by Tony Telford
‘Yes you did,’ insisted Jean. ‘You said you’d found Boo and she was really sick and you ’ad to take her to the vet’s. And then you were gonna meet us ’ere. Don’t you remember, on the phone—’ She stopped and we all looked at each other as we realized. ‘Oh my God, it was ’im, wasn’t it? It was ’im! But it sounded so like you, Matty.’
‘The old Scotswoman was a good performance, too,’ I said.
‘But why’s he doing all this stuff?’ said Miri. ‘That’s the real question.’
‘He’s sick, man,’ said Draemon. ‘He’s down there in the depths.’
A few days later, Matty had gone back to the house to see what was going on. He was amazed to find a gang of workmen there. It looked like they were doing some really big alterations, bringing out barrow-loads of bricks and rubble and unloading sheets of plasterboard from a lorry. Matty tried to find out more from one of the workmen, but the guy seemed suspicious and wouldn’t tell him anything.
‘Do you think anyone’s still living there?’ I asked.
‘No way,’ said Matty. ‘It’s just a huge building site now. Maybe the landlord’s doing it up before he gets another tenant.’
We wondered what the workmen thought when they saw the tunnel, and the weird little bedroom, and the secret door to the factory, and the smashed window.
‘And what about all those TVs,’ said Jean. ‘They’d be worth a packet.’
‘He probably took them,’ suggested Miri.
Hooky doubted that. ‘We don’t even know if he’s alive, Miri. No one’s s-seen him since that night, have they? And, I mean, how could anyone survive that fall?’
We talked about that a lot, as you can imagine. Jean agreed with Hook, but the rest of us couldn’t help feeling that O’Hare was still alive.
Sarah thought so, too. ‘He’s not dead,’ she said, when she heard what had happened. ‘I’d bet a month’s salary on it. After all—’ she laughed darkly— ‘why would he commit suicide when he’s got so much to look forward to?’
There’s one other slightly weird thing I should mention. On the night before we left Blackbird House, O’Hare’s phone, which had been silent for the past two weeks, suddenly started ringing. It was a market researcher, a young man named Azam. Could I spare a couple of minutes to answer a few questions about my lifestyle? Okay, I said absentmindedly, and he launched into a seemingly endless questionnaire. You know the sort of thing, how often did I use online banking services, did I order my shopping online, who was my internet provider, et cetera, et cetera. The thing is, as he went on, I started wondering if it was really him, O’Hare. I listened more carefully to the voice. The Asian accent sounded genuine enough, but was there something slightly ironic about the way he spoke?
‘And just thinking about the TV or online content you’ve watched over the last seven days, have you noticed any adverts for car insurance?’ I could have sworn he said it mockingly.
‘I told you, I don’t watch TV or online programmes.’
‘Okay, that’s fine,’ he said. ‘And have you noticed any billboards—’
‘Is that you, Bernard?’ I said suddenly.
He paused and gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m sorry, my name is Azam? Now, if you could just think about any billboards you’ve seen in the past seven days…’
I dreamed of that house the other night. I was like a ghost, floating from room to room. In the big room, all the TVs were flashing and flickering, and the golden tree was playing weird funeral music. I glided along the tunnel, through the white room and out into the old factory. Then, as light as air, I drifted up the ladder and into the chamber with the big window. The window wasn’t broken anymore. Milky light seeped through the frosted glass. And there was the robot thing on the platform, just like before. As soon as I came in it started talking to me, but it was speaking some kind of nonsense language, words and numbers all jumbled up together like those car number plates that some people have. ‘X-9-Fade-Fluellen, 8-Y-3-Low, Simp-Stog-4-Nom-857, It was all just gobbledegook, as far as I could tell. Yet, waking then, I found my face wet with tears.
Hooky had finally managed to get all the saucepans back into his rucksack, but now Jean wanted to take some photos before we left.
‘Stand there by the gate. That’s it. You too, ’ook. And where’s Boo? Come on, Boo, you’ve gotta be in this. Oh God, look at you all, though. Talk about the raggle-taggle gypsies.’
She had a point. Besides Drae in his yellow cape and Abraham Lincoln hat, there was Miri wearing an old tweed jacket and flat cap, Hook in a grey parka straight out of the 1970s, Matty in biker’s jacket, jeans and boots, and me in my old wool coat and trilby. Jean herself was wearing leggings and her favourite floppy jumper.
‘Haven’t you got a coat, Jean?’ I said.
‘Nah, I’ll be okay. Got me thermals on.’
‘But you’ll perish,’ said Miri. ‘It’s only a couple of weeks till Christmas.’
‘Oh shut up, you sound like my mother.’
‘Hey, if she freezes to death we can use her as a snowman,’ suggested Matty.
‘Snow-woman,’ Miri corrected him.
‘Sorry, snow-woman. A lovely, plump, red-haired snow-woman.’
‘Oh, you’ve done it now, my boy,’ muttered Draemon. ‘Your fate is sealed.’
But Jean didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘Smile, everybody! ’Ooky, stop looking so sheepish. That’s better. Now come in a bit closer.’ She must have taken twenty pictures of us by that gate.
‘Do you think we could leave in, like, the next four hours?’ wondered Matty.
‘Just let me get one of Pearly and Boo.’
Draemon laid a hand on Jean’s forehead. ‘A-ha, just as I thought,’ he said in a high-pitched, plummy voice. ‘A severe case of clicky-clicky-clicky-itis—a most horrendous affliction!’
Miri looked up at the house. ‘We won’t forget this place in a hurry.’
That made Hook start crying. ‘I was getting quite s-s-settled here, you know.’
Jean leant her head on his shoulder. ‘Least we’re all still together, lovey. That’s the main thing, innit?’
‘Did anyone clear up that mess in the back room?’ asked Matty.
Jean had seen to that.
‘And what about the laundry?’
‘Done,’ said Drae. ‘Place is looking all right, man. Better than when we moved in, anyhow.’
Windows repaired, pipes fixed, sinks unblocked, walls painted, kitchen done up—we’d worked hard on that old house. Well, the others had. I’d helped out when I could. We even tidied up the garden a bit one day.
We hauled on our rucksacks.
‘Goodbye, Blackbird ’ouse.’
‘We n-never even found out who owns it.’
‘Who cares, man? Owning this, owning that—it’s just a big hoax.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I wouldn’t m-mind having my own place, one day.’
I followed the others through the gate, then, remembering, ran back and put O’Hare’s phone in a crack in the garden wall.
We filed down the alley to the street, and then headed up through the suburbs. All those neat houses with their neat gardens, no tree higher than ten foot, a satellite dish on nearly every home.
‘Behold!’ howled Draemon, pointing at the satellite dishes. ‘The emblems of mass servitude!’
A man raking leaves in his garden paused to stare at him.
‘Do not regard me with such concern, brother,’ cried Draemon. ‘I am happy in my madness.’
We walked for a couple of hours in the mild winter sunshine until suddenly the streets ended and we were at the edge of countryside. Across the road there was a stile and a ‘public footpath’ sign.
Jean checked the map. ‘That’s us.’
We were quite high up there, and you could see the path—our path—veering away to the north, leaping over a hump-backed bridge, then zigzagging out across green fields, yellow fields, brown fields. Near the horizon, the thin white line disappeared in
to a heap of shadowy hills. It looked like a path through paradise, that thin white line, but then everything seemed lovely that day. Maybe it had something to do with being on the move again.
‘Hey, why don’t we start a band?’ said Drae, as he was climbing the stile. ‘Me on vocals and guitar, Miri on keys, Hook on violin.’
I looked at Hooky in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you played violin, Hook.’
‘Child prodigy, man,’ said Drae. ‘First recital at ten, wasn’t it, Hook?’
Hooky just shrugged and looked at his feet.
Drae pounced on Matty and got him in a headlock. ‘You’re on drums, man, okay?’
Matty twisted free and shook back his wild curly hair. ‘Might give it a go.’
‘Huh,’ scoffed Jean, ‘ ’e just wants all the females screamin’ for ’im.’ But I didn’t believe that for a minute.
Drae squinted at me. ‘This one can do vocals, I reckon.’
‘What, me?’
‘Come on, I heard you singing. You got a nice voice, man.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I’ve written a few songs—’
‘That means you’re on bass, Jeannie.’
‘You must be joking,’ said Jean. ‘I’ll be the manager. You lot’ll need someone with their ’ead screwed on.’
We crossed a field where the waist-high grass was crowned with pale, feathery tufts. When the wind blew, the tufts dipped and swayed like ghosts dancing to their own whispery music.
‘But w-what do we call ourselves?’ wondered Hooky.
‘The Whippets?’ suggested Matty.
‘Or what about Clouds,’ said Jean.
‘Clouds?’ Drae looked like he was going to throw up. ‘I was thinkin’ more in the line of Shoe Face.’
‘Mmm, think I prefer Clouds,’ said Miri. ‘Or how about The Snowmen?’ Which seemed even more creepy than Shoe Face.
I suggested Draemon and the Firedogs.
‘That’s good, innit, Boo?’ said Jean. ‘Draemon an’ the Firedogs.’ Boo gave her one of her tragic looks. ‘Ooh, did you see that? She should’ve been in silent movies, with them eyes.’
We rambled on along the wide, green path, laughing and joking, telling stories, singing bits of favourite songs. No deadlines, no schedule, just doing everything in our time. The police raid already seemed like ancient history, and Newland Crescent was just a dark dream.
Miri came and slipped her arm in mine. ‘Remember, you’ve got to call your aunt soon,’ she said.
‘Yeah, I know. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’ I’d sent a postcard to Aunt Lucy, telling her I’d call around Christmas. It would be the first time we’d spoken since I left home.
I sighed. ‘Wonder where we’ll be tonight, then.’
‘Wherever you go, there you are,’ said Miri, quoting somebody or other.
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