Someone Else's Son Read Online Free PDF Page A

had one, didn’t they?
    But he just couldn’t bring himself to get one. No one would sell him one without ID and, while he knew he could probably buy one off some of the kids who hung around his dad’s estate, he wasn’t brave enough to do it. Would owning one, he wondered, invite more trouble? He didn’t want that. Then again, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time, not having one could be asking for trouble too.
    Max banged on the door. He waited a while. His father might be . . . doing something. With someone. That woman, Fiona. When there was no reply, he let himself in.
    ‘Jesus fucking—’ he said, retching. The stink was overpowering. He covered his nose with his sleeve and went round the tiny flat opening curtains and windows. He’d not visited in a while. No one had, he reckoned. So much for his dad’s stupid assistant.
    He put the box down on the table in the living room. ‘Dad?’ he called out. He wandered around, kicking old cans and empty food cartons, tripping on strewn clothes and shoes, picking up CDs and gadgets that he’d given him over the months. He eyed the box he’d brought with him today, wondering if his father would even want it.
    Sighing, Max began in the tiny kitchen. It was the worst. He pulled off his hoodie and draped it over the back of a chair. He lifted the stack of congealed plates and takeaway cartons from the sink, sorting what could be thrown away.
    He’s managed to take the rubbish out at least, Max thought, noting the empty bin and fresh liner. He pushed his earphones into place and turned up his music full volume. Somehow, it made the stench seem less. Then he set to washing up, plunging his skinny arms into soapy water that soon became greasy and brown. He emptied the sink, dried up what he had washed so far, then began again. After that, he wiped down all the surfaces, spraying everything with some cleaner he’d found under all the junk in the cupboard. It was that easy, he thought, unable to understand why the place was such a . . .
    ‘Hey! Jesus, you fucking scared the sh—’
    ‘Doesn’t your mother teach you any manners at all?’ Brody Quinell released his son, but received a face full of suds for creeping up on him and grabbing him round the chest. ‘If you will deafen yourself with those stupid things then expect to be pounced upon.’ His father roared with laughter, apparently in a good mood.
    Max pulled out his earphones and heard the tss-tss of the music in his palms. He turned off his iPod and stuffed the thin wires in his pocket. He wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and followed his father into the living room. ‘I haven’t tidied in here yet.’
    ‘Good,’ Brody replied. ‘Then I won’t be losing anything.’
    ‘You can’t leave it like this. Doesn’t that woman of yours do anything?’
    ‘Firstly, she’s not my woman. Secondly, I see no logical reason for you to refer to her in that tone and, thirdly, you’re a teenage boy. You should understand and embrace the disorder. Don’t tell me your mother makes you keep your room tidy?’ Brody lit a cigarette.
    Max wondered if it would matter if he smoked too. Would his dad even know?
    ‘Help yourself.’ Question answered. Brody threw the packet at him, aimed perfectly in his direction. How did he do that? ‘And don’t pretend to me you don’t smoke, either.’ He shook his head and went round closing all the windows. ‘I often smell it on you. Bloody cold today,’ he complained.
    For the next ten minutes father and son sat in silence. Max watched as his father’s cheeks hollowed with every pleasurable suck on the cigarette. There was something about the way his lips curled round the slim stick, the way his large hands ridged with veins deftly bent around it, holding it at his mouth. Max copied his dad. He stared at his own hands, smaller, a bit paler, smoother. He switched his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger but dropped it on to the dirty rug.
    ‘Don’t burn