Page 118 of Crocodile Tears

“Why, so you can continue to use Neil to spy on me?”

His father had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wanted him to be your friend. I thought you liked him.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I’m sorry about that. I hope you’ll stay on in the flat, though, because I want to know you’re safe, and that you have a roof over your head when it all goes wrong.”

“It won’t.”

“If it does…” Noah waved a hand tiredly, as if all the fight had left him. “Also, I want you to know that you can always come back to Lytton AV.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“Fine.” Noah slumped down in his chair. “Take care, son, and don’t be a stranger; you’re always welcome at The Orchard. Charles enjoys your visits.”

“But not you.”

“Not if we’re going to argue all the time.” Noah shrugged. “So maybe you leaving is for the best.”

Alex rocked back on his heels. “Maybe it is. We keep letting each other down. Maybe we should stop pretending and call it a day.”

“I don’t think I’ve let you down, but you clearly do, so…” Noah spread his arms wide in a gesture of futility.

“Yes, you have, Dad,” Alex said quietly. “You’ve been punishing me for Mum’s death for years, and I can’t keep on taking it. I have to go.”

“Fine. Then go.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then, turning on his heel, Alex strode out of his father’s office.

That hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. He’d wanted this to be his moment of triumph, sweeping out against his father’s will to go where he’d be liked and appreciated. Instead, Noah had made it clear he was glad to be rid of him and would only accept him back if he came crawling on his hands and knees.

“Fuck!” he roared, kicking the door of the outer office as he left. He briefly registered Spencer’s shocked look before storming out.

Heading back to the flat, he retrieved one of the packets of crocSolange had given him. He inhaled it so quickly that he almost choked and then threw himself on the bed, trying to rid himself of the image of his father’s wounded, defensive stare.

He fished out his mother’s scarf from under his pillow and inhaled what remained of her scent. He’d taken it to her funeral, stuffed into his jacket pocket, and now the memory of that day flashed vividly into his mind.

His father didn’t say a word to him on the journey there. They both sat stiffly, side by side, gazing out of their respective windows. The press were at the crematorium in force, crowding around as he left the AV.

“Alex – how’s Charles?”

“He’s doing okay, thanks,” he said, trying to push his way through.

“But he’s not well enough to be here today? How does he feel about missing his mum’s funeral?”

Alex didn’t know what to say. He was anxious about the amount of people pressing in on him, waving their microphones in his face. He’d never liked crowds.

“Leave the kid alone!” one of the funeral directors bellowed, coming to his rescue. “For Christ’s sake – he’s only seventeen, and it’s his mum’s funeral. Have some respect.”

The man helped him fight through the scrum and into the safety of the crematorium. Family, friends, and complete strangers turned to look at him, and he wondered if he’d ever get used to being scrutinised so closely. Some of them gave him disapproving stares, while others shot him pitying smiles. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Nobody came to speak to him; maybe they didn’t know what to say.

He took his seat beside his cold, silent father and put his hand in his pocket, searching for his mother’s scarf. It was his lifeline throughout the day as he tried desperately hard not to cry.

His father didn’t say a word to him during the service, or afterwards, as they walked back to the AV. The press pounced on him again, and this time the funeral director wasn’t there to protect him.

“How was the service, Alex? How are you holding up?”

“When’s the court case, Alex? Are you pleading guilty?”

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