As we leave the prison, Ruiz takes a boiled sweet from his tin and sucks it hard as though wanting to get a bad taste from his mouth.
“You know how most people in prison deserve to be there.”
“Yeah.”
“Some deserve it more than others.”
28
Late afternoon I drive across Oxford in mist that can’t decide if it wants to be rain, or perhaps it’s the other way around. The streets are crowded with cars and tourist coaches. The schools are closing, holidays starting, last-minute Christmas shoppers buying last-minute gifts. At the colleges, parents are arriving to fetch their offspring home from university. Trunks are hefted down narrow stairways and loaded into car boots.
It makes me remember my own university days. I had expected a four-year slumber party full of sex, alcohol and soft drugs. Instead, I fell in love with a string of unattainable girls, who thought I was great fun to have around, but not very shaggable. They seemed to prefer rugby players or boys called Rupert whose parents had country estates. Normally all I could offer was my undying love and a bottle of warm Lambrusco Bianco.
Victoria Naparstek comes to mind, her shy eyes and over-wide mouth. I remember seeing the same gratitude in her eyes that I felt was in mine; an appreciation that she was there and that I hadn’t completely embarrassed myself.
Parking outside the sports center, I push through the double doors and hear the echo of basketballs rattling backboards. At the front counter, a woman is wearing a tracksuit on her thin frame and twenty years of sun damage around her eyes. I ask for Callum Loach.
She points through another set of doors. “He’ll be inside with the Ayatollah.”
“Sorry?”
“Theo. That’s his old man.”
There are three basketball courts side by side, but only one is being used. Theo Loach is pacing the edge of the court. Yelling instructions, he ducks and weaves as though he’s shadowboxing or playing the game from the bleachers. A Para tattoo on his right forearm has faded into a blue stain.
“Hey, Cal, watch for the quick break. That’s it… cover him.”
I’ve never seen a wheelchair game of basketball. The speed surprises me. With a flick of forearms, competitors are hurtling up and down the court.
I recognize Callum from his photograph. He’s sitting in a lightweight chair with wheels that are canted inwards and give the impression they’re collapsing into his lap.
Theo yells, “Good block! See who’s open. That’s it. Go… go!”
Nursing the ball on his lap, Callum pushes twice on the wheels and dribbles, leading a charge of pumping arms and blurring wheels.
“All the way!” shouts Theo.
Callum shoots and lands the basket, colliding with an opposing player and toppling sideways. The chair seems to roll 360 degrees and he flips it up again, laughing and high-fiving his teammates.
Theo rubs his hands together as if keeping them warm. Then he looks up.
“Can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak to Callum.”
“Game’s almost over.”
I take a seat on a bench and rest my jacket over one thigh. Theo is no longer paying as much attention to the action. Periodically, he glances my way until curiosity gets the better of him.
“I’m Cal’s father. What’s this about?”
“You’ve heard the news about Natasha McBain?”
“Sure.”
“I’m assisting the police in the investigation.”
“What’s that got to do with Cal?”
I delay answering. The silence fills with a referee’s whistle, a foul and a free throw. Theo’s face is as round as a pie tin under a baseball cap. He takes a seat next to me, his knees creaking.
“We have a policy in our house that nobody mentions that girl’s name.”
“Why’s that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Natasha didn’t cripple Callum.”
Theo doesn’t say anything. His gaze shifts and he studies cobwebs hanging from the lights. I notice his tattoo again.
“You were in the army.”
“Yeah.”
“See any action?”
“The Falklands.”
He licks his lips and drapes his hands over his thighs. “You got children, Professor?”
“Two girls.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen and seven.”
He nods. “We were only blessed the once. You read those stories about women popping out babies like they’re Pez dispensers even though they can’t afford to feed them. I’m not just talking about in Africa and poor countries. Look at the single mums in this place—never working, living off welfare, having three kids with as many different men. It’s fucking criminal, you know.”