Another Mother's Son Read Online Free PDF Page A

missing carpet tile. The first time he halts mid-step, I think he has suddenly realised he has left something on the train, or is meant to be somewhere else. But it is to point out a defect he has spotted. ‘A a a a a a a,’ he says, as if he is imitating a motor scooter stuttering to a start, followed by a long low ‘whoo’ like wind in a ventilator.
    â€˜The place is falling apart,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing’s been done because the block is being sold to developers. It’s a wonderful building. There were once marble drinking fountains on every floor – supplied by an artesian well.’
    â€˜OK. Interesting. I remember the old drinking fountains. Filthy, weren’t they? We had one in the local playground. My mother told us not to lick the metal.’ He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘Funny when you think about it. Little tongues poking out into an arch of water. Why would you want fountains in a place like this? Legionnaires. It’s a risk. You could make a nice fitness suite down here, though.’
    Speculation on the likely price per square metre of the prospective apartments accompanies us the rest of the way. By the time we reach my office, Chris Orrick is abominating social housing quotas on new-builds and recommending that I read Ayn Rand. This is fairly typical of members of the public. Right-wing views and sexual innuendo bubble out of them.
    â€˜Where’s the library, then?’ he says.
    I explain that there are no documents on the premises. Everything is off-site in a salt mine at Winsford, Cheshire, and delivered on request.
    â€˜Wow. Any chance of a visit?’ he says.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I say with a polite smile. ‘Staff only.’
    I sit Chris Orrick at a desk. After half an hour he is still chatting. I re-park him in the main office at one of the tables. I shall no longer be able to see him but I take the risk that he is not a pyromaniac or a paper-tearer. ‘No drinks, no food,’ I remind him, as I glare at the Marks and Spencer’s plastic bag. ‘Only pencils allowed. I have my own work to get on with,’ I say firmly.
    He raises his eyebrows in a jocular way. ‘A bit brighter by the window, isn’t it? Wouldn’t
you
rather be in here? I thought this research would take months but it looks like I’ll polish it off in a couple of goes. There’s not much information, is there?’ He taps the thin folder of documents, as he re-settles himself.
    â€˜That’s all we have. The press wasn’t allowed to report on the tragedy. You’ll find more in the Tower Hamlet’s archive – eyewitness accounts and so on.’
    â€˜This writing game is a mindset thing. I’ve figured out how it works. You need action and you need a cracking opening to wake people up. Three hundred men and women piled on top of each other in the narrow stairwell at Bethnal Green station. What’s it like to fight for your breath?’ Chris Orrick clamps his hands over his nostrils and mouth. His eyes bulge and I notice small, reddish-brown discolorations in the irises.
    Christ, I think.

8
    MY FRIEND LIZ tells me that the nuclear family is a recent invention and that children in the past were frequently farmed out to aunts and uncles, real or nominal. Having many years ago read the book from which Liz gleaned this theory, I believe that the position is more nuanced than she makes out but I do not want to get sidetracked into an argument with her. I stop complaining that Ross is never at home and tell her about the corporate hoes flyer. We are as one on that topic.
    Liz can be quite scary but at least she is intelligent. For years she had a long-term boyfriend, Jeff, whom she grumbled about consistently, then – out of the blue, or, more precisely, out of the department of Law and Criminology at Aberystwyth University – came Libby. Libby has many sterling qualities. She is older than Liz and a wonderful