The Commander’s saying something quietly, but I can’t hear him over my own thoughts. Bit by bit Dad’s being erased. The arm curled round me, reading me bedtime stories; inventing games on rainy days; sneaking out with a cheeky smile for puffs on his spliff. The man who was always there, to listen to me, and tell me what to think, how to behave. Be truthful, Tom, always, most importantly, to yourself. What did the truth even mean to Dad?
My voice comes out in a whisper as I lift my head again. ‘Why would my dad want to shoot John Tenby?’
The Commander re-adjusts himself in his seat. ‘Because he was angry that John Tenby wouldn’t provide him with the information he was after. Your dad was deranged, by all accounts, with falsehoods about PharmaCare he wanted substantiated,’ the Commander is continuing. ‘If the gun did go off from his hand … we are sure it was by accident. We don’t wish to pursue that line of enquiry unless we have to. Negative news and all that as I was saying. John Tenby is like a saviour to many people. PharmaCare want to manage the release of his demise carefully. I hope you understand, Tom. We are asking you to say nothing … to anyone. Think of it as protecting your father’s reputation.’
I look up. My head is banging even without alcohol in my system. ‘He was being blackmailed too.’ I’m not sure why I feel the need to stick up for Dad in some way. ‘Did you know photos of him and Imogen Poole were sent to my mum?’ From the looks on their faces, I see instantly that they do. ‘Plus, DS Miles, there’s the fact Dad reported his credit card used to buy a gun!’
Miles frowns. ‘And I told you, that all checked out.’
I take a breath, making sure I want to share it first. ‘Someone just texted me … from Dad’s phone.’
This time it’s news to them.
‘Okay, mate,’ Miles says, though he’s staring at the Commander. ‘Can you show me the message?’
I dig my phone out of my jacket pocket, tapping to the first text, showing it to them all.
‘Your dad’s phone, huh? Leave that with me. Let me check that one out,’ DS Miles nods, smiling.
‘You must know there are people who want to bring Leata down,’ the woman says to me. ‘The PAL network, for instance, will stop at nothing. Maybe they see you as a way to stir up trouble. The best thing for you is to go back to your studies. What A levels are you doing?’ She makes an attempt at a smile, acting like she’s actually interested in the question all adults ask.
So I don’t bother answering. I open the door to get out.
‘Tom, we need you to let us do our job,’ the Commander’s saying as I climb out. ‘Keep out of it, leave it to the police. Don’t add to your mum’s stresses, yeah?’
I look between him and the woman. ‘I don’t tell my mum anything right now.’
‘Good boy,’ the woman says as if I’m a pet dog, ‘We want to keep a lid on this …’ The ends of her mouth turn down; her hands retreat to her lap. ‘For now … until we know what we’re dealing with … until the time is right for announcing John Tenby’s death. Understand?’ She gives me an I know best smile. ‘Besides, your mother doesn’t need further heartbreak, until we have all the facts.’
The Commander tilts his head round. ‘Just play nicely, Tom and we’ll all get on.’
I’ve had enough. ‘Okay,’ I get out.
‘Paranoia, Tom,’ DS Miles says out the open window. ‘Don’t give into it like your dad did.’
I grind my teeth as the engine purrs awake.
‘Have a good evening,’ I hear the Commander chime as the shaded windows wind up, blocking them all from sight.
I stand alone on the driveway as the Merc leaves. My whole body is shaking. Staring over at Hope’s house, for a moment, I think of calling for her, like I did as a child. When things were simple.
Her
He hasn’t spotted her hiding in the porch. She watches him stare up at her bedroom window, and wonders if she should go to him. But by the time she’s decided she should, he’s disappeared behind his own front door and her mum has opened hers.
‘Hope, there you are! Where’ve you been all day?’ Her mum doesn’t wait for an answer. She rarely does. ‘I’m just dropping Rose off at a friend’s, then taking Lily out to the shops before they close. Fancy it?’ she asks breezily.
Hope couldn’t smell drink on Tom’s breath, but she can detect it on her mum’s. ‘No thanks. You sure you’re okay to drive?’
Her mum jangles her car keys in the air as if that’s her answer, adding, ‘Your dad had to go out to meet a client … He doesn’t stop, working too hard, “Keeping busy blocks bad thoughts”, there you go!’ she says as if she’s hardly noticing what she’s saying. She starts rushing Hope’s sisters out of the house; Lily pirouetting; Rose’s head stuck in a book. ‘Tell him not to eat if he gets home first; we’re due out at the Chichons for a Neighbourhood Watch supper.’
‘Course,’ Hope smiles. A smile that feels alien on her lips after today. But it’s what Mum wants from her. It’s what everyone wants from her.
Except Tom.
Him
‘Happy Birthday,’ I say into the empty house, anything to stop myself incessantly repeating the same words in my head. ‘Dad shot John Tenby?’
Because there’s nothing I can do with that question. I either believe the police or not.
For the hell of it, I open the drawer in the hall where I chucked yesterday’s card haul. I used to get excited by a doormat piled with cards. Now I feel nothing. Nada. The one on top is stamped from the doctor’s surgery. Putting the others under my arm, I open it, walking into the kitchen. It’s the same as they sent last birthday. Front cover: Your birthday can get happier with Leata. Make an appointment for a healthier you! Inside, it notes I’m not yet on Leata, reminding me I can get a prescription without parental approval now. And if I start my prescription ‘within the next two weeks!’ I’ll get discounts ‘from your favourite stores!’ Smiley face. Smiley face. Ecstatic smiley face. Before it signs off with a printed signature from my own doctor.
My doctor knows my favourite stores? I crumple the card up in my fist and chuck it in the direction of the kitchen bin.
It’s my birthday. And I’ve just discovered my dead father’s a murderer.
Sod it. I need a drink.
Her
She heads up to her room, throwing herself down on her bed. The cleaner must have made it. Nothing can be left in disarray for long in this house.
She used to like mess.
She used to make mess.
Mess used to get her into constant trouble.
Hope lets out a silent scream, burying her face into the covers. Closing her eyes, the question is no longer haunting her from the shadows of her head, it’s out there, lit up like a neon sign. Why did Tom and Hope stop being friends? The past is doing what it shouldn’t, what she’s banned it from doing for five years. It barges on through. Memories start assembling in her mind’s eye like a chorus line entering centre stage.
It was her fault.
She sent the stupid childish letter that asked Tom, Marry me? Nearly twelve, they’d kissed, properly, for the first time. She was elated, ecstatic … she was serious about her proposal. It was a serious time. She can still recall the weighty feeling of fear for the future. She was about to go to a new school. A different school from Tom. Mum and Dad pressing her to start the school year on Leata. Insisting she stop being Tom’s friend after what his dad wrote about PharmaCare.
She handwrote the letter, even though they were on email by then. She drew pictures and carefully selected stickers for the envelope. She popped in two love hearts with carefully chosen messages.
It was his fault.
The email he sent back. A blunt What? Was that supposed to be a joke? As if – don’t be stupid, Hope.
It was her fault.
She emailed back. She told him he was horrid. She told him he wasn’t her friend any more. She told him, Just as well we’re going to new schools, and, I never want to see you again.
He never replied.
Hope lifts her head from the bed. The past clinging to her like oil on her skin.
She gets up, going over towards the black screens of tablet and phone on her desk. She has half a thought to chuck them both in the bin. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. But what does she have left? If not Livelifewithhope?
She switches both on.
Her followers and subscribers have gone steadily down all day. She glances over the insults and jokes and cursing. Her insides chilling as she reads comments from fangirls and fanboys who overnight have become mean girls and nasty boys.
Flipping over to Facebook, she spies an exchange between Millie and Bels. You have to cold-shoulder people who dark cloud you.
She’s not sure if it’s paranoia that makes her think they’re talking about her. Would her friends really want to see her fall? Millie did it to Tara; why not her too?
She still hasn’t the energy to defend herself. But she wants to post something. If only to take her mind off Tom.
She decides on blog over channel. Not just because she looks a mess. She wants to keep things plain, honest. Not a happy emoticon in sight.
When she’s finished she scans back over it. Without realising it, she’s written a story. A true story. About a boy and a girl. A girl who could be bad-tempered and mischievous and impatient and passionate. And a boy who thought lots, who was shy and quiet, yet also so goddamned chilled out.
The girl loved him, for being what she wasn’t. Like he loved her, for being what he wasn’t. As well as all the bits in-between where they were the same. They spent every free hour together in the treehouse.
Until they fell out. Because he wouldn’t make her unhappy happy.
She knows her followers will think she’s gone mad. She’s throwing kindling onto the already roaring fire of disapproval.
She signs off with a question. Is it possible to have happiness … without unhappiness? and taps ‘publish’. She shares it on Twitter and Facebook, posts it to Tumblr, and leaves her room before she can delete it all. Going downstairs, she freezes on the top step.
Daddy’s home.
Him
I’ve chucked all the cards in the recycling, collecting the loose cash and cheques from Grandma and the same aunts and uncles I’ve not heard from since the funeral. Commiserating, celebrating … I’m not sure I know the difference between the two any more. Aren’t they both just doing what’s expected of you?
I’m getting up to pour myself another whisky from the hip flask when Mum rushes in with a flurry of apologies. ‘Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry, so so sorry. Sorry, Tom.’ Her thin arms are labouring under blown balloons and bags of sweets and a boxed cake as if I’m eight. Or she’s Dad. ‘Really sorry, Tom. I only remembered on my drive back. I stopped at Sainsbury’s. I got cake. I didn’t know what to buy you for a present. You know how bad I am at choosing gifts. I’ll give you the money instead.’ Her gaunt face amongst the plump balloons might seem comical if she didn’t look so lost, mingled in with a fierce attempt to look happy for me.
‘You really didn’t have to, Mum,’ I reply truthfully.
Her body slumps for ‘of course I did’. She comes over, releasing the balloons flying over the kitchen, kissing me lightly on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’
I nod my head in reply. She starts busying herself with the bags of microwave food she’s bought, probably so I won’t see the tears in her eyes.
She doesn’t ask what I did today, so at least I don’t have to lie to her.
Of course, I could tell her the truth – about Dad and John Tenby – but as I watch her, head bowed over the microwave instructions for ready-made lasagne, she looks as fragile as a tower of ash. One poke and she might crumble. Disappear forever.
It’s my job to protect her, isn’t it? Now Nathaniel and Dad aren’t here?
The sky’s setting scarlet and orange by the time I excuse myself, patting my stomach from one meagre slice of shop-bought chocolate cake, to go upstairs to the guest room. To log onto the internet. I have an email from Hari, saying he hasn’t heard anything new about Leata, besides the rumours already out there. But he gives me a number to call him.
I search for anything on the death of John Tenby first. Even though I predict it will be futile. Which it is. Even on PAL-linked blogs and threads, there’s nothing. All I can find are a couple of general news stories describing John Tenby as a recluse who won’t do media interviews. Besides that, the press is generally positive, lauding him as some kind of societal saviour with his ‘wonder’ drug Leata. No surprises there – when the police are clearly working with government to block bad news. Happy. Happy. I switch off and reach for Dad’s hip flask again. In-between sips, I continue with translating the rest of the shorthand in Dad’s notebook.
Her
She sits on the top stair, trying to identify the other voice with him. Gruff and low like you might imagine a storybook wolf’s. Yet well-spoken.
It doesn’t take her long to realise – it’s that man, that Slicer.
‘PharmaCare pay you to do a job,’ her dad is saying.
Pay him? Hope twists to stare through the gap in the stair bannister, like she used to do when she was younger, to eavesdrop on the many, many conversations Mum and Dad used to have about her and her wayward behaviour and what they should do about it.
They walk further into the hall. Slicer is wearing ill-fitting blue jeans beneath the familiar silver tracksuit top; his features thin and twisted on his long face.
‘I have nothing to do with the money. Your contract is with PharmaCare.’ Her dad has his hands up as if in surrender. His forehead shines with sweat.
‘But they get you to hold my leash. You’re the go-between, aren’t you? So go-between – tell them, if they want to keep clean by getting me to do their dirty work, they need to pay me more.’ Slicer stabs his chest, spittle collecting at the corners of his dry mouth.
Her dad lets out a long sigh. ‘Fine. I’ll see about a raise. But meantime, you keep squeezing this Mikey fellow about the information he’s trying to sell you. PharmaCare think he’s bluffing.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t like that job. Mikey Jones has friends in the kinds of places I don’t want to mess with. You hear me? You get me that raise first before I go hassling him again.’
Hope sucks in her breath – so it was Slicer she saw at the station when she visited the shelter?
‘How about you pay me to photograph that woman again? One with the curly-haired kid? I liked that job. She’s a looker.’
Her dad lets out a sigh as Hope’s body’s goes rigid. She thinks of this monster trailing Imogen and Benny. The impression claws at her insides. As Hope’s phone starts ringing in her room.
Damn it.
‘Rose? Hope?’ In an instant Dad is hollering up the stairs. ‘Are you in?’
Hope stands up, trying to look like she’s just arrived there as she starts down the stairs.
‘Hope. When did you get back? Where have you been?’ Her dad’s eyes look hostile, but his voice is calm.
She swallows, picturing Benny’s curly head – squeezes out a ‘with Tom.’
‘Yes? Where did he go? What did he say?’
Hope hesitates. She flicks a glance at Slicer. He’s by the front door, eyes on her, scratching his neck as if he’s only half-interested in her answer.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he says. ‘Your dad and I have no secrets.’
‘Where did he go?’ She repeats her dad’s question back, to buy herself time.
Slicer buys her more. He saunters over, between her dad and her. His breath is stale as he interrupts, in that voice incongruous with his appearance. ‘You look like a daddy’s girl. How about you tell your father to keep his promises?’ He flicks a finger out, a thick gold band round it, stroking it slowly under her chin. ‘Always so pretty at this age, Jack, aren’t they? Need to take care of her as the dogs assemble.’
Hope glances urgently at her dad. She can’t understand why he’s not telling this man to leave her alone. She holds her breath till Slicer moves away again.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says stiffly to her dad, before the door closes behind him.
Hope stares at her father. ‘Is everything all right, Dad?’
‘No,’ he snaps quietly. ‘I’m under a lot of pressure from work. Tell me what happened today with Tom.’
Hope slowly shakes her head. ‘Nothing really,’ she says with forced certainty. ‘We just had fun. It’s Tom’s birthday.’
‘But did he say anything?’
Hope tries to think on her feet. Something is burning up inside her, the ‘old’ Hope, Tom called it today – the Hope who used to regularly lie to Mum and Dad, who came up with schemes for fun, who liked nothing better than annoying their Neighbourhood Watch brigade.
She needs to know first he’s not following Tom on behalf of PharmaCare, before she trusts him with more information.
Eventually she says, ‘Yes. He said he’d spoken to John Tenby this morning. The Leata inventor.’ She checks her dad’s face. Is he in on it – this John Tenby secret? Is that why he got Slicer to photograph Imogen?
‘Yeah, someone gave Tom his number,’ she continues when he says nothing. ‘I don’t know who. Tom said he was a lovely man. He told Tom that he should just move on with life. Forget about his dad’s death.’
Her dad’s eyes search over hers. He’s opening his mouth to say something when her mum comes tumbling back into the house with Lily and an assortment of plastic bags.
‘Jack, sorry I’m late. We’d better hurry. We’re due at the Chichons for dinner!’
Him
It’s nearly midnight by the time I reach the final two pages. I’ve stopped drinking whisky; I wish I’d never started. Because things are looking up. The notebook of shorthand started turning into something serious about five pages back. Okay, so, so far it’s told me nothing that I don’t already know. Dad’s theories about the government and PharmaCare bedding together to create a positive society through medication. But then it starts to move onto his questions about side effects. He details a brief conversation he had with John Tenby – he was his source – over the origins of John’s manufactured plant ingredient. Dad seems certain some part of Leata is harmful.
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