‘Geez. You are so wired, babe. If you just chilled out you’d be, like, really attractive.’ I took a step towards him, my bag held at shoulder height, ready for a right hook. Bludgeon spoke fast. ‘Alls I did is pulled ’im aside, like. Jus’ tole ’im to leave y’alone. ’E said no probs, was jus’ innerested in your dad more, y’know? Was jus’ innerested in ’is problems, yeah?’
That stopped me in my tracks. ‘What a frikking weirdo! Dad doesn’t have problems!’
Bludgeon raised his eyebrows and was about to say something when the front gate slammed open so hard it caught me in the right hamstring.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry, Lula!’ It was Mum, red-faced and puffing. ‘You have a good night? Could you go into the annexe and get out the blankets from the trunk in the eaves? The house is freezing and the Setting Suns are desperate for something to keep them warm.’
‘A good curry, like,’ suggested Bludgeon helpfully.
Mum regarded him for a second longer than was strictly polite.
‘Jalfrezi,’ he added.
Mum’s head turned slowly towards me. ‘This is not Len . . . er . . . Ken?’ she said softly.
‘It is not,’ I said crisply.
Her face brightened. ‘Hello,’ she said to Bludgeon. ‘Perhaps you could give Lu a hand with the blankets?’ and she turned and scurried back to the main house, pulling the door closed behind her.
‘C’mon,’ I said to Bludgeon. ‘Help me with the blankets and tell all about the stalker. What’s his name?’
I led the way down the steps while he rattled off several versions of a name he’d forgotten.
‘You’re supposed to be a brilliant supersleuth, Bludgeon,’ I said, rounding the corner of the house and rummaging in my bag for keys. ‘How can you forget his name? What does he look like?’
‘Identikit’s in my car. I’ll get it when we’re done with the blankets.’
I sighed. ‘Cool. Sounds like a loser anyway. I’m glad you dealt with it, actually.’
‘Yeah, thought you would be. ’E paid me a lot of money to keep ’is identity secret, like.’
‘Ah. So you don’t have memory loss.’
‘No, well, I do, but not really.’
I rolled my eyes, opened the door and stepped inside. Bludgeon came in with me and I fumbled with switches till I finally flicked on the lights.
‘Eeeeeeeeeg!’ I shrieked.
‘Waargh!’ shouted Bludgeon, and we cracked heads together, each jumping for the exit.
‘Yoow!’ I yelled.
‘Sheeeeeyit!’ yelled Bludgeon. ‘Get a grip, woman! It’s only Mr K!’ He slammed the door behind us and headed for the kitchen area.
I rounded on Mr Kadinski sitting like a cadaver in the armchair, snacking on a bag of Maltesers. ‘Mr K, what are you doing here? The whole world is looking for you! There are people who think you are dead!’ My voice cracked then, and my breath got shaky, rasping in and out like I’d been sprinting a ten-mile race.
‘Good,’ said Mr K, popping another chocolate ball into his mouth. His thick grey hair was still tidy, but it looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. There was a red welt on his forehead and I saw that his clothes were decidedly . . . sooty.
‘Mate,’ said Bludgeon, pouring himself a glass of water. ‘You were never in that fire.’
‘I certainly was,’ said Mr Kadinski. ‘Nearly didn’t make it out.’ One of his sleeves slipped down and I saw his wrist, raw and bloodied. ‘I’m losing my touch.’ He looked me in the eye and added, ‘Perhaps I am getting old.’
I joined Bludgeon at the kitchen sink. ‘Water?’ I asked Mr K hoarsely.
He shook his head, and I poured myself the biggest mug I could find.
‘I tried to call you, Tallulah,’ said Mr Kadinski, through honeycomb, ‘but they got in through my window.’
‘They? Who’s they? What did they want? This is unbelievable. Unfrikkingbelievable. Where’d you get the chocolate? I thought I’d finished it all.’
Mr K pointed at his rear.
‘No!’ moaned Bludgeon. ‘You got chocolate out your arse?’
I turned to stare him down. ‘That’s disgusting. You shouldn’t be allowed out in public.’
He winked back at me. ‘That’s why you hired me, babe.’
I rolled my eyes. (They were starting to hurt.)
‘I’d never seen they before,’ mused Mr Kadinski, ‘but both of them had construction worker’s boots on, so I’m guessing they were from Harrow’s crowd.’
‘No!’ I gaped at Mr K. ‘What did they want?’
‘My phone.’
‘Phone? Why?’ asked Bludgeon.
‘I got a little video clip of a secret meeting on Monday.’
Bludgeon looked confused, but uninterested. He opened my little fridge and groaned. ‘The cupboard is bare,’ he muttered.
‘Can you get the blankets out of the eaves cupboard in my room?’ I asked him.
‘Sure,’ he said, and ambled out of the kitchen, jumping lightly up the steps to the bedroom. ‘Nice,’ came his voice from a long way away.
‘They got the phone,’ sighed Mr Kadinski.
‘The police have the files,’ I said.
‘But the IT expert won’t be in until Tuesday to analyse them.’
‘Monday’s the planning application deadline.’
‘Exactly.’ Mr Kadinski looked defeated.
‘Come with me to the main house, Mr K,’ I said. ‘The whole Sun’s in there, hunkering down for a night of comfort on the Birds’ full quota of camping equipment.’
‘You’ve got a lot of camp beds,’ he replied, impressed.
‘Probably supplemented by the best the fire brigade has to offer. Come on.’ I put down my mug and walked towards him.
‘I think I should keep a low profile,’ he replied. ‘I’m the reason for that bonfire over there, and I’m withdrawing my application to be chief Guy. Any chance I could stay in here?’
‘Sure.’ It took me a minute to process what he was saying. ‘You take the bed and I’ll make up a mattress here on the floor. Are you saying those construction guys set fire to your room with you in it?’
Mr Kadinski raised his eyebrows and grinned. Then Bludgeon appeared with armloads of blankets and I grabbed four of them for myself before packing him off to the main house. ‘Can you give those to Mum and ask for the first-aid kit? Oh, and can you bring the identikit drawing back too?’
‘’Kay,’ he said, and shouldered his way out of the door into the orange glow outside.
BONG!
My head jerked to look at my computer, open on my MSN page.
‘You did not,’ I shrieked, ‘log on to my computer?’
‘Apologies,’ said Mr Kadinski mildly. ‘I wanted to check through picture files on the Hambledon University site. See if any matched the men I saw in the woods. Really I should have got the identikit woman to draw them up, but I know I’ve seen one of them before somewhere else . . . maybe on campus.’
‘I hardly know you,’ I muttered, and pushed off the pile of blankets to go over to my machine. ‘And you’ve seen my desktop.’
I ignored the snort behind me.
Yep – I had a message.
Chapter Twenty-three
CARRIE: TALLULAH? ARE YOU THERE?
TATTY BIRD: Yep. What’s with the caps lock? No need for any excitement. Newsflash: No damn kiss. There – I’ve admitted defeat. Tomorrow I am sweet sixteen and never been kissed.
CARRIE: Thank God!
TATTY BIRD: Are you out of your mind? The whole school is going to be laughing at me Monday morning! You guys should never have made your teasing so bliddy public. I’m ruined.
CARRIE: Rubbish – now just stay online so I can tell you some stuff, please. Ben Latter is not a science student!
TATTY BIRD: He so is. With a load of brainy friends. I’ve got to do some questionnaire for some research –
‘You type really fast,’ said Mr K, from behind me.
/>
I turned to look at him. His head was back against the top of the chair, his eyes closed, his body relaxed.
‘I do,’ I replied. ‘It’s a special-agent skill.’
He smiled, eyes still closed. ‘Don’t be upset,’ he said softly, ‘when Bludgeon comes back with that drawing.’
My forehead wrinkled in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
But Mr K was silent. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. I had a moment of angst: what was the risk of chocolate drool on the heirloom’s antique satin?
With a sigh, I turned back to my screen and continued typing:
– that a friend of his needs for the Science Fair opener on Monday.
CARRIE: Have you looked at it yet? Go and get it. Tell me what it says.
I pushed away from my desk and stretched over to the kitchen counter for my bag as Bludgeon burst back in the door. I jumped; Mr K didn’t move a muscle.
‘What is wrong with you?’ I hissed. ‘He’s old. Banging in like that could kill the man!’
Mr K laughed.
‘Oh, so you’re awake, are you?’ I called over. ‘Don’t laugh at me, Mr Kadinski. You have the open wound – I have the neat Dettol. It would hurt. A lot.’ I snatched the first-aid kit from Bludgeon and he closed the door, tossing a piece of paper on the counter. Closing in on Mr K with evil intent, I got out the antiseptic. ‘Let’s have those wrists,’ I said with a nurse-ish smile.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said firmly, and sat up to take all the paraphernalia from me. He pulled back his sleeves and I winced at the mess his skin was in.
‘Mate,’ squealed Bludgeon. ‘That’s nasty!’
‘It’ll scar,’ agreed Mr K, coolly applying neat Dettol to cotton wool and swabbing carefully. I pulled the bin closer and he threw in the bloodied ball. Bludgeon made a small high-pitched noise and moved quickly to the bathroom.
‘What did they tie you up with?’ I asked.
‘Those plastic rip-tie things that ratchet and hold automatically.’
‘And you got out of those how?’
‘Cut them off with the edge of the radiator.’
‘Geez! Some radiator!’
‘It’s old and broken. Doesn’t work. Been complaining about it for months.’
A familiar sound of retching came from the bathroom, followed by BONG! from the computer.
‘He’s not good with blood,’ observed Mr K.
BONG!
Sighing, I walked to the counter and got the questionnaire out of my bag.
BONG! BONG! BONG!
I growled and sat back down at the computer.
TATTY BIRD: Are you insane? Hold your horses! What’s the rush?
CARRIE: Why are you keeping me waiting?
TATTY BIRD: I’m really busy here right now! You have NO idea what’s going on.
CARRIE: You’re the one with no idea!
TATTY BIRD: What’s that supposed to mean?
CARRIE: What does that questionnaire ask you about?
TATTY BIRD: Hang on.
I pressed the pages flat where they’d been bent to fit into my bag. It was at least twenty pages long. Hoo boy. This was going to take a while.
ANALYSIS OF PARENTAL ADDICTION
EFFECTS ON THEIR CHILDREN
CASE STUDY BY FELIX KENNEDY
Hang on, wasn’t that the journalist –? I carried on reading.
1. When did you first learn of your parent’s alcohol dependency?
Pardon? What was all this about?
2. Do you have an addiction problem?
I wondered if Maltesers counted.
3. Do you feel your father’s high profile has pushed you/him into narcotic-dependent behaviour?
What?
4. Do you feel your pastimes are attempts to escape the family environment, all being reclusive activities: intense friendships, dressmaking, motor mechanics?
5. If your home environment were a stable one, do you feel you’d be more outgoing and confident, interested in your friends’ activities: singing, media, study groups, etc.?
6. Do you feel you relate to people differently because you have grown up witnessing a lack of strength in the paternal figure?
The hairs all over my body were standing on end. I felt a hot prickle on the back of my neck and my mouth was dry. I looked at the header of the questionnaire again and slowly typed a reply to Carrie:
TATTY BIRD: Did you know I was into motor mechanics?
CARRIE: Ha ha! Big and beefy or small and hairy?
She had no idea. One of my closest friends had no idea that I liked to fix cars. The only way a complete stranger could have any inkling about Oscar was if they had been spying on me.
I spun out of my chair and yelled to Bludgeon, ‘That stalker! Was it Felix Kennedy?’
The toilet flushed and Bludgeon appeared in the doorway, looking bleary.
‘That’s the name I was given,’ he said carefully.
Mr K shifted in his chair and I saw his brow furrow. He looked from the counter to me and back to the counter. I followed his gaze, got up and reached across the kitchen counter for the identikit I’d forgotten about.
I held the edges of the paper with the tips of my fingers as if it were something foul. Tears smarted the second I saw the beautiful eyes, the kissable lips, the perfect hair.
‘But . . .’ said Bludgeon slowly, ‘I’ll tell you for free that there’s no such person as Felix Kennedy.’
‘Yep,’ I said bitterly.
‘You know him?’
‘Not well,’ I said. ‘Not well enough, at any rate.’
Bludgeon reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of £50 notes. ‘Tatty, that guy is bad news. ’Ere’s what ’e gave me to keep quiet. I’m not gonna keep it, cos I ain’t kept my word to ’im, never intended to, y’know? Think you should ’ave it. Saves you suin’ for mental scarrin’ wif the stalkin’ an all.’ He shoved it towards me as I shook my head. ‘Don’t be a numpty. That’s a lot o’ fancy dinners an’ tarty shoes.’ He nodded at Mr Kadinski. ‘See you later, Mr K. Gotta go.’
And he gave me a peck on the cheek and slammed out of the annexe.
BONG!
CARRIE: I’m dying here.
TATTY BIRD: Me too.
CARRIE: Oh no. Is it what I thought? Ben Latter has been researching you and your dad for his science presentation on Monday?
TATTY BIRD: I’m so embarrassed. I thought he liked me for me. He even said that.
CARRIE: Bastard. Listen, don’t worry about it. We’re on the first train out of here after Alex has said byedeebyes to her dad tomorrow. He’s working so we can only leave at about 6.30 p.m. – we’ll be in Hambledon about 8 p.m. Was supposed to be a birthday surprise, but we think you need to know there’s something to look forward to.
TATTY BIRD: Thanks. I think I’m going to need to wallow, though. Things are not good on the Bird front. Text me when you get in, and I’ll update you on my mental wellbeing.
CARRIE: Hey now! Remember you were born at 11 p.m. There’s still tomorrow! Technically you’re still 15 till 11 p.m., right?
TATTY BIRD: Small comfort, Carrie. I’ve got no boy options left.
CARRIE: I’m sure Alex will have more hot relatives.
TATTY BIRD: DON’T!
CARRIE: Sorry. Too soon for humour. Listen, forget about the faker. You’ve got to move on.
TATTY BIRD: I never thought I’d despise Ben Latter. I’ve loved him for years.
CARRIE: Forget him! No time for mourning! Call Bingley Clarendon for a pizza – he’ll make you feel better, yes? No! Wait! He’s seeing some PSG girl, Alex says. Hey! Billy Diggle for a DVD! Yes! Try Billy!
TATTY BIRD: Laters, Carrie.
I signed out and rubbed the back of my neck. It was rigid with stress, and another thought was niggling away at me, tautening tendons I never knew I had. If the stalker was right about my pastimes, was he right about Dad being a real live alcoholic?
I thought about the last year. All the drin
king. How ill he’d been these last few days. I tried to remember some of the conversations I’d heard, and at last I turned to Mr K.
‘I’m going to get you some PJs from the house,’ I announced. ‘You go and have a bath. I’ll run it.’
I escaped into the tiny bathroom, ran a hot bath and set out clean towels, a new toothbrush I hadn’t used yet and some toothpaste.
‘Back in a minute,’ I said to Mr K. He looked like a cadaver again, but was clearly alive, chomping on a fingernail with a brow so furrowed he suddenly seemed a hundred years old. A thought of the goons who’d tried to hurt him came to mind and anxiety rose so quickly I felt dizzy. I swallowed it back and legged it over to the main house.
*
The kitchen door was open and the house oddly quiet. Pen was sitting at the table staring into a cup of very black coffee.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked.
‘Settling wrinklies,’ replied Pen.
‘Where on earth are they all going to sleep?’
‘Tallulah, we have probably the biggest house in Hambledon. Now that the most enormous just burned down.’
‘Yeah, but most of this place is uninhabitable.’
‘By your exacting standards.’
‘By my normal human being standards.’
‘You’re a neat freak.’ Pen took a sip of coffee and winced.
‘You’re too young to cope with that kind of caffeine intake, Pen,’ I admonished, bending over her cup and sniffing. ‘Frik! How many spoons did you put in there?’
‘It’s filter coffee. I got the machine out the box at last and it’s really, really lovely. You can thank me later.’
I looked at a stainless steel and black machine skulking in the corner of the kitchen. It bubbled rudely at my stare and a red light began flashing aggressively.
‘Great-aunt Phoebe was not thinking straight when she gave that to Mum and Dad for Christmas. I mean – filter coffee? In this household? Ha! Did you read the instructions?’ I asked.
Pen swung back in her chair, threw an arm over the back of it and assumed an arrogant pose. ‘It’s coffee,’ she said, with slitty eyes. ‘How hard can it be?’
Kisses for Lula Page 20