Veil of Darkness by Gillian White Page B

personal questions, as if we are somehow to blame. Poor Richard,’ she wept for her humble, hard-working husband, ‘he always did his best. Never a day off work. He tried his hardest with Graham; he was always in the shed with him playing with tools and wood. Sometimes he even took him fishing. But where is the gratitude now, I ask you?’
    ‘It has been very hard for you, I know, Mrs Stott.’ Fluffy farted and filled the room with the rancid smell of fish-in-the-bowel. The poor, almost hairless creature had been ill for the last five years and yet she lives on defiantly. ‘And, if we’re not careful, Avril here is going to go the same way as Graham. They say it’s in the genes, but there’s nothing wrong with Richard’s genes; there was never the slightest whiff of scandal in the Stott side of the family, and as for my own parents, they are being made ill by all the worry.’
    ‘It has been very hard for you, I know, Mrs Stott.’
    ‘You can see his bedroom if you like, although, of course, it’s been given a thorough clean-out since he went away. I found all sorts of vile magazines and photographs.’ Avril’s mother shook her head and wrinkled her lips like the edge of a pasty. ‘I can honestly say I never knew such horrible things existed.’
    ‘It has been very hard for you, I know, Mrs Stott.’
    Mrs Stott picked up Fluffy, laid her on her knee and stroked her, to the social worker’s abhorrence.
    ‘And no, we won’t have him back. I know that might sound hard, as if we’ve abandoned our son to his plight, but you’ll never know what Richard and I have been through over the last few years, what with police coming round at all hours, terrible people calling for Graham, the bad behaviour, the swearing—such a bad influence on Avril. He used his father and I like a couple of old doormats. No, we’ve given this matter a great deal of thought and we will not have Graham back. Let the authorities find him somewhere. I don’t even want to know where he is and that’s flat.’
    With a surprising small show of violence, Mrs Stott got up and threw Fluffy out in the garden.
    Graham Stott hops off the bus outside 2 Maple Terrace, Huyton. Soon he will have wheels of his own, no more travelling about with losers. Here it is, home sweet home, no change, even the symmetrical rows of brown and orange chrysanths are probably in the exact same order with the exact same slugs inside. Dad, he knows, will be at work and Mum will be doing whatever she does during her long and tedious housewifely day. There are always signs of work lying round in a pointed, angry fashion: a duster hung over a banister, clothes in a basket on top of a washing machine that is never still, wet dishcloths hanging on hooks by the door, peas to be shelled on the kitchen table, neat piles of bedding left on the landing.
    The doorbell peals the Westminster chimes.
    ‘Whatcha, Ma.’
    ‘ What on earth are you doing here ?’
    ‘They told you I was getting out, didn’t they?’
    ‘No, they did not, thank goodness.’
    ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
    Mrs Stott casts anxious glances up and down the terrace before retreating backwards into her neat little hallway followed by her skinny son. He looks as if a train has hit him. He looks worse than he ever did, with the pallid, acned skin of a heavy potato-eater and those filthy, skin-tight jeans. His boots look like something worn by the Nazis.
    ‘You’re not stopping here, Graham.’
    ‘I see Fluffy’s still going strong.’
    ‘I said, you’re not stopping here, Graham, so don’t think you are .’
    ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
    ‘Make it yourself. And then just go. I don’t want your father coming home, seeing you here and being upset again.’
    Graham mooches around in the kitchen as he waits for the kettle to boil, picking up bits and pieces as if to connect himself with the house in which he grew up. She doesn’t ask, How are you, son? Or, How did they treat you in