Hope looks round. Her smile looks superglue-stuck to her face. ‘What?’
‘You heard.’
She makes a face as if she’s pitying him. ‘I very much doubt it.’
‘But he didn’t like Dad.’
‘That’s not true,’ she seems to bristle, before correcting herself. ‘I mean, your dad could infuriate him, playing his music so loud and letting his grass get overgrown. But the Leata libel case thing, that was water under the bridge. Dad was just doing his job.’
‘As mine was doing his.’
Hope makes a pacifying face.
Tom adjusts his glasses. What he needs is a source like Mikey said his dad had. He needs an insider who can supply him with concrete answers. ‘That girl Fran you mentioned … didn’t her mum work for PharmaCare?’
‘Still does. Nina Mitchell. She’s Operations Director. She’s Dad’s main contact there.’
Tom tries to make a smile that looks natural. ‘All right, tell Fran I’d like to meet her, if she still wants to hang out.’
He can’t tell if Hope looks overjoyed or unsure. ‘Yay. Great idea, Tom.’ But her tone sounds excited. He feels a stab of, what? Disappointment? Well, that’d be stupid. ‘I’ll DM you her Facebook page. Get in touch with her ASAP. I know Fran will be super pleased to hear from you.’
‘Super pleased,’ Tom sounds back sarcastically, but with a smile after, because Hope doesn’t seem to get he’s joking. Or maybe it’s just that there’s something else going on – she still looks spooked. He’d offer her a slurp of whisky, but he’s got none left. And after today, he’s not sure he can touch the brown stuff again. Not for a day or two anyway.
Besides, now he’s got another narcotic to distract him; it’s starting to run through his veins, fill the cavernous hole in his heart. Even if Dad was delusional, he has to retrace the last steps of his life.
He has to make sure … PharmaCare had nothing to do … with why he killed himself.
SECRETS
Secrets are the stuff that sits quietly between lies and truths. People learn to keep them so that we protect the truths that matter and lie about what hurts.
Matt Riley
8
Your expressions are your gearstick. So smile and get in the fast lane!
Leata
Her
Hope wakes suddenly as if a hand has come out to shake her. Her heart beating fast for some distant reason. Getting up, she switches on her tablet and phone from where they’re charging on her desk.
Straightaway, they start vibrating, buzzing, pinging with incoming.
She opens the most recent text – it’s from Millie. The latest in a whole load of messages.
& u don’t want 2even lk @Twitter
It’s enough for Hope to go there first without reading any more.
A hard ball takes a slug against her stomach, as she stares at Seth’s feed.
Why would he post that?
Above a link to his channel is another to a photo of Hope, sprawled over the kerb; her expression horror-struck. Twisted. Ugly. The tear in her trousers revealing pink knickers beneath.
Already it’s been retweeted thousands of times since last night. Tears pricking her eyes, she clicks around. It’s being shared on Facebook. Instagram. Pinterest. Discussed on Tumblr. Comments are appearing thick and fast … people calling her what the trolls do, what Fran did this week … Hopeless. Many call her worse. Four-letter worse.
She clicks through to Seth’s channel. Her breath is coming in short bursts, drying her throat. The vlog he posted last night has 1,538,351 views so far … and counting.
Something inside her head says, Don’t watch it, but her finger taps ‘play’ all the same.
‘Livelifewithhope or Hopeless?’ he’s saying. The name-calling starts with him? Her hand clasps her mouth as her windpipe fills with nausea. ‘Funny how some people are not what you expect when you meet them in real life. And I don’t like that!’ Seth jumps around on screen, pulling ‘cutely vexed’ onto that handsome face. ‘Livelifewithhope is one fast girl. Seriously folks, she wouldn’t take NO for an answer. Desperate or what? She fell from a great height.’ He grins cheekily, pushing his phone forward with her photo that’s fast going viral. ‘Showed her true colours, you know!’ He spreads his arms out. He’s wearing a Leata T-shirt. The message: ‘Your expressions are your gearstick. So smile and get in the fast lane!’
‘We don’t want to make social media false, do we? We want to keep it real. Take me – what you see is what you get!’ He pulls another cute face for the camera. ‘Guys! Ship me somewhere finer next time!
‘Like. Ship. Me. To …’ He pulls someone onto screen. Stateofhappiness Emily. She’s giggling away next to him. Hope’s hand tightens round her mouth. The tears start to rush out. He must have gone back to get Emily after leaving her sprawled on the kerb.
A direct message flicks up in the corner of her tablet. Millie again.
Damage limitation Hope. You’re losing followers.
She swallows back the tears, swiping hurriedly over to her own channel. Her subscribers … they’re starting to decrease. Tapping onto her blog. The same there.
Followers who only yesterday were brimming over with love, calling her beautiful and the best, like loyal subjects to her royalty – now they’re making comments as if she’s failing them. As if she’s not who they thought she was.
She breathes slowly, counting down from ten … but only gets to six before she moves over to her jewellery box. Manic, trembling hands pick out the silver strip. For once, she doesn’t take time over the ritual, swallowing back two – fast – without even pausing to check the messages. Her hand pressing against her head as if she can contain her panicking thoughts somehow, she starts pacing her room, trying to work out how she limits damage. Picking up her phone, she thinks about calling Millie for more advice, but something tells her Millie might be enjoying this. Why else add smiley faces to her messages? By tonight Millie could be ahead in follower totals.
‘You need to update me. Now.’
Hope glances round sharply. She didn’t hear him come in. Frantically, she rubs tears away from her face in case he asks. She doesn’t want Dad to know she’s failed. She doesn’t want him disappointed in her.
‘I’m in a hurry,’ her dad says, his eyes fixing on her impatiently, before grazing her room as if it displeases him somehow. She looks around with him. It’s tidy. It’s always tidy now. Like Leata advises. Ordered house. Ordered mind. She’s not the messy girl she used to be. She hasn’t been that girl for five years.
His eyes fly back to hers, serious, yet distracted. It makes her exam-nervous; she can’t fail him. Her words tumble out after one another. ‘Sorry –’ she stutters, ‘you weren’t here last night. There’s not much more to add to what I texted. Tom went to see this man Mikey – a friend of Tom’s dad. And I had to feed homeless people and –’
‘Slowly, Hope! And I’m not interested in the homeless.’
‘Sorry.’ Her phone’s vibrating in her hand. Her tablet making noises on her desk. She switches both off. Takes a breath. ‘This Mikey – he seems to care about Tom. Nothing more. Though Tom seemed agitated the whole time. But that could be because he’s drinking lots. He needs help, Dad.’
Her dad bites down on his mouth, hands on hips, staring at the floor like he’s deep in painful thought. His eyes register hers again. ‘We’re aware of this Mikey fellow. He’s a nasty piece of work by all accounts. You need to keep a close check on any dealings he has with Tom.’ He walks over to the window, staring out onto the Rileys’ back garden. ‘Mikey Jones’s got a list of criminal prosecutions bigger than your mother’s credit card bill.’
Hope forces a laugh. He makes a face as if it’s no laughing matter, stepping back closer to her. She breathes in her favourite aftershave and wonders if she can tell him about Seth after all. He’d be mad, wouldn’t he? That someone had treated his daughter like this? She wills his arms to lift up around her as he continue
s, ‘You see, Matt Riley, he was a troublemaker. Inciting terrorism – of the emotional kind. We were building a case against him. Tom’s very vulnerable right now. People like Mikey might try and use Tom to carry on his dad’s work, to gather libel against PharmaCare.
‘When you’re not at school, you shadow Tom from now on. You hear me? I want to know where Tom goes and who he sees. It’s your job to keep Tom safe.’ He makes a small, serious smile.
It soothes Hope’s shredded stomach. She’s starting to assemble the words to tell him about Seth. But he’s already turning, walking out the door as if he has somewhere to go fast. ‘Make me proud, Hope,’ he says on his wake.
‘I will, Dad,’ she shouts after him. She will. Proud. Like Rose makes him.
She turns her tablet back on. She should do something; hair, make-up … video herself in her cute kitten PJs her followers always say they ‘love!’ Laughing, big grin, ‘oops’ eyes … ‘Look who forgot to take her Leata, yesterday! What a ditz!’ Then turn it serious, like a public information broadcast: ‘Warning to you all – this is what can happen when you forget!’ Take the blame – don’t turn it back on Seth. Who would believe her now anyway?
She wipes fresh tears from her eyes. First, she needs to calm down. No way can she look like she’s been crying, like she’s sad. She stares at her home screen. Something about today’s date pinches inside her mind. Until it hits her. It used to be a date she remembered like Christmas. Exactly a week before hers, they used to plan a private celebration together midway between.
Her mind jumps in a new direction. Making Dad proud – that’s all that matters, isn’t it? She starts getting dressed.
Him
‘Again? It’s Sunday, and you went in yesterday.’ I stand in the kitchen doorway, watching Mum rush round the room, shoving stuff into her bag amongst the debris and dirty dishes that never gets tidied or cleared up these days.
‘I have so much to catch up on, Tom, from being off for two months. I won’t be long. You just relax. Order take out, watch films. Get your friends over.’ She stops and gives me that appealing face she wears a lot these days. The one that says she has to go into the office, because she has to get away from this house – and its memories of Dad, everywhere.
‘It’s just you’re going in earlier all the time, and getting back later.’
She comes over to me, placing a hand on my chest. ‘You mustn’t worry about me.’
I stare back at her gaunt, grey face, into the eyes that are permanently bloodshot. I want to help her.
I have no idea how to help her. I’m trudging through the same sinking sand.
All I can do is not remind her, it’s my birthday (I scooped up all the cards on the doormat when I got back yesterday). And not weigh her down with what I’ve been up to. Keeping more of Dad’s secrets and lies to myself. That’s what I can do.
We’re swimming apart in the deep blue sea. But at least I’ve found a new way to keep afloat.
‘What’s this you’re wearing?’ Mum’s fingering my jacket before backing away as if it’s contagious, blinking furiously.
‘It’s Dad’s,’ I answer, though she knows that already. ‘I can take it off if you prefer?’
She shakes her head, but speeds up getting ready to leave.
Once she’s gone, I start tidying up the kitchen a bit. Anything to distract me from thinking about the fuss Dad would make over birthdays. Mum was conservative: a card and whatever you asked for. Dad was the balloons and surprises and cake for breakfast and daft extras from those innovation catalogues that advertise gifts you really don’t need. Like the universal remote control or the sofa arm drink holder.
I finish washing up and get a mug of coffee, trying to resist adding whisky to it. My hands shake from sobriety, but my head still hurts from yesterday’s binge. I glance at the clock. I’m not sure how long I’ll last without it. I’ll try and give it till lunchtime at least. I need to keep my mind clear to think. Think.
Last night, I started translating Dad’s notebook, using some shorthand translation on the internet. It took bloody ages to do just a few pages, only to find out that a local youth centre had closed because it refused Leata funding. Hardly a big secret.
I’ll go upstairs soon and translate the rest. That’s all I can do right now. Until I hear anything from Pavlin’s cousin Hari. Or meet that Fran girl – she’s already messaged me back on Facebook, I’d love to meet with you, Tom. I slot some bread into the toaster. I feel suddenly starving now I’ve not started the day with alcohol. Waiting for the toast, I retrieve my notebook from yesterday. I flip through the notes I made as I butter; start eating. And stop. Was Dad’s crash an accident? I’ve written.
What about Dad’s car? I throw the toast down. It was at the garage getting fixed from Dad’s bump – did it ever even come back? I think I’ve got a vague memory of Nathaniel driving it into our garage during the worst of the fog, a few weeks after Dad died.
I go into the hall, searching the bowl where we keep all the keys. Something inside of me lifts when I find they’re there. I head outside fast, across the driveway to the garage. Only Dad used the garage because he hardly drove his car. I’ve not been inside since.
Swinging up the doors, my stomach jumps and dives simultaneously as I stare at Dad’s silver Golf – sitting there as if Dad’s just turned up home. A blast of yearning for him charges into my chest. The last time I was in his car was a couple of weeks before he died. It was one of the lessons he’d started giving me. Dad was determined I take my test the minute I turned seventeen. ‘Taste the freedom of a set of wheels as soon as, son.’ Empty car parks, wastelands … on the driveway and even up and down our private road until one of the Neighbourhood Watch mafia complained. Probably Jack Wright.
I unlock the door. Sit down in the driving seat; shove the key into the ignition. Dad’s The Smiths CD kicks in. ‘Heaven knows I’m miserable now’. But the rest – it’s been cleaned out – did the garage do that? The mess Dad left like a trail of destruction in his wake, is all gone. They’ve even removed the smell of Dad, the faint whiff of a sneaky cigarette, the mints he always had on him. Keep your breath sweet and people will want to listen to you, Tom … and your mum won’t get suspicious about my other habit. I can picture Dad’s half-smile as he said it. I think of the affair – just how much of himself did Dad hide from Mum with mints and clever words?
Ah shit, Dad. I rest my head on the steering wheel. I don’t want to think badly of you. Not now.
I jump as a knock rattles the glass.
She comes into view, bending down by the passenger window, hand waving manically, mouth sounding out-of-tune Happy Birthday lyrics. Her eyes look a little red, but aside from that she’s her usual perky, fake-smiling self.
She climbs in without an invite. ‘Confession! I only remembered when I looked at today’s date! Sorree – no time to get you anything!’
I pull my body away from her exclamation overdrive. ‘Hope, you’ve never got me anything for my birthday in five years.’
‘Past is past. We’re in the present now.’ I almost expect her to chime next: ‘and the future’s bright’. But instead her expression turns sorrowful. ‘How are we after yesterday?’
‘Royal “we”?’
‘How are you, Tom?’
I don’t answer. She’s clearly taken her happy pill recently. I don’t talk pill language.
‘So what’re you doing in here?’ She gazes around. ‘Garages are such gloomy places. This music doesn’t help. Shall we change it?’ She starts fiddling with the wrong knobs. The sat nav blinks on.
I glance sharply at Hope, back to the dashboard. ‘Shit, why didn’t I think of that?’ I lean over, hurriedly tapping to recent destinations. There are only two plugged in. The top one is dated. 10 June. Three weeks BDD. I tap it and the red arrow hovers over some place near Windsor.
‘Who’d your dad know there?’ Hope says idly.
I turn the key in the ignition, the engine hums awake.
‘Tom, what are you doing?’
The sat nav woman tells us to turn left at the end of the driveway. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘It might be your dad’s chiropractor, for all you know!’
‘Dad only ever used the car when he had to. He was an environmentalist.’ I balk at the patheticness of that statement – Dad was lots of things I thought he was. ‘When he used the car it was always for a good reason. It’s not like I’m asking you to come with.’
Her
She slams a hand against her chest. What is Tom playing at? ‘You’ve only turned seventeen today, Tom. You can’t drive.’
‘The things Hope Wright doesn’t know about me because we’ve not been friends for five years,’ he breathes out, hurriedly jamming in his seatbelt. ‘Starting with: I can drive. It’s just a matter of a test, and I’ll prove it by dropping you off at yours.’ He starts reversing the car out of the garage, swinging it round.
Sat nav woman repeats her instruction, competing with the music. Something depressing from Tom’s dad’s era. ‘Tom – you can’t just drive there. We’ll get the train.’
‘We?’
‘Tom, it’s illegal to drive without a licence!’
‘Thank you for the reminder, Constable Wright.’ He stops the car, extending his arm, palm flattened for ‘get out’.
Hope looks back over at her house. She thinks of the spectators crowding round on the internet – readying to watch her go under the guillotine. She thinks about what Dad said. Shadow Tom, take care of him. He needs taking care of. ‘What if the police pull you over?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll lie, pretend to be Nathaniel. I already have his licence.’
Hope laughs instinctively. ‘When did you become the bad boy? I thought it was me who was the wayward one.’ She bites down on her lip. Did she really just say that? The past is past, Hope. Don’t let what Seth’s done unhinge you!
She catches Tom staring at her like she’s just spoken a foreign language. Her stomach curdles. He seems different today. His eyes don’t look as glazed over from misery; his breath doesn’t reek of alcohol.
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