‘You mean taking Leata?’
‘I mean gettin’ serious treatment. PharmaCare own all of the country’s Mental Health Trusts now, ’aven’t you ’eard? And as they see it, those who Leata can’t work on, drug addicts and the like – or those who won’t take it but need welfare ’elp – they get a different kind of treatment.’
Tom pulls his face back. ‘What kind?’
Mikey shrugs. ‘I dunno. Any of my guys who’ve signed up for it, I’ve never seen again.’
‘I’ve not heard of this going on.’
‘Of course you ain’t. The press ain’t reporting it. Who wears what at the Oscars is of more interest to the public than how the government are sellin’ out the ’omeless, drug addicts, those who live on the edges of society. It was this kind of dirt yer dad was always trying to kick up.’
‘Things are messed up, Mikey.’
‘Tom, my boy, everything’s always messed up. That’s why I provide a roof and warm dinners.’ Mikey takes a deep inhale, blowing out smoke in a straight line. ‘Listen, I don’t know anything about yer dad meetin’ someone the day and place ’e died.’ He pulls small pieces of tobacco from his mouth. ‘But I do know ’e was treadin’ in some serious shit. You’ve got to watch yerself, Tom.’
His words set Tom’s heart pounding; igniting the sleeping headache in his head thumping behind his eyes.
‘What story was he doing? I mean, he was forever tweeting anti-Leata stuff, but no national newspaper would pay him to do a story on Leata any more, not since he was gagged by the libel trial five years ago.’
‘Maybe,’ Mikey waves his cigarette. ‘But that didn’t stop Matt poking deeper in the dirt. ‘’E thought ’e was gettin’ to the truth at last.’
Tom makes a confounded face. Blood pumps faster through his body. ‘The truth?’
Mikey sucks hard on his roll-up, exhaling smoke sideways. ‘You know I ’elped yer dad from time to time, with information yer might not get from usual means – way back when he was on the Daily Herald.’
Tom nods, even though he didn’t know that.
‘Right. Well, ’e’d still bounce things off me now and again, ask me to do some diggin’ with ’im. I never made it my business to ask Matt questions. Only ever asked for a donation to this place, all right?’ Mikey looks around as if he’s checking for anyone listening; takes a hard drag from the roll-up, his mouth puckering. ‘ …’E were startin’ to investigate another theory. One that’s been kickin’ around underground for a while. The possible long-term side effects of Leata.’
Tom swallows, his mouth is going desert-dry. He ticks his head for ‘go on’.
‘Yer dad thought, if people won’t listen to ’ow the drug’s alienatin’ the vulnerable, doin’ dodgy deals with government, maybe they’ll listen if they find out it’s directly ’armful to them.’ Mikey rubs at his stubble. ‘’E seemed to think ’e were on the cusp of revealin’ summit big … but you never knew with Matt. ’E could get all excited like a big kid one moment. Deflated the next.’
Tom nods. He remembers that.
‘And then this contact in PharmaCare who ’e were hasslin’ for information.’ Mikey crosses himself across the chest, his expression darkening. ‘The bloke died suddenly, didn’t ’e.’
‘What do you mean “suddenly”? Like suspiciously?’ Tom almost chokes on the idea.
‘Matt thought so. He was nervous. Paranoid. Said it were because ’e were finally gettin’ proof about Leata’s dark side.’ Mikey looks at Tom thoughtfully. ‘That crash yer dad ’ad, you remember?’
‘Yeah, he got banged into in London.’ He remembered his dad getting tetchy with his mum for complaining about garage costs. He’d originally thought that was what had sparked his dad leaving.
‘Nah.’ Mikey shakes his head thoughtfully. ‘Nah, Matt didn’t reckon that were any accident. ’E thought it were a warnin’: to back off. Soon after, yer mum got sent those photos. Okay,’ Mikey puts his palms up, ‘so yer dad was a naughty boy. But someone sent those photos on purpose an’ I don’t believe it was the lady’s angry ’usband.’
Tom starts chewing on his thumbnail; his heart’s beating double fast. ‘So who was Dad’s PharmaCare contact?’
Mikey shakes his head. Flicks ash onto the floor. ‘Like I said, didn’t ask questions, did I. Matt said the less I knew the safer it were fer me. ’E was hopin’ the Daily Herald would buy it if ’e got more evidence. Talked about givin’ it as an exclusive to some journalist mate of ’is.’
Tom’s breath is coming fast. ‘Ralph,’ Tom almost whispers. ‘It’ll be his friend Ralph.’ He digs his hands into his hair. ‘So you think PharmaCare was threatening Dad? What if they were behind those photos sent to Mum? And this dead source – what’s that about?’
‘Oi.’ Mikey lifts a hand, tapping it against Tom’s cheek lightly as if he’s trying to wake him up. ‘Don’t go addin’ up two and two and makin’ five. I don’t know what was real, and what was your dad’s paranoia. I dunno what ’e found out. Better for me and you that way … you and I don’t want to be wadin’ through that shit. Not if you value yer life, and I value St Paddy’s. Get me?’
Mikey’s features soften. ‘Listen, I’m only tellin’ you what I know because chances are PharmaCare’ll be watchin’ you and yer family, checkin’ the dirt your dad kicked up ’as settled. So watch your step. Yeah? I’m not tellin’ you this stuff to start you down the same path ’e went on. I’m tellin’ you so you don’t step on to it.’
‘But what if …?’ Tom can feel his whole body trembling.
‘What if, what if … if you say it enough times you start to fear things that aren’t there.’ He puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder, staring directly into his eyes. ‘Uncoverin’ people’s secrets is a dirty business.’ Mikey draws a long smoky breath. ‘People don’t like bein’ stripped bare. Especially when there’s money and power involved. We don’t know anythin’ really, Tom. Except your dad was scared.’ Mikey plucks the end of his cigarette out of his mouth, flicking it on the floor and grinding it with his thick boot. ‘Right now – we’ve got important people to feed. Cos whatever yer dad found out about Leata, I know this much: if you ’ave problems but you don’t take that drug, this government don’t want to know you. I’ve got me ’ands full now other shelters are closin’.’
Dazed, Tom starts following Mikey back into the kitchen, two giant bean tins in either arm. The shutters are up between the canteen and kitchen ready for serving. Mikey nudges him. ‘Do me a favour, if the police come callin’ again – don’t mention what I said. Better still, don’t talk to anyone about it, yeah? Certainly not girly over there.’
Tom glances at Hope. Her hair drawn into a ponytail, she’s wearing a ‘crew’ apron, loaves of bread and a toaster in front of her, but she’s staring at her phone rather than working. Still distracted by her screen life. A small rage sparks inside him.
Her
I am exhausted! Thank god I brought my make-up bag with: my whole face has slid off with sweat from serving hot food.
‘I like your jacket,’ the girl called Aggie says after I reluctantly agree to wipe down the tables after the food’s finished. ‘Where’s it from?’
I don’t want to make her feel bad so I lie and say somewhere high-street cheap. I speak in a tone especially perky, because it might rub off on her. I consider maybe taking the blazer off and giving it to her. It would be the nice thing to do, if I didn’t need to wear it to meet Seth. I give her one of my blog cards I had made up instead. ‘Follow me,’ I say brightly, giving her benefit of my full smile. She’d probably best get her teeth fixed before she copies it though.
‘Will I see you again?’ she says as I finish working.
I make a happy face. ‘Maybe!’ I lie. I mean, I can’t come here again. Isn’t it best I don’t think about this kind of stuff?
Tom pulls away from talking quietly with Mikey as I head back into the kitchen. Mikey puts a thin cigarette in his mouth and leaves, muttering, ‘Fag break�
��.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask. Tom’s looked sort of cross since he came back out of the stock room.
He fidgets his shoulders. ‘Yeah. Everything’s fine.’
Well that’s something at least. There’s nothing more to report to Dad since I texted him earlier in the kitchen. Though Tom still looks like he’s got some crime scene to resolve. But right now, I can’t be of help to him. ‘I have to go, sorry,’ I say. I need time to re-apply and re-brush. Thinking of my promise to Dad, I add, ‘Can we get the train home together?’ using a tone that implies Tom’ll be helping me out. ‘I’ll be done for the 7.10.’ Done? Will I have a status change for Facebook? I giggle nervously in my head.
I leave some of my blog cards at the security desk. Snapping a selfie of me doing this to include in my post update later. Maybe I should do more of this – community help – though not with homeless people. Vulnerable children maybe – they are always happy.
7
If you think you’re the best, others will too!
Leata
Her
I’m so glad to be out of that place. Back into life, sunshine and smiles. Okay, admittedly, there’s not a lot of either on the underground to King’s Cross, but there are PharmaCare adverts all over my carriage to reassure me. ‘Leata. Because we all need help on life’s journey.’ I like that one. Another’s promoting a PharmaCare Health Farm. They run all kinds. Mum went to a smokers’ one; Tara’s at the teen version. She should be back at school by Monday. Happy again!
I twist my neck: the picture above my head advertises PharmaCare Aesthetics. ‘Stay young. Stay happy.’ The small print recommends you book a consultation after you turn twenty-five. I remember Millie saying she’s made her appointment already!
A smartly dressed woman across from me is popping a pill. I reach for my own. Why not? I need a little extra to get over this morning. Tom, those people at the shelter, how can they get life so wrong? It’s like they want to be miserable.
At King’s Cross station, heaving with travellers, I cross the concourse to the toilets. Facing myself at the mirrors, I have to virtually re-do all my make-up! Spray on perfume (to cover up the smell of bacon); brush my hair till it’s glossy again. I straighten my back to walk tall as I leave. ‘If you think you’re the best, others will too!’ Big, big smile for the toilet attendant to cheer her up, because, let’s face it, she looks depressingly glum.
I head towards the station exit. A group of tourists rush past me talking excitedly about platform nine and three quarters. And that does it – Tom rudely nudges his way back into my head space – it was the last thing we did together, to come and pay homage here ourselves, aged eleven. I squeeze my mind shut. It’s Seth I’ve got to think about now. My future. I walk out onto the pedestrianised strip where nursery-age children are squealing as they jump and dart through water fountains like it’s a second summer. They wear high-vis vests with Leata messages. If Leata could sponsor the weather, it would be summer all year round. I keep smiling to set my mood perma-happy, and make my way towards the glass building beyond. The silver sign of PharmaCare glints in the sun, Leata’s familiar blue and yellow branding beneath. I feel so proud to be a part of their corporate family.
I get my phone out, pretending to talk into it, as I pass through the revolving glass doors – as one of their sponsored bloggers I need to look in demand, ever-busy! I love this foyer; it always makes me feel like I’ve arrived. Dorothy at Oz! Charlie at the Chocolate Factory! Everything about it shines and brims with happiness. The receptionists, all blue and yellow uniforms, look as if they’ve just been taken out of their wrapping.
In fact I adapted my new smile from theirs my first visit. I’ve been here about eight times for the Blogger Quarterlies now. When I first got my sponsorship two years ago, they did a little ceremony for me and other bloggers like me. So cute. Realboystuff’s meteoric success has meant Seth’s only recently got their sponsorship.
After badging me up, one perfectly manicured nail points me to the seating area of funky blue and yellow chairs. There are beanbags too, like the ones they have at school, and video game consoles and table football. Piped Leata radio ads compete with live news from Star Media, on the super-giant television above the reception desk. I’m home.
Him
His mind’s jumping all over the place on the train ride over to Clapham. Images whipping round like a tornado in his mind, fear rippling under his skin: Dad maybe knew something big about Leata? And his PharmaCare source died suddenly? Does that mean …? He takes another slug from the Ribena bottle to stop that one spinning on a cycle in his head – he can’t think like that. Not yet.
The Tube stops. And why did Ralph not tell me about Dad’s Leata story at the funeral? storms his head as he drifts along in the swell of passengers from the platform to the exit. Outside, he sucks in warm air. The weather’s become almost prickling hot. His skin’s already damp with sweat, but he doesn’t want to take Dad’s jacket off. His head aches from too much whisky as he stumbles his way round the edges of the common towards Ralph’s road. Still, he keeps drinking more.
At the door, he drains the bottle. Why would Ralph not tell me? He flexes his fists, trying to put a lid on his frustration. Rings the bell.
Ralph’s older son, Ollie, comes to the door. They used to hang out lots when they were younger, camping trips, weekend barbeques, but they hardly know each other now, except for the odd ‘like’ on Facebook.
‘Hi.’ Tom tries to check the slur in his voice. ‘Your dad in?’ He pushes a hand back through his hair, suppresses a belch. His insides feel raw.
‘Hey. Yeah – Dad! Tom’s here. Hey, are you all right?’
Tom tries to nod, but it makes Ollie spin and multiply. He bends over, hands to knees, gulping in breath. Tears start to roll down his cheeks.
‘Tom, what you doing here?’
Tom straightens up at the sound of Ralph. Too quick. His stomach replies for him.
A bucketful of what looks like orange Tango shoots out of his mouth, drenching Ralph’s trousers, splattering his shoes.
Until everything goes fuzzy, grey … black.
Her
A few others have joined me till we’re a group of about forty or so. Some I’ve met at past Quarterlies, a few I’ve done guest vlogs with. I recognise the Positiveandperky girl and, oh look, that’s Bestthingsincehappymeals.
My heart’s been steadily thumping harder against my ribcage, waiting for Seth to arrive. He’s still not here by the time two executives come to collect us, high patent heels clipping across the floor. Perfect lipstick on perfect smiles.
‘Hi, great to see you again, Livelifewithhope,’ the taller one says. They like to name us by our blogger titles. Today I am my blog not me. What am I talking about – my blog is me!
The group separates into two lifts. I so love their mirrored doors dotted with little messages. ‘You have beauty in all kinds of ways’. ‘You can be as great as you want to be.’ ‘Reflect back what you want others to see!’ They appear written over your clothes, your face. They have the desired effect. As the lift doors ping open at the penthouse floor I am (ha, literally), on top of the world.
And then I see him.
And my stomach shrinks in a sudden, unexpected panic.
Him
He opens aching eyes to meet another’s, grey, searching his from above.
‘You feeling any better, Tom? I thought it was best to let you sleep it off on the sofa,’ Ralph says, ‘Molly and the boys have gone out.’
Bolting up – head banging violently from motion – words rush out. ‘Why didn’t you say at the funeral when I asked?’ His vision blurs. ‘Dad was writing a Leata story? He was involved in some heavy shit? Knew something big? And his car bashed into? His source dead?’
‘Hey, slow down, slow down.’ Ralph pushes his palms out. ‘Where d’you hear all this from?’
He remembers his promise to Mikey. Shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t matter who. I just did
. And I know he spoke to you about it!’
‘Ah hell, Tom,’ Ralph pulls his palms back and drags them down his red stubble, stretching his face into a hound-dog. ‘Your dad was filled with crazy notions. Was always sniffing around for a Leata scoop ever since that story five years ago got him sacked. Listen to me, first,’ he adds as Tom jolts forward to speak. ‘I know all about your dad hassling a source.’ He makes speech marks in the air. ‘A source who subsequently had a heart attack. A heart attack, Tom. I also know your dad was never that good a driver. That he had a prang on the A3. Your dad made the choice to come up with a mad theory about it.’
Tom collapses his head into both hands. Inside, a fierce battle is ensuing from either side, meeting in the middle. Neither side winning. He looks up again. ‘Okay, answer this one then: Dad’s calendar had an appointment to meet someone at Richmond Park, the day he died.’
Ralph’s face screws up. ‘Who?’
‘There was no name.’
Recognition passes slowly across Ralph’s face, loosening his muscles. ‘Tom, kiddo, I think you just found your dad’s appointment with himself. It’s like your dad, to write down the time and place … that he was going to … his final headline.’
Something hard and sharp grips Tom’s insides. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Already he can sense the surrender in his guts.
Ralph releases a long sigh, slumping down on the sofa next to him. ‘Here, I got you these.’ He passes water and aspirin from the coffee table.
Tom takes both, knocking the pills back with a large gulp of water – too fast, his stomach curdles again. He takes short breaths to stem another rise of nausea. ‘Sorry about your clothes.’
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