Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  They all saw me, and Sharon jumped off the car. ‘Stanly!’ She ran over and hugged me tightly. ‘We thought we’d lost you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I said. When we broke apart Eddie was there, and then Connor. ‘Leon’s history, I presume?’ I said.

  Eddie nodded towards one of the many smashed windows, then towards the river. ‘You’ll believe a man can’t fly.’

  It was fairly lame but we all laughed. It felt good to be able to laugh. ‘What about Pandora?’ asked Sharon. ‘Did you . . .’

  ‘She’s still in one piece,’ I said, ‘but I think I put the fear of us in her.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything?’

  ‘Yes. Tara’s my daughter and we’re all heading for a massive apocalyptic war with a mysterious evil organisation.’ I didn’t really say that. I just shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  ‘She tried to kill him,’ said Tara.

  ‘Not hard enough, by the looks of things,’ said Connor, eyeing my bruiseless form.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘She’s better at admin and stuff.’ I looked around. ‘Daryl?’

  ‘He brought Tara then went,’ said Eddie. ‘Just said he’d be around.’

  I nodded, my stomach knotting. Don’t cry, kid. It’ll really spoil the whole nonchalantly heroic leader thing you’ve got going on right now. ‘Good.’

  ‘What are we going to do now, then?’ said Sharon. ‘It’s not over, is it?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘But at least now we know who the bad guys are.’

  ‘Do we?’ said Connor.

  Did we? I couldn’t tell. Does anyone really know? ‘We’ll be all right,’ I said. I hoped that I sounded convincing.

  ‘Come on,’ said Eddie. ‘Let’s get the fu . . . dge out of here.’

  ‘Good plan,’ I said, taking Tara – my daughter’s hand. ‘How are you feeling, kiddo?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Tara. ’Cos of course she’s fine. ’Cos she’s the toughest kid ever invented. ‘But I’d like to go home soon.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘After a bit of sleep and some food that’s our very next stop. I’d like a chat with them anyway.’

  Understatement of the . . . well, there isn’t a big enough time span.

  You didn’t tell Tara?

  How could I?

  I suppose . . .

  You didn’t tell the others, either.

  No.

  Are you going to?

  We’ll see.

  ‘Hey,’ said Connor, as we pulled off. ‘Isn’t that dude still in the boot?’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Eddie. ‘Remind me to let him out at the first Tube station.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  OLIVER AND JACQUELINE Rogers lived on an estate, not far from the alley where I’d met Tara. It was a good-looking place with rows of houses that approached the same tidy, respectable theme in different (but still tidy and respectable) ways, and the Rogers lived at Number 43, a pretty white house with an immaculate front lawn, perfect beds of soft soil and straight, multicoloured flowers. It was just after two o’clock and the storms had passed. The city was still wet, but the sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was blazing with real enthusiasm, its ego stroked by hordes of plump, admiring clouds.

  We’d gone back to Sharon and Connors’ place after the assorted chaos at the gallery and discussed what had happened over a substantial breakfast. Then we’d all had a nap, and then we’d all had indigestion, and then I’d volunteered to take Tara home. I was trying not to think about saying goodbye to her.

  I was also trying not to think about Kloe. Had she already left? Would she call? I hoped she would. I needed her.

  Luckily for me, I had a whole other set of thoughts jostling for space in my mind. Thoughts like WHAT THE HELL and NO, SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE HELL. Thoughts like what am I going to say, and what are they going to tell me, and probably shouldn’t be sick, and what if Pandora was lying, and what if I get arrested for kidnapping a minor, and oh God I’m going to be sick, and —

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Tara. She was still in her red pyjamas, but she also wore a white coat of Sharon’s that was much too big for her.

  ‘Me?’ I blustered. ‘Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You look like you’re going to be sick.’

  ‘Too much fry-up.’ And the revelation that you’re my daughter. I grinned too widely and knocked on the door too loudly. We immediately heard somebody running, and a short, stocky woman in her late fifties opened the door with such urgency that it banged against the inside wall. She had short ginger hair and wore a flowery skirt and a black cardigan over a white blouse, and when she saw Tara she squealed. ‘Oh, Tara! Oh thank goodness!’ She scooped the girl into her arms and hugged her like a mother would, planting kisses all over her. ‘Oliver!’ she cried. ‘She’s come back! She’s here!’

  Mr Rogers appeared behind her. He was slightly older than his wife and taller, bald and distinguished-looking, and wore a blue shirt and smart black trousers. His face shone with relief and he took his turn to envelop Tara in a bear hug. It was only after the heartfelt greetings were over that either of them seemed to notice me. ‘Oh,’ said Jacqueline, clutching her chest, eyes widening behind her glasses. ‘It’s —’

  ‘This is Stanly,’ said Tara. ‘He saved me from Smiley Joe! He was —’

  ‘Tara,’ said Oliver Rogers. ‘You’re all dirty. How about I take you upstairs and run you a bath and then Jacqueline and I can have a talk with this young man?’

  They know me.

  They remember me.

  How?

  Tara nodded. ‘OK!’ She went upstairs with her foster father. ‘And we should phone the Family Liaison Officer,’ Oliver called down the stairs. ‘Just to let him know that she’s all right.’ Jacqueline nodded and invited me into the house. It had brown carpets and an abundance of nick-nacks – photographs in tasteless frames, little statues and boxes and flowers in vases and crystal ashtrays that I’m sure were never used. I liked it. It felt like a home. Jacqueline showed me into the living room, which was very green, and I sat in a flowered armchair and looked around awkwardly. The place was like London – nothing matched, yet everything kind of did.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Jacqueline. She looked as awkward as I felt, which was oddly comforting.

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’ She nodded and hovered, waiting for her husband, who thankfully appeared within a minute. They sat down on the sofa opposite me and Oliver took his wife’s hand in his. ‘We know who you are,’ he said.

  How? HOW? ‘I was told that might happen,’ I said. ‘But . . . we’ve never met.’

  ‘We have,’ said Oliver. His voice was calm but his eyes were not. ‘Nine years ago you turned up on our doorstep with a beautiful young woman with dark hair. You were carrying a little blonde baby girl in a basket, fast asleep. You asked us to take her in. Told us that she was in danger as long as she was with you, that you knew she would be safe here. You . . . we didn’t understand at first, you knew so much about us. You see . . .’

  ‘We can’t have children of our own,’ said Jacqueline.

  ‘So we agreed to take her in,’ said Oliver.

  I don’t understand. ‘Did I name her?’ I asked. My voice cracked like plaster.

  ‘You told us her name was Tara,’ said Oliver. ‘Tara Sharon Davies-Bird.’

  Davies. Kloe’s surname.

  She’s Kloe’s and mine.

  I can’t . . . I don’t. . . . what is this . . . Tears were streaming silently from my eyes, I was so tired, so floored by what I was being told. I forced myself to speak and my voice caught in my throat, emerging low and guttural. ‘That wasn’t me,’ I said.

  ‘It was,’ said Oliver. He looked sad, but strong. I must have looked like such a child. ‘Maybe not you, but it was . . . you. You were older. Maybe twen
ty-five, twenty-six.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘This doesn’t make any sense to me, I can’t . . . I brought her back in time, somehow?’

  ‘I assume that’s what must have happened,’ said Oliver. He was shaking his head, trying to process it. ‘It’s the only thing that . . . that makes sense, insofar as any of this makes sense . . .’

  ‘I didn’t tell you at the time? Kloe and I . . . we didn’t explain?’

  ‘There was nothing about time travel, if that’s what you mean,’ said Oliver. ‘Although you did mention something about a . . . an organisation, or a company perhaps?’

  ‘The Angel Group?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘That’s it. You said that if they were ever to come looking for her then we had to take her away. Thankfully they never have.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said. ‘They operate in this city, they knew about Tara . . . why would we try to keep her from them by hiding her so close?’

  ‘People often miss what’s right under their noses,’ said Oliver.

  I nodded. ‘You’re right. I . . .’ Without warning, I started to sob. I broke down in front of these people who had first met me nine years ago as an adult, who had sheltered a daughter that I’d only just met. My mind hurt. I couldn’t comprehend it, how it worked, how everything fitted together, Kloe, Tara, the Angel Group. It would have been too much even if I hadn’t just had the night I’d just had. Jacqueline stood up, came over and put her arm around me and whispered soothingly in my ear.

  Time.

  We travelled in time.

  We brought our child . . .

  ‘Are you here to take her back?’ said Oliver.

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to regain my composure, tears running into my mouth. ‘I was only told this morning that she was my daughter. I didn’t think it was possible, I wanted to know if it was true . . . it didn’t seem . . . and now you two . . .’

  ‘I always wondered what it would be like when you returned,’ said Oliver. ‘I must admit, I never expected anything like this.’

  ‘Because it’s not possible,’ I said. Like flying? Like talking dogs, and monsters, and photographs that take you to another world?

  ‘Impossible things are funny,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Sometimes they happen.’ Tara obviously learned mind-reading from her foster mum.

  I made a superhuman effort to rein in the confusion, stem the flow of tears. To be strong. ‘The Angel Group aren’t going to come looking for her,’ I said.

  ‘Who are these people?’ said Jacqueline. ‘The government?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘At least . . . I don’t think they are.’

  ‘Are they evil?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Maybe they’re worse. They think they’re doing good.’

  ‘The worst atrocities are always committed under the guise of righteousness,’ said Oliver.

  I nodded. Depressing, but probably true. I noticed a copy of yesterday’s paper on the coffee table, open on the crossword page with a pen next to it, and I wrote down Sharon and Connor’s phone number. ‘Call this number if anything happens,’ I said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘So you’re planning to stay in London?’ asked Jacqueline. She had been so nice to me, but there was that motherly protectiveness too, slightly defensive. I wondered what she thought, whether she was worried I would swoop in and take Tara away.

  Not unless I have to.

  ‘I want to know why I ran off before,’ I said. ‘The only way I’m going to find out is if I stay where the action is.’ I took a deep breath. ‘This is insane.’

  Oliver stood up and held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the world.’ We shook. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. ‘The first time we met I told Jacqueline I had a feeling about you. I could just tell that you were a genuinely good person, someone who wants to do right. I stand by that.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you. That . . . that means a lot.’

  Jacqueline hugged me. It was awkward but sort of nice. ‘Are you going to say goodbye to her?’

  I could barely comprehend the idea. Saying goodbye to my daughter when she didn’t know I was her father? When we’d only just met? It wasn’t possible. I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Tell her . . . tell her that I’ll be in touch. Is that all right? If I come by every now and then? Maybe take her out?’

  Oliver nodded. ‘Yes. That’s fine. I know you’d never let her get hurt.’

  ‘I’d die first,’ I said, offering what I hoped was a nonchalant smile. ‘It’s not as final as it sounds.’

  Neither of them understood but they smiled, thinking I was joking. Maybe I was joking. Haha, it’s funny ’cos it’s true!

  God, I need to go back to bed forever.

  Jacqueline opened the door and I stepped outside. The air smelled fresh and new but there was a tangible bittersweet tinge to it, and I turned and shook hands with Oliver again. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I can say. You’ve . . . we couldn’t have picked a better home for her.’

  They both smiled, happy but sad, just as I felt. ‘Thank you for giving her to us,’ said Jacqueline. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.’

  I shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll find out. See you soon.’

  And I turned and walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  CONNOR WAS WAITING for me when I got back to their house. ‘Kloe called about five minutes ago,’ he said. ‘She’s leaving in an hour.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’d barely been aware of the journey home, I was so exhausted, so overwhelmed with new information, new thoughts, new feelings.

  ‘By the way,’ said Connor, holding out a folder. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just look inside.’

  It was very thick. I opened it and was faced with a crude but fairly accurate drawing of Smiley Joe. ‘What is this?’ I said.

  ‘Our research,’ said Connor. He seemed to want me to look at it so I obliged, even though I didn’t see much of a point. It was certainly pretty comprehensive. Newspaper cuttings, magazine articles, a few sketchy witness statements, forensic reports that read like riddles, artists’ impressions, photographs that were blurry and obviously faked, even a comic strip from Private Eye suggesting that Smiley Joe was part of a Conservative plot to eat as many poor people as possible.

  But the thing that caught my eye was a black and white photograph of a boy and a girl, younger and older respectively, standing side-by-side with her arm around his. The girl was very pretty, her brother handsome in a young way. Their names were Carl and Louise Harris. ‘The only survivors,’ I said.

  Connor nodded. ‘Until now.’

  I looked at him questioningly. ‘There’s an address on the back,’ he said. ‘You do what you think is right.’ He smiled enigmatically and walked away, leaving me both confused and enlightened.

  I put the folder down, picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi . . . is that Mrs Markovsky?’ Kloe had told me that her aunt was married to a Russian dude.

  ‘Yes. Is that Stanly?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah.’

  ‘Personally, I don’t think Kloe should see you ever again.’

  ‘I understand that. I didn’t mean to —’

  ‘Don’t tell me. That’s not what I want to say. What I mean is . . . it’s not my decision. And Kloe says she loves you, so I suppose you can’t be all bad.’

  I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But if you ever put her in danger like that again . . .’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  There was a shuffle and a click, then Kloe’s voice, breathless. ‘Stanly?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Oh my God! You’re all right! I thought you were dead or
something! Even though Connor said you were fine . . . I didn’t know . . . Oh my God, what happened?’

  ‘I got the guy,’ I said. ‘Didn’t kill him, don’t worry. And then I . . . I had a bit of an adventure. There was a girl in trouble. I helped her out.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s nine.’ I realised that that sounded dangerously weird. ‘It’ll be better if I tell you the story face to face.’

  ‘Okaaay. Well . . . did Connor tell you I’m leaving in an hour?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Will you come and see me off? I’m getting a train from Paddington.’

  Shit. That’s quite far. ‘I’ll come,’ I said. ‘Of course. I’ll see you there.’

  How am I going to get there in time?

  Can’t fly in broad daylight . . .

  . . . can I?

  No.

  Cab.

  Goodbyes. Kisses and hugs and tears. A sky too blue to be perfect. Hot bodies against one another. New burning, aching pains.

  ‘I don’t want you to come with me,’ whispered Kloe, her head buried in my shoulder. ‘Even though I do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have things to do.’

  ‘I do.’ If only you knew.

  ‘I’ll come back. When the exams are over I’ll be back. My aunt said I can spend the whole holiday here. My parents might take some convincing, but . . .’

  ‘That’s . . .’ I couldn’t think of a word. Maybe because there wasn’t one.

  ‘I’ll call you every night,’ she said. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you.’ I kissed her gently. Our lips moved slowly, tenderly, and there was a passion that you couldn’t bottle, a passion that would one day create a beautiful little girl. I should tell her.

  No you shouldn’t.

  The kiss stopped, a guard whistled. Kloe’s eyes bled salty grief and I kissed her forehead. I had helped her with her bags. Now all the train needed was her, this girl, my girl. She turned and made for the open door, then ran back and leapt into my arms and I held her off the ground and we kissed one another’s hot lips again, as if trying to draw out souls, trying to take the essence of one another so we could hold it like a photograph during long nights alone. The guard whistled again. Give us a minute, yeah?