We Own the Sky

by Luke Allnutt

  Mom tied one of her old scarves over my eyes, and they led me out to the garage.

  “Are you ready?” they said and I squealed, barely able to contain myself.

  They pulled the scarf off and I opened my eyes, and there it was, what Dad had been working on every night. A little BMX, but not just any BMX, but one that had been tricked out, with five-spoke mag wheels and chrome pedals and pegs.

  “Fifteen quid, it cost,” Dad said proudly. “Everything donated or from the scrap yard.” I didn’t think I had ever seen him look so pleased.

  * * *

  “You did brilliantly, Jack, well done,” I said as he expertly slowed to a halt.

  Jack got off and started to make sure the bike’s plastic cannons were still working.

  “He’s really got the hang of it,” I said to Anna.

  “He has, hasn’t he?”

  “Can I go again?” Jack said, tightening his helmet.

  “Of course you can.”

  Jack got back on his bike and practiced riding around in circles, weaving in and out of some tree stumps on the grass. Anna and I were talking, not paying attention, when Jack, instead of turning, rode straight into a tree.

  Anna let out a scream and we both ran over. He was lying on the ground, a dazed look in his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I said, kneeling down next to him.

  He nodded vaguely, as if he didn’t know what happened.

  “Are you hurt?” I said. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Jack smiled at me. “A million.”

  “Can you remember your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Can you remember my name?”

  “Mr. Piggy Face,” he said, starting to giggle a little.

  “Good. I think you’ll be fine.”

  I helped Jack to stand and picked up his bike from the ground.

  “What happened, poppet? Are you okay?” Anna said, dusting off his jacket and trousers.

  “I’m okay,” Jack said, still looking confused.

  “What happened, mate?”

  “I don’t know. I was just on the Spider-Man bike and then I... I don’t know... I felt all funny and then did a big crash into the tree...”

  * * *

  When we got back to the house, I sat with Jack in the living room, drinking hot chocolate and watching Final Score. Jack listened, mouthing the names of some of the teams. Accrington, Chesterfield, Blackburn. He tried to say the more difficult ones out loud: Gillingham, Scunthorpe, Shrewsbury.

  As he was listening, Jack started to go through the photos he had taken on his camera, his little point-and-shoot. It had been a present for his fifth birthday, and it never left his side. He always gripped it tightly with two hands, just like we had shown him, because it wasn’t a toy, Jack, it wasn’t a toy. After he had finished taking his photos, he would wipe the screen with a piece of toilet paper and put it back in the case.

  “Daddy,” he said, carefully putting the camera on the coffee table, “can I have special cheese toast?”

  Special cheese on toast was butter, Marmite and a few slabs of cheese melted in the microwave.

  “Of course you can. I think Mommy is making it right now.”

  “Are you having it too?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll just eat all yours.”

  “Nooooooo.” Jack looked at me and crossed his eyes. “If you do, I’ll do something bad to you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hmm.” Jack put his finger to his lips. “You will have to go to bed and...and...” He thought hard and I raised my eyebrows. “And...and you can’t watch football,” he said triumphantly.

  “Ah, okay,” I said, scratching my chin. “You win. I won’t eat your special cheese on toast then.”

  Jack beamed, and I went into the kitchen to see if it was ready. Anna was cutting the toast into little squares.

  “Is he okay?” she said.

  “Yes, he’s absolutely fine.”

  “I still don’t understand what happened.”

  “Anna, he just fell off his bike. It’s completely normal.”

  “But it was like he blacked out. He said he felt funny.”

  “He just lost his concentration. It’s a new skill, a lot to take in.”

  Anna didn’t look convinced. She handed me the plate, and I carried it in to Jack.

  It was the only thing my dad could ever make. He did everything around the house but never learned how to cook. When Mom was out cleaning offices downtown that was what he would make for my dinner. He knew how to get it just right. Lightly browned toast, the butter spread as soon as the toaster popped. A layer of Marmite and then thin slabs of cheese. He always put it in the microwave for thirty seconds but would watch, bent over the kitchen counter, waiting for that perfect cusp just before the cheese started to bubble.

  I made him special cheese on toast after Mom died. He would sit silently at the kitchen table, Mom’s place mat, her knife and fork, laid out next to him. Every night he sat and cried, and all I could do was make him his dinner, as my mom had always done.

  “Thanks, beautiful,” he said, when I put down his plate, because that was what he always said. In front of my friends or at West Ham, it was always “handsome” or “son.” But when we were alone, it was always “beautiful.”

  So that was what I did, that was all I could do. For a year, I made Dad his favorite frozen pizzas, his Crispy Pancakes, his Fray Bentos pies. When he came home after his afternoon shift on a Friday, I always had it there waiting for him, his treat: two rounds of special cheese on toast with ketchup on the side.

  I watched Jack eat, little dabs of tomato sauce around his mouth. He was still watching the football results, mouthing the names of the teams. Sometimes, I could really see Dad in him. The careful, considered manner in which he ate. The way he would hold his head to the side when he was listening, as if he was hard of hearing.

  I daydreamed sometimes, imagining them together. How Dad would let him sit on his belly, as I had done as a child. How one day, when Jack was old enough, the three of us would all go to West Ham. How he would let him sit in the front of the taxi and speak on the radio to the dispatchers. Dad would have glittered with Jack.

  * * *

  “Seriously, mate, not the drones again. Please, God, not the fucking drones.”

  I was sitting with Scott in The Ship, our impromptu office. It was always quiet in the afternoons, the big tables empty enough for us to stretch out with our laptops. The wood paneling made you feel like you were on a ship; the stained glass like you were in church.

  “The thing is...” I started.

  “No.”

  “But I’ve made progress, Scott...”

  “Jesus, Rob, please not again...”

  “I’ll buy all your drinks if you allow me five minutes to talk about drones.”

  Scott laughed and slapped the table with his hand. “There is literally nothing you can buy me that would make you talking about drones worth it.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Although Scott grew up a few streets away and went to Cambridge, we never met until I walked into Simtech’s meeting room on Old Street. Parallel lives, we always joked. Scott was the only Cambridge graduate I had ever met who bought his underwear at Romford market and had a West Ham birthday cake every year until he was eighteen.

  “On another subject, though. I really need that code,” Scott said.

  I checked my phone, as if I had just received an important email. I was supposed to have written some scripts for a Chinese mapping company, but I was stalling and Scott knew it.

  “I’m on it, Scott. I’m on it. It’s just more complicated than I thought.”

  “So give it to Marc.”

  “It will be complicated for him, as well.” Scott had wanted to
outsource it to our team of programmers in Belgium, but I insisted on doing it myself.

  “Right, but there’s six of them,” Scott said.

  “Right, but it doesn’t always work like that in programming.”

  My trump card. Blind Scott with science. He was rich, a brilliant businessman, but he couldn’t code. He sighed and swiveled around on his chair.

  A few worry lines had appeared on Scott’s face. I knew he was thinking about selling the company. He had taken a hit after the crash and was “moving a few things around.” That was why he wanted me to write the code: to impress a potential Chinese buyer.

  “Rob, look, you’re a mate, and we’ve been working together for a long time. I’ve always tried not to micromanage you, but I’ve gotta draw the line on this one. I need that code by the end of the week, okay?”

  He looked out of the window, and I noticed his foot was tapping on the base of the chair. I didn’t want him to sell. I would lose my salary, something that petrified Anna. But more than that, to get my drones idea off the ground, I needed Simtech. I needed their name, their pedigree, Scott’s contacts in the finance world. Without them, I would be right back to where I was, in the suit that Anna paid for, presenting my scribbled-out business plan.

  “If I get you the code by Friday, can I talk about drones?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Rob,” Scott said, laughing, his accent thick, as if he was selling shoes on Romford market.

  “Juan,” he said, looking at the bartender, his Spanish pronunciation flawless, “can you get us a couple of beers when you have a minute?”

  Juan nodded and dutifully pulled a couple of pints and brought them over.

  “Go on then. I’m all ears,” Scott said, taking a deep gulp. “But promise me you’ll get me the code by Friday.”

  “Promise.”

  Scott smiled and shook his head. “Right then. Drones. My favorite subject.”

  “So,” I said, “we’ve talked before. You know what I think. It’s the future. The hardware is cheap, and people are going to use them everywhere. They’ll deliver us pizza, our Amazon orders. Builders will use them to deliver cups of teas on their...”

  “Rob, spare me the preamble,” Scott said. “I’ve heard it a million times before. You’ll tell me about the search-and-rescue teams next...”

  “Right, but there’s something new, and this is what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Personal drones.”

  “Personal drones?”

  “Yes. Ultracheap, ultralight and ultradurable.”

  “Okay,” Scott said. “And what do these personal drones do?”

  “Take photos mostly.”

  “Take photos?”

  “Yeah, you’ve seen those selfie sticks.”

  “Unfortunately, yeah.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what these little drones will do, all controlled from your phone. So just imagine: You’re at a wedding and you need that big group shot. Or you’re hiking in the mountains and want to show people just how high you are, how amazing the scenery is... Or you’re in a crowd at a football match. These were things that only pros could do a couple of years ago. Now anyone can do it with a five-dollar bit of plastic.”

  Scott thought for a moment, stroked his stubble. “Look, I get it, Rob, there’s something there and maybe you’re on to something. But it’s just too...”

  “Too?”

  “Too niche, Rob.”

  “That’s what they said about selfie sticks.”

  Scott’s phone beeped and he looked at his watch. “Fuck, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Meeting?”

  “No, new lady.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s Russian. Lovely, but a little demanding.”

  “You’ll be bored of her in six months.”

  Scott looked down at his laptop. “Bit harsh, mate,” he said, scooping up his car keys off the table.

  “Sorry, was only joking.”

  “Probably true, though,” Scott said, waving goodbye to Juan. “And anyway, you prick, I could say the same about you. You love the chase, building the new project, but then you get bored.”

  “Touché.”

  “All right,” Scott said, downing the remains of his beer. “Don’t worry about the tab. I got it. And please, my little beauty, please get me that fucking code, okay?”

  hampstead heath

  it was the first time you’d seen snow so we went sledding, up on the hill where the big boys were and i just remember hurtling down, you crammed between my thighs, snow spraying up into our faces like the warp-speed millennium falcon. the only thing i would have changed jack is that i could have seen your face, that i could have seen your face as we were going down.

  5

  It was spitting with rain as we stood at the base of the Monument. We looked up at the column, the gray-beige stone blending into the rain, the only color we could see, the crop of golden bird feather at its peak.

  We began to make our way up the spiral steps, Jack in front, going as fast as he could, his camera case strapped to his back. As we got halfway up, I could feel the chilly wind blowing down the steps, the pale ginger light beckoning from above.

  For as long as we could remember, for as long perhaps as Jack could speak, he had wanted to be up high. At first it was the top of the stairs, the attic, but then it was tall buildings, hills, cliffs—wherever he could see the view from the top.

  We would go up to Parliament Hill and look out across London. Jack would sit on my shoulders, banging his little heels on my chest, and I would point out all the buildings on the skyline: the Telecom Tower, the Gherkin, Canary Wharf.

  When he got older, he printed out pictures of skyscrapers—the Burj Khalifa, Taipei 101, the Shanghai and Petronas towers—and stuck them to the wall around his bed. He said he was going to go up them all.

  At the top of the Monument, we were the only ones on the viewing platform, and I was surprised by how narrow it was up here, a circular alleyway enclosed by a wire mesh, the walls daubed with a crumbly white plaster.

  “So how was school today? Did you learn anything?”

  He was still wearing his gray school trousers and green Amberly Primary polo shirt.

  Jack didn’t answer, too busy trying to peep over the barrier.

  “Jack?”

  He sighed like a teenager. “Math, reading, writing and PE,” he said rapid-fire and then looked up at me. “Daddy, why is it called Monument?”

  “Do you remember I told you about the big fire in London?”

  “In the olden times?”

  “Yes, in the olden times.”

  “So they built this to remember the people.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what people do sometimes. They build things to remember people.”

  “Why was there a fire?”

  “Well, it started close to here, just around the corner, and in the olden days lots of the houses were made out of wood.”

  “And they build all the houses again?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Jack tried to peep over the barrier again. Cool. Ever since he had started school, everything was cool.

  “Do you want to go up in the air?” I asked. “That way you can see something.”

  “I’m not too big now?”

  “You’re big but not that big,” I said, lifting him onto my shoulders. I could feel him turn his head, moving his little hips, his heels on my chest.

  We moved closer to the edge and looked east down the river. Amid the gray, there were just a few dashes of color: a smudge of green trees along the river; a red asphalt children’s playground squeezed between two buildings.

  “Look, Daddy, I can see Tower Bridge.”
r />   “Wow, yeah, you can. Do you want to take some pictures?”

  He nodded solemnly, and I could feel him tug at his bag and carefully take out the camera.

  Jack started to take photos, and I could feel him swiveling his hips, trying to get the best possible view. He liked to take photos from up high, and we printed out some of his best ones to add to the collection around his bed. The morning sun taken from his bedroom window. A weekend in Dorset, a white lighthouse against a purple sky. Raindrops against the windowpane taken from the top of Canary Wharf.

  Jack had stopped moving and sat motionless on my shoulders, and I thought something might be wrong so I looked up at him but he was just still, staring out over the city, like an old yeoman surveying his land.

  London was all Jack had ever known. His dragons were Tube trains, and he knew the bears would eat him if he stepped on the cracks in the pavement. He went to Chinatown for dim sum when he was two, and he could name all the bridges that crossed the Thames. He loved it all. Watching the summer sunset from the South Bank. Jumping the fishy puddles in his rain boots at Billingsgate. The throaty warm wind at the entrance to the Tube. The grime that feels a part of you.

  We stood like that for a while, a four-armed giant, listening to the police sirens in the distance, the gray hum of traffic, the static of the city, a sound you would only notice when it was gone.

  * * *

  Jack was quiet on the Tube on the way back. I knew he was counting the stops, a trait he had inherited from Anna. She still did it, every time she got on. A quick little glance up at the map, and then the gentlest quiver of her lips as she ran through all the stations in her mind.

  She memorized all of her journeys when she got to London. I used to test her, give her a little quiz. Without pause, she could tell me how to get from Piccadilly Circus to Camden Town or the fastest route from Lancaster Gate to Regent’s Park. Sometimes it was easier to consult Anna than a map.

  It was still raining when we stepped out of the Tube. We were going to the play center in Hampstead, the one that offered mother-and-baby yoga where you could only get organic bhajis and Sumatra-roast coffee. As Jack headed toward the ball pit, I found a table and ordered an Americano. I listened to two women at the next table talking about another mother, whose child refused to eat, who had her wrapped around her little finger. That was what happened, they agreed, if you bottle-fed and gave them all that processed rubbish.