Lifesaving for Beginners (17 page)

Brona rings.
She says, ‘I don’t want to put any pressure on you but .
.
.’

This means she’s about to put pressure on me.
I’m not going to make it easy for her.
I say, ‘What?’

She says, ‘Oh sorry, Kat, I’m probably disturbing you, am I?’

‘I’m in the middle of a pretty tricky chapter, to be honest.’
When I say ‘to be honest’ at the end of a sentence, that often means I’m lying through my teeth, but Brona doesn’t know that because she takes everyone at face value, which is both her greatest gift and her biggest failing, if you ask me.

‘Oh gosh, I’m terribly sorry.
Should I ring back later?’

The choice is to have pressure applied now and thereby get it over and done with, or later, which would allow me to continue what I am doing, which is, in fact, nothing at all.

I say, ‘No, it’s fine, now is fine.’

‘I’m just wondering about the book.
Did you have a date in mind?’

‘A date?’

‘Yes.
For the drop.’

Brona can’t understand why I can’t just email the manuscript.
Or put it in a Jiffy bag.
She insists that none of her colleagues would open a Jiffy envelope that is addressed to her.
I’ve never worked in an office but I’ve seen them on the telly.
Everyone wants to know everything about everyone.
You can’t be careful enough.

The drop never takes place at or anywhere near the publishing house.
In fact, I’ve never been to the publishing house.
Instead, I meet Brona at various train stations around London.
I ring her when my plane lands at Heathrow and give her the name of the train station.
I vary it.
We’ve never met in the same place twice.
We often meet in bookshops at the stations, although never in the crime/thriller section.

Brona says, ‘Hello?
You still there, Kat?’

I say, ‘Sorry.
I was miles away.’

‘Penny for them?’

It’s true.
I am miles away.
I’m in Paddington station.
The Mind, Body and Spirit section of WHSmith, to be precise.
I remember every drop, but this one in particular.
Brona was there when I arrived, leafing through a book entitled
Soulmates and How to Get One
.
Beside her, on the floor, was a black leather briefcase, with a combination lock.

I moved towards her.

We didn’t speak to each other.
Or even look at each other.
We never do.
I stood near her and set my briefcase – a black leather one with a combination lock – on the floor, then picked up a random book, which happened to be
Love in the Time of Cauliflowers
,
and which Brona would later deem to be a sign.
It was a cookbook for food-lovers in search of aphrodisiacs.

Brona replaced her book on the shelf and reached down, careful to bend at the knees.
Her back can sometimes ‘go out’, she told me once.

She picked up my briefcase – with the manuscript of the seventh Declan Darker book – and slipped away.
After an appropriate lapse of time – long enough to read a recipe for ‘star-crossed lentil-lovers soup’, I too replaced the book, picked up the other briefcase – containing nothing other than a congratulations card and a wilting bunch of lilies – and left the bookshop.

I headed to the Savoy.
I always booked into the Savoy after each drop.
I bought the usual supplies – a family-pack of Jelly Babies, a split of champagne and two Cuban cigars – and stayed for the afternoon.

I love hotel rooms.
The anonymity of them.
Sometimes, after I’ve eaten and drunk and smoked everything, I kick off my shoes, put on some music and tango through the room with my arms wrapped round an imaginary partner.
And why not?
Who would know?
The walls of the Savoy hotel are as solid as a shelf of hardbacks.

All the drops have been pretty much identical.
They’ve all gone to plan apart from Drop Number Five, when a baseball-cap-wearing pimply youth tried to steal Brona’s briefcase.
She gave chase, caught up with him outside Dunkin’ Donuts, wrestled him to the ground and beat him about the head with the heel of her shoe.
The manager of Dunkin’ Donuts phoned 999 and Brona remained in a seated position on the flat of the man’s back until the police arrived.
She may be small but she’s pretty solid.

‘Kat?’

‘Yes?’

‘My goodness, you really are in a daze today.
I should let you get back to the writing.’

‘Yes, I .
.
.’

‘You’re thinking about the drop in Paddington station.
WHSmith.
Aren’t you?’

‘Why on earth would I be thinking about that?’
Brona claims she’s got ‘the sight’ ever since she had a premonition that Jeremy would sustain a grievous bodily injury, and the very next day, Jeremy’s boyfriend, Harold, rang in to say that Jeremy was incapacitated following an incident with a lawn mower and some WD40.

‘Because .
.
.
you know .
.
.
you met Thomas after.
On the plane home, remember?
It was a Friday.
It poured with rain.’

‘You’ve some memory.’

Brona is a details woman.
And she’s also an incurable romantic – her description, obviously.
She thought it was romantic, the way me and Thomas met.
She thinks lots of things are romantic but there’s nothing romantic about a suspicious package in the men’s toilet in Terminal Two.

But now I’m thinking about the magic show in the Button Factory and I hate the way memory does this.
Goes from one thing to the next, like a line of dominoes falling one by one.

Oddly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, the magic show.
It was better than I expected, actually.
A lot better, in fact.

Brona says, ‘What do you mean?’

I say, ‘What?’

‘You said, “a lot better”.’

‘Did I?’
My thoughts are seeping out of me.
Probably all the time I’m spending on my own.

Brona persists.
‘What’s a lot better?’

‘Oh you know, everything really.
Now that everything’s, you know, pretty much back to normal.’

‘That’s marvellous, Kat.’
A lengthy pause ensues.
Then Brona says, ‘So, the manuscript.
I’m simply dying to read it.
May I?’

‘May you what?’

‘Read it.’

‘Oh .
.
.
yes.
Of course.
But I’m .
.
.
it’s not finished yet.’

‘No, no, of course not.
Don’t overdo it now, will you?’

I look around.
The apartment looks like it’s been burgled.
And the burglars ate a fair amount of fast food, judging by the empty boxes and cartons lying about.
And they got through a fair bit of wine.
I haven’t seen my laptop in weeks.
It might be under my bed.
There’s some kids’ programme on the telly.
The main character is a yellow sponge, as far as I can tell.

I say, ‘No, I’ll try not to overdo it.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m so excited about this one, Kat.’

‘Me too.’

‘Ta ra, then.’

‘Yeah.
Ta ra.’

‘So you’ll call me?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘When it’s done?
You’ll let me know?’

‘Of course.’

When she starts into her usual recital line of ‘Byebyebyebyebye .
.
.’
the relief is gigantic.
And when the line, eventually, goes dead, I lie on the couch for a long, long time as if I’ve been exerting myself.
Overdoing it.

But I haven’t been overdoing it.
I haven’t been doing anything.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Rob and Faith have a meeting with somebody called Lewis Lennon, who is in charge of the Crowns.
Rob bought a new-second-hand leather jacket that looks the same as his old one except there’s no hole in the shoulder from Faith’s cigarette.
He is wearing sunglasses.
The windscreen wipers on his van make a screeching sound every time they move across the window.

I’m in the back seat.
Sometimes Rob lets me sit in the front even though you’re supposed to be twelve years old or a hundred and thirty-five centimetres.
I’m short for my age but Faith says that Ant and Adrian were midgets till they were eighteen and now they’re even taller than Dad.

I’ll be ten next month.
Double digits, Mam said.
She said Damo could have a sleepover when I was ten.
Not on my actual birthday.
Maybe on Boxing Day or the day after that.
She said she’d take us to the cinema and for a proper meal afterwards, one with cutlery that’s not plastic and fish and chips that aren’t wrapped in paper.
I don’t know if Faith knows about the sleepover.
I’ll tell her about it when she’s happy again.

Rob lights a cigarette and Faith tells him to put it out.
He pulls down the window and blows the smoke outside.
Faith shakes her head and Rob says, ‘For fuck’s sake,’ and Faith says, ‘Can you stop cursing?’
and Rob shakes his head and Faith sighs and Rob throws his cigarette out of the window and they don’t say anything to each other for ages.

Faith forgot about the parent–teacher meeting at school today.
We got a half day because of all the parents coming.
Good job I got home when I did.
Two minutes later and Faith would have been gone.
When I arrive, she’s climbing into Rob’s van.
Faith gave me a key for the front door.
Just for emergencies, she said.
That means if Mrs Barber is not at home when I get back from school.
It’s on a keyring that has a picture of a lifeboat on it.
I don’t mind being in the house on my own.
I usually sit at the window in the sitting room because you can see people on the street so you know what’s going on.
The house is very quiet when it’s just me, though.
Apart from the floorboards upstairs, which creak a lot, as if someone is walking on them.

Faith says, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Milo?’

She bites her lip when I tell her and looks at Rob, who shrugs and says, ‘It’s just a parent–teacher meeting.
No biggie.
My parents never went to those things.
Waste of time.’

Faith looks at me and says, ‘Do you mind if I don’t go to it?
It’s just .
.
.
this meeting is important for the band and I want to call in to Jonathon too.’

I say, ‘I don’t mind at all.’

It takes ages to get to London on account of the traffic.
When we get to the street where Jonathon’s office is, Rob pulls over and a car behind beeps because he didn’t put his indicator on, like you’re supposed to.

He turns off the engine.
It ticks like a clock.

He picks up Faith’s hand and says, ‘Look, I’m sorry about this morning.
I’m just nervous about the meeting, y’know?’

Faith says, ‘I know.
And I will come with you.
I just want to check in with Jonathon first.
See if there’ve been any developments.’

Rob takes his hand away from Faith’s.
Puts it back on the steering wheel.
‘If there were any developments, he would have rung you.
You know that.’

Faith picks up her bag.
She looks at me.
‘Are you right, Milo?’

I take off my seatbelt and slide over to the door beside the pavement.

Faith says, ‘Will you wait here for me?’

Rob says, ‘Yeah, unless I get moved along by a warden.’

‘I have my phone.’

‘Don’t be long.
We can’t be late for Lewis.’

‘Wish me luck.’

‘Luck.’

She opens the door and Rob grabs her hand and pulls her towards him so he can kiss her.
I get out of the van but they’re still kissing so I bend down and untie the lace of my trainer and then tie it up again.
I do it really slowly, so that they’ll be finished by the time I stand up.

He says, ‘Twenty minutes.
Max.
Otherwise we’ll be late for the meeting.
OK?’

Faith nods and gets out of the van.
She stands on the pavement for a moment, looking up at the building.
Then she says, ‘Right,’ and moves towards the revolving doors.
If you close your eyes and go round and round and then jump out, you stagger like Sully does when he drinks beer really quickly out of a can.

If Faith is in a good mood on the way out, I might do it.

Jonathon says, ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ when Faith pokes her head round the door of his office.
He doesn’t look surprised.
He looks happy.
Then he sees me and he doesn’t look as happy as before.

Faith says, ‘I was just wondering if there have been any developments?’

Jonathon looks at his watch before he stands up and says, ‘Come in, come in.
Would you like a coffee?
Or a glass of water?
It’s too late for lunch, I suppose?’

Faith moves inside the office.
I follow her.
Jonathon doesn’t ask me if I’d like a coffee or a glass of water or some lunch if it isn’t too late.
I don’t like coffee.
If he had a can of Coke, I’d drink that.
Damo can drink a can of Coke in one gulp and then do the loudest belches you ever heard.
He can talk when he belches so his voice sounds like a robot or something.

On the desk is a paper plate with a half-eaten ham sandwich on it.
Jonathon wipes his hands on the back of his trousers before he holds out his arm towards Faith.
She shakes hands the way Mam told us to.
A short shake with a firm grip.
Faith sits down on a chair that is just like the one on the other side of Mr Pilkington’s desk, and, after a while, Jonathon sits down too.
I sit on the couch again.

Jonathon looks at Faith and says, ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
and then he smiles like he’s said something really funny.
Faith says, ‘It’s just .
.
.
it’s been three weeks and I’ve heard nothing from you and I just wondered .
.
.’

Jonathon taps at his keyboard, peers at the monitor, shakes his head.
‘There haven’t been any developments, I’m afraid.’

Faith doesn’t say anything.
Jonathon squirms in his chair, as if he’s trying to hold in a fart.
‘I told you that we’d write to you.
If we have any news.
You have my word on that.’

Faith says, ‘How many letters have you sent?’

Jonathon peers at the computer screen again.
He squints his eyes when he does this, as if he should be wearing glasses.
‘The registered one is due to go out this week.
That’ll be the third one.’

Faith stands up, walks to the window, looks down.
I hope Rob hasn’t been moved on by a warden.

‘What happens if you don’t get any response?’

Jonathon makes a bridge out of his hands and puts his chin on it.
He takes a deep breath before he answers, as if he has a lot of things on his mind.

He says, ‘There’s only so much we can do, I’m afraid.
There are regulations.
Very strict guidelines and—’

‘Couldn’t you just give me her name and address and I can follow it up myself ?’

Jonathon shakes his head.
‘That’s against regulations.’

‘I don’t see why.
This is my information.
I’m entitled to it, surely?’

Jonathon shakes his head again.
‘There are two people involved here.
It has to be mutual.’

‘What?
Like the decision that was made twenty-four years ago?
That was hardly mutual.’

Jonathon rubs his hand down his face.
He looks tired.
‘That was different.’

Faith turns round.
Sits on the windowsill.
She looks at Jonathon and he picks up the mouse and moves it round on the pad beside the keyboard.
She stands up.
‘So you’ll contact me if .
.
.’

Jonathon lets go of the mouse and looks at her.
He is smiling again.
‘Of course.
In fact, you could give me your mobile number and I could—’

‘I don’t feel well.’

Jonathon stops talking.
He looks at me.
So does Faith.

Then he stands up.
Looks at the couch where I’m sitting.
Then looks at Faith.
‘He’s not going to be sick, is he?’

I say, ‘I feel a bit .
.
.
faint.
I might just be hungry.
I didn’t have any lunch.’

‘You did have lunch.’
Faith looks at Jonathon and says, ‘He did.
At school.
I made him cheese sandwiches.’

‘No, I didn’t.
I had to run an errand for Miss Williams at break so I didn’t eat my lunch.
And now I feel sick.
I think it might be hunger pains.’

Faith looks at me the way adults look at their kids when they’re going to kill them later.
Not right away.
‘Jonathon, sorry, I .
.
.
 I’d better go and get him something to eat.’

I say, ‘I need something now.
Maybe some toast and a hot chocolate?’

Faith says, ‘Milo!’
Her face is red.

Jonathon says, ‘No, it’s no problem.
The boy does look a little peaky.
Maybe I could—’

Faith says, ‘No, no, it’s all right, I’ll take him out and .
.
.’

Jonathon says, ‘There’s bread in the kitchen.
I’ll get him a slice.
No toaster, I’m afraid.
I don’t think there’s any hot chocolate but there should be some milk in the fridge.’
He moves beside Faith, touches her arm.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, OK?’

When he leaves, Faith hisses at me.
‘For the love of God, Milo, what are you at?
You’re making a holy show of me.’

I close the office door, run behind Jonathon’s desk and grab the mouse.
The password prompt appears.
I type in ‘jonath001’, which, if you ask me, is the stupidest password you could have, if your name is Jonathon.
A hacker is going to tap into that in two minutes flat.
And Jonathon doesn’t even cover the keyboard with the mouse pad when he types it in, like I do when anyone’s around.
He just enters it as if no one is watching.

‘Milo, for fuck’s sake!
Stop it.’
Faith is beside me, pulling at my arm.
I point at the screen and she bends down to see.
There’s Faith’s name and our address.
Some stuff about Faith.
Her date of birth and a copy of the birth certificate she gave Jonathon the first time we came here.
The one with Mam and Dad’s name at the top.

Faith looks at the door, still closed, and whispers, ‘Click on the correspondence tab.’

The mouse on the screen turns into an egg timer and the screen goes blank.
For a moment, I think the computer has frozen, the way our one at home sometimes does when I’m playing Sims.

‘Jesus, hurry up.’
I know Faith is talking to the computer.
Not me.
I get the mouse in my hand and bang it on the desk a couple of times.