Dangerous to Know (16 page)

“OK,” she said, still crying. “OK.”

Then the shouting started, and she pushed me away, even though her face was covered in tears. “That’s Miss Matthews. You should go. Run, Jack!”

“I love you,” I said.

Bethany looked me dead in the eye. “I know.”

I turned and I walked to the gate.

* * *

I got back into school through the broken fence on the back field just as the bell rang for the end of lunchtime. It was a victory, but it didn’t feel like one. I walked into the classroom like a blind man, bumped into someone who shoved me, and I didn’t even register who it was. I stared into the distance, seeing nothing, till some sixth form guy stuck his head round the door and said to Mr Hawking, “Sir, Mr Trelawney wants to see Jack MacNamara.”

So he knew. Someone had seen me after all.

“You’re really in it,” the sixth former said, leaving me outside the Art Block. “They were going insane in Mrs Watts’ office.”

I didn’t reply. Trelawney came banging out of his classroom in a proper rage, “We just had a call from St Agnes’s saying you were seen in the grounds at lunchtime. What is all this about?” He was really pissed off. I’d never seen him like that before. He was practically snarling at me.

What did he expect, an answer?
The girl I love is there and I had to see her, Mr Trelawney.
Yeah, right. I stood and stared at him, silent.

What Trelawney said next left me feeling pretty sick.

“I’m afraid to say, Jack, that I called your parents. Both of them.”

I closed my eyes a moment, cold with horror. Had he told them about the TV? The money?

“Look,” Trelawney went on, sounding less angry now he’d delivered his coup de grâce. “I don’t really see that I had much of a choice. You might as well have just asked me to do it. Sometimes I wonder if you use your brain at all, Jack. Which is a shame because you’re one of the few people in this school with a really fine mind – and I’m including the teachers. What’s the matter with you, Jack?” He shook his head. “Listen, your father will be here at the end of the day and your mother wants you to phone her at work. You’d better come in.”

So Trelawney herded me into the classroom, past the bug-eyed Year Eights staring at me like I’d just grown a second head, and into the little room at the back. There was another desk in there among sheets of plywood leaning against the wall. Someone had carved great tumbling piles of falling leaves into the plywood. They glowed golden in the flickering electric light, and I realized this was Trelawney’s own work.
Poor guy
, I remember thinking.
Getting a load of snotty kids to draw oranges when he’s got more talent in one fingernail.

There was a copy of Saturday’s
Guardian
magazine on the desk.
Alicia Sykes: A Dancer for Our Times. For more than twenty years a prima ballerina with the National Ballet, now she devotes her time to avant-garde choreography.
I couldn’t help staring at the picture. I recognized the dancer; I even recognized the hi-tech kitchen they’d photographed her in, complete with cosy props in the background: jars of home-made marmalade (imported from somewhere), bunches of flowers. It was Dad’s girlfriend, Alicia. Dad’s kitchen. Their kitchen. Their important, busy life in which I was an unwelcome guest.

I stared down at my hand as I picked up the phone on the desk and it was as if it belonged to someone else. It was the same speaking to Mum, like I was listening to another person do it.

“I’m not even angry with you now,” she said, sounding exhausted. I knew straight away Trelawney hadn’t mentioned the money, and silently thanked him. “Actually, I’m just really worried, Jack. You seem utterly out of touch with anyone’s feelings except your own. I don’t like Bethany’s mother but she was very upset about you going to that party. Her poor husband, too—”

“I know about Bethany’s dad, OK. I know he’s really ill. But not being allowed to see each other just makes it all worse for Bethany. Her mum’s totally overreacting.”

“I don’t blame her!” Mum replied, sharply. “She can’t exactly be thinking straight, can she, with her husband in that condition. For the record, I don’t agree with her: I think you and Bethany should see each other if you want to, but it’s not my decision. If Bethany’s mother doesn’t like it, that’s it. That family must be going through a living nightmare at the moment. The fact is you shouldn’t have gone to that party, Jack, or her school. And you know it, too. I know you do.” A pause. “How are things at your father’s?”

“Fine.”

I heard Mum draw in a deep breath. “Look, I’m not going to storm up to school this afternoon and cause a drama. It’s important your father feels he has some influence with you. He’ll collect you at the end of the day.” She sighed. I hate it when she speaks like an
Idiot’s Guide to Psychology
. “Since he’s clearly feeling the need to be involved at the moment.”

She carried on talking but I couldn’t take it in.

“Mum,” I eventually interrupted, “what about Glastonbury? I’m meant to be getting the train on Friday, aren’t I?”

A pause. “We’ll talk about that later.”

It didn’t sound good. Well, not that it made any difference whatsoever. I was going anyway. This time, they’d know where I was. It wasn’t like going off to that party without telling anyone – or going missing. It was more of a disagreement. They needn’t be worried about me like they were about Herod. They knew where I was going, and they’d be idiots not to figure out who I was with.

It wasn’t my fault if they didn’t like it.

I’d just put the phone down when Trelawney came in and said to me, “I don’t trust you an inch, MacNamara. You can bloody well stay in the classroom till the bell goes.”

He sat me down at the back, told the Year Eights to stop staring and that I wasn’t much of an example, and gave me a pile of seashells to draw. So I sat there through a whole double lesson, drawing seashells in charcoal, staring out of the window at the teachers’ car park and wondering where all this was going to end. I wished I was down by the sea with Bethany, throwing shells back into the curling waves, even in the rain.

What was it Mum used to say?
If wishes were fishes, there’d be no space in the sea.

OK, so I’ll admit that by half three I was pretty scared. Dad had lamped me once; what if he did it again? At school. Social death. But you know what? In the end, he didn’t even come himself. She did. Alicia. A Dancer for Our Times. Whatever. He didn’t even bother. Mr Trelawney walked me to the car. Alicia was lounging in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on. Trelawney must have been reading the
Guardian
like I had but made no sign that he recognized her. At least he’s got some style. I could feel the disapproval coming off him in waves.

“You’re really quite a handful, aren’t you?” Alicia said as I got into the car. She gave a stupid fake sigh, as if she was acting in a play. “I shouldn’t have expected less from one of Edward’s sons.” She was making it sound as if she knew us: bullshit.

The worst thing about Dad not coming was the arrogance. He knew I would go with Alicia because he knew I was slightly afraid of him. It was true. That’s the scary thing about my father: he knows what you are thinking; he reads people. It’s why he’s rich, and it’s why he has the kind of girlfriend who appears in the
Guardian
weekend magazine.

So I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a cosy chit-chat with Alicia. I turned to her. It was about time we got a few things straight.

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t like this any more than you do, OK?”

Alicia rolled her eyes, pushed the sunglasses back onto her nose and let out the clutch. As we pulled away, she turned to me and said, “Your father and I have guests this evening. The least you can do is not embarrass him with your silly little teenage moods, OK?”

Obviously, I didn’t bother to answer.

By the time we reached Oxford it was late. The traffic’s bad in rush hour and the Dancer for Our Times was getting increasingly annoyed as the snaking line of cars and buses inched around the ring road.

Alicia stalked off upstairs the minute we got back and for a moment I stood alone in the kitchen, wondering what the hell to do. What was Dad going to say when he got home? I started feeling sick in the pit of my belly. The thing was, I really didn’t know how he might react. In the end, I went from room to room, looking for somewhere with a TV. I just wanted to zone out. There wasn’t one. In a large sitting room with windows overlooking the meadow, I found a projector and a screen that pulled down from the ceiling like a rollerblind. There was a collection of films but, weirdly, they were mainly French – the same kind of stuff Mum and Louis have at home, with a whole load of meaningful silences, kinky hairdressers and not a lot else.

I left that room through a double door and found myself in a library lined with bookshelves. Rugs covered the floor from wall to wall. The air felt thick, syrupy. Early evening light shone in, tinted green by overgrown vine-leaves clustering around a window which faced on to a small gravel garden surrounded with iron railings, all of which were probably maintained at great expense by someone Dad had never even met. I looked at a few of the books but they were mostly old with leather spines, thin yellowing pages and cramped lettering.

In one corner, there was a glass cabinet taller than me containing nothing but a single glass shelf and a porcelain bowl coated with a blueish glaze.

“Ah. You found the Tang dynasty bowl. One of your father’s favourite pieces, I believe. It’s over one thousand years old.” I hadn’t even heard anyone come in. I turned around slowly, not wanting whoever it was to know they’d given me the fear. There was a guy standing in the doorway – someone I’d never seen before, although the voice was familiar. He smiled, showing very white teeth. His hair was short, blonde and glossy. He looked like a well-kept Labrador. “I hope I didn’t startle you. I’m Marcus Stuvesyant – your father’s personal assistant. We’ve spoken on the phone a few times, I think.” He smiled. “We’ve had kind of a long day but Ed’s ready to see you now.” Marcus walked closer, holding out one hand for me to shake, still smiling. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Jack.”

He was probably about the same age as Owen and Herod but, oh, Lordy, Marcus here had taken a different path through the dangerous jungle of life. High-end university in the States probably followed by building orphanages in the Third World, then a tasty and no doubt eye-wateringly well-paid job as personal slave to my dear father. But then Marcus seemed like a nice guy. I shook his hand, suddenly feeling like I didn’t want to come across as a brat.

“You, too.” I smiled back. “You’d better lead the way – I haven’t got a clue where anything is around here.”

Just to ram home the point that although “Ed” was my dad, he really didn’t know me; I didn’t even know my way around his house.

Marcus smoothed over a look of surprise and grinned at me. “These old British places are like warrens sometimes. This one’s eighteenth century, Alicia tells me. Wonderful.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s great, isn’t it?” I can turn it on when I have to, but in my head I was counting to ten, trying to control my irritation. It was starting to get on my nerves, being treated like some kind of employee who’d stepped out of line. If Dad wanted to speak to me, why couldn’t he just come and find me like any normal person instead of issuing a summons as if he was some kind of lord and master from the Victorian times. But I kept a lid on it and followed the blonde Labrador through the library and down a corridor lined with creepy Japanese-looking masks.

We came to a set of heavy carved double doors painted white, and Marcus laid one smooth hand on my arm. He was pretty well built but you could tell it was all from the gym. His hands were so clean, the fingernails perfectly round. “Just in here.” He spoke in a soft voice as if we were in a church. “You’d better knock. He’s working.” And Marcus moved silently away across polished floorboards like a ghost.

Knock? Yeah, right.

I opened the door and went in. At first, my dad didn’t even seem to notice I was there. He was sitting behind a glass desk, which should have looked weird with all the old Indian rugs and dark furniture, but it didn’t. It looked cool. An Anglepoise lamp shed a circle of clear light over a sheaf of A1 – thick, heavy cartridge paper. Creamy white. He had been drawing in ink and pastels – some bright sharp colours, others paler and more muted. It was all abstract, intricate and tightly woven – one shape leading into another, an endless pattern.

Dad glanced up and I held my breath for a second: he looked just like Herod.

“Jack,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you. First of all, I owe you an apology: I shouldn’t have hit you yesterday. There’s no excuse. It was a bad night and I lost my temper.”

I shrugged. This totally wasn’t what I’d expected. “It’s OK.” What was he doing? I couldn’t take my eyes off the swirl of psychedelic colour. Before I could stop myself, forgetting I was meant to hate his guts, I said, “What are you drawing? Music or numbers?”

“So you remember that,” Dad said. “Both, actually. It’s an idea I’ve had. For musicians. You know, in a few years anyone with a decent computer will be able to have their own recording studio at home. Mixing, retracking, adjusting levels. All just by downloading the right software. You’re artistic, though – right?”

“Kind of. I’m not that good.”

“If that was your work in Caroline’s kitchen, you’re lying. Those sketches of a cat were very skilled,” Dad said, unsmiling. A barrier between us had moved away like a sliding window.

I was about to answer but the phone rang, breaking the spell. Dad picked it up immediately, frowning slightly. His eyes flickered to the window; this one faced on to the meadow. A group of copper-coloured cows meandered past. High above the trees, a single bird hovered. I was forgotten: all Dad’s attention was focused on the phone call now.

“Thanks for calling. OK. OK. I’d be grateful if you could do that, yes.” He put the phone down, scribbled something on his paper, and sat looking out of the window for a moment. I couldn’t read the expression on his face at all. He turned towards me but it was as if I wasn’t even in the room; he didn’t see me, just leaned forwards, elbows on the desk, resting his head in his hands a moment.