"Who?"
"You, for instance."
"Okay."
"Back at school, yes? How's that now?"
"It's school."
"But you're doing how well at it? Well?"
"I guess. They like some of the stuff I've written. Shit, I was going to show you a story I wrote, but I've left it at home."
"What was it about?"
"Mostly Charlotte. How she is really, not like the story I had the fight over. That was crap. Maybe this one's a bit less crap."
"You're starting to sound like a writer, so keep writing. How is Charlotte?"
"She isn't such a pain now she's older. I go there every week. My dad likes me to since she said it wasn't my fault she ran away, only I don't think Hilene likes me there too much. She puts up with it because she doesn't want to upset Charlotte. Christ, you know what my dad told me Charlotte said? She wants to marry me when she grows up."
"She'll be someone else by then. Anyway, there are worse things than being wanted." Jack seemed to welcome Sophie's reappearance, either just the interruption or his drink as well. He took a swig before saying "She's over the worst, then."
"She had to take stuff to help her sleep. I think maybe she still does." Ian felt suddenly restless with guilt, not least because he'd brought away no nightmares from being trapped by Jack's father, only dreams every night as he was falling asleep of all the chances he ought to have taken to save Charlotte. "Did you see what the wheelie woman put about us in the paper?" he said.
"I saw a lot of papers. Saw a bunch of reporters first, same as I expect you did. What did that one say?"
"Said we were all heroes of twin houses of horror," Ian told him, mocking the headline as much as he could.
"I did see that. It ought to have meant you and Charlotte. I hope it impressed your neighbours at least."
"They've been okay with us, most of them have. I think some of them don't know what's true, or maybe they don't want to know. Tell you who thinks now she was wrong about me—my gran. You know, my mum's mother."
"But just when you've got all these people on your side you were saying on the phone you're going to move."
"I don't mind now. Mum wants to, and Janet and Vern can't stand it at theirs. Some company's buying the houses and leaving just the outsides and turning them into flats. Anyway," Ian said to rid himself of a sense of being obscurely accused, "you've moved."
"Had enough of the spotlight for a while. That's great, thanks."
His enthusiasm was aimed at Sophie and their lunch. She gave them a smile and turned a version of it on the five at the nearby table. "Are you guys planning to order some food soon? You can't really sit there if you're only drinking."
The man on the stool jumped up, knocking it over with a clatter, and threw back his head to drain the bottle as a preamble to gasping "Then let's fuck off somewhere we can."
Until the rest of the party stood up. Jack didn't even glance in his direction, but that was apparently sufficient excuse for the man to take more of a dislike to him. "You still look like you want us to think you're someone."
Jack shrugged, which was no longer enough of a response for Ian. "He's Jack Lamb."
"Never heard of him."
"He's a writer. He writes books."
"Don't read them," the man said with some pride.
"I'll tell you something else he is. Hector Woollie was his dad."
"Don't know him either."
"That's how I'd like it to be," Jack said.
The man looked primed to take his bafflement out on someone when his friends yelled they were off for that drink. He swaggered after them, and then the only confusion was Ian's. "Aren't you going to write your book?"
"It wasn't such a good idea."
"But if you don't write about your dad someone else will."
"That's okay. I don't mind. Maybe you should try and write something if it bothers you that much."
"How about you? How are you going to make a living?"
"I'll have to do what I'm good at, won't I? Thought I'd have a go at a crime novel while I wait for the stuff I really like to write to come back. It always does, you know."
Ian had no sense of whether that was true—couldn't tell if Jack was simply trying to be positive to cheer them both up. Like the encounter with the gang in black, his meeting with Jack seemed to be ending up nowhere in particular. The venue had been Ian's choice, but now it was proving too noisy to let him think, and the things he still wanted to say struck him as hardly for shouting. He busied himself with his burger instead, and had finished it and its accompaniments by the time Jack abandoned the remains of his. Jack insisted on paying for him, which was the last he saw of Sophie, and it felt as if that might be the case with Jack too as Ian followed him into Leicester Square.
Out here the noise was less enclosed, but that didn't help Ian much. He was gazing about at the cinema hoardings and a couple of trees that appeared to be intended to remind the crowds it was autumn when Jack said "What's your plan for the rest of the day?"
"I was going to my mum's and Melinda's shop. Walk along with me if you want."
"How far did you have in mind?"
"All the way if you like."
"Nice try, Ian, but I guess not. I don't think I'd be..." Jack took the opportunity to fall silent while he moved out of the way of a troop of American tourists, and then he said "Tell me the truth here. Did your mom know we were meeting?"
"Sure."
"And her attitude was..."
"She said I had to make my own choices."
"That sounds like her, sure enough." Jack suppressed a reminiscent smile before it could become too public. "Tell her hello from me if you think you should. I'll say good-bye to you now, okay? Going to head back and try to work up some notes for a novel."
"Good luck," Ian said, all he could think of to say.
"Double that to you and your mom." Jack gave him a protracted handshake and appeared to think of hugging him, but let go instead. He was stepping into the entrance to the underground when he looked back at Ian. "If you write anything you'd like me to read you can always call my mother again to find out where I've ended up."
Ian watched him vanish down the white steps, and then he made his way into Soho, through the narrow streets and narrower alleys that looked determined to be brighter than the afternoon light. He'd grown used to being propositioned by girls in the area, in fact quite enjoyed it, but just now he had to remind himself to be polite in his refusals, because he was trying to ensure the slab didn't settle on his mind. Why wasn't he as disappointed by his meeting with Jack as it seemed he should have been? Why did he have the impression it had given him a reason to feel good? He was close to figuring it out as he reached the end of Wardour Street and saw, beyond a slow parade of buses, his mother's and Melinda's shop.
They were behind the counter, facing the street, smiling sidelong at each other with their arms around each other's shoulders. His mother had been out at night a few times with Melinda since Jack had left the Ames house. Ian wasn't sure what this implied, but it was his mother's choice and he could live with it. That thought and his meeting with Jack came together in his head, and the threat of the slab withdrew.
He'd been looking for endings where there weren't any. Life wasn't a story unless you made it into one. Jack's father had come to an end, but nobody else whom Ian knew had. His mother might be on the way to becoming someone else—no, someone more—and so was he, and he hoped the same for Jack. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly wondering if Jack might have decided to follow him after all. But there were no faces he recognised behind him, only ahead.
The women saw him as the traffic let him cross Oxford Street. They didn't move apart or release each other, and kept their smiles as they turned toward him. Rapid high-pitched music wove patterns above him as he closed the door, and he was surprised to realise he didn't mind it too much. "You look pleased with things," said his mother.
"Been somewhere specia
l?" Melinda asked him.
"Yes," Ian said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Jenny helped as always, not least by finding some scenes more disturbing than I'd realised they were. Good, say I. Are our children in here too? They must decide—it's inspiring to have them around, at any rate. As to research, some American details were supplied by my friend Pearl Elsasser. Barry Reese advised me on care in the community, Asa Casey was the medical advisor, and Cyrelle Mace was responsible for the tour of London and its suburbs.
Silent Children Page 36