Danny looks at the edge of the table, is silent for a minute. ‘London Women’s Anti-Militarisation Coalition,’ he says.
‘Right. You remember it?’
‘Yeah. I used to make them tea.’
‘So I’m going to go.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘If that’s OK,’ I say.
‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asks.
The waitress brings our drinks, in mismatched ceramic mugs, stands by the table for a while arranging the sugar and sprinkling cinnamon on top of my drink. When she’s gone, I say, ‘She didn’t say anything bad.’ And then, ‘Actually I think she misses you.’
He doesn’t respond to this.
‘Maybe you could come too,’ I say. ‘Next week. We could all go. We could—’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If you spoke to her, if you sat down and properly—’
‘Don’t, Alena. Don’t try and do this. It’s not going to happen. Letting you spend time with her is the absolute limit of what I’m going to do.’
‘You’re just going to avoid her for the rest of your life.’
‘Yep.’
‘Danny—’
‘Are you going to stop avoiding Nick?’
I go blank for a second, confused by the subject change. ‘I’m not avoiding him,’ I say.
‘Lena. Come on. You haven’t been to the coffee shop all week. You don’t speak to him at dinner.’
‘The coffee shop’s closed.’
‘Yeah, but you can come and hang out with us, come and help us fix it up. It’s fun. We’re laying new flooring.’
‘That doesn’t sound fun.’
‘He’d really like it if you helped out.’ He pauses. ‘It belongs to you, as well.’
I scrape my spoon across the foam on the top of my drink, make a little pattern in the cinnamon dust. I already know it won’t taste as good as the coffee shop’s.
‘I thought it was me you were going to be mad at,’ Danny says. ‘I thought it would be me you wouldn’t talk to.’
What can I say? I had higher expectations of Nick, or, Yeah, but you clearly have massive psychological issues whereas Nick has no excuse.
It’s been easier to talk to Danny this last week than any time I can remember. I can tell he feels the same. Like suddenly we are free of this stupid secret that he thought was so terrible, and it’s OK to talk again. Her name isn’t a curse.
‘I told you that he never wanted to lie to you,’ Danny is saying. ‘It was me that told him—’
‘People are responsible for their own behaviour,’ I say. ‘What you told him to do isn’t an excuse.’
Danny looks at me, raises an eyebrow. He is smiling. ‘You sounded exactly like Nick just then, you know that?’
I scowl.
‘I think he’s even coming round to maybe letting you work there,’ Danny says. ‘On weekends. If you still want to. Maybe share the Saturday afternoon shift with Zahra.’
I sit up. ‘For money?’
‘Well, yeah. Nick’s got this thing against slave labour. You know what he’s like. Me, personally, I’d make you do it for free, but—’
‘I thought you didn’t want me to work there either.’
‘I’ve been persuaded.’
‘How come?’
‘I just have.’
‘Danny,’ I say. ‘Did Jacob Carlisle really try and close it down that time?’
He looks away from me. It’s a very dangerous thing to bring up Jacob Carlisle’s name. I am feeling wild. ‘Not directly,’ he says.
‘But—’
‘He was involved in it. Sort of. It was part of a wider thing.’
‘Then how could you possibly—’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘But how could you—’
‘I wanted it to close down,’ he says. He looks back at me, straight in the eye. I realise he’s confessing something, something he hasn’t even told Nick. ‘Honestly. Back then. That’s the truth. There were all these groups used to meet there and put up their posters and plan their demonstrations and honestly, Alena, some of them were breaking the law, and the whole thing just used to—’ He breaks off, looks at his coffee. Clears his throat. ‘It used to scare me, honestly. I was scared Nick would get in trouble. And then after he got beaten up.’
‘But it’s still just a coffee shop. He sells lattes. It’s not exactly—’
‘That’s what she used to say to me. It’s just this, it’s just that, you don’t need to worry. And I used to lie awake waiting for her to come home because I always thought she was going to get in trouble. And people said, Don’t worry, don’t worry, you’re being stupid, and look what happened. She’s not here, is she?’
This is true. She’s not here.
I let that fact sit for a moment, her absence at the table gather weight, until, for a strange moment, it feels like she is here.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry. I just get sick of being told not to worry. There’s a lot to worry about.’
‘You really shouldn’t have got together with Nick, then,’ I tell him. ‘You should’ve got together with some boring bloke who worked in a bank.’
‘I know. I realised that about three days after we met,’ says Danny. ‘But I liked him, though. I couldn’t help it.’
This is sweet. It seems like a sweet thing to say. I decide to try and remember it.
‘I like him too,’ I say.
‘Good.’
‘Some of the time.’
‘Some of the time is all we need right now,’ he says.
FIFTY
So I get talked into going to the coffee shop that afternoon. Since I saw it last it looks a lot better, but it still makes me feel upset to look at it, like how Danny probably felt looking at Nick after he got beaten up that time. Something you love that someone has smashed up for no reason.
Nick looks up from what he’s doing when we walk in, and when he sees me I can tell he’s surprised, and pleased.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘My two favourite people.’
‘I’ve come to help,’ I say to him. ‘Danny says you need help.’
‘I do need help.’
Danny flicks one of the light switches by the door but nothing happens.
‘I think the fuse has blown,’ says Nick. ‘I was just going to check.’
‘I’ll do it,’ says Danny, and circles round Nick, touching his shoulder as he passes, before disappearing down the stairs to the basement.
Nick looks at me. ‘How was it?’ he says.
I sit down at one of the tables, which is white with paint-dust, and put my bag down on the floor. ‘It was OK,’ I say. ‘It was nice.’ There’s a silence. ‘She invited me to meet up with her again next week. To go and see a plaque. She says there’s a plaque for our mum in this London Women place.’
‘The Anti-Militarisation Coalition?’ says Nick, because apparently everybody knows about it but me.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s a good thing for you to do.’
It’s another thing I should have been able to do years ago, I think, but then I look at Nick’s serious face, and I remember that my mother thought that I would be a forgiving human, with an open heart.
Danny and Nick shouldn’t have lied to me. And my mum should never have picked up that glass bottle. But those things won’t change, even if I carry all my anger around inside for years and years the way Danny has. I don’t want to be like that.
‘You could come too, maybe,’ I say. ‘If you want.’
I see relief in his face. ‘I’d really like that,’ he says.
I nod, and look round the coffee shop, at the exposed wires and bits of ripped-up flooring. The way that the sun is slanting through the windows shows up all the dust sparkling in the air. ‘It still looks pretty bad in here,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘But it can all be fixed.’
It wa
s Nick who finally fixed the smoke alarm in our flat, that time when it was broken. He got the manual out and read the whole thing, and then he fixed it properly, rather than just forcing it back in to place and hoping for the best.
He’s probably right. He can probably fix this too.
I don’t end up helping all that much.
Later, Nick is lying on his back underneath the counter, where the pipes for the soft drinks and everything are, trying to tighten something with a wrench. Danny is leaning on top of the counter, spinning a screwdriver round in his hand like they do with guns in westerns. He’s not doing anything with the screwdriver, he’s just carrying it around.
‘If you could only listen to one Bob Dylan song for the rest of your life,’ I say. ‘What would you pick?’ I’m still sitting at one of the tables, drinking a warm can of lemonade that I found downstairs.
Danny looks appalled. ‘I’d kill myself,’ he says. ‘Don’t ask me things like that. It’s upsetting.’
‘I’d have “Subterranean Homesick Blues”,’ says Nick.
‘How original,’ says Danny.
‘Do you want to know what I’d have?’
‘Lena, you’re not old enough to even start to be able to make a decision like that, OK? That is like a profound, philosophical question and you’re not ready to tackle it so don’t even try.’
‘I’d have the one from the album with him and the girl on it.’
‘“The Freewheelin’”.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which song?’
‘The one you used to play all the time.’
‘That narrows it down,’ says Nick.
‘You know, the one. Something something north country way. That one.’
‘“Girl from the North Country”,’ says Danny. ‘I’m depressed now. How can you not know the name of that song?’
‘It was written about a hundred years before I was born.’
‘Thirty years.’
‘Well, that’s the one I’d have.’
‘OK, good choice.’
Then the bloke who delivers the free local newspaper leans in through the open door. ‘Hi!’ he says. ‘When are you lot opening up again?’
Danny holds up two fingers. ‘Two weeks,’ he says.
‘Maybe,’ says Nick, but nobody can see him.
‘Nice!’ says the paper-man. ‘Good work!’
‘Thank you!’ says Danny, not that he’s doing any work.
‘Are you Nick? You look different.’
‘I’m Danny.’
‘You’re Danny. Nice to meet you, Danny. I’m Keith! I deliver the paper!’
‘I can see that!’ says Danny. ‘Nice to meet you, Keith!’
‘Have you heard?’ says Keith.
‘Heard what?’
‘They’ve got him.’
‘Got who?’
‘East End Bomber. Got him this morning. Flat in Tower Hamlets.’
‘Seriously?’ says Danny, and I say, ‘Really?’ at the same time, and Nick sits up and smacks his head against the underside of the counter, so then there’s a long pause while Danny checks to see if he has a concussion and Keith offers advice about putting ice on his head and checking his vision, before I actually get to ask.
‘So who is he?’ I say. ‘Who did they arrest? Is he a white supremacist?’
‘Nah,’ says Keith. ‘They think it’s some bloke who got fired from Tesco’s.’
‘What?’ I say, and Nick, getting to his feet and rubbing his head, says ‘What?’ and Danny says, ‘Are you joking?’
‘Yeah,’ says Keith. ‘Some bloke who got fired from Tesco’s. One of these revenge things. You know. Just some nutter, basically.’ Keith shrugs like it happens all the time.
‘It wasn’t—’ Nick shakes his head, blinks a few times. ‘He’s not an eco-activist, or something? Or a neo-Nazi or—’
‘Nah,’ says Keith, authoritatively. ‘It was a nutter. Got fired from Tesco’s.’ He shrugs again. ‘Anyway! Good work you’re doing here! Keep it up!’
‘Thanks,’ says Nick, vaguely. ‘But, listen, do they actually know—’
But Keith has already gone.
We are all quiet for a few moments. I’m feeling something a bit like disappointment, that there isn’t a better explanation, like that he isn’t a fascist or a neo-Nazi or whatever, or something. Something that we could have talked about over dinner and Nick could have told us how it could have been prevented.
You can try and stop nuclear weapons, maybe, or wars, but it’s hard to think how you could have stopped someone getting fired from Tesco’s.
‘Well, good,’ Danny says. ‘They’ve got him. I mean, thank god, right?’
‘Right,’ says Nick. ‘Definitely,’ but he’s frowning and looking at the spot where Keith was standing, like maybe he feels the same as me.
‘Is your head all right?’ says Danny.
‘It’s fine.’ Nick scratches his eyebrow and says, ‘It’s fine. I’m going to wait and watch the news. There must be more to it than that.’
‘Who cares?’ says Danny. ‘They’ve got him.’
‘Yeah,’ says Nick. ‘But there must be more to it.’
I’ve already got my phone out of my pocket and loaded up the news. There’s a picture of him on the front page, probably from his Facebook profile or something. Face of a killer, it says underneath. But he just looks like anybody. It’s just a normal photo of a man.
It’s not enough. It’s not a good enough reason for somebody to have died.
‘Do you want me to try turning on the water, again?’ Danny is saying.
Nick sighs and says, ‘Yeah, all right. Try the water again.’
Danny leans across and turns the tap. Water gushes out.
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it. We actually got something to work.’
‘What do you mean “we”?’ says Nick. ‘I’m the one who fixed it.’
‘Yeah,’ says Danny. ‘And I turned on the tap. Teamwork.’
‘I helped too,’ I say, looking up from my phone where, inevitably, they’ve put up the photo of Eduardo Capello and his baby daughter again. Now they’ve caught the bomber they’ll probably stop printing this photo all the time. In a few months nobody will be able to remember his face.
‘Lena helped too,’ Danny confirms. ‘Is it time for a break or what?’
Later, probably, Nick will still find some way that it’s political. Like it’ll be about housing or mental health care provision. And Danny will be like, The world is just like that. The world is just violent. We should all just lock the doors and stay inside, he’ll say.
And he’ll probably be right, except you could be inside and a plane could crash into your house, or someone on the floor below could leave the stove on and start a fire, or you could be making a cup of tea and a blood vessel in your brain could explode. So.
Maybe you just have to concentrate on the things you can change. Try and find the pieces that could be better, and then fight, the way Lynn and my mother did.
This is what I want to do. This is how I want to live. Like she did.
FIFTY-ONE
It’s two weeks later, the Friday before half-term, and me and Teagan and Ollie are lying on our backs on the school field while the cross-country runners do their lunchtime practice, wheezing their way past us every couple of minutes as they lap the field. The sky is very blue. I think it’s going to be a hot summer. I close my eyes and the sun makes orange blobs behind my eyelids. The grass underneath our bare arms and legs is dry and brittle, yellowing already.
‘When you say party,’ Teagan is saying, ‘is it like, cakes and balloons, or live music and cocaine, or what?’
‘It’s like, Nick’s going to open the door and turn on the cappuccino machine.’
‘So not a huge party, then.’
‘Party is probably the wrong word,’ I admit. ‘It’s more of an evening. A reopening evening. Zahra’s boyfriend is going to play his guitar and depress everybody. Th
ere’ll be vegan brownies. Nick’ll probably make a speech about community solidarity and Fairtrade bananas.’
‘Oh, OK,’ says Teagan. ‘I’ll definitely be there for that, then.’
‘Good.’
‘Ollie, you have to come as well,’ says Teagan.
He doesn’t answer. ‘Does the coffee shop actually have a name?’ he says. ‘Or is it just the coffee shop?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah.’ For a second I can’t remember. ‘It’s called Ground.’
‘Ground.’
‘I know. It’s stupid. No one calls it that.’
‘Like coffee grounds, or the ground we stand on?’
‘I don’t know. Coffee grounds, I guess. Maybe both.’
‘But who cares,’ Teagan says. ‘It’s special. And it nearly got shut down. So we have to go the reopening party.’
‘Evening,’ I say.
‘The reopening evening.’
‘Fine,’ says Ollie. ‘Yeah. All right.’
‘Something else I was going to say.’ I sit up on my elbows, glance at Teagan, who nods. ‘Nick’s got this idea about having art from local artists on the wall. I was thinking maybe you could bring some of your stuff. Some of your sketches, for the wall. I think they’d work really well.’
It was Teagan’s idea but she doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head sideways and looks at him.
Ollie blinks a few times, then sits up as well, pushes his hair out of his eyes.
‘What do you think?’ I say.
He frowns. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be all political stuff in there? Isn’t it supposed to be, like, Fairtrade organic milk art?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It can be anything.’
‘Although,’ says Teagan, ‘Now I really want to see some Fairtrade organic milk art.’
‘Your stuff would be perfect,’ I say. ‘It would be really good.’
‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘All right. I dunno. Maybe.’
Teagan catches my eye, looking exasperated, and makes me laugh.
The runners complete another lap, breathing hard, still going.
I heard Jacob Carlisle again last night, on local radio. There was no one else home and I was doing my homework with the volume turned down low. It turns out he’s been writing a book this whole time. It’s called Independent Man. It’s about the experience of being an independent in an era of party politics, apparently.
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