Finding Davey

by Jonathan Gash

  Judy guessed, “This Clint kid did the pictures before they came on TV?”

  “You got it.”

  The lawnmower mercifully puttered to quietude.

  “Right. Easy explanation: Clint’s folks have reception TV.”

  Donna shook her head. “Judy, we all get the same reception in Tain.”

  “Reviews, then? Clint simply copies magazines. Or from some Internet thing. Kids do it all the time.”

  “You can’t believe that, Judy.”

  “How did you discover them?”

  “The kids tell me. Clint’s drawings have become a fun game. They’re all in on it, wanting tomorrow’s story – from Clint. They told me Clint always knows tomorrow’s story.”

  “Clint’s got some cranky electronics?”

  “No way. He’s a dreamer. They crowd round, laughing, make Clint tell.”

  Judy decided to nip this nonsense in the bud. “Then he’s got relatives in Canada, or wherever they get it first. Different time zones.”

  “But surely —”

  “Donna,” Judy said firmly. “You’re making a problem out of nothing. Chrissakes, they’re kids’ scribbles. Check with the TV company. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”

  “Clint just guesses right. Spooky.”

  “Don’t give me defiance, girl!” Judy reprimanded with mock severity. “Check it out. Clint’s got some distant relative sending him videos.”

  Donna looked at the drawings. “I think it’s strange.”

  “Don’t do anything rash, like going for dahling Lois, y’hear? La Marquese has friends in high places. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The following Saturday Donna and Rye walked by the park where the kids did training.

  While Rye chatted to the junior coaches she saw Clint’s parents admiring the team’s hitting practice. They were older than she’d have expected, sure, but, she sighed inwardly, wasn’t everybody? Suppose Clint were adopted – he fair, they dark, so what? It was their business. They obviously adored the boy.

  She found Dale Porrino. It was easy, seguing from hello-there to her question.

  “What is it about this game? Hit a ball with a piece of wood and run? Big deal!”

  Dale laughed. “It’s exciting, you dumb broad!”

  She saw Clint fail, applauded anyway, shoving and joshing with the rest. Happy kid, no doubt of it. Dale checked her gaze.

  “Clint’s fine. Healthiest kid on the block.”

  “What was it you said, some Jamaican kid and one from the Bahamas?”

  “Sure. It’s not uncommon. Cricket, see?”

  No, she didn’t. Amused, Dale explained.

  “Kids from cricket countries do it. You want to see that Nassau kid spin the ball! They play it at home. Make good outfielders but start off rotten pitchers.”

  He interrupted himself to bawl outrage at some kid hesitating in a run. Donna joked that she had to prise Rye away from all this boredom, and left. So the mystery was explained. You run different in cricket. So Clint must have cricket-playing relatives. They were clearly phoning him news of the next TV episodes.

  Judy had been right. Any case, dear dahling Lois Marquese had reinstated Clint-Leeta-Carlson. No more mystery.

  Chapter Fifty

  Mom and Pop were concerned about the forthcoming school trip.

  Mom said. “It’s the possibilities.”

  “It’s an ordinary camp.”

  They were alone, Clint in school. “Hyme, listen up. At home, we control who he meets. Out there, it could be anybody.”

  “Out there? Jeech, it’s Colnova Falls, chrissakes. Everybody’s kids go to Colnova.”

  “That’s the point. Everybody’s.”

  He reached for coffee. His wife removed the percolator. Hyme was on two a day.

  “No, you listen up, Clodie. The other kids will talk if we keep Clint away. Will they talk about him if he goes to Colnova Falls? No.” He sighed, the coffee out of reach. “If a system works, don’t fix it.”

  “It’s so far!”

  “It’s two hundred miles, Clodie. We’d be there in four hours. Christ,” he burst out in exasperation, “we could stay there, except they’d talk worse.”

  “It’ll be just terrible without him.”

  “Clodie. Use the time. Get decorators in. Make surprise.”

  “Will there be enough teachers? Camp helpers?”

  “They’ve never had an accident. Mrs Daley said so.”

  “He’s never been out of our sight before.”

  Hyme could have done without this. He wanted a few clear days, fly east, round trip before Clint’s return. He had things to sort. Borkanen in Radial Marketing was a real asshole. He’d snafu Hyme’s entire fucking fiscal year. He had to be there, hand on the moron’s throat.

  “Clodie, talk with the teacher. See what she says.” He used the concession to grab the percolator. “I’ll agree, whatever.”

  “Do they have a nurse there? A doctor, in case Clint gets hurt?”

  Hyme felt he’d made it. He could book a flight east. Clint would go to Colnova Falls. Clodie would decorate. Truth to tell, Hyme was becoming restless. Marketing was a pig. Sometimes reorganisation worked, sometimes not. Vertrek, scheming Dutch bastard, had brought in two ingrates from Boston in his middle tier. Incompetent socialites were putty in the wrong hands.

  High time he made a shock visit, in those doors like a gunfighter, scare the crap out of the lot.

  The small pond at the end of the garden was as he and Davey had left it except for the far side, where weeds had overgrown the stones. Buster frolicked, foolishly hoping for an extra walk.

  “Remember this, Buzz?” Bray asked. Buster started hunting among the large stones. “No. Stop that.”

  He sat on one of the wrought iron chairs. This was where he and Davey watched tadpoles, the boy squealing. Buster trotted away, tail high, hoping for a marauding squirrel.

  It was here Bray had dug out a rectangular pit inches larger than the shed’s end wall. It had taken him two days. A panel beater had built a huge flat metal case, and delivered it late one Saturday. A precaution, in case they’d become too inquisitive and damaged Davey’s KV layout. A wise precaution, in view of Kylee’s admission. The case was fashioned of light motor metal. Bray had sprayed it with every combination of preservative.

  The shed’s original wall panels, complete with Davey’s drawings and chalked colours, the entire KV story, were neatly interred. The case lay there, to be brought out for Davey to recognise on his return.

  He went next door to sit in Davey’s room. He had no way of knowing if Shirley and Geoff had made subtle changes, swapped this round, cleaned that surface.

  On the window sill were the wooden pieces he and Davey had cut for the first time, a yellow Papri wood rectangle, Davey’s original cut. Saw marks everywhere, the angles awry. He could still hear Davey’s “Ooooh, party wood!” as the beautiful garish colour emerged. Students were often tricked, calling it Indian Elm.

  The pieces were covered by a thick felt, for sunlight bleached. Was it a memorial? That idea was repellent, for it signified a vacancy, of one doomed never to return. No. Let others weaken.

  “You’re right.”

  Kylee startled him. She must have let herself in. She stared round the room, noting the toys, the uneven drawings, small class trophies, photographs stuck to walls.

  “I don’t often come up,” Bray confessed. “I couldn’t. Rage, you see. Then it was rage kept me out.”

  “You and rage? Ooh er! Scary!” It was her old jeering tone but he knew her now.

  “I needed one last reminder.”

  “Daft bugger. You can draw every inch.”

  He didn’t quite know how to say it, but the journey was already upon him.

  “You’ve been my strength, Kylee. I couldn’t have gone on.”

  “Crap,” she said bluntly. “Go over it. I’ll be downstairs.”

  He let her go, adjusted the dust covers on the sills,
checked each carving, and followed. She was pouring herself a glass of beer. He worried about that, her age, him alone in the house. It wasn’t right.

  “No changes, goddit?”

  He ignored her crude mimicry of an imagined American accent. She seemed to think it funny, without laughter.

  “I’ve asked Lottie to fax you any changes.”

  “I hate the old bitch. You’re too fucking soft. Tell me it all.”

  This was the reason she had come, to see he had the scheme off pat. She was worse than a monkey mother.

  “Lottie keeps check in Gilson Mather.” He ticked his fingers. “She tells you my times, addresses, auction houses. She’ll send word to Jim Stazio.”

  “And?” she asked like a teacher.

  She’d go berserk if he stumbled. “I confirm, morning and night.”

  “Using your laptop, goon!” She screamed it, swiping at him. “Thirty minutes every night, eleven o’clock proper time.”

  “You gave me a timed programme.” He fumbled, pulled out a printed sheet.

  “Your laptop reminds you, fucking Yank time zones.”

  “I have it.”

  “Remember you’re a silly old fart, so do what the laptop tells. Don’t change a fucking thing. No extra talks. Don’t go somewhere not on your list. Say it.”

  “I stick to the schedule. No extras. I confirm everything with you, eleven o’clock GMT.”

  “Only phone me on your mobile, ’kay? Phone Gilson Mather any old how because they don’t matter. No KV talk on the phone.”

  “Phone only on the mobile. Everything secret.”

  She belched, scrutinised the bottle’s label. “Gunge, this. Memorise the codes.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  She leant forward angrily. “There’s hundreds of millions of the bastards. Them as stole Davey, so don’t get fucking careless. Them codes are old dead lingo called Linear B. Some cunt in Dongle Production did them. Got your dongle?”

  Bray showed her the small electronic inserts.

  “Your laptop won’t work without it. If you lose it, I’ll courier you replacement everything.” She opened another beer with a grimace. “This is gnat piss. Your codes, one more for the road.”

  Obediently he recited the dozen encryptions with which they would communicate.

  “Last,” she said severely. “You missed out last. Twelve is fucking twelve.”

  “I know.” He’d deliberately omitted the one denoting certainty, end of the hunt, good or bad.

  She relented. “I’ll let you off this once. You’d better get that far.” Her watch pinged. She dropped the bottle, simply opened her hand. It fell to the carpet, its residue trickling out. “Is that fucking wolfhound okay?”

  “Buster stays with Christine and Hal’s sister until… Hal’s own dog Mongo’s a maniac. Until I’m back.”

  Bray did his tickets, passport, cards. He straightened and locked the door.

  “You have your keys?”

  She admonished him, “Do as I worked out. Come back in one piece.”

  “Ta.” He hesitated, seeing the taxi at the kerb. “Kylee, I don’t often say thanks —”

  She walked ahead. “Talking’s fucking stupid.”

  She didn’t bother to answer. All the way to the station she hardly spoke, except to start on about somebody who made a mistake, but grew irritated when he couldn’t see the point of her tale.

  “Think on,” she said on the platform.

  “About what?”

  “Stick to the schedule. Do your teeth, ’kay?” And explained, “It’s what the pigs say in prisonages.”

  “I promise.” He could never recognise jokes, or tell one.

  To his surprise she bussed him. “Give me the okay on time, unless.”

  She didn’t say unless what. There was an awkward moment while he hefted his case into the train. Two young football fans in coloured scarves shouted to Kylee as they passed, “Don’t worry, darlin’, we’ll look after your grandad.”

  “You fucking better,” Kylee shot back to them, her grey eyes never leaving Bray. “He’s the only one I got.”

  Bray turned away, the whistle saving him from having to speak. He raised his hand to Kylee. She made no sign and, hands in pockets, walked with the train as it began to move. Suddenly he wanted to lean out, somehow tell her of his gratitude for having stayed so impossibly loyal. The barmier his scheme, the more resolute she’d become. An abrupt jerk of her head seemed a benediction, filled with understanding. He thought, she knows my feeling, just like Davey could. Can.

  The train glided away from home, such as home was.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Lottie thought the building was like a supermarket, with the same anonymity. She wondered if she was doing the right thing coming to see Kylee. She’d been at Heathrow to see Bray’s flight leave. She’d imagined Bray looking back, seated among wassailers as the bar opened and friendships burgeoned. He would of course be startled if anyone spoke, giving his slight nod to avoid talking.

  Standing there among the planned Mahonias and Berberis, the lovely Ceanothus in bloom, Lottie found it easy to blame herself. God knows, Bray was doing something brave, if loony. She had wanted to say goodbye, but guessed Kylee might be there.

  She asked for Kylee Walsingham. The efficiency, of a company rising in fortune, was certainly convincing. Before she could waver, she was ushered along corridors and into a room where Kylee was sitting on a windowsill eating an orange. Plush, new, and not a computer in sight.

  “Hello, Kylee. I came to make my peace.”

  The room was bare. Lottie realised Kylee had chosen her ground.

  “Where’s the fucking war?”

  Kylee spat a pip expertly against the wall, grunted when it failed to reach. Lottie controlled her anger. She’d expected more than this.

  “I only wanted to say that if there’s anything I can do.”

  “That it?”

  Lottie’s irritation grew. “Look. I know you think I let him down, but you haven’t looked at things from my point of view.”

  “Save yourself some aggie and piss orf.”

  “What did you say?” Even for Kylee this was outrageous.

  A man opened the door, made to carry in a stack of files and swiftly withdrew, hooking the door with his foot.

  “Leave Bray alone. You’ve done damage.”

  “Damage? What damage?”

  “Sodding off, that’s what damage.” Kylee spat a piece of orange skin at Lottie, making her step aside.

  “Would you mind stopping that?”

  “Piss orf. You did fuck all.”

  “How dare you! What do you know at your age?”

  “More’n you, you fucking geriatric.” Kylee simply dropped the orange peel, wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Sod off and let him do it.”

  “I’ll have you know that I worked twice as hard as you and your ignorant sidekick ever did! I put in hours, weeks. Who made all the arrangements for his tour, set up the visits, dragged that ancient firm into the light? I did!”

  Kylee stretched languidly, thumbs in her belt.

  “You fucking crone, come creeping round now he’s started off. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

  “I did —”

  “No such thing?” Kylee’s falsetto made crude mockery. “Isn’t that what you do-gooders say? It’s for everybody else’s good?”

  She advanced on Lottie, arms akimbo.

  “I’ve had a fucking life-dose of you let-downers. You turds are in everything for what you can get. You used to come to the correction dump.”

  “I did nothing of the —”

  “You did. Twin fucking sets, phoney pearls, tweed skirts and brogues.” Kylee nodded her own agreement. “Smiling like some frigging disease. How maaaahv’llous you were to visit such crappy flea-bitten brats! Making,” Kylee spat, “an impression.”

  “You insolent little bitch!”

  “Bray don’t need a senile fucking relic.�
��

  Lottie shouted, giving way, “How far do you think you would have got without me?”

  “Farther. You derelict old bat, you should a been out there helping him instead of here bragging at doing sweet fuck all.”

  Lottie was almost in tears. “That’s unfair! I worked as hard as you, as Bray!”

  Kylee snorted. “To make your own number wiv him, that’s why.”

  Lottie turned away in rage. “Trying to talk sense with you is like…like talking to him!”

  “That proves we’re right and you’re the daft bugger.”

  “I told him straight out. He’s a dreamer. Whittling wood at his age! Has he ever done anything else? No! He’s just a big kid.”

  “Of course he is, you silly cunt! Like me!” Lottie gaped as tears streamed down the girl’s face. “That’s why he’s doing it! He’s out there with Davey! He always was! And he’s the only one who’s been in here with me! It happened to him! What happened to the little lad’s happening again to Bray, you ignorant fucking crone!”

  Lottie felt like hiding.

  “He’s Davey,” Kylee said quiet now. “He’s me. He is lost children, see?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Kylee spoke with withering contempt. “Idiot cow. Do you think Bray would’ve left me to rot, like they all did, if he’d seen me like I was?” Lottie had never seen anyone weep as Kylee wept, tears streaming yet without a change in expression. It might have been rain. “Never in a million fucking years. Everything he’s doing to find Davey he’d do for me. He doesn’t say so. That’s because he can’t talk proper like you people can. But he would have. He’s the dad I never had.”

  “Look. I’m sorry. I —”

  “Whatever he wants to do, you get in his way I’ll rip your fucking eyes out!” The last word was screeched so viciously that Lottie recoiled.

  Some woman along a corridor called out, nervously asking if everything was all right.

  “You haven’t the sense to see you might be wrong.” Lottie’s last stand.

  “Numbers don’t lie,” Kylee said. “You selfish bitches have words to do that.” Hawking, Kylee spat directly into Lottie’s face.