Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  ‘Fine, let’s go,’ she says pertly, just to stop him looking.

  He makes a face back as if to say ‘do whatever you want’, and jumps out to close his front door, then the garage. She twists to watch him as he jogs back to the car, like a man on a mission, alive again. What’s got him so stoked? Just the idea of his dad’s last drive? That’s morbid.

  ‘You’d better be a bloody good driver,’ she says as he climbs back in.

  He looks at her curiously again. ‘I thought happy people didn’t swear?’

  She fidgets in her seat. ‘I’m a little off this morning.’ She clears her throat as he pulls out of their road. ‘I think I’ve just committed blogging suicide.’ She winces, realising what she’s said too late; starts to apologise.

  Tom laughs. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You seem better?’ she says as he glances at her fleetingly.

  ‘I’m glad … to have a lead … I just want to find out what made Dad do it.’ His lips tighten like he’s fighting something. ‘Because I keep getting this weird feeling …’ He rubs at an eye. ‘… Dad never meant to leave me.’

  Her body goes rigid in her seat. She has to say something, put him straight. I mean, WHAT is he implying by that? But when he pulls his hand away she sees a tear escape. So she stays quiet, reaching out a cautious hand to his shoulder.

  It’s the first time she’s touched him in five years.

  So why does it suddenly feel like just yesterday?

  Him

  ‘So tell me about this internet suicide.’ I use her phrase once we’ve made it safely onto the M25, and I’m feeling better about driving. Dad taught me well.

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to know. You’ll think it’s ridiculous,’ she answers.

  I glance at her after I’ve changed lanes. Now she looks like she’s about to cry.

  ‘It’s clearly bothering you, so tell me.’

  She blows out through her cheeks. ‘It’s just … well, someone I thought was a friend … he’s sharing this vlog he’s made slating me. You’re known by your numbers. And mine are going down. My blog, my channel; Twitter, Instagram – my followers are deserting me, and … I don’t know … what I want to say to them.’

  I shrug. ‘Just be honest.’

  ‘Honest?’ she says, almost laughing. ‘No offence or anything, but what do you know about maintaining a blog brand?’

  ‘Not a lot. But my mate Daisy has this book blog – she reviews the books Leata advise against reading.’ I make a face as if I know she won’t condone that. ‘And in her posts – she always seems to speak from the bottom of her heart.’

  ‘The bottom of her heart?’ Hope repeats the words slowly.

  ‘Yeah, like – stop saying everything’s awesome.’ I glance at her again. ‘Everything isn’t.’

  ‘Keep spreading the joy, Tom. Keep spreading it.’

  The dry tone of her voice makes me laugh suddenly. ‘You sound like old Hope,’ I say, without thinking.

  Abruptly, we both go quiet.

  Her

  She can sense her body tightening again. She doesn’t quite trust herself to speak right now. Pulling off the motorway, Tom comes to a stop at a set of traffic lights. He turns to her, letting out the kind of sigh as if he’s something to get off his chest. ‘When we used to hang out, you never gave a toss about what anyone thought about you – that’s why you were always getting us into trouble …’

  His mouth and his eyes seem to be stretching like he’s reminiscing. Like he’s seeing her, right now, as she used to be.

  ‘The past is the past,’ she mutters to herself, staring out of the passenger window to avoid his gaze.

  He goes quiet too as the traffic moves again.

  She rests her head against the glass for the rest of the journey. She’s really regretting coming. She’s got a headache from crying this morning. And she’s still waiting on this morning’s two Leata to kick in. Why aren’t they working yet? She’s not even got her bag with her to take more. Or her phone to update Dad.

  Staring back out front, they’ve started driving down wide streets with houses tucked out of view behind grand gated entrances. Another fifteen minutes later and ‘You have reached your destination,’ sat nav woman announces.

  They both stare over at the tall wooden gates, the top of a grey slate roof in the distance beyond them. Tom pulls the car up against a security buzzer on the wall. The nameplate reads simply, Blythe. With a security company listed beneath.

  Tom winds down his window and glances at Hope before he presses the button.

  After a short while a terse voice answers ‘Yes?’

  Him

  The authoritative tone throws me. I instantly begin to stutter, ‘Err, I’m here, because –’ I lose my voice. This was a stupid idea. I’m about to wind the window back up when I hear Hope tut. She leans across me, confidently shouting into the buzzer, ‘Did a Matt Riley visit here June tenth?’

  There’s muffled silence the other end, then a noise that sounds like a huff before, ‘Who?’

  ‘Matt Riley,’ I say, finding my voice again. ‘Your address was in his sat nav. He must have come here.’

  More silence. And, ‘Oh wait, wasn’t he the journalist who killed himself?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom’s voice wavers.

  ‘Yes, I was doorstepped by him a few times – I never let him in, mind you. We spoke just as you and I are speaking now. I sent him away. I didn’t know what he wanted. But I don’t talk to press.’

  ‘Can we ask who you are?’ Hope leans across my lap again.

  ‘I should ask the same of you. Please leave my premises now.’ The buzzer clicks off.

  I bite down on my nail, then roughly drag out my phone, tapping Blythe and PharmaCare into Google. It comes up with nothing. Turning to Hope she has those sympathetic eyes on me.

  ‘What next, Starsky?’

  ‘I’m going to try the next place,’ I mumble, scrolling down the sat nav to the second postcode. N6 4TR. ‘You don’t have to come. I can drop you off at a train station.’

  She chews her mouth and shrugs. I take that as my answer.

  Half an hour later we’re crossing Hammersmith, onto a road clogged with city traffic. A red bus pulls up in the lane next to me. A Leata advert on its side. Someone on-board is taking a pill right under it, like it’s been choreographed that way.

  Her

  It’s taken them over an hour just to get from west to north London. She sits her arms folded; she’s starting to feel like a petulant child, forced to go visiting grandma. She should have agreed to getting dropped off at a station. She should be at home, reuniting with her phone and tablet, rectifying her screen life. At Archway, they follow a slow queue up the hill towards Highgate, taking a series of right turns until they arrive at the point of the arrow on the screen. Tom turns the engine off and gets out.

  Hope stays in the car, watching him stride up and down the few paces that will be covered by the postcode. It’ll include at least fifteen, maybe twenty of the tall Victorian terraces either side of the leafy suburban street. He can’t go knocking on every door: did you know Matt Riley?

  Another disappointment. She softens, feeling bad for Tom as the look on his face begins to mimic hers: this was a stupid plan. She’s thinking about suggesting they do something nice for his birthday before they go home – when Tom freezes.

  She follows his gaze. A woman with dark bobbed hair is coming out of one of the houses. A little boy with butterscotch corkscrew hair and apple-round pink cheeks bouncing around next to her.

  She gets out of the car. ‘Do you know them?’ she asks as she reaches Tom.

  He ignores her, crossing the road, going straight up to their gate like he’s in a trance.

  The woman glances round as she locks her door.

  ‘It’s you,’ Hope hears Tom say, in a voice that breaks.

  9

  Picking at scabs will only make you bleed

  Leata

  Him


  ‘You and my dad,’ I say plainly, fidgeting my hands, in, out of my pockets.

  She looks over abruptly, confusion registering across her face. It’s her. I know it’s her. She can’t be more than thirty. Dark hair tucked behind her ears. I can almost see why Dad would fall for her.

  She shakes her head, ‘Who are you?’ before her eyes harden. ‘No. No, I can’t do this. Come on Benny.’ She reaches out for the little boy, who’s looking mesmerised by Hope behind me.

  ‘I really need to talk to you,’ I say urgently. I feel Hope put a restraining hand on my arm. Did I say it too loud? I take a breath, start again. ‘I’m not here to blame you or anything. I just want to find out about you and my dad.’

  ‘That’s really not possible,’ the woman says, ‘you have to leave.’

  ‘I am Benny, who you?’ the little boy starts saying to Hope, proudly sticking out a round tummy. ‘Why do dogs like bones?’ he asks straight after she tells him her name.

  ‘Please.’ I look back at the woman, searching her eyes – to communicate that I don’t mean trouble.

  She blinks as if she doesn’t like what she sees back. ‘I can’t help you. Really, I can’t.’ Despite the heat, she starts doing up the buttons on her cream mac with clumsy fingers.

  ‘My mum got sent photos of you with my dad,’ my voice croaks, and my hands are shaking. I fiddle with my glasses to occupy them.

  ‘I heard,’ she says, struggling with the last button.

  ‘Dad told you?’ I rush out. ‘Do you know who sent them? Was it anything to do with some story he was writing?’

  Hope glances up sharply while little Benny asks her, ‘You ever met a bear?’ with a pretend growl.

  The woman’s mouth fidgets nervously. She steps closer. I can see blue flecks in her brown eyes. She smells of sweet perfume. ‘Some story? I was your dad’s story.’

  Her

  The woman – face flushed – she’s grabbing cute little Benny’s dimpled hand again, dragging him away from Hope even though she’s not answered his question about bears. She tries to hold Tom back as he starts to rush after them. He can’t go harassing this woman. ‘She looks upset, Tom.’

  He just shakes her off, continues. Hope stands there for a minute, not knowing what to do, before she follows after them.

  Catching up, she can hear Tom begging the woman to listen. He rounds on her so she has to stop, taking off his glasses, as if he wants the woman to really see him. His face looks bare without them; his eyes a deeper brown, smaller, almost marsupial. Something in Hope’s heart seems to plunge with an unfamiliar longing. For a time. Don’t think about the past, she tells herself harshly. Pulling her arms in tight as if to keep herself safe, she quickly covers the last few metres between them.

  Spotting her, Benny launches himself over, exchanging his mum’s hand for hers, as if they’re old friends. Hope smiles down at him, meeting his upturned face. ‘I met a bear in Canada once,’ she tells him, half-listening as the woman speaks quietly to Tom.

  ‘I’m Imogen. Are you Tom or Nathaniel?’ She must be relenting because she adds, ‘We’re going to the playground just up there. You can walk with us.’ She puts a hand out for Benny but he clings more fiercely to Hope’s hand. Imogen smiles at him and continues walking beside Tom. Benny starts singing the Batman theme, bobbing his curly head in tune with it. Hope strains to hear them talking over it.

  ‘You look a lot like him,’ Imogen’s saying.

  Tom replying, ‘That’s what everyone says.’

  ‘Matt and I finished a month before he … ,’ Imogen pauses. ‘I never meant that much to him. It was casual. He would never have left your mum. He loved her. You and your brother, you were his world.’

  ‘You don’t have to say that.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Imogen says, ‘I was just “work” to your dad.’ She stops abruptly.

  ‘Mama’s sad,’ Benny says, pushing two fingers into his mouth. Hope watches. He’s right, Imogen is quietly crying. Tom looks uneasy. His hand goes as if to comfort her, but he can’t quite seem to do it.

  Hope tries to distract Benny, pointing out two fighting squirrels in a tree as she listens.

  ‘I have a track record with letting men dupe me,’ Imogen is saying shakily, flicking her gaze at Benny.

  Tom stutters something incoherent back and kicks at the ground, staring down at his grubby Converses. Hope’s stomach dips for him. Bad enough talking to your dead dad’s lover for the first time, but when they talk like this? Though she can’t say she’s surprised at the revelation. Yeah, Matt Riley could be fun, but he could be an irresponsible idiot too. All that spliff smoking and cursing and don’t tell your mum, Tom. Tom was always proud to be his accomplice.

  He doesn’t look proud now.

  They resume walking. Hope swings Benny’s hand, pretending to hum along with his ‘na-na-na-na Batman!’ He gets more excited as they begin to hear the sounds of children’s cries and squeals, following a storybook tree-lined path to a clearing in a wood. There – a large, multi-coloured playground, heavy on the blue and yellow. The gated entrance holds a board advertising Leata’s help with purchasing new equipment. Lucky children, Hope thinks.

  The playground is mostly empty, just a few parents clustered round a sandpit, coffee cups in their hands, chatting vigorously to one another. Hope spies a couple popping a Leata. Comparing messages on the foil. She wonders if she can scrounge one.

  ‘What did you mean before: you were Dad’s story?’ she hears Tom cautiously asking Imogen as Benny scrambles onto a swing.

  ‘Want me to push you?’ Hope asks, one ear trained for Imogen’s answer.

  ‘Go really high, high, Hope,’ Benny cries, his little curly head bobbing with excitement.

  Hope starts pushing him gently, tensing as she hears Imogen say, ‘I worked for PharmaCare. For John Tenby. Your dad – he only wanted to get … intimate with me because he wanted access to John … to Leata’s secrets.’

  Him

  ‘John Tenby,’ Imogen says again, as if the name should mean something to me.

  Hope is twisting round. ‘John Tenby, Tom,’ she says too, ‘the man who discovered the formula for Leata.’ She moves her eyes to Imogen. ‘I interviewed him once for my blog … he’s a really great man. It must be amazing to work for him.’

  ‘He was Dad’s source?’ I cut in.

  ‘John reluctantly spoke to Matt,’ Imogen says tightly, ‘I don’t believe he told him anything.’

  ‘Were you his source too?’ I ask.

  ‘Me?’ She slams a hand against her chest, surprised eyes. ‘I was only John’s PA. I didn’t know anything. Like I said: your dad just wanted to use me. To get to meet John. It just took me a while to realise that. I’m sorry,’ she adds when she catches the look on my face.

  I make a hand signal that it’s okay and start fumbling for my notepad in Dad’s bag.

  ‘I recognise that bag,’ Imogen says sadly. She makes a strangled laugh as I start to write. ‘Your dad was always scribbling away.’

  I glance up. I don’t know what to say to that. Her face seems to be showing she had real feelings for Dad once. ‘Pen and paper helped him think,’ I shrug.

  Imogen taps the pad. ‘Then maybe write that John Tenby meant the world to me. He doted on me and Benny.’

  A coldness starts creeping up my spine as I suddenly clock something. ‘Why do you keep talking in the past tense?’ I sense Hope glance sharply around again.

  Imogen puts a hand against her mouth as if she’s about to be sick. Tears flood her eyes again. I see an answer there.

  ‘Someone told me Dad’s source died,’ I say, my voice tight and fixed. I’m not sure whether to scream hallelujah – a breakthrough – or curl up and tremble.

  ‘Imogen – is John Tenby still alive?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course he is!’ Hope twists round, answering for Imogen. Her mouth gaping open when she catches the look on Imogen’s face. ‘I’d have heard if he’d died!’

  ‘The ne
ws hasn’t been released yet.’ Imogen’s face flushes before it pales. ‘You can’t tell anyone I admitted to that. It’s really important no one knows. PharmaCare don’t want anyone to know. Not until they release it.’

  She draws a long breath as I ask how he died.

  ‘I can’t tell you any more. I’m putting myself at risk just telling you he died.’ Her face seems to run a gamut of emotions, from fear to surrender. Finally she adds, ‘John lived alone. The police found him … heart attack, they say. He was sixty-four. But he was healthy,’ she adds as if she’s impeaching me over the verdict.

  ‘When?’ I catch my voice as it breaks. ‘When did he die, Imogen?’

  Imogen eyes me then darts her gaze away. Pushing a thumbnail into her mouth, she bites down on it. ‘The day before your dad.’

  Benny has stopped swinging, he’s tugging Hope over to a little wooden house nearby. I drop down onto the empty swing before I fall over. My head is spinning; facts colliding.

  Hope is walking back over as I try a new tack. ‘Do you know if John Tenby said anything to my dad about Leata’s side effects?’

  Imogen squints her eyes as if the warm sun’s suddenly become too bright. She shakes her head again. ‘I don’t know what they talked about.’

  ‘Is Leata harmful?’ I ask.

  ‘God, no!’ Imogen shoots back at me. I hear a wide-eyed Hope let out a long exhale. ‘No, John would never create anything harmful. He was a good man. The best of men. With Leata he’s done the world no end of good. Just look around you.’

  ‘It is a lovely playground,’ Hope says.

  ‘I mean globally,’ Imogen cuts in. ‘It was John’s only solace – the way it clearly helped people find happy. Because being the inventor of Leata – it was an albatross around John’s neck.’ Imogen looks directly at me. ‘People like your father forever hounding him for how he created Leata. His secret recipe for the artificial plant source used in Leata.’

  ‘The secret about the plant source. Was that what Dad was after?’ I almost spit it out, my mind clouds over, like it’s hit a dead end. Is that the big secret? Dad was searching for the components of some lab-grown plant? To see if it was harmful?