Tom inhales deeply. ‘Every NAD with them. My mate Pavlin says university admissions are checking Facebook to track applicants’ levels of cynicism. Whether you’re pro- or anti-Leata. It’s what makes a good citizen these days.’
‘Ain’t that right – join the club or yer out on yer ear. And they call it democracy.’ Mikey’s voice trails off. Leaning on his good leg, he’s staring over at Hope’s house, at her dad jumping into his navy BMW.
‘You know Jack Wright?’
‘I know Matt ’ated him.’
Tom adjusts his glasses. ‘He came to the funeral. Even though he only ever spoke to Dad to complain about his loud music.’
‘Dick. He ’ated yer dad for slatin’ PharmaCare, not for playin’ loud music. Their fight was that black ’n’ white.’ Mikey hides his face as the BMW passes by.
‘You don’t want him to see you?’ Tom asks quizzically.
‘He’s the type that can cause trouble for me and St Paddy’s, get my drift?’
Tom opens his mouth to ask what he means. ‘Gotta see a man about a dog an’ all that.’ Mikey taps his nose and starts limping away fast.
‘Keep out of trouble, Tom. That’s the best bit of advice I can give you. Yer dad never heeded by it.’ He smiles crookedly, showing graveyard teeth, nicotine yellow.
Mikey gone, Tom lifts up the holdall, staring down at it as if it’s a small kid holding his hand. He takes it into the hall before he properly searches its contents. Picking out a handful of clothes, he holds them to his nose, inhaling deeply, trying to locate a hint of his dad’s aftershave, his favourite mint shower gel beneath the musty damp smell. He opens his washbag – his toothbrush is still here? He bites hard on his lip as longing digs deep into him, like a bulldozer is scooping out his insides, every muscle, every sinew. Fumbling towards the bottom of the bag, his hand hits something hard.
He takes in a sharp breath. Shit.
His dad’s laptop.
He’s grappling it out, as the doorbell rings.
Her
‘Hi!’ I say über-brightly, recalling what I just told my followers: I’m going to suffocate NAD Boy’s grief with happiness!
Tom ticks his head back at me.
‘It’s so hot today, isn’t it! Going to get hotter still apparently. I love Indian summers, don’t you?’
He looks at me as if he can’t focus. Silence. God, he’s hard work. Was he always this hard work?
I sniff the air. ‘Have you been drinking?’
He doesn’t answer, changes the subject. ‘A friend just left me some of Dad’s stuff.’ He indicates the laptop cradled in his arms. ‘It’s Dad’s.’
I swallow back my immediate thought, what if there’s a suicide note on it? It won’t do to ask such things. I’ve got to get Tom to think positive. ‘If you hang onto your dad’s belongings you’ll keep the past present. And that means there’s no space for a future.’ Seriously, did I just say that? Never mind paying me to advertise on my blog, Leata should pay me to write their messages! ‘I’ve googled grief and –’
Him
‘What d’you want, Hope?’ He cuts into her speech, hugging the laptop tighter. Her pale blue top hangs loose off one shoulder. He tries to look anywhere but at the tanned skin there.
‘Just to talk to you, Tom.’
‘It takes my dad’s death to get you to my front door again?’ He bites down on his lip to stop himself from saying anything more. He can feel the whisky stirring his tongue. He doesn’t want to be mean.
She shrugs, pulls her plastic beam tighter. ‘I think I can help you … move on.’
‘What are you, the Avon lady? I’m not buying happiness today.’ He closes the door with an apology. If he doesn’t close it now he will rip into her.
The other side of the glass, Hope says, ‘Have you thought any more about you and Fran? Getting together? I think it’ll be a great distraction … and Fran always liked you and –’
Her voice trails off as Tom takes the laptop and holdall up to his room, leaving Hope’s lecture to an empty hall.
Alone again with the laptop, he opens it, half-regretting it as he does. Does he really want to see what Dad was up to? Letters between him and his lover? What if there’s a diary?
He needn’t have worried. He can’t even get past the password. Dad must have changed it. He tries every combination of their family names, birthdates, his dad’s favourite bands. Nothing works.
Remembering the pocket on one side of the holdall, he unzips it. Inside there’s a notebook, cold and damp, filled with shorthand Tom can’t decipher. Seeing his dad’s handwriting even in code makes his insides churn, like he’s communicating from beyond the grave.
He tugs out his dad’s army jacket and puts it on, even though it’s as hot inside as out. Pushing his hands into the pockets, his fingers meet with a crumpled piece of paper.
His forehead furrows deeply as he unfolds and reads it. It doesn’t make sense.
It seems to be a police incident note. The handwritten scrawl from Epsom police station records a statement made by his dad, alleging that someone paid for a gun with his credit card.
Tom checks the date at the top.
Two weeks before Dad blew his brains out in Richmond Park.
Her
I stand there yakking away like an idiot for an age until it finally dawns on me – Tom’s not there any more. The sermon I’ve just given, the one I rehearsed, has completely fallen on deaf ears! Suddenly I know what a Jehovah’s Witness feels like. He could have at least heard me out!
I crunch back over the gravel, the noise reminding me eerily of the time I came to deliver my letter. The stupid little Hope of five years ago. I’d spent an age decorating it with stickers and drawings. My stomach twists. I stop and stare back at Tom’s front door, swallowing back a memory of a feeling. God, where would I be without Leata …
I’m turning from Tom’s drive into my own when I see him. A man in a beat-up Range Rover. Staring directly at me. He must have driven in past the gate (that clearly says Private Road) and parked up while I’ve been at Tom’s door. He starts getting out. Dirty stubble and deepset eyes; his features thin and twisted on a long face. He wears a silver tracksuit that shines like foil in the afternoon sun. The way he looks at me, head tilted as if he’s examining me, makes my heart drum faster.
‘Your dad in?’ he shouts after me as I head quickly to our front door.
I say nothing, panic rushing me inside, wishing for once Rose and Lily didn’t have clubs every night. After checking all the external doors are locked, I head upstairs, straight into Dad’s study. It has a window directly over the drive. Peeking round the curtain, I check if shiny tracksuit-top is still there. He is, leaning against the car. I go and sit down in Dad’s chair, picking up the phone on his desk to call him. It goes straight to voicemail. I put it down again, telling myself: chill. Mum will be home soon.
I swing the chair side to side, trying not to let that man’s mean face preoccupy me. I’ve always loved it in Dad’s study. Mainly because it’s out of bounds. Even the cleaner’s not allowed access. Maybe that’s why it smells different to the rest of the house, musty and lived-in. Often, when we were younger, I’d pass by and Rose would be sat in here on Dad’s knee. I’d wait ages for my turn, hanging around for Dad to invite me in too.
Rose still comes in a lot now. Rose is the academic one, Mum always says, she needs your dad’s input.
I make a smile, a big one; it always dispels any bad thoughts before they can form. ‘If you don’t have bad thoughts, you can’t have bad feelings.’ I like that one.
I lift up in my seat; he’s still there. At least he’s not moved.
Sitting down again, I nudge the mouse accidentally. The thin computer screen in front of me flashes on. Dad can’t have turned it off. The screensaver comes into focus. A picture from our summer holiday in Spain. Dad hugging Lily dripping wet from the pool. Rose laughing wide-mouthed over his shoulder. You can just make me out … yeah, that�
�s my leg I’m sure, on the sun lounger behind.
I sniff; bigger smile! And run a Happiness Countdown. To one: Nearly two million followers, Hope! I click the mouse quickly to get rid of the picture. It switches to a home page of yellow folders. Almost immediately, my eyes fix on one.
Why would Dad have a folder with Tom’s dad’s name on it?
I shouldn’t. No you really shouldn’t! I’m doubleclicking on it when I hear the sound of feet on the stairs. I bolt upwards as he enters the study.
‘What do you think you are doing, Hope?’
5
Only question what you can answer
Leata
Her
His voice is level, but tight. ‘Are you snooping on my computer?’
‘I … no!’ I look down, ashamed, shaking my head. I hate, hate, making Dad unhappy. It instantly takes me back, to the bad times. To the days before Leata. ‘You’ll give him a heart attack!’ Mum used to say every time I made him cross.
It would panic me. The thought I could actually kill my own father.
But now I please Dad. And that feels good.
I take a breath. ‘I’m sorry. There was a man, he –’ I stop; noticing a pair of dirty white trainers beyond the gap in Dad’s legs. I glance up.
The man from outside. Inside.
‘I needed printer paper,’ I end prematurely, as Dad steps aside, beckoning shiny-tracksuit in.
‘This is Hope.’
The stranger glares at me as if I’m some drink he wants behind a bar. ‘All right, Hope.’ He flicks a glance at my dad.
Dad twists his mouth. ‘He says he saw you at the Riley house. What were you doing there?’ He’s using his lawyer voice. Was I not supposed to be there? I take a deeper breath, trust in Leata to keep me calm. ‘I’m trying to help Tom. He needs my advice to find a way out of his grief.’ I’m about to add, my blog post about Tom has already got three hundred thousand retweets, when Dad balls up a fist and knocks it gently on his desk.
‘Has Tom said anything about his father?’
I try and think of the answer that will please him. Shiny-tracksuit’s still glaring at me. I pull my arms over my chest. ‘No nothing, but he was clutching his dad’s laptop like it was a comfort blanket.’
‘His dad’s laptop? You sure?’ Dad’s eyes have widened; he moves his face closer towards me as I nod eagerly. He looks tired, there are bags under his eyes. ‘Right.’ He makes a grunting noise, flicking his fingers for me to leave.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say again. ‘I won’t come in here again.’ He doesn’t answer, he’s reaching for the phone. Asking for Nina Mitchell. Fran’s mum.
Shiny-tracksuit is blocking the doorway. I have to rub against him just to get out.
‘My name’s Slicer by the way,’ he leers at me. He’s well spoken despite his scruffy appearance.
I walk fast down the corridor, closing the door to my room. If he’s one of Dad’s clients, I hope his case ends soon.
Him
His mum’s car is on the drive, a black Merc alongside it, when he makes it back from visiting Pavlin’s. If anyone will know how to access his dad’s laptop, Pavlin will. He’d avoided Mrs Balil’s insistence to stay for dinner – now he wishes he hadn’t. He’s not in the mood for visitors.
He hears his mum approach the moment he opens the door. Dressed work-smart, she’s hugging herself as if she’s cold, despite the heat. Her skin tone ghostly pale today; even her lips appear colourless.
‘School go okay?’ she asks in a weak voice.
‘Fine. Work?’ It’s like looking in a mirror, the desperation he sees reflected there.
She’s reaching out a hand towards him when DS Miles starts striding into the hall. She drops it back by her side.
‘DS Miles,’ Tom says.
‘Hey, Tom. What’ve I told you? Call me Ethan.’
Tom rushes a hand through his hair; takes his glasses off, wipes them on his T-shirt; puts them on again. He just wants to get to his room; he needs another drink. The pain lodges heavier in his chest without whisky.
‘Ethan,’ his mum says precisely, her lips trembling slightly, ‘was just passing. Wanted to see how we’re doing. Isn’t that kind?’ She begins to edge towards the lounge. DS Miles extends an arm after her, like he’s inviting Tom into his consulting room. A U-bend smile slowly forms on his face, pointing up to his eyes. Everything about the man is buffed and preened. His dad wouldn’t have liked him. That’s all Tom needs to know.
He goes in, joining his mum on the sofa.
DS Miles sits in a chair opposite. He fills the silence with another of his slow, vertical smiles, before How’ve you been? Can I do anything? You getting any external help? starts slipping out smoothly through perfect lines of polished teeth.
‘I’m not talking Leata if that’s what you mean.’ Tom eyes his mum. It’s not like it seems to be doing her any good.
‘What other help is there?’ Miles nips his trousers over his knees, leaning forward. ‘But you know we’re here to help too. Any problems – or if you hear anything about your dad’s suicide, you report it to me, okay?’
Tom adjusts his shoulders as if he’s been caught out in a lie he hasn’t made. He doesn’t lie. He takes a breath. ‘There is something.’ He looks at his mum – he should tell her first, not the detective. ‘Mikey brought Dad’s bag back. Clothes and stuff.’
‘Who’s Mikey? Why did he have your dad’s bag?’
Tom keeps his eyes on his Mum as he answers DS Miles. ‘A friend of Dad’s. He was staying with Mikey, the last week of his life.’
‘Can you give me Mikey’s surname? Address?’
‘Jones,’ his mum says quietly. Tom’s insides tense when she adds, ‘St Patrick’s in Vauxhall.’ Something tells him Mikey might not run the shelter completely within the lines of the law.
‘There was something else though.’ Tom has it re-folded back in the pocket of his dad’s army jacket. ‘Dad reported some kind of credit card theft.’ He hands DS Miles the incident note. ‘So what does it mean? Dad shot himself with a gun that someone else bought on his credit card?’
‘Whoa there, Columbo!’ Miles laughs, stretching his hand out into a stop sign; the vertical smile shooting up to chiselled cheekbones. ‘What’s that Leata message? “Only question what you can answer”?’
‘Someone else bought the gun?’ Tom’s mum says, panic flashing in her eyes. Instantly Tom regrets mentioning the note.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he says. He needs to do better at filling Nathaniel’s shoes now he’s gone.
DS Miles’ vertical smile still holds like a capital ‘U’. ‘Don’t worry, Jean, I’ll investigate this. The likelihood is,’ he adopts a sympathetic face – a priest to a dying man, ‘it was a mistake, by the gun dealer …’ He looks calmly between Tom and his mum. ‘Maybe his credit card went through twice. There’ll be a logical explanation. Always is.’
His mum is nodding her head vigorously. Tom can see she wants to believe that. Maybe he should too.
Right now, he just wants a drink; obliterate his consciousness. ‘I need to do school work.’
‘Tom.’ Miles puts a hand out to him. ‘I sympathise with the situation you’re in, believe me I do.’ He thumps his chest, an ape in the jungle. ‘I have a dad.’
What? Tom stares vacantly back at him. Shit, he really needs a drink.
‘Before you hit the books – can you show me the belongings this Mikey brought back? I suppose I’d better just check over it.’
Tom presses the heel of his hand to his head; it’s banging as if it’s trying to get his attention. ‘Sure, I’ll fetch it.’
He stands watching DS Miles root through the holdall. His mum’s gone to finish making dinner. From the clashes of pans she’s not having much success.
The slow smile ascends. ‘His personal things weren’t in here? His laptop or stuff?’
Tom tries to think, as much as his muddled mind will let him. ‘His laptop was in there. But I haven’t got
it.’
‘Where is it, Tom?’ Miles straightens up, exuding a waft of lemony aftershave. He pushes forward a perfectly shaven jawline, smooth as pink marble. There’s a twitch of cheek muscle as his blue eyes pierce Tom’s.
‘In my school locker.’ Tom has to force the lie out of his mouth – the police only need to connect Pavlin with his cousin Hari to start asking other kinds of questions.
Miles has a disbelieving look on his face. The thin mouth drops to horizontal, the eyes turn serious. Tom starts biting his thumbnail. ‘I had to go back to school for something, so I left it there to show an IT teacher. Don’t know Dad’s password, see.’ He never realised how much easier it is to lie, once you start.
‘Let’s go get it then.’
‘School will be locked up now. It can wait, can’t it?’
Miles eyes him, digging a tongue into his back teeth, before he says, ‘I don’t want you sharing that laptop with anyone. You hear me? I need to check it out first, Tom. Cross the Ts, dot the Is in my investigation. You understand? It’s imperative.’
‘Sure. I’ll bring it home after school tomorrow.’
Miles makes a kind of salute. ‘No, that’s okay – I’ll call you in the morning, swing by there.’ The smile’s back. ‘It’ll all be okay, you’ll see. What doesn’t break us makes us stronger, right?’
Tom fiddles with his glasses. That’s just it, he feels like answering, I’m already broken.
Her
I’m trying to sleep; I can’t sleep. My mind jumps from that man Slicer to Seth, to Tom, and back again. Their faces whizzing round till they almost become one. I try and stay fixed on Seth. His flat. What will he expect us to do? Do I get it out there, straight away – I’m a virgin and intend to stay that way, at least for now? That starts making me nervous too, so I skip instead to our future – if our collaboration is good enough, we might get a TV deal, magazine column. I start drawing a promo portrait of Seth and me together – when the light flicks on. Dad fills my doorway.
I shuffle up in bed, blinking against the brightness. ‘What is it?’ I ask groggily.
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