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Feigning tiredness, Helen retired early, leaving her boss at the bar to go to her room. Carefully, she left the cheap hotel and made her way to Victoria Station and me. We picked up my car and drove out to Croydon. Selsdon Park is a five star hotel. An old building covered in ivy. It sat in extensive formal gardens with a terraced lawn and has a championship golf course all around it. A night there is a small fortune in a suite but as I said, worth the expense. Neither of us wanted to eat when we arrived and checked in. The food looked sumptuous, but our appetites were squashed by a mixture of excitement and nerves. The suite was all it could be, on-suite shower and bathroom, huge bed and a well-stocked mini-bar. The décor was a little dark for my tastes, but the carpet was so lush, it felt like you sunk into it. Helen looked at me, silent and looking scared, like a rabbit in the head lamps of an on-rushing car. I asked if she was okay and if she wanted to back out of what we had. I thank God. His mother thanks me, and God, for coming around when I did. Like I’m supposed to make a difference. Like knowing him fulfills my divine mission in this lifetime. I hope in some small way I have helped, I hope in some small way I’ve shed some light in his dark world. I spend time with him, and look into his deep brown eyes. Sometimes lit with laughter, other times shuttered and shaded and filled with pain. I’ve seen the glint of tears more than once. And all I want to do is hold him, cradle him against me and draw his pain into myself, and infuse my strength and hope into him. But I can’t. He says that no one was there to catch him when he fell. He’s right. Yet my being there to help him back up means nothing. It’s too late, or so he says. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it, or I might as well start digging his grave. I sit on the edge of his bed, and he comes to me, wrapping his arms around my legs, resting his head in my lap, and I stroke his hair. One of his.
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