It was just a small hand movement. At first Graham thought he might have imagined it.
He'd gently placed Joe in the boot of his car, ready to take him somewhere, so that he could come back and tell Kim, job done. Cain had done him a favour, really.
The hand moved again. This time it was unmistakable. Graham's eyes fell on the cuff links Joe was wearing, the ones that had belonged to his father. For the first time in what felt like years, Graham smiled.
...
"What's your name again?" Joe asked, his tone indicating that he didn't really care.
"Graham."
"Graham." Joe repeated, managing to make his name sound like an insult. "My mum was murdered by a Graham."
Graham eyed him, uncertain whether he was telling the truth. Kim hadn't given him many details on Joe's mother's side of the family. "Well, I'm sure I can find an alibi."
That made Joe chortle. "You're funny, Graham. You're wasted as a... what are you?"
"Groundskeeper."
"And that involves managing detention?"
"It does today. Do you want to tell me why you're in detention?"
Joe shrugged.
"Come on, Joseph. If we're both going to be stuck here for a few hours, we may as well talk."
"If you must know, some of the boys in my dorm found a photo of me and my dad. They found it hilarious that he was in a wheelchair."
"So if they were bullying you and not the other way round, why not tell the headmaster that?"
"I'm not a grass, Graham. Besides, hitting them was more fun."
"But you've told me."
"You don't count."
...
"Who is he?" asked the military doctor.
"A John Doe. I just found him. There was no identification on him. What are his chances?"
"He's stable, for now. The longer he stays like this, the less likely it is he'll wake up."
Graham looked at the boy in the bed. He looked peaceful for once.
"I need to know if he wakes up. I'll leave my details at reception. I'm relying on your discretion."
"Sir."
...
When Graham got back in the car, the elation he'd felt from the moment he'd realised Joe wasn't dead faded as the reality of the prognosis set in. He'd as good as killed him.
"No," he sobbed, clutching at the steering wheel, the image of Joe mixing with images of his own wife and child. "No. No. No."
When he'd calmed down, he took his phone out of his pocket. As he did so, he heard Joe's cuff links jingle from where he'd placed them in his other pocket.
This time, Kim would have to believe that Joe was dead. He'd make sure of it.
Scrolling through his contacts, he found the number he was looking for and put the phone to his ear. The call went through to voicemail.
"Zoe? It's Graham Foster. I'm afraid I've got some very bad news..."