Little Big Love

by Katy Regan

  I am writing because I thought you’d want to know that as of this week, I fulfilled mine and Jamie’s dream …

  34

  Zac

  Fact: Maggots can be used to heal people’s wounds. It’s called “maggot therapy.”

  “Grandad, do you want to know one good fact about maggots?”

  Grandad smiled, his eyes crinkling up in the sun. “Are there any good facts about maggots, Zac?” he said, opening up the Tupperware box to see them all wriggling around. (Maggots smell disgusting, like wet, stinky dog. When you open the box on the first fishing trip of the summer—like this one—they can make you nearly puke.) He put one on the end of the hook, then chucked some in the canal for extra bait. “Having said that, if there are, I know that you of all people will know one.”

  “I do,” I said, as Grandad cast my rod for me. (I’m only good at pole fishing. I still can’t really do the reel that well.) “I know a really good one. Maggots can be used to heal people’s wounds. Say, like, if someone is diabetic and their skin doesn’t heal very quickly, the doctors can give them ‘maggot therapy.’” (I looked it up under “maggot facts.”) “It’s where they put maggots on the wound so that the maggots clean it and it heals up quicker.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “See, I told you I had a good fact about maggots.”

  “I’m not sure I would classify it as good,” Grandad said, casting his rod next. “I mean, it’s good in that it’s a fact I never knew, but I wouldn’t fancy those horrible little grubs on my skin, would you, Zac? Urgh.”

  Grandad threw a few more maggots in and we waited. It was very quiet again.

  “Grandad?”

  “Shh.” He put his finger to his lips and smiled at me, but longer than usual. “Let’s just be quiet for a second, shall we? Just sit and enjoy the peace and each other’s company. We can talk in a minute; we just don’t want to scare off the fish at the beginning.”

  Normally I love the quiet when we go fishing; it’s dead relaxing, especially if I’ve had a bad day at school. You might think fishing’s boring, but it’s not because even when you’re doing nothing, you’re excited that something might happen—and anyway, it’s not quiet, there are loads of noises when you’re silent and can notice them. Birds do crazy singing, for one thing—it’s not a nice gentle tune like you think it is; their voices go up and down like mad, especially now, in the evening, like they’re scrapping to be the loudest or the highest—and the fish blow bubbles that make a noise like if you do a fart in the bath, just a little one. Me and Grandad decided it. It made us laugh. I even like the midges that make the sky look like summer’s starting, telling me there’s loads of days like this coming, out fishing with Grandad. Today, though, I was nervous. I didn’t like the quiet. I was trying to think of anything to say so we wouldn’t have to be in it. I wished I could think of another fact.

  You see, I knew Grandad knew that I knew about what really happened with my dad, but neither of us was saying anything about it and I couldn’t relax. My mum told me she’d told him; she said there were going to be no more secrets, not anymore. To be honest, I’m still a bit mad with everyone for keeping such a big secret from me in the first place, but I know they did it to protect me. They didn’t want me to know that they blamed my dad for Uncle Jamie dying and that that was why they really hated him—not just ’cause he abandoned us—or to know that my dad was someone who got into fights and got drunk. I am disappointed a bit. He didn’t score well on Top Trumps for all that. But I still want to find him. I still need to meet him and know who he is; I still need to ask him in person why he never came back. It’s like Teagan said in the hospital: while I don’t know for sure, there’s still hope that he could be a good dad, whereas Teagan knows for sure that hers isn’t good. It feels really unfair. The thing I was worrying about now, though, was what Nan and Grandad were going to say about the fact that I was still going to look for him.

  “Now, you mustn’t worry about Grandad,” Mum had said to me, after Grandad had called to ask if I wanted to go fishing. “He probably does want to go fishing so he can talk to you, but he’s not angry with you—he understands why you need to find your dad, Zac. And he says he’ll deal with Nan; you’re not to worry.”

  But I was worrying. If Grandad wanted to talk to me (and we did usually have our best chats when we went fishing), then how come he was now telling me to be quiet? I couldn’t relax. And you need to relax for fishing. It’s a bit like a detective mission. You have to be patient, but you have to keep the faith. The minute you lose the faith that you’ll catch a fish, you won’t catch one—it’s like the fish can tell.

  It was as if the heron that comes to visit us all the time on this canal could tell too—that I didn’t like the silence—because he suddenly flew down and sat down opposite us. “Hello, Mr. Heron!” It stretched out its wings like a massive cloak. “What have you been up to today, then? Catching more fish than us, I reckon. Maybe you can give us some tips? Let us know where those fish are hiding. Mr. Heron! I’m talking to—”

  “Zac,” Grandad said suddenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “It is all right, you know.”

  “What is?” I said, my belly turning over because I’d worked it out.

  “Look, I can tell you’re worried, and there’s no need. I know you’re looking for your dad and I know you know I know, because your mum told me.”

  He looked at me and I smiled. But my heart was still banging really, really fast, because I didn’t know what he was thinking. Was he upset with me?

  “I … I just wanna meet him,” I said, when Grandad went back to looking at the water because I wasn’t saying anything. “It’s not because I think he’ll be better than you, or Mum and Nan—’cause you’ve always been like my dad, anyway, and you’ve always done dad stuff with me like watching football and stuff like this, like fishing. It’s not even because I don’t feel bad about my uncle Jamie, ’cause I do …”

  “Zac.” Grandad put the fishing rod down and leaned forward. “Seriously, Zac, you have to listen to me. What happened to Uncle Jamie that night and whatever your dad’s involvement in it was or wasn’t, it’s got nothing to do with you, do you hear me? Absolutely nothing.”

  There was a big flock of birds then. They were sticking together, moving across the sky, which was all fluffy and pink like marshmallows. We watched them as they did their show, as they changed patterns in the sky for us.

  “I know,” I said, “but I still feel bad ’cause Nan does blame my dad. You blame my dad. And so me going to look for him still feels bad or wrong … Like it’s going against you.” I was trying to talk quiet, so we didn’t scare the fish, but I was glad we were talking about it because I just needed to get it out.

  “Look, Zac,” Grandad said and Mr. Heron flew off then, like he knew we needed our privacy. “And don’t worry about scaring the fish or the birds, for that matter, this is really important. Do you remember that day we went fishing and we talked about how Uncle Jamie died?”

  “The day we caught the trout?”

  “Yes.” Grandad smiled. “That day we caught a trout. Do you remember how I told you that he’d died falling off a bridge?”

  “Yeah, but I know that’s not true now.”

  “It’s not, but what I said about it being an accident is. Do you remember that bit? I said it was a terrible accident but that you should never tell Nan I said that.”

  I was nodding. I did remember. “Because the truth is different for different people and she wouldn’t see it like that?”

  “Exactly,” said Grandad. “And that’s still the situation. But sometimes being so sad—as sad as your nan is—is too hard, and so you get angry instead. It was an accident and your dad didn’t behave as he should have that night, but he’s not a bad person, Zac, he really isn’t a bad person—he’s a very good one, I can tell you that for a fact.”

  It felt dead nice when he said that, but I was still confused.r />
  We sat in silence for a bit. It didn’t feel as awkward now we’d talked, and I could concentrate on the fishing, waiting for the pull on the rod, or the little bath-fart bubbles at the surface that would prove there were fish underneath, waiting to be caught. Then suddenly, there were the mad up-and-down voices of the birds again, like they were all having a scrap. Then, it was weird, but the birds stopped and it was silent again. I had one question I was dying to ask.

  “He still never came back, though, did he?” I said, but Grandad carried on looking at the water. “My dad,” I said, “he never came back.”

  When Grandad spoke then, it was just one big sigh. “No, Zac, he never came back.” And he was swallowing so hard, I could see his Adam’s apple going up and down. “But I can help you if you still want. I can help you find him. I’ve got some clue as to where he might be.”

  I couldn’t believe he was saying this to me. I thought he’d be angry, not help me!

  “But what about Nan?”

  “Leave Nan to me,” said Grandad. Then, “I do love you, you know. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, because I did. I knew it. Like I knew Mum loved me, and Nan, and maybe even Teagan.

  “I love you as well,” I said. It didn’t even feel that embarrassing.

  “Good,” said Grandad. “Good. At least we’re clear on that then.”

  We sat there till it was nearly dark and the sun was this massive red gobstopper that sank bit by bit into the canal. And that was when my grandad told me some of the stories of my dad’s life. That was when he gave me the clues that would crack my investigation.

  *

  • • •

  “WE CAUGHT A perch—this big!” I said, bursting into Nan and Grandad’s house after fishing, showing how big it was with my hands. I was in a good mood, because of the fish, but also because of what Grandad had told me—I couldn’t wait to tell Teagan. Everything felt exciting, and back on … But there was something wrong.

  Nan was sitting in the dark and Mum was there, which was weird, but she wasn’t sitting down on the settee having a cup of tea, like she normally would when she picked me up; she was standing there as if she’d been waiting for us.

  “I said we caught a perch and it was this big!” I said, again to the dark room. I just wanted everyone to be normal, to go, “Well done, Zac! How much did it weigh?” like they normally did. But they weren’t doing that, and they weren’t interested in my perch. They were just sitting, saying nothing, in the dark. It was too weird.

  Then Mum said, “Zac, darling, can you just pop upstairs for a bit while me, Nan, and Grandad have a chat?”

  Then Nan was giving mega evils to Grandad—it was horrible, I hated it—and Grandad swore under his breath and walked off into the kitchen and Nan shouted after him, “Er, no!” and got up from her chair, but Mum made her sit down again. “Don’t you dare, Michael, don’t you dare walk off.” I didn’t know what was happening, I just knew it felt horrible, like everyone hated each other. I could see Grandad in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the window, his hands on his head, looking out at the backyard, and you could see the moon, which had finally taken over the gobstopper sun. Then suddenly, like he’d decided on something, he just walked back into the front room, all determined. “Zac,” he said, “I think your mum’s right, I think you should go upstairs for a bit. Everything’s all right, we won’t be long.”

  “Well, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be here,” Nan said. “Where he can hear everything. Then he might hear it from my point of view and consider me, because let’s face it, nobody else seems to have done.”

  “Zac, upstairs now!” Mum shouted then, and I bolted. I went up those stairs two or three steps at a time, even though I’d had enough of everyone talking about things without me there, keeping things—important things, like about my dad—secret from me. “Please stop dragging him into it,” I heard her say as I went. “He’s ten years old.”

  I went into my room and shut the door. It used to be my mum’s room, but when I stay over at Nan and Grandad’s it’s mine—Nan just puts on my Manchester United duvet cover. I stood with my ear to the door. I didn’t want to listen, but I couldn’t help it. It was like the feeling when you know you shouldn’t eat another bag of crisps but you do, then you end up feeling sick. I could hear everything.

  Nan: “How could you? Just tell me that? How could you—both of you?”

  Mum: “But, Mum, however did you think we could have gone on like that for the rest of our lives? Keeping all that from him?” (I knew she meant me.) “We couldn’t. It was going to come out sometime.”

  Nan: “That does not mean you have to go looking for him! It’s like you’re doing it deliberately to upset me.”

  Oh my God, she knows about the Find Dad mission, I thought. How does she know?!

  Grandad: “Lynda, please—oh fuck.” (Grandad said the F-word! It was unbelievable.) “We need to talk. I can explain.”

  (Big silence then.)

  Nan: “What do you mean, ‘I can explain’?” (Another big silence.) “Jesus Christ, Michael, don’t tell me you’re helping look for him too?”

  I turned around with my back to the door. The man in the moon was there, hanging outside my bedroom window with his sad, kind face again. It was like it had come especially, so I wasn’t on my own.

  Nan (again): “How do you think I will ever be able to look at his face and not see Jamie’s, eh? Answer me that. How will we ever be able to welcome him back into the family, spend Christmases with him and have him come into our home, the home where my son is not because of him! Don’t you think I’ve been through enough? That I’ve suffered enough?”

  Grandad: “Lynda, please. Stop. You have to stop putting all the blame on Liam.”

  Nan: “Why should I? Why would I? All I know is that you drove two young men to the pub that night, both sober, both very much alive—and only one survived. And it wasn’t my son. I don’t have my son. I miss him so much …”

  I could hear nothing but Nan crying then; it was awful. Then there were footsteps stomping up the stairs and Mum flung open the door before I had a chance to move, so I went flying.

  “Oh God, Zac, you didn’t hear all that, did you?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Anyway, we’re going,” she said. “Come on, we’re going home.”

  I already had an idea for what I was going to do next.

  35

  Juliet

  Nothing compares to the heart-stopping moment you realize your child is missing. They say everything slows down, but I would argue it speeds up—your heart, your fear, your love, the whole point of your life. It all collides then combusts within you in that split second. A siren goes off.

  The morning after Mum’s announcement that she knew about the Find Dad mission (Uncle Paul told her Zac had been down the docks asking after Liam, and that he’d seen me there too; and Mum, knowing I’d started to tell Zac stuff about his dad, had put two and two together), I go into Zac’s room to find he isn’t in his bed. The bed is made, as if he’s never even slept in it. There’s no sign of a rush to get dressed, no window open (I discover later this is because he simply slipped out the front door when I was asleep—so much for security).

  I stand in his empty room, which is red and warm as a heart due to the sun blaring through his closed Manchester United curtains, with my own heart firing bullets in my chest. Last night, he was so upset: upset about the possibility that he’d hurt his nan; distraught that news of his mission—the mission he’d started—had devastated her. But he still felt he had to carry on with it, that was the thing. Ten years old and feeling that torn inside? I know, as his mum, that it’s a recipe for disaster for a kid like Zac, whose conscience belies his years; he can be emotional and impulsive. There’s no telling where he might be or what he might have done.

  I get dressed quickly and go over to Teagan’s—if anyone will know where he is, she will. It’s a beautiful day:
clear blue sky, sun winking across the tops of the high-rises, as if mocking me and my panic. We’re almost in mid May now—three weeks from the anniversary of Jamie’s death—and it strikes me: is this the precursor to another life-altering trauma?

  I hurry across the estate toward Teagan’s block, feeling sweat prickling between my shoulder blades, and see a woman running toward me. At first I think it can’t be her, because she never leaves the house. But as she comes closer, I realize from the greasy hair and strange gait that it is unmistakably Nicky, Teagan’s mum. She’s already hysterical, as if running from a natural disaster.

  “Juliet! She’s not in her bed! Oh God, oh Jesus …”

  She falls into my arms; she reeks of fried food and sadness and cigarettes. I hug her. “It’s all right, Nicky. Zac’s not in his bed either, so they’re bound to be together. I’m sure they’re fine. They’ll have just gone on some little adventure.” I keep my tone light, try to be positive despite my own panic. She needs it more than me, that much is clear. If I were drunk, she would have sobered me up by now.

  “What if she hasn’t got her inhalers with her? She’s not that well at the moment. She could die, Juliet, she could die. My baby! Oh God …” She sobs onto my shoulder.

  “They’ll be together, Nicky, looking after each other. Honest, don’t worry. They won’t have gone very far.”

  I take Nicky back to hers and make her a cup of tea—she’s no use to anyone in this state. Then I check Teagan has taken her inhalers (she has), beg Nicky not to call the police (not yet), and phone my parents.