The Pinocchio Brief Read online

  Hearing the clatter of china, Constance completed her scrutiny of the family snap and returned quickly to the seating area. She would have preferred to sit at a table if she was to do any meaningful work but she decided to obey her instructions and sat down on one of the two sofas, on the cushion closest to the nearby armchair. If Mrs Maynard sat in the chair, she concluded, they could converse easily.

  Mrs Maynard arrived with a tray bearing two cups and saucers, a white china teapot and a small plate of biscuits. Constance noticed the trembling of her hands as she lowered it onto the coffee table.

  “There we are. That should warm you up. I do hope you aren’t too wet. I just couldn’t face the journey, I’m so sorry.” She sat down in the armchair as Constance had hoped and fiddled with the top button on her cardigan before pouring them each a cup of tea.

  “Mrs Maynard...”

  “Yes. You want to know what this is all about.”

  Constance sat with her fingers poised over her laptop, her tea remaining untouched for now, as the older woman’s eyes cast about the room restlessly, unable or unwilling to find a suitable place to alight.

  “Just tell me when you’re ready.” Constance spoke softly and reassuringly as she wriggled her wet toes around in her equally saturated shoes.

  Mrs Maynard had taken one sip of her tea but she returned the cup shakily to its saucer. Now her bottom lip began to quiver and then her entire frame began to heave. Within moments her body was wracked with sobs and moans. Constance leaned forward to comfort the woman, first of all patting her hand and then, when that did not stem the flood, squeezing her lightly on the shoulder. Mrs Maynard raised a hand to signal that she would bring herself under control if allowed a little space, and Constance sat back and waited obediently.

  “It’s Ray,” she spluttered eventually.

  “Ray?” Constance repeated the name patiently, catching sight as she spoke of a flash of white outside the back window. Mrs Maynard had left her washing out and the sheets were ballooning upwards in the gusting wind.

  “Raymond, my son.”

  Her head turned involuntarily to the photo above the fireplace and then quickly snapped back. Constance following suit.

  “Has something happened to him?” Constance enquired solemnly.

  “You must have seen the papers?” Mrs Maynard spat out the words before reverting once more to her melancholy state.

  Constance sat quietly waiting for Mrs Maynard to elaborate.

  “He’s a pupil at…Richmond Boys’,” she continued after a long pause.

  “Ah!” Constance could not suppress the sigh which escaped her lips. The newspapers had not given any name, as yet, but at least now she understood Mrs Maynard’s demeanour.

  “Well I only know what I read, which was not much,” she replied cautiously. “The maths teacher, you mean?”

  Mrs Maynard nodded. “They think it was Ray. You have to help him.”

  “Where is Ray?” Constance found herself anxiously scouring the room for the boy’s presence. Now she remembered why the others in her practice refused to undertake house calls. You could never be sure who or what was waiting for you and she did not relish a meeting here, alone, with the teenage version of the sallow, languid child in the photo.

  “They took him away. I was only allowed to see him with a police officer. He’s there now. In a cell.” Constance relaxed.

  “Well, he won’t be in a cell. Isn’t he a j...isn’t he only 15?” she replied. That was what she had read, “15-year-old youth in custody”.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it will be in a special youth custody suite, Mrs Maynard. They will look after him. He won’t be with criminals or anything.”

  Mrs Maynard nodded mechanically although she was evidently finding it hard to control her emotions.

  “Can I ask, is there a Mr Maynard?”

  “No. My husband died four years ago. That’s really why we, why I had the money to send Ray to Richmond. It was a life policy; he had always muttered on about something happening to him. I thought it was crazy as he was always strong as an ox. Maybe you can see in the photo? Then one day, heart attack at work and he was gone. I suppose that’s the best way but no time to say goodbye, you see. It was too late to move Marnie, my daughter, as she was already settled at high school but Ray, it was perfect timing. And he needed it. I bought him the uniform and moved him to Richmond.”

  “Are they your only children, Marnie and Ray?”

  “Yes. Quite enough, mind, for any woman.” Mrs Maynard lifted her cup a second time, this time taking a large gulp.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Constance smiled once more, although uncertain of Mrs Maynard’s precise meaning and distracted this time by a sharp rap on the back window. With relief, she saw it was simply the sheet pegged nearest to the house, still darting around on the washing line, desperately trying to escape its confinement.

  “But Ray must have been appointed a solicitor, by the state?” she continued gently.

  “Yes. I met him. He was not interested in anything. He couldn’t even remember Ray’s name. And his phone rang twice whilst we were talking. Very rude. My son in terrible trouble and he can’t even turn his bloody phone off.” Mrs Maynard had spoken almost without taking a breath, her voice reaching a crescendo as she progressed, her face red with the exertion.

  Constance was silent for once. She never switched her phone off. She wondered whether Mrs Maynard would notice, at this stage, if her fingers crept inside her bag and flicked her phone to vibrate.

  “I want you to take his case,” Mrs Maynard demanded, her voice returning to its normal volume. “You come highly recommended,” she added.

  “I’m so pleased you’ve heard good things about me.” Constance sensed heat flooding to the tips of her ears. “Can I ask who from?”

  Again, Mrs Maynard’s eyes were on a journey, flitting aimlessly around the room. She took a further taste of tea, Constance marvelling at how she managed the meeting of teacup and lips, given her parlous condition. She swallowed once and then her eyes finally quieted and focussed directly on Constance.

  “Jason Price’s mum. You got him off a shoplifting charge.”

  Constance gasped. People never ceased to amaze her. Yes, she had managed to have a theft charge dropped against a local boy, Jason Price, about two years earlier, but that hardly qualified her to defend this boy, accused of a violent murder. But she had underestimated Mrs Maynard, who was speaking again.

  “Yes. I know that was far less serious; I may be a little silly sometimes but I’m not stupid. Jeanie Price said you were the only one who listened to her and to Jason, that you worked morning and night for him, that you went up against the police when they wanted to offer him a lighter sentence if he pleaded guilty and she said you cared. And that’s what I want for my Ray. I want someone who cares. Because I tell you something, I am his mother and I know him. He did not do this terrible thing and you have to help him.”

  4

  HELLO. IT’S me again, Raymond Maynard, aged 15 years and 10 months, 2 days and 14 hours now. Things have moved on a little since I introduced myself, as you’ve probably heard. I’ve had to move out of my room, the one I shared with Jamie. And now I’m in a different place, on my own. It’s not very nice here at all. Actually, I think “not very nice” is what they call “an understatement”.

  At first when they brought me in and told me to sit down I lay on the floor with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears. I even had my teeth clenched although I’m not sure why. No one was trying to feed me anything. I waited till they’d gone, of course, although I knew they could see me on the camera. But I just couldn’t help it.

  Why did I do that? There were so many noises penetrating my skull that I had to try to keep them out somehow: screams and shrieks from the other occupants, the rhythmic thump of a ball outside thwacking the concrete repeatedly, the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning unit in the hallway, the buzz of the strip light above my head. A
nd then the smells: the previous occupant’s stale sweat leaching from the underside of the mattress, mingling with the onions frying for today’s lunch. And other stuff; the clumps of dust driven under the bed and into the corner between the drawers and the wall by some incompetent cleaner, all of it crawling with microscopic mites; you can’t see them with the naked eye as they are too small (only 0.2mm) but they are there, everywhere, chomping away frenziedly on our unwanted flakes of skin.

  Of course, I could’ve just stayed like that, all curled up, and I did for a while. But then I thought I needed to do something to help myself. That’s another thing my mother says: “No one can help you but yourself”. So I sat up and looked around me and decided on a plan of action.

  Perhaps it will surprise you, given my appalling position, but my mind jumped straight away to Charles Darwin. I have read Charles Darwin; eight times, in fact. The Origin of Species. Did you know that it was first called On the Origin of Species but then they dropped the “On” from the 1872 sixth edition? Not many people know that.

  And some people think that “survival of the fittest” is all about exercising. I had to have the joke explained to me twice before I understood. Good job that Jamie is so patient with me. It’s not, you know; it’s about adapting in order to survive. So that is what I must do now. Adapt. There is no other option.

  The first step in my adaptation is to be calm. That would come easily to me if I was at home, in my room, the one I share with Jamie, where the smells and the noises, however unwanted, are familiar and can be zoned in and out without too much effort. It’s much more difficult in this new environment with its indiscriminate battering of my senses from every direction. But after only 38 hours and 22 minutes in this place and a lot of determination, I can tell you, I have done it. I am sitting on my bed, eyes open, hands at my side, feet on the floor and I am calm.

  And being calm is the key to what will come next. Really, totally, utterly calm.

  Not just calm the way people say “calm down” to an unruly child or to a dog or to a jittery person awaiting the dentist’s drill or to the passengers on a ship when the alarm is first sounded (before it becomes apparent that the ship is doomed and there are insufficient life vests to go around). No. Much more calm.

  This is calm like no other calm.

  This is calm so that my belly sags and my bowels, rumbling unchecked, emit putrid, noxious gases. This is calm so that my shoulders droop and my head lolls forward and my mouth gapes and I fail to notice when saliva finds the path of least resistance and dribbles down my chin. This is calm so that my ears relax to such a degree that they allow all the sounds of the universe in; the rumblings of the particles bumping together in the Hadron Collider, the whistle of a comet as it speeds by Earth, the pop of a star as it gives up its moon. This is calm so that my nose, unchecked by those usually vigilant hairs, permits all manner of allergens to enter, to clamber to the upper reaches of my nasal passages and lay siege. This is calm so that my hair hangs limp, my fingers dangle, even my shoelaces lie open and unchecked. Ha! This is calm so that every single muscle fibre in my body wilts.

  Reaching this level of calm was, in the end, moderately easy for me. I suspect it would be harder for an ordinary boy, one who has not, in the past, been in touch with his senses like I have, one who fails to turn his head at the key turning in the lock and the whispering at night in the headmaster’s office one floor below or to retch at the overpowering stench of my illustrious but now deceased house master’s apartments; a heady mix of bleach, shoe polish, spray starch and chicken and mushroom pot noodle. Such a boy as that would find this level of calm nigh on impossible. But I am not that kind of ordinary boy.

  Some of the things I can do when I am calm? I can slow my pulse to 35 beats per minute; pretty good. It’s easy once you know how. And I can hold my breath for four minutes and 12 seconds – still a long way off the record but each time I try I achieve more. Great party trick – not that I am preparing for any parties, well, not in the foreseeable future.

  But being calm is only the beginning; level one. Level two is harder.

  Level two involves remaining calm on the inside whilst becoming alert on the outside. But, and this is the important part, without any outward sign of that alertness.

  So, the sphincter closes tight to hold in the stomach gas, whilst the belly remains apparently limp, the mouth is able to control the manufacture and egress of saliva, whilst remaining open and sagging, the ears can filter out the chatter, the clatter of chair legs, the squeaking of desks, and focus on the low grunt the teacher emits under his breath in the next-door classroom as he worries if he fastened his trousers that morning but does not dare check in front of the class, whilst appearing unresponsive, or the nose blocking those bombarding pathogens whilst continuing in its inert state.

  At level two all muscles are taut, primed and ready to pounce, despite an ostensibly comatose exterior. To the observer, the boy (that’s me!) remains saggy and flaccid. Except, in reality, I am rigid and upright and perfectly honed; it’s sad that no one appreciates the tremendous skill involved in accomplishing level two but me. Who cares? In this scheme, I am the only one who matters.

  5

  JUDITH FOUND herself fretting over what to wear for the meeting with Constance Lamb. It was almost five years since she had donned any formal wear. She preferred jeans and baggy tops nowadays but that would not suffice, not for this meeting.

  She had retained many of her old clothes, but they belonged to a different life, a different existence. A time when she had risen early, often around six, showered, kissed her husband Martin on the cheek as he lay in that state somewhere between asleep and awake. She had applied a modicum of face make-up and some neutral lipstick before sliding into her tight black skirt and high-necked white shirt (one of five, each for a different day of the week), picking up her shiny briefcase and heading off to work for a day packed with adventure and angst, usually in equal measure. Eventually, the angst had achieved the upper hand and, of course, there had been the issue with Martin – aagh, she blocked it out even now – which had brought things well and truly to an end. Fortunately, she had saved enough money, wisely invested by Martin when they were both in their prime, to live modestly forever and that was what she was doing.

  Why this young woman should want to see her, she did not know. However, she strongly suspected it was to pick her brains on something work-related, perhaps an old case or former client. She would help if she could – she always did – but not without considering her own position first; self-preservation was paramount.

  Eventually, she settled on a black trouser suit found nestling at the back of her wardrobe and she marvelled at the fact that not only did it fit, but it was loose around her waist. The stress of a life at the Bar had led to erratic eating, often on the run, and Judith had never taken any serious exercise. Since her forced retirement, she walked most places, swam in the nearby outdoor pool three times a week and spent hours concocting elaborate salads, relishing the time she had on her hands, time to squeeze lemons and chop parsley, to crush garlic and source the finest olive oil. Clearly, she had slimmed down without even noticing.

  “I’m here to see Constance Lamb,” she announced confidently to the young woman behind the desk at Taylor Moses’ offices. She was surprised at the corporate feel of the place given its target clients but it did, reportedly, handle a fair amount of fraud too. “White collar crime”, she should say, and that was where all the money was nowadays; proper, old-fashioned criminals certainly didn’t pay well in her experience.

  “And your name is?”

  “Judith Burton,” she replied, relishing for a second the days when her name would have been recognised at a place like this and a knowing “ah yes, Miss Burton” would have followed the announcement, together with an admiring acknowledgement of the many successes she had achieved, each snatched from the jaws of disaster. That had been her specialty, the hopeless case, the one no one else wanted; how she h
ad built her reputation. She had been audacious, of course, and she had not won them all. But there had been sufficient triumphs to assist her meteoric rise.

  Judith did not consider herself at all fortunate. Fortune had had nothing to do with it. She was meticulous and very often others were not. Either they did not have the same resources to hand as she or they were simply unprepared to put in the necessary time to check their facts or test their theories. She was a perfectionist; she knew that. And many an instructing solicitor had regretted taking her on because she put them so comprehensively through their paces. But then, when the successes came, they had also benefitted and a few of them now sat near the summit of their profession, proudly citing those wins at the top of their CVs.

  So lost in thought was she that she failed to notice the approach of the younger woman, who was virtually at her side by the time she stirred.

  “Miss Burton?”

  “Oh, call me Judith, please. And you’re Constance?”

  Constance extended her hand and the two women surveyed each other as Judith rose to her feet.

  “Yes. Thank you for coming over at such short notice. Let’s go somewhere we can speak in private.” Constance walked briskly forward, Judith following obediently behind.

  Judith thought Constance even more imposing in the flesh than in her photograph. She carried herself elegantly, as if she had been trained in the 19th century, and she had a composure about her which immediately put Judith at her ease. In contrast, Constance was unsure about Judith. Naturally, Judith appeared older than her published photos, taken around 10 years previously, her trademark shoulder-length, corn-yellow bob replaced by an easier to maintain, greying at the edges, close crop.