Something Only We Know (7 page)

‘I’m on the case. Don’t keep asking. I’ll tell you when.’

‘OK,’ she said meekly.

‘Trust me, yeah?’

‘I will.’

I remembered the half-hour drive back up to Chester that awaited me, a date with Chelle at the other end. ‘And just – oh, just enjoy your evening with Ned.’

She didn’t reply.

Owen likes the Oak because it’s tucked away off the tourist route, outside the Walls. I like it because it’s old and gloomy-cosy with thick black beams and leaded
windows. In the beer garden there’s a broken piece of Roman masonry, and by the bar there’s a glass case containing a mummified cat, which the owners found in the chimney breast,
together with a Tudor belt buckle and some lead shot. I sometimes think this city has more history than it can cope with.

When I walked into the pub they were settled round one of the big tables in full discussion mode. Chelle was there, tucked in against Owen, and Vikki and Keisha who run the Revolution bookshop
out Handbridge way, and Owen’s mate Saleem who works in an Indian takeaway and once drove us to Wrexham in his delivery van so we could drop off some toys at a women’s refuge. A man
I’d met in the bookshop once but whose name I’d forgotten, skinny guy in an oversized mohair jumper, was talking about multiple organ damage in lab rats and the breakdown of weed
killers.

Keisha smiled when she saw me, and budged up to let me slide in next to my boyfriend. In truth I’d have preferred it if I could have wedged myself between him and Chelle, but it was good
enough. Owen nodded a brief hello. His eyes were alight and I could see he was immersed in the debate.

‘So although they knew that there was gene flow between GM and non-GM plants,’ hairy-jumper was saying, ‘they went ahead and deregulated anyway. And what we’ve ended up
with is the evolution of glyphosate-resistant weeds. And we know what the biotech industry’s response will be.’

‘Stronger chemicals,’ said Owen. ‘More poison into the food chain, more genetic manipulation.’

‘And a boom in super-weeds. Madness. It’s so fucking shortsighted. Why can’t the US government see that short-term financial gain is leading us into a long-term food
crisis?’

‘Because the food giants are the ones doing the political bankrolling. They’re all in each other’s fucking pockets. Meanwhile the rest of us are hurtling towards
Armageddon—’

‘You look nice,’ said Keisha at my elbow.

I turned towards her, grateful someone had noticed I’d made an effort.

‘Oh, cheers. So do you. I like your new hairstyle.’ Since I’d last seen her she’d gone from sculpted ebony waves to a natural short fuzz.

‘Yeah, I’m transitioning. I’ve had enough of chemical straighteners and weaves. The problem with Afro hair is it fights you every step of the way. Takes up too much of your
time. Kinky’s the way forward, I’ve decided.’

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Vikki, leaning forward. ‘I told her ages ago to just let it grow, let it do its thing. You know, I’m “transitioning” too: from
Nordic blonde to grey.’

‘There’s no grey, Viks. It’s in your mind.’

‘There is too. I pulled out a pure white strand this morning. I’m growing old before your eyes.’

‘You did
not.
You
are
not.’ Keisha batted her flirtatiously.

Now Saleem was speaking, his eyes wide, his face full of righteous indignation. ‘And what about the StarLink gene? That was actually being eaten in taco shells before it was even licensed.
No amount of farmer compensation is gonna put that genie back in the bottle, is it?’

Whatever Saleem’s talking about he’s always one hundred per cent passionate, but you do have to watch him because he’s also full of bollocks, like the way he pretends he grew
up in the mountains of Kashmir even though he actually hails from Bolton.

I said to Keisha, ‘How’s the book trade doing?’

She shrugged. ‘Huh. Not brilliant. Obviously it would be better if the shop was nearer the city centre, but, you know, the rates—’

‘Tell her about the café,’ broke in Vikki.

‘Oh, yeah. The café. What it is, we had this idea of starting a little coffee bar at the far end of the shop. Nothing elaborate, only hot drinks and cakes, then customers could
wander round and buy a book and sit and read. They’d stay longer. Spend more.

And Vikki reckons we could expand the notice board, use up a whole wall, and have small-press newspapers laid out, and loads more leaflets and posters, so we become a directory of events. Then
maybe people would start to come to Revolution as a meeting place in its own right, and have discussions and plan campaigns and demos. Like the old coffee houses in the past.’

‘Is there enough room for a café?’ I asked, trying to picture a separate eating area within the layout of the tiny shop.

‘Yeah, if we take some stock off the shelves and put it upstairs, and bash that cupboard out. Vikki’s looked into the health and safety side, what certificates we’d need to be
able to serve unheated food. It’s doable. More than doable. We’re aiming to have it up and running by September.’

‘Sounds as if you’ve got it all worked out.’

Across the room, a girl with long red tresses like my sister’s was snogging a man with a shaved head, eating each other’s faces as if there was no one else in the entire pub. I
thought, how great to be on a night out with the one you loved, just the two of you. To have that level of attention. At the edge of my consciousness I heard Chelle’s voice twanging through
the debate:

‘See, in New Zealand, supermarkets have to label GM products by law, but if you’re in a restaurant then it’s up to you to ask. They don’t print that info on the menu. And
I don’t think that’s morally right, putting the responsibility onto the consumer.’

When I turned back to look, Owen was nodding vigorously. ‘No. No, it isn’t. But that’s how business works. Shift the blame away, keep the guys at the centre clear.’

‘Because the power’s in the hands of a few, and they cover for each other.’

‘Yes! That’s exactly it. That’s what I’m saying.’

I didn’t like the way his eyes were fixed on her fair, round face. I linked my arm through his to remind him I was there.

‘Have any of you guys over here been involved in GM crop-pulling?’ Chelle asked.

Owen waved a hand towards Saleem. ‘He’s done a bit. He took out half a test field outside Oxford. Got arrested, fined.’

‘Awesome.’

Saleem looked shyly pleased.

‘Can I ask, Chelle,’ Owen went on, ‘how robust is your legal system when it comes to fighting these companies? Do you trust the government to make a stand?’

Vikki at my elbow: ‘Jen, will you come to the café?’

‘Huh?’

‘For our opening, will you come along and do a piece on us?’

‘What,
The Messenger
? If you want. Yeah, that should be OK, ’cause Rosa had a supermarket guy in today plugging his charity event, and next week I’m writing up an
article about a local nursery. So it’s basically the same. Give the office a ring, but let them have plenty of notice because the photographers are pretty busy at the moment.’

‘Cool. We badly need the publicity.’

She sat back and I was able to listen again to Chelle.

‘The way effective campaign groups work these days is to behave like knot grass, you know? With roots running under the surface and spreading out.’ She gestured with her hands.
‘Business corporations are based on a pyramid shape, with a leader at the top and then levels two, three, four, whatever, below. But that’s not as effective as having a lateral
structure. Lateral structures are harder for the authorities to tackle directly and they’re harder to stamp out. So you get these small groups using social networking to investigate, expose,
broadcast their findings around the globe. Then it doesn’t matter how hard the big organisations try, they can’t stamp us out. There are too many of us, and we have too many platforms.
The internet’s become the ultimate democratic tool.’

I said, ‘We know that already. It’s hardly news.’

‘Yeah,’ said Owen,’ but it’s reassuring to hear it pulled together like that from someone who lives on another continent. Sometimes you sit at your computer and you feel
like you’re on your own and it’s easy to lose heart. I’ll remember knot grass, though. Great image.’

‘So long as it’s GM-free knot grass.’

Nobody laughed at my joke. I saw hairy-jumper give me a dismissive glance as if to say,
Who’s she again?
I stared him out with my best girlfriend scowl.

‘Redeetech,’ continued Owen, ‘that’s who I’d like to get some dirt on. They’re right at the heart of the GM conspiracy. I don’t suppose you have
anything on them, do you, Chelle?’

She grinned in answer, and began to pull her rucksack up from under the table. The rest of the group were transfixed, like people watching a magic show and wondering what was in the top hat. In
the end it proved to be nothing more than a smart phone, which she switched on and then tapped and scrolled, pursing her lips enigmatically.

I said, ‘Hey, while I remember, have you heard about that new comedy club that’s opened up in Nantwich? We had a press release from them this morning, and the line-up looks good.
Political satire, all sorts. I wondered about us piling over there sometime. It could be—’

‘Got it,’ announced Chelle, cutting me off. She leaned in, angling the phone for my boyfriend’s benefit. ‘I’d say this is what you’ve been looking for, Owen.
Believe me, you’re going to find this pretty awesome.’

Then he was lost again in the murky world of transgenics, and they were craning their necks to see, and I might as well not have been there.

It wasn’t until we were on our way to the flat that he spoke to me properly. Though night had fallen, the air was still mild and the streets busy. You could hear snatches
of music from pubs and clubs, catch the occasional whiff of fast food. Crowds of normal people enjoying themselves normally. As we passed under the Eastgate clock, I managed to get Owen to hang
back a little.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Don’t seem to have had much of a chance to chat to you this evening.’

‘No, well, it’s tricky in a group like that. Everyone was fired up tonight. It was fantastic, wasn’t it? I knew it would be. Listening to Chelle, to everything she’s got
to share. To get that international perspective.’

‘Can I ask you something, Owen?’

‘
Go
on.’

‘Did you know she was coming to stay?’

‘Huh? Oh, not really. We’d vaguely talked about it and then things went quiet. I didn’t think she’d turn up. She said she might fly to Bali instead.’

‘I just wish you’d mentioned it. Given me some warning.’

He cocked his head. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No.’ I felt myself blushing at the challenge. How could I say yes without making myself sound petty and possessive? So plainly innocent were Owen’s motives that it felt shabby
to come over all territorial.

‘I mean, you didn’t mind when Saleem’s mate camped out with us last year.’

‘No.’

‘And she’ll be gone in a few weeks. I genuinely think we’ve a lot to learn from her.’

‘OK.’

‘The New Zealand government, their environmental laws, their press. There’s so much I want to hear about. She’s been a terrifically active campaigner.’

‘Has she?’

‘Oh, the most amazing stunts. I’ll get her to tell you about them.’

We walked on a little further. I said, ‘When she’s gone—’

‘What?’

‘I’d like us to have more time on our own. You and me.’

Silence.

‘Because we used to, didn’t we? We used to have meals out all the time, and walks. When we were at uni. We’d go to clubs and parties, and museums, and street fairs. We were
always doing something together, do you remember?’

I took his hand and felt his smooth palm against mine.

‘Jen, we were students. That was the life then. There were so many more hours in the day. What you have to understand is, I’m really busy now. You can see that. I’ve always
been busy, right from when you first knew me. It’s not like I’ve changed. You’ve been with me long enough to know that’s how I roll. There’s a lot I care about and
want to pursue.’

‘Yeah, you have the world to save, I get that. Can’t you take a few more evenings off, though? Pass the flame to Saleem or Keisha for an hour or two?’

He made some non-committal noise in his throat. We were drawing level with The Cross, the monument at the top of the precinct where he’d once stopped to help a homeless man who’d
fallen down the steps. We’d righted him and checked there were no bones broken, and then Owen had given him all the money he had in his wallet.

I said, ‘Can I at least stay over tonight?’

‘Why tonight?’

‘Thought it might be nice.’
Because I’m your girlfriend and you should want me to.
‘Chelle’s staying over.’

‘She hasn’t anywhere else to go.’

‘I’d like to spend the night with you, Owen. I know it was too much of a squeeze in those old student beds, but you have a double mattress now. How about we give it a try?’

After a pause of maybe ten seconds, he finally went, ‘OK.’

My heart jumped, a huge great thud of relief and amazement. I tried not to break my step, but inside I was dancing. I couldn’t believe how easily he’d given in. After months of
claiming he could never sleep properly if he shared a bed, here he was saying it was fine. We were fine. I wondered whether, in some bizarre way, the presence of Chelle might prove a blessing after
all.

I gripped his hand more tightly, heard the sing-song slide of her voice putting the whole of politics to rights. Somewhere under the dark eaves above us birds roosted. Flowers spilling from
hanging baskets trembled in the warm air currents.

Then he said, ‘Have you brought anything with you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Change of clothes? Toothbrush?’

‘No.’

He looked down at my maroon cami, my frayed jeans. ‘How are you going to walk into that posh office of yours tomorrow?’

‘Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that. I guess I could . . .’ I scrambled for a solution. Perhaps if I set the alarm for 6 a.m. and drove back to Mum and Dad’s, changed there,
got into town for 8.30. But even to my ears that sounded ludicrous and desperate. ‘No, I suppose you’re right. Next time I could bring a bag, though, yes?’