‘That CD’s broken,’ he said.
‘No, it’s Rollerskate Skinny.’
He gave it about ten seconds. ‘That’s pants,’ he declared.
‘Give it a chance. Any Sprite left?’
‘It’s gone.’
‘Greedy shite. What’s left to eat?’
He snorted back a giggle. ‘Nothing.’
‘It’s all gone? The whole sack?’
He nodded, on the verge of more giggles.
‘Christ,’ I said, ‘you must have hollow legs.’
Which was when it all finally clicked into place. Haunted by Finn, maybe, a flashback to bombing along in his Audi, Horsedrawn Wishes up full blast. Finn with his window down and a fat spliff drifting sparks in the breeze.
I glanced across at Ben and saw Finn grinning up at me, a fun-loving kid with gaunted eyes and a life sucked dryer every time he drew on a jay. Saw greyish globs spitting, frying, on the cab’s skeletal frame.
Saw what I should already have seen. Or might have seen, had I been around to see.
Maybe. I’m not really the noticing type.
Right there I decided it was time to swing in behind Dee. Until now I’d been feeding her the line that it was best for Ben if I stayed at arm’s length, so he wouldn’t get teased and maybe bullied and one day tainted for being the son of an ex-con. But that was horseshit. The truth being that I was really trying to achieve some kind of retrospective exoneration if Ben lucked out and became a fuck-up too.
Besides, Ben already knew I’d been away doing time. Some day, it was inevitable, he’d find out why, and for who. When he did he’d make his own decisions about what and who was right and wrong, and maybe then he’d come to the same conclusion I had. That dad by default was better than no dad at all, for both of us.
If he didn’t, he didn’t. But until then I’d do whatever it took.
I switched off the stereo. ‘Ben?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘How long have you been smoking dope?’
He denied it, naturally. I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t. But he blushed to the bone and wouldn’t meet my eye. We shouted for a bit, Ben shrill and defensive, but as a mismatch we were up there with Kong and Fay Wray.
‘You’re half the time zonked,’ I said. ‘Grades sliding off the map. Eating your own weight in munchies and giggling like a girl on a wonky swing.’
A sullen snort.
‘Ben, man — you’re twelve.’
‘So?’
‘So get that fucking look off your face or I’ll smack it off.’
He rearranged his features into something pale and hollowed, stared straight ahead.
‘How long?’ I said.
‘How long what?’
‘How long have you been smoking?’
He shrugged. ‘Couple of months.’
‘How much?’
‘Dunno.’
‘One a day? Five? How much?’
‘Depends.’
‘No. It used to depend. Now it doesn’t depend so much because you’ve smoked your last joint.’
No answer. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘How am I going to stop you?’ He shifted in his seat, hunching a shoulder to hide the sly grin twitching in the corner of his mouth. ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘I go to the cops, tell them some fucker’s selling my kid drugs at school.’
‘Dad-’
‘That way, everyone’ll know it was you who squealed. Yeah? Who’ll sell you dope after that? And unless things’ve changed since I was in school, you’ll be due a kicking or three as well. Am I right?’
His shoulders quivered. ‘It’s not like I’m smoking it every day,’ he said. A quavering note in his voice.
‘I don’t give a shit about what it’s not like. From now on, it’s out. Jesus, Ben, it’s a gateway drug.’
‘Chill, Dad. I know what-’
‘You haven’t a fucking clue, Ben. And tell me to chill again, and I’ll chill you. You hear me?’
‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘it’s only a few smokes. It’s not like I killed anyone.’
For a split-second I froze. ‘What’d you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You said something,’ I said, ‘about not killing anyone.’
He shrugged, edged away from me. His Adam’s apple bobbing hard. ‘It’s only dope, dad.’
A throwaway remark? Or did he know?
Either way, he was right. I softened my tone. ‘I know what I’m talking about, Ben. You think you’re the first kid who ever smoked some weed?’
An up-and-under glance from behind the fringe, quizzical. Honesty being the most shocking policy, I went the whole hog. ‘Yeah, I smoked it too.’ This time I ladled on the past tense. ‘And I’m telling you it’s a gateway drug. I started off smoking hash and wound up smoking sixty cigarettes a day.’ I left out the speed, E, acid, poppers, coke, shrooms and PCP. I had a feeling I’d need another shock or two up my sleeve in the years to come.
‘Cigarettes aren’t real drugs,’ he said.
‘They’ll kill you all the same.’
‘Yeah, but I mean-’
‘They’re not illegal, sure. But just in case there’s any confusion, here’s the way it is. If I catch you smoking hash again, I’ll break your fucking fingers to stop you rolling up. Are we clear?’
Over the top, maybe, but it had the desired effect. He slumped back in his seat, shocked at the ferocity of the threat. His skin so pale it seemed to glow in the gathering dusk. Once in a while he’d sniffle, then wipe his nose with a defiant slash, sleeve tugged down across his wrist. After a while, in a small voice, he said, ‘Are you going to tell mum?’
‘Tell her? I’m going to have to move back in with her.’
A half-choked giggle. He looked across at me, eyes huge and watering, hopeful.
‘Tell you what I’m going to do,’ I said. ‘This once, this one time only, I’m giving you an amnesty. You know what an amnesty is?’ He nodded, which was something of a thunder-stealer. ‘Okay, so the amnesty is that I don’t tell your mother, I don’t go to your school, I don’t blow the whistle to the cops. Now you tell me, what’re you going to do?’
He gulped it out. ‘Not smoke hash.’
‘Correct. I mean, Ben, if you keep smoking that crap, football’s out. Forget about it. Your lungs haven’t even formed properly yet. Sucking that shit down, you’ll cripple yourself. You know hash is ten times more cancerous than cigarettes, right?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ I said, ‘they never tell you the downside. Then there’s the mental problems.’
‘I never even had a bad dream,’ he said.
‘Not yet, maybe. But they’ve done studies into the long-term effects of smoking dope. Know what they found?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do they. And I don’t know about you, but that scares the shit out of me.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t have any effect.’
I admired his guts, the way he wasn’t taking it lying down. But he had to learn. ‘I knew this guy,’ I said, ‘he was chilled, like you’d say. Nice guy, friendly. Liked a smoke. Guy was rich, had a good-looking girlfriend, no problems.’
‘So?’
‘He jumped off nine stories for no reason anyone can see. Last night. You’re sitting in his car right now.’
That got him. ‘Remember the crime scene earlier?’ I said. ‘I was there when it happened. The guy hit so hard he looked like a dwarf after. Smashed every bone in his body. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow, look out for it. His name was Finn Hamilton.’
‘He jumped because he was on hash?’
‘This is what I’m saying. No one knows why he jumped. But yeah, he smoked a lot of grass, for years. And I don’t care what it is you’re taking, acid or fucking bran flakes, you do something for years, it’s going to have an effect. You want to turn out a mentaller?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
He didn’t speak for half an hour. I let him stew, cranked up the stereo, let Rollerskate Skinny take us home. We came off the Tubbercurry bypass and I’d just dug out the makings to roll a smoke when my phone rang, caller ID flashing Dee-Dee-Dee.