Chapter 3
3
JOE
I see black sheep after black sheep after I leave that lay-by, and I’d blame them for making me late for my court-related visit if I didn’t know how bad it feels to be labelled. The training for my welfare role only hammered home that linking negatives to a colour is extra harmful. I’d never want to do that to another person. However, I can’t help identifying with this flock that blocks the road right when I need to hurry. They’re only doing what comes naturally by herding together.
I did the same when I was younger, which makes claiming that black-sheep label powerful these days. Owning it helps me to reach the teens I work with. The ones caught up in gang-related bullshit. Believe me, I know how easy it is to play follow-the-leader and to leap without looking like some of them have.
At least Josh can’t see me live up to that label by using my phone again while my engine is still running. He won’t care that I’m stationary in a narrow lane with no other traffic around, or that I won’t be going anywhere in a hurry until this farmer on a quad bike finishes moving his flock from one field to another. Josh will still spit legislation at me for taking my phone from its holder to check the name of the contact I’m in danger of running late for.
Hugo Heppel-Eavis.
Thankfully, the only witness is that farmer who removes his crash helmet while I leave an I’m running late message with a local school. He waits until I stop speaking to raise a hand, still on the far side of a churning mass of woolly bodies. I guess he’s signalling at me to have patience. I get a different message. Or maybe reminder is a better word for this view of flaming red hair and freckles.
They’re familiar.
I kill my engine and get out, because this guy is so similar to the photo of the kid I’m here to write a court report for that he must be related.
Noah Emerson lives with his brother, doesn’t he?
My mind flashes back to Lenny. And to Isaac. To how the last year must have left marks on both of them. I couldn’t stop that from happening to them. All I can do is stop that shitshow from repeating for some other family. That’s why I shove my way through sheep for the first time in my life, and they’re bigger than they look on the telly. This herd shoves back like they recognise a kindred spirit, not letting me through, and I have to shout from a distance.
“Hi. Are you Marc Emerson?”
“Who wants to know?” His accent sounds like home, which is a mindfuck this many miles from London, but it does explain his suspicion. No one from knife crime central willingly invites trouble, and, to be honest, he doesn’t need to answer—he really is the spitting image of the kid who has brought me all the way to Cornwall.
“I’m Joe da Silva.” I see recognition flicker at first, then deepen as I keep going. “Court-appointed juvenile liaison officer. I’m guessing you’re Noah’s brother. His legal guardian. If you can confirm that, I can talk with you.” And yeah, here’s another Isaac reminder—this country farmer with a city accent gets just as protective at me mentioning a little brother.
His freckled face shutters.
So did Isaac’s the first time I met him until I showed him skin-deep proof of my own that I’d survived what he was most scared of. Not for himself, for little Lenny, but I’m used to this closed-off reaction. Where we’re from, being a witness for the prosecution can be a death sentence or can buy a lifetime of silence.
Ask me how I know that.
Marc Emerson must have come to the same conclusion.
He’s gutted.
“They finally set a court date?”
“Almost. Me getting assigned to Noah means it’s coming.” I’m jostled by sheep until he whistles. A black-and-white streak of canine lightning parts this bleating sea and Marc and I meet in the middle, where he shows me ID that is barely necessary.
“I kept hoping that Noah?—”
“Wouldn’t get called to give evidence? That the case would get dropped?” I shake my head. “Not a chance. It’s going ahead.” This is what I’m really here for. “Your brother’s gonna need all the support he can get.”
“He’s got plenty.” His chin lifting is a real Isaac reminder. “Yes, he didn’t have the best of home circumstances, or me there to fight his battles. Wintergreen is?—”
“Tough on kids?” I nod. “I get it.”
He nods too. “I’m here for him now, so I’m telling you that Noah has already given a statement. He doesn’t know anything more about what happened to him.”
That’s what all my clients tell their families.
Fuck it, it’s what I told my own—yeah, the kid who threw acid at me served time, but there’s no way that nineteen-year- old me could have spilled who gave the order and then stood back to watch, especially with no support to face him across a courtroom if I’d named names. It’s a big ask. A huge one, and Noah Emerson is three years younger than I was. The poor kid already caught a knife through the heart for being in the wrong place at the worst time. This has got to feel like another blade hanging over his head.
“I get that you’re protective.” That’s another Isaac reminder. “Noah got caught up in gang violence. Got hurt.” I’m as blunt as my own brother. “Attempted murder can’t be swept under the carpet.” I push up the sleeves of my suit jacket to show off my own credentials. “Like I said. I get it, Marc. Yes, he’ll be called to testify, but I can help negotiate the process.”
“Like?”
“Like applying for anonymity methods. Courtroom screens, maybe, or video contributions with face and voice distortion. There are plenty of ways for him to give evidence from a dist?—”
“He doesn’t have any more evidence to give.”
“He still needs to know his options.” And I need to voice what family members never want to hear from me. “Some kids do better offloading their worries on a stranger.” Looking back, I wish I’d had someone to spill my guts to. “And some only really start to put the past behind them after having their moment in court.” We already share the same accent, so I speak plainly. “He got knifed. Giving him the chance to look whoever did that in the eye means?—”
“That he’ll stop sleeping at night all over again?” My second protective big brother of the morning spits that. Or the third big brother if I count Josh, who beat me to birth by only minutes. This one is easily as abrupt as him. “Almost all of Noah’s blood drained out in a stairwell. You really think he wants to relive that?”
I feel him right down to my bone marrow. Who wouldn’t try to shield a sibling? I still need to say, “It could mean he gets some kind of closure.” I shoot a look at my own old wounds, then lay bare pain that I’ll never escape. “Take it from someone who knows, there’s no letting go of the past when you hold back.”
Like I’ve had to.
Tell Josh which Wintergreen top boy gave the order to leave me a marked man?
Someone would have ended up dead, and I couldn’t risk it being him even if I didn’t know Josh had his heart set on working alongside the police back when we were nineteen. If he’d taken the law into his own hands based on my best guess and zero hard evidence, his future would have been ruined too.
Sheep jostle me again, following the herd like I did back when I thought I knew so much better. Turned out, I knew nothing. At least I can sound sure about this. “Your brother is staying here long term?”
He nods. “For as long as he needs. Forever, if I had my way. He loves helping on the farm. Not so keen on the celebrations we host at our wedding venue, too many people, but he can work here for life if he wants. He doesn’t ever have to go back.”
“Then he has a real chance to leave behind what happened to him for good.”
This nod is tight. Abrupt. It also comes with a deep sigh. “Noah goes by my married name instead of my stepdad’s. Luxton instead of Emerson.” I shake the hand he offers. “You were planning on talking to him without me?”
At least that’s one worry I can nip in the bud. “I’d like to talk to him today, but I understand from his social worker that he declined to meet me.”
Marc nods.
“That’s why I’m here to take impact statements from his teachers and get a feel for how he’s doing.” I mention the role I miss the most. “I’m heading to his school now to meet the head of pastoral care. Noah won’t even know I’m there. Once I’ve got everything written up, I’ll come up with a strategy to make this as easy as possible for him.” I need him to hear this. “I’m court appointed, but I’m one hundred percent here for your brother, not for the police. He isn’t the one on trial.”
That seems to make a difference. Marc murmurs what sounds to be a difficult admission. “Listen, you aren’t the only one he doesn’t want to talk to. The school says he might be shutting down any conversations about what happened as a coping strategy. And they’ve noticed a few other issues since he started at Glynn Harber.” He’s quickly defensive. “If he is autistic, like they’re investigating, I would have got him help way sooner.” He scrubs his face with his hands, freckles stark against sudden paleness. “I didn’t know. I still don’t. Not for sure.”
I mentally review the case notes I already gathered. “You didn’t live together when he was younger?”
“Not all the time. He’s just Noah to me, you know? Bright as hell. Mad about footy and his dogs. They’re saying some kids cope right up until they can’t. Mask when they’re struggling. If that’s what he’s doing now, it means he’s been struggling for a while. The school say there are loads of ways to help, just as soon as everyone is on the same page.”
I’m no child development specialist. That job title belongs to my sister-in-law. “I have a contact who might have some resources. Some tools for families. Want me to get some to you?”
“What I want is for all of this to go away. For him.”
I feel that all the way to my soul. This too.
“Noah doesn’t deserve any of it.”
“No. And I’ll do everything I can so he doesn’t feel like he’s the one on trial. If he ever decides to change his mind about meeting me face-to-face ahead of his court date, I could reassure him of that.”
This big brother sighs, eyes fixed on my forearms before his gaze rises. “I can’t promise he’ll ever want to meet you.”
That’s no surprise. It’s only a reminder of what Isaac already made plain.
Black sheep like me are rarely welcome.
I arrive at a very different school from the last one I worked in. My old workplace had a bad weapons problem, and it wasn’t alone. Every teacher in that borough has stories of finding blades in book bags. Now I park outside a private boarding school that doesn’t look like it can share that issue.
Glynn Harber is green, leafy, and well cared-for. Classroom windows sparkle instead of being covered by bars or boards, and all this fluttering bunting strung between trees and buildings isn’t anything I usually witness. But appearances can be deceptive, and I get a swift reminder once I grab my laptop case and head for the front door of the school only to be surprised by a firearm.
“Halt!”
Thank fuck this gun is only a stick wielded by a little kid who pokes it through the fence around an outdoor classroom. I still play along and follow orders. “I’m halting, I’m halting. Don’t shoot.” I raise my hands, which pleases my captor, then I lower them even faster when gravity gets to work on my sleeves.
Maybe I don’t need to worry about frightening the kids here with the marks on my skin. The man who hurries to join us has one that gives my own a run for their scary money. At least I get to choose whether to keep my worst wounds hidden. This man doesn’t have that option. His scar slashes his face, the very first thing anyone gets to notice.
He gets closer, and yeah, it wasn’t a blade that left this damage, or acid, and he lets me know I’m staring by addressing that head-on.
“A souvenir from Syria,” he says cheerfully. “Which is where Hadi here comes from.” He leans over the classroom fence and ruffles dark hair. “Who is still a touch over-excited after this morning’s career talk from a soldier. Remember what he told us, Hadi? That he spent more time rebuilding and peacekeeping than fighting, so how about you go see if you can rebuild your plank bridge?” He returns this kid’s smart salute and watches him march off to a sandpit before returning to me. “Sorry about that greeting. Not the most relaxing start for your interview, I imagine.”
“Interview?” I tap my laptop case. “No, I’m here to gather data for a court report.”
“Ah! Of course. You’re Joseph da Silva?”
“Joe, but I’m the one who needs to be sorry. For running late. And for staring.”
He extends a hand, his grip firm and steady. “You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last.” He shrugs, easy in skin that must have been a challenge to stitch together. “Hugo Heppel-Eavis. Head of pastoral care. Sorry for the confusion. I’m expecting to sit in on an interview soon.”
I can’t help picturing Isaac changing his clothes by the roadside, even though teaching wasn’t his bag when I knew him. Books were, like the ones filling his room at uni when I had to track him down and tell him to come home for his brother. And the ones filling the back of that van.
How did he end up with it?
I don’t mean to frown while wondering about someone I missed my chance with, or to stare at this man’s injury.
“Blast damage,” he tells me matter-of-factly, and he runs a fingertip from the edge of an eye to where one side of his mouth is frozen. The other half smiles. “Some people think this must be a reminder of the worst day of my life. Of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I could give the same reason for the scars that I hide out of habit, hands shoved deep into my pockets, but that would begin our first meeting with a lie, and I’m done with those. “I was still staring.” It’s only now that I notice the dog collar peeking above his sweatshirt. “Sorry, uh, Reverend.”
“Just Hugo is fine. Or Padre. That’s what the students call me. And there’s no need to be sorry.” His gaze lands on my laptop case that Meera gave me, no shades of grey on this vivid rainbow cover, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t sweat outing himself to a stranger.“My husband says this makes me very eye-catching.” He traces the scar I stared at. “He might not have looked at me twice without it, so I can’t help thinking the right thing happened to me at exactly the right time.” He moves away from the fence, walking me across the playground. “Before Charles, I thought I’d come to the end of the road with my vocation. Couldn’t see a way to get over the past and move forward. Turned out all I needed was faith. And patience.”
My dad only remembers to be religious when visiting my grandparents. No trip to Lisbon is complete until I light candles with them, as if attending a cathedral Mass will wash my soul clean of my piss-poor teen decisions. The only real faith I’ve ever had is in Josh. Yeah, I knocked his in me, but we’re still rebuilding. As for patience, chemical burns taught me that I had fuck all. There’s no escape from that kind of pain, that torture. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.
I open my mouth, then close it, voiceless for a too-long moment.
He fills my silence. “It’s good to meet you, Joseph.”
I’d remind him to call me Joe if he didn’t gut me with his next confession.
“I’d almost given up on you.”
For a split second, I don’t stand in bright spring sunshine outside a school. I’m back on the edge of a cliff with Isaac saying almost the same words to me.
I gave up on you.
I have a few firm words with myself then.
Stop thinking about him.
I need to.
Have to.
Must, if I’m going to build professional relationships here—a bridge, like that little kid now constructs across a sandpit. Only my bridge will need to stretch all the way from here to a London courtroom, so I get honest in a hurry, and as candid as he’s been with me.
“I almost gave up, too.”
“On finding your way to Glynn Harber? We are a little off the beaten track.”
I hesitate, not sure whether to keep going. “No.” I clear my throat. This still emerges hoarsely, because all da Silvas are big men who never admit to weakness in the ring or outside of it. I guess it’s good that I stopped trying to live up to my surname and stature the minute I cried in front of medics, begging them to make my pain end. There’s nothing like that kind of helplessness to help a hard man crack like a nut under a hammer. This man having been through something similar makes it easy to admit, “I don’t mean that my satnav sent me in the wrong direction. I mean that I lost myself for a few years before this happened.”
I check that no kids are watching through the fence around that outdoor classroom, then push up the sleeves of my jacket. My own scars are just as visible as his, if for more sulphuric reasons. The years have lightened them from their first black, red, and ugly purple. Nothing will ever change what was left once that nightmare sloughed off. “I’d already strayed from the straight and narrow. Done enough petty crime to get a DTO.” He nods as soon as I expand on those initials. “A Detention and Training Order.”
“Like several of our students. Our children. You were how old, Joseph?”
“Fourteen, the first time. I was a repeat offender, and all my time in custody ever did was give me kudos with the wrong people when I got out. I had a tag on my ankle and clout with the top boys on our housing estate, or I thought I did. That’s when I really got lost, which is why I don’t only work for the courts with teens caught up in the same kind of gangs that fu—” I moderate my language. “That chewed me up and spat me back out looking like this.” I rub a palm across one of my permanent reminders. “I hold workshops wherever gangs are prevalent.” Where aren’t they lately? “My two roles are interlinked. Part of an initiative to stop kids getting sucked into drug distribution.”
“A police initiative?”
I’m no cop. I leave that to the officers Josh and my dad work alongside, but I don’t think this padre sees my head shake. He’s too busy studying what I usually keep covered, and he doesn’t need a fully mobile face to show concern for burns I’ve learned will only attract the real weirdos on Grindr. I do have to clear my throat again to allow, “I don’t have the best track record with law enforcement.”
My real beef is with the justice system. Yeah, it’s needed. It also needs more nuance, which he gives me the time to explain.
“Arresting me didn’t solve my problems. Locking me up made them worse, not better. Thought I was a big man until someone bigger decided I might be competition.” That’s the only reason I can think of for my climb up a crime ladder ending with no warning. “I escalated right up until I was nineteen, and…”
I rub over skin that used to turn as gold as Isaac’s is year-round. I’d tan during summer breaks full of Josh and me diving through waves on Portuguese beaches. The last time I swam in the sea with him, my nerve endings were still so messed up I couldn’t even get goosebumps at the Atlantic’s coolness. Now I feel the ghost of them prickle when this school padre gazes.
Not at my scars.
Not into my eyes either.
He stares straight into my soul.
“And then, Joseph?” he asks softly. “After you were injured?”
That’s a polite way to describe me getting put in my place by men right at the tippy-top of a gang hierarchy I bought into as my only way to feel successful. I shake my head, still struggling to find the right words to describe the lost years after. Finally, I manage to tell him, “I had a while of barely treading water until I heard about a job at my old school for an education and welfare officer.”
“Can’t have been easy.”
“To get that job with my track record?” Hindsight lends me plenty of conviction. “Kinda think it made me the perfect candidate to reach kids like me. Even with a long list of police cautions and worse on my record, I fought for that spot and then spent years playing detective.” I snort. “Must be genetic.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because my family work in police-adjacent roles.”
“Doing?”
“Dad was a traffic squad technician. A mechanic. My brother is an analyst. Thought he’d end up as a tech millionaire but he switched to digital forensics. Now the only millions he finds are laundered.” I don’t enjoy revisiting those early days of waking up to a world of pain for me and shame for them. Didn’t matter if they never said so. My eyes worked fine. I saw it. “At least me doing detective work of my own meant I could put in early interventions.”
One eyebrow rises. I answer his unasked question.
“When I used to be a hands-on welfare officer, a kid’s lunch box being empty once could be accidental. Twice signals bigger potential issues.” I scan the sparkling windows of this impressive building. “Don’t imagine you have much of that problem.”
He puts me in my place, if gently. “Most of our boarding students have a free place here.”
“Sorry, sorry.” I scrub my face. “Second time I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion today.” The first was that Lenny should be in school. “I don’t usually make a habit of it, but kids do tend to hide what’s going wrong at home until it’s too late. Or until someone pays attention.” All of Lenny’s stories about his Mum’s new boyfriend showering them both with gifts and attention could have been a love-bombing prediction. If he’d had support earlier, he might have mentioned all the strangers who knocked on their front door the minute she left for work. Cuckooing, they call it. His mum mistook romance for a drug dealer invading what should have been Lenny’s safe nest until the cops handcuffed her.
The padre is grave. “And after you paid attention?”
I jump when a bell rings and echoes. The sound of doors opening and closing also carries, as do children’s voices. They’re excited for their playtime, so I speak quickly before they reach this playground. “And then we used to act. All of us together. Welfare teams, teachers, support staff, food banks and health visitors, doctors and social services.”
I skip the police. Where I got into trouble, no one trusts them.
“I miss that teamwork aspect.” I draw in a deep breath as kids flood past, and I get back to business. “That’s part of why I do these court reports face-to-face instead of via email. People share more when they see what can happen where I’m from. Where Noah Emerson is from.”
And Isaac and Lenny.
“Noah Emerson?” The padre frowns.
“Luxton, now. Don’t blame him for the name change.”
A shout rings out, a teen yelling, “I’m free!” and if that isn’t what I want for more kids, I don’t know what is. I turn in the direction of a game of football kicking off in the playground. “I’m free,” that kid yells again until a football gets passed in his direction.
This student’s auburn hair is flame-bright, on fire, like I’ve seen once today already, and I guess who it belongs to in advance of the padre asking, “Want me to introduce you to him when his game is over?”
“No. He knows I’ve been appointed by the court for him, but I’ve agreed with his guardian to wait until Noah asks to meet. It’s his decision. I’d prefer this visit to be incognito, if possible. Less stressful for him, yeah?” I mention what Marc Luxton told me. “Especially if he’s already stressed by a recent diagnosis?”
“Potential diagnosis. It’s early days. Time will tell. We’re in no hurry.”
Even if I hadn’t already come to that tread-carefully agreement with his brother, it seems like I wouldn’t get to talk to Noah anyway. He’s too far away for me to see if his face is as freckled as his brother’s. He’s definitely as defensive—he takes one look in my direction and takes off running.
Not towards me.
He bolts for a pathway between trees and is gone.
“It isn’t like Noah to abandon a match. It’s one of his special interests.” The padre eyes me, and this is the most reserved he’s been since my arrival. “I thought you said you hadn’t met yet?”
“I haven’t.”
Noah reappears across the playground from us, an envelope in his hand that the padre explains. “Ah. Seeing me must have reminded him.”
“Of?”
“Of a celebration we’re having. It started as a one-off event with alumni.” His gaze rises to the fluttering bunting. “We uncovered an old time capsule full of hopes and dreams from past students. Filling one of our own has become a bit of a whole-school event. So many people wanted to involve friends and families that we’ve extended our celebration.”He cups his hands to his mouth. “No rush, Noah. Take your time to think about what you want to bury.”
He lowers his hands and then stares into my soul one more time.
“How about you join in with us?” He pulls an envelope like Noah’s from his pocket. “Let go of something for Glynn Harber to take care of for you.”
I take what he offers and pocket it even though I won’t be staying beyond this lunchtime, and the padre makes another suggestion. “At least meet our headmaster once we’ve finished filling the gaps in your court report. I know he’d appreciate hearing about your dual roles. Especially your workshops.” His gaze drops to my sleeves. “And I’d appreciate hearing more about what brought you full circle, if you felt like sharing? I’ll take all the insight I can get.” He makes what most people shy away from seem valuable, and I’m winded by three little words that land like punches. “You’d be welcome.”
“I…”
I should say that I can’t stay. That I need to head home to return my shared car, and maybe to keep my pregnant sister-in-law from climbing ladders, or to explain shades of grey to my brother if Josh invites me over.
The padre must see my hesitation. “No rush to decide. Think about it while we work through Noah’s report.” He heads off, and I follow him into the school, crossing mosaic floor tile spelling out the word Welcome .
And this black sheep?
He could get used to that feeling.