Imogen is calling over for Benny. She looks back at me. ‘I really don’t care what secret your dad was after. All I know is Matt destroyed John.’ Her eyes seem to be answering a more distant question. ‘I’ve said more than I should already. Please tell no one about John Tenby being dead.’
Her
Hope can’t think straight. She feels suddenly cold despite the warm sun. John Tenby’s really dead? And no one knows? Imogen’s voice wavers as she calls again for Benny. He darts out of the playhouse and into Hope instead. ‘Come play, Hope!’
‘We need to leave you and your mummy to have fun,’ Hope says, stroking the top of his warm, curly head. ‘Tom and I have to go.’ She tries to catch Tom’s eye. Imogen’s looking too fragile for this. She recalls a Leata message from the other day. ‘Picking at scabs will only make you bleed.’
Tom is getting off the swing, fumbling his glasses back on. His face fidgets and twitches as if he’s trying to say something. Eventually it comes out. ‘How could my dad have destroyed John Tenby, just by asking questions? He was a journalist.’
Imogen remains silent.
Tom steps closer to her. Hope can hear him breathing heavily. ‘And isn’t it too much of a coincidence? John Tenby and Dad, dying a day apart?’ His tone sounds both accusatory and deflated.
Imogen simply shrugs; her eyes refusing to meet Tom’s.
‘Imogen, please, tell me: was there anything suspicious about John’s death?’
Hope catches the look Imogen throws at Tom, like he already knows the answer to that question. ‘Your dad hounded John. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ Her voice breaks, gulping air. ‘And then John died.’
‘What do you mean by that? Are you saying it’s linked?’ Tom is glaring at Imogen. Her mouth is fixed shut again. The warm air around them fills only with the screams and cries of children, happy and sad; with Benny tugging on her arm. ‘Play, Hope. Hope, play with me.’
Eventually Tom shakes his head. He starts walking off.
Hope watches him before turning back to Imogen. She’s crying again. ‘I’m sorry. Tom’s all over the place since his dad died,’ Hope tries to explain.
‘It’s not his fault,’ Imogen gasps between tears. Benny stumbles back towards the playhouse, solemnly shaking his head like he’s mimicking his mother’s mood.
‘We should leave you both alone,’ Hope says softly.
Imogen makes a grab for her as she turns to leave. ‘Take care of him, watch over Tom,’ she says. ‘He’ll get himself in real danger if he keeps asking these kind of questions.’ Her brows crease, and she wipes a hand under her nose. ‘Tell him – I can’t give him the answers he wants.’ She adds sadly, ‘Everyone has something or someone they’re trying to protect, don’t they?’ Imogen looks across at Benny’s head bobbing in and out of the playhouse window.
Hope knows she should ask what Imogen means. But she’s not sure she wants to know. ‘Do you want my number?’ she says lamely instead. ‘I mean, if you need to speak to me or Tom again?’
Imogen hesitates before she answers, ‘Okay, yes, maybe I should take that.’
As they leave, Hope gives Benny a quick hug goodbye; he smells of sunshine.
Him
I can hear Hope shouting for me to stop, but I don’t. I sprint down the park’s path, as if distance can make sense of the things Imogen said. Sweat forms a layer over my body, but I wrap Dad’s jacket round tighter. Questions whirl like a twister inside my head. My dad used Imogen? Left Mum, broken and guilt-ridden? All for a story?
And John Tenby, the Leata inventor? Imogen was implying Dad had something to do with John’s death! Did Dad cause his heart attack or something? The day before he died?
What if, what if, what if …
‘I think Imogen’s scared,’ Hope says, catching up with me, out of breath from running. She pulls on me to slow down, biting her lip, like she’s about to cry too. Her face is devoid of its usual glowsome positivity. Like even Hope … has lost hope.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Tom?’ she says, digging her eyes into mine.
I glance at her like she’s asking me to strip nude. Hope? Wants to know what I’m thinking? I take a deep breath. The only insight I have to give her right now echoes Ralph’s.
‘I’m thinking I never knew my dad.’ I pull Dad’s jacket even tighter. ‘I’m no longer sure …’ I say, stumbling on, ‘… if he was even a very good man.’
Her
She walks a little behind Tom. She doesn’t know what to say to him. He’s started swaying a little, like he’s drunk again, even though she’s not seen him drink anything. He looks hot, wretched in that jacket, yet he tugs it closer around him as if he’s frozen.
Her stomach’s in her throat; throat in her mouth; she doesn’t know what to think. How to act. How is she supposed to act? A clump of teenagers around their age barge carelessly past on the pavement, phones out, swigging Coke cans, talking loudly. Girls piggybacking boys. Another pair have their arms round each other. Carefree, happy. One girl wears the Leata T-shirt Hope has. From behind, Hope can see her taking a pill. She reads out the message aloud. Some of them whoop in response.
‘OMG I must tweet that one. That’s like the best message ever,’ her friend shrieks happily.
They round the corner, Hope walks on. This morning’s the first time in a long time she hasn’t tweeted her message. Friends. Parties, vlogging; fashion; FUN – that’s her life. Right now – she should be working a way to save it, rescue herself from a public hanging on social media. She wipes her forehead, it’s clammy. The air’s so hot, and the sun keeps shining brighter. Excited screams erupt in the distance, probably from the same group. Everyone else is happy right now. Her chest’s growing tighter. Quickly she starts at Ten: I have a great family.
Before she can think of nine, she hears Tom utter a ‘fuck’. White-faced by his car, he’s staring fixedly at something on his phone.
Him
‘Dad. It’s Dad’s number,’ I say to Hope, in a ghost of a voice. ‘How can it be Dad?’
I feel Hope take the phone from my hand, but the message stays in my head as if it’s become tattooed there.
Advice: Stay away from people your dad knew – you’ll only cause trouble for them and urself. Ur dad wld want u to just get on with life.
‘Someone knows we’re here,’ I say to Hope. I start circling the pavement, my hands burying in my hair. ‘Someone has Dad’s phone. How?’ I’m breathing hard, like I’m in pain.
Hope has the phone pressed to her ear. I hear a voice come on.
I cup a hand over my mouth to steady my breathing, whispering hoarsely, ‘Is it my dad?’ How can it be Dad!
‘It’s an automated voicemail,’ Hope shakes her head. ‘Who are you?’ she says into the receiver before passing it back to me.
I spin round, checking the few faces on the street around us, families strolling; lone bodies fixed on where they’re going. ‘Are they watching us now?’ My throat thickens. I want to cry, or scream. Or hit the lamp post. This is messed up! ‘Why? Why would someone have Dad’s phone? Someone’s following me! It has to be PharmaCare!’
Hope puts out a hand, touching my arm as if to remind me she’s here. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘What other conclusion is there?’ I snap. I tighten my face to try and keep in other words. It’s not Hope’s fault. More softly I add, ‘Can’t you see? It’s all connected. John Tenby was Dad’s source and he told him something bad about Leata.’
My phone buzzes in my hand. We both look down sharply.
A text message from Dad’s phone. A friend, it says, in answer to Hope’s voicemail.
I text a reply quickly. I want to speak to you.
We wait. Neither of us talking, eyes fixed on the screen. Nothing.
I can hear Hope now breathing as hard as me. ‘Maybe it’s someone who’s got your back?’ she says in a weak voice.
I give her a look as if she’s just said the sky is green. �
�Give up with the positive spin on everything! Someone knows we’re here! Wants me to stop asking questions! Someone. Has. Dad’s. Phone!’
Her
Neither of them say much on the car journey home. She managed to convince Tom not to go racing back to the park to interrogate Imogen some more. ‘Let’s sleep on it first.’ She thinks of little Benny’s innocent, grinning face. She wants Tom to leave them alone, whatever Imogen’s part in this.
But she has to agree. It doesn’t look good. She needs to talk to her dad. She wants her dad to make sure Imogen’s not messed up in something scary. Have him explain why PharmaCare are covering up John Tenby’s death. Reassure Tom, it has nothing to do with his dad’s death.
She turns the CD on. She’d rather have Tom’s dad’s dated taste in music than this loaded silence.
Tom eyes are fixed on the windscreen; his brow permanently twisted. Every now and again he rubs his face. She wants to know what he’s thinking. And she doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking.
She tries to close her eyes, wishing herself asleep for the hour or so it will take to get home, so she can block out the pain and fury and confusion playing across Tom’s face.
Instead, seeing darkness, she recalls Imogen’s distress, Benny’s excitement. What’s Imogen protecting Benny from? Who rang Tom? Why don’t they want Tom asking questions?
Her eyes zing open, back onto Tom’s face. It’s still held the way she left it. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him.
Her heart beats faster as Tom pulls into their road. Dusk forms a grey veil over the smart beige houses and meticulously planted autumnal trees and neatly shorn green hedges. Home again. It’s only now they’ve arrived, she realises: she’s not sure she wanted to be back this soon.
She readies herself for seeing her dad waiting on their driveway for her, or Tom’s mum angry with him for taking the car. Instead, someone else is standing on Tom’s drive. The only car on it – a black Mercedes – isn’t one she recognises. Nor is the man. He’s good looking, like really good looking. Grey tailored suit, open-collared white shirt. Trousers tapering to polished shoes. Leaning against the car like he’s just passing time. As they pull in he straightens up, smiling pointedly at Tom.
Hope glances at Tom as he switches off the engine. ‘Who’s that?’
Tom stares ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly till they’re almost the colour of bone. ‘Police. The detective assigned to Dad’s suicide.’
Hope looks between them as the detective rounds on the Golf. She has an unexpected urge just to grab Tom and take him somewhere safe. Take him to the treehouse. Hide out there until years have passed, like in fairy tales.
The treehouse was always the place they’d run to when one of her schemes went wrong. To get Tom out of danger for the ticking off she was due.
Except, Tom can’t really be in any danger – can he?
‘Tom?’ The detective is knocking on the window, doing a motion for ‘wind it down’.
Hope can see the gum he’s chewing as he opens his mouth wide to say, ‘I’m not going to ask to see the licence you clearly haven’t got.’ He makes a smile, the ends of his mouth pointing directly up to his eyes. A smile that sits comfortably on his face as if it’s reclining lazily on a chair.
‘And who do we have here?’ he says, talking in words drawn out like Millie does.
Hope annoys herself by blushing as the intense blue eyes round on hers.
‘My neighbour, Hope,’ Tom answers for her, a curt edge to his voice. ‘Are you waiting for my mum, DS Miles–?’
‘Ethan, remember?’ The detective runs a hand over his crew-cut. ‘No, in fact it’s you I’m here to see; we need to have another chat. Come and get in my car. It’s comfier.’
Tom finally looks Hope’s way, his brow furrowing like he’s asking her to intervene somehow.
She shakes her head. She doesn’t know what to do. NAD Boy. She was wrong, stupid, idiotic! to think she could ever help him.
‘You’d probably better get off home, Hope,’ the detective says like he’s thinking the same thing.
She gets out with Tom, tossing out a quick ‘bye’, trying to make a face like there’s nothing for him to worry about. The detective’s already said he doesn’t care about the licence! But her chest stays tight as she walks away, counting down in her head just to stop herself running back and doing something stupid.
By one, she pauses, glancing back. Tom’s being steered into the black car.
‘It pays to forget; hurts to remember,’ she hears chant in her head, as if a Leata advert’s just come on to dissipate all her bad thinking.
The thing is, she finds … she can no longer remember why it pays to forget. All she wants to do, is remember.
10
Keeping busy blocks bad thoughts
Leata
Him
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Afternoon, Tom.’
I freeze, my whole body going rigid with fear. In the back of the car sits a smartly dressed woman, slim legs crossed; short brown hair, a bit older than Mum. Up front in the passenger seat: a broad-shouldered man with a bent nose; his dark suit jacket straining over a barrel chest. Recognition punches me hard in the stomach. ‘You were at my dad’s funeral.’
The man makes a face as if to say, ‘So?’ Pin eyes, set in a doughy round face, are impenetrable as he flashes a heavy badge my way, muttering in a low, nasal voice, ‘I’m DS Miles’ boss.’ He doesn’t offer a name, besides saying, ‘The Commander. And this here is my colleague.’ He ticks a finger at the woman, before folding his mouth assuredly, as if it’s my turn to go next.
My turn – I twist to move away. I’m not doing this, whatever it is. But DS Miles stays behind me. He presses a hand hard against my lower back, pushing me further in. ‘We just want a chat, Tom.’
Miles shuts the door before climbing into the driving seat, continuing, ‘We got a call that you’ve been making door-to-door visits.’
My mind flies between the house near Windsor and the anonymous caller. ‘Were you following me?’
The Commander adjusts his position, flicking at his jacket. The woman beside me coughs. DS Miles laughs, eyeing me in the rear view mirror briefly. ‘Tom, Tom, stop with the tone of suspicion. How many of those teenage dystopias you been watching?’
‘No one’s following you. A lady, Imogen Poole, reported you to a police contact of ours, okay?’ Miles replies airily. ‘Why did you go and see her, Tom?’
Imogen went to the police? Hurt pulls at my stomach – that she would betray me like that. I tug on my neck, staring between them, unsure of the best way to answer. I suddenly find myself wishing Hope had stayed with me. When we were kids and we got in trouble, Hope was the one who lied for us. Between Hope’s talent for it and my parents never giving me any need to – unlike hers – I always fell on the truth or silence. I don’t think truth will serve me well now. I don’t think they’ll accept silence. ‘Why do you ask?’ I choose evasion instead. ‘Are you here because of Dad?’
The Commander scratches his head, adjusting his hefty bulk in his seat. ‘Imogen Poole is a vulnerable person right now.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
The woman next to me lets out a tight shriek of a laugh. I recognise it from some of the teachers at school. The kind that says who do you think you are?
The Commander continues, ‘Yes, we’re here because of your father. Ms Poole was … shall we say, romantically linked to him … before he took his own life.’
I nod, to show them I already know this. ‘Does this have something to do with the fact John Tenby is dead?’ I blurt out without thinking.
It’s their turn to look uneasy.
‘Is that what Ms Poole told you?’ The woman re-folds her legs the opposite way, twisting her body closer to my side of the car, her mouth pinching into a strained smile. ‘John Tenby’s death has not been announced. And we’ve been instructed to keep it that way. For the tim
e being. Ms Poole had no right to tell you about it.’
‘Why?’ I balk. ‘Why hide his death from people?’
‘Leave the management of the complicated things in life to the professionals,’ the woman answers in a clipped tone.
The Commander gives her a look. ‘The boy deserves an explanation, doesn’t he?’ He turns his pin eyes back to me. ‘Most of the stories you hear are only half the news. For the last century, the police have worked with government to keep a check on what gets out, what stays contained. Like John Tenby’s death. Too many bad news stories and we’d all be buried in misery!’ He makes an effort to laugh, but his mouth doesn’t oblige.
‘Everyone does it these days: school with exam results; hospitals with operation success. And us, the police: children found, criminals arrested. Crime decreasing. Society is all about the positives. People just never realise – what goes on in the background to maintain happiness in society!’ He speaks proudly, as if it’s all his doing.
‘You can’t hide news from people,’ I say, exhaling deeply. It’s nothing Dad hasn’t spouted before – but from the opposite side of the fence. The State controlling the way people feel. ‘But to be honest, right now, I don’t really give a toss what the police spin or don’t.’ Deeper breath. ‘Is John Tenby’s death connected … to my dad?’
‘John Tenby died of a heart attack.’ The Commander pauses, clearing his throat. ‘Whether a gun wound brought that on, the coroner couldn’t tell us,’ he finishes, staring out the window.
‘A gun wound?’ I shout out. A gun wound?
I can see DS Miles eyes fixing back on me in the rear view mirror.
The Commander shakes his head slowly. ‘So Imogen didn’t tell you that bit?’
My mouth seems to be filling with cotton wool. I recall Imogen’s expression as I struggle to get the words out. ‘Are you saying … do you think … my dad shot him?’
‘We do,’ the woman says. ‘And then your dad took his own life a day later.’
The back of my throat makes a noise. I collapse my head into my hands. I have to get out of here.
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