ He was staring, now, at her belly, frowning like he was all worried. And then, as Duncan made reassuring noises, rubbed her arm, tried to ease her to her feet, Nick met her eyes and a shiver of shock went through her.