What Have I Done? by Amanda Prowse

Walcott’s poetry and tried to remain invisible. She was absorbed by one line that seemed impossibly apt, repeating it and revelling in the possibilities that it presented:
    You will love again the stranger who was your self.
    She liked the idea of that very much.
    The hubbub of a throng of boys jolted her from her musing. They ambled along in groups of four and five; a pack. Smart and polished, yet with the nonchalance and labels of boys she had once been familiar with, boys like Dominic. They were dressed alike, in tracksuit bottoms and hooded tops, with layered, long fringes and leather satchel bags slung over shoulders. She guessed they were aged between twelve and fourteen. They were polite but awkward in their as yet unblemished skin.
    Much to her discomfort, the boys targeted the three empty seats next to her. They dumped their holdalls and clustered round, seemingly oblivious to the lady with her nose in a book. They exchanged banter about the rugby tour they were about to embark on, gate opening times and the fact that ‘George’ had been late, nearly missing the school bus. For this George was chastised and tagged with several politically incorrect names, although what his sexuality and a faulty alarm clock had in common was beyond her. Their tone was plummy and thatthey were comfortable in a large airport heading off without parents to the other side of the world spoke volumes.
    It was almost simultaneous. As Kate lowered her book, one of the boys turned to face away from her, bringing the school crest on his back sharply into focus. Her breath caught in her throat, her skin was instantly covered in a thin film of cold sweat and her legs shook. It still had the power to do that to her, the gold emblem with eagle wings spreading behind, the Latin motto beneath:
Veritas Liberabit Vos
. Truth Shall Set You Free. It meant Mark, it meant torture, it meant prison. It meant that Lydia and Dominic were gone.
    Kate reached for her bag and attempted to shove her book and bottle of water inside it. Her heart thudded loudly in her ribcage, her vision blurred. In her haste she dropped the book. A pair of young hands swooped to the floor and retrieved it.
    The dark-haired teenager handed her the paperback.
    ‘Excuse me, I think this is yours.’
    ‘Th… thank you, yes it is.’
    ‘He was a Nobel Prize winner, wasn’t he? Any good?’
    Kate looked up and into the eyes of Guido Petronatti. He had been nine the last time she had seen him. It didn’t surprise her that he recognised a Nobel Prize winner when he saw one, smart boy.
    She took a deep breath and decided she had nothing to lose.
    ‘I’ve only just started it, Guido, but it’s certainly showing promise. He writes some beautiful poetry. Do you still read a lot?’
    Kate recalled the bespectacled young bookworm who had liked nothing more than to disappear into a quiet corner of the library with the latest Harry Potter. That was a lifetime ago.
    The boy’s eyebrows shot up in a confused upward slant.
    ‘Yes, I do. Do I…? How did you…? Oh shit! Sorry, MrsBrooker, I didn’t mean shit, I mean…’
    ‘It’s okay, Guido. I understand.’
    ‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting to see you again, ever. Are you, like…? Did you…? Shit. Sorry.’
    ‘How’s Luca?’
    She tried her best to calm the boy, who was clearly flustered, coming face to face with the infamous Mrs Bedmaker. Kate had always been fond of Guido’s older brother, a friend of Dom’s.
    ‘He’s studying medicine at King’s. Mind you, I feel sorry for the person that ends up with him as their doctor, he’s still a dickhead. I know Dom and he go out in London a lot; my dad’s got Luca a flat, lucky thing.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Kate sat back down, winded by the mention of her son. London was close to her; he would travel that distance for Luca, but not her. It was fresh information, a new picture for her to mentally draw and colour in over the coming days. Dominic, her grown-up son, out in London with Luca,