The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

this can’t be allowed. This relationship has to end.’ He turned to Felice who was standing next to Liam again, as if shielding him from his father. ‘Liam needs to be with his family at this time, as I’m sure you understand.’

‘Felice is my family,’ said Liam simply.

‘Liam and I have made plans, Mr Kelly. You needn’t worry about him. Now, sorry, but I must go – my dad’s waiting for me.’ She kissed Liam on the cheek, said goodbye to Lawrence, and left.

Standing in the corridor, fists clenched, Lawrence for a moment was unsure what to do. Making a decision, he said, ‘Liam, I need to talk to you. Stay here, I’ll be right back,’ and ran off after the girl.

As he went, he heard Liam say, ‘Can’t wait.’ Lawrence heard the sarcasm in his son’s voice and considered going back to tackle him, but he actually could wait. Or he could go and talk about his feelings to one of the staff, fill their ears with more rubbish or smear a bit of paint around and call it therapy. Lawrence would talk to him about that but right now he needed to talk to the girl.

Lawrence marched back to the hospital, fists clenched. He couldn’t believe that black man and his daughter had been so rude to him and that he’d let them put words in his mouth. He, a Queen’s Counsel, had been bettered by a bloody nigger. He smirked at his own use of the word. He secretly loved it, it was so un-PC, and yet, perfect for what it described. So he was racist. So what? At least he admitted it unlike all the politicians who wrapped themselves in knots to say the right thing, even though he knew they felt exactly the same way he did.

There’d been a black boy at school; Pious Kawande had been the son of a minor chief in some ex-colonial African shitpile from which anyone who could afford it still sent their children to boarding school in the old country. He’d been quiet, spoke English with the same accent as Prince Philip, played cricket as well as any other boy and joined the army cadets. Lawrence had made friends with him in their first week, both small for their age, new, scared and lonely. It didn’t take long before Greenwood and Beauchamp started putting the pressure on – taking the tuck his mother sent him, calling him a nigger lover, scratching under their arms like a chimpanzee every time they walked past. Over the first term Lawrence and Pious were ostracised, never asked to dorm parties, not picked for teams in games classes. After the Christmas holidays Lawrence went back to school and ignored Pious. He was, after all, the reason Lawrence wasn’t making other friends, wasn’t included in things, and he so desperately wanted to be included. He had a father who hardly seemed to know his name and a mother who was more interested in golf than she was in her son. He had always hoped at boarding school he would be able to make a niche for himself, that it would be a place where he felt important and liked. Lawrence grew in popularity and Pious shrank into the corners. But he never said anything to Lawrence, never questioned his change of heart, showed anger or upset at his friend deserting him. And Lawrence hated him for his weakness in the way that only shame can make you hate someone.

If he had his way immigration would be slashed. Mind you, he thought Farage and his gang were going too far. There was private opinion and there was political beat-up. It didn’t do anyone any good to incite violence and that was what concerned Lawrence about this whole Brexit circus. Britain had once been Great when it could rely on its own empire, but these days one had to be pragmatic – they needed Europe and the Europeans. If that meant having to take their share of refugees and immigrants, it was the price they had to pay. And he had to admit most of them were okay. Intelligent, hard-working, tax-paying individuals had a place in British society. Small ‘s’ society only, of course. Everyone needed a Paki shop nearby, and who else would clean the hospitals?

Taking the steps two at a time, he entered the building again, looking for Liam. He wasn’t where he had left him, where he had told him to wait. Typical. He went into the ward and approached the nurses’ station.

‘My son – where is he?’ he asked, interrupting a conversation between the two staff members there. At least, he assumed they were staff. No one wore uniforms so it was hard to tell.

‘Your son?’ said a pimply man turning to him.

‘Liam Kelly.’ Lawrence drummed his fingers on the counter.

‘Oh, Liam. I think he’s playing table tennis in the games room.’

A fucking games room? What was this place, a resort or a hospital? Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

‘Just through there.’ The man pointed across the room. A door was open and when he glanced over Lawrence could see a couple of people moving in and out of view. He left the nurses’ station without a thank you and approached the games room.

‘Liam,’ he said, standing at the door.

‘Wait.’ His son didn’t even glance over at him.

Lawrence felt his blood pressure rise. He looked at his watch. Damn. This would have to wait. He needed to get to his chambers.

‘Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Promises, promises.’ Liam hit a winning shot, wide down the backhand side.

Lawrence wished his son was ten again and he could take him over his knee and give him the thrashing he needed.

In the taxi on his way across London he decided to refer the matter of Liam back to Deidra. It was her fault he was so unruly, after all. And he would cut off his allowance so he had to