What Milo Saw

by Virginia MacGregor

  Milo’s eyes darted from Mum to Tripi to the pink house to the police car. He had to get Mum out of here or she’d find out that Tripi was squatting in Big Mike’s house.

  ‘Tripi, are you okay?’ Mum asked. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

  Tripi was staring at the police car.

  ‘I think I have forgotten something in the kitchen at the nursing home,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me.’

  Milo wished he could tell him that it was going to be okay, that he hadn’t done anything wrong, or nothing that they couldn’t explain anyway, but he’d made a promise to keep Tripi’s secret.

  ‘See you tomorrow!’ Milo called after Tripi.

  Through the pinhole, Milo watched his friend running away into the dark December night.

  50

  LOU

  ‘What on earth!’ Nurse Thornhill strode across the room and tore open the curtains.

  Lou’s eyes strained against the morning light.

  Hamlet chewed on the piece of paper from her pad. Marry Me. Lou covered him with the blanket.

  ‘I knew that you two couldn’t be trusted.’

  Lou turned her head. Petros snored on the pillow beside her, fully dressed, the sheet taut over his belly.

  ‘Mr Spiteri, wake up!’

  Did she need to shout?

  ‘Mr Spiteri!’

  Petros’s arm twitched. He rolled over and kept snoring.

  Lou tucked the blanket tighter over Hamlet’s body and prayed he wouldn’t move or squeal and that Petros wouldn’t wake up suddenly and disturb him.

  ‘This is not a holiday camp.’

  Lou tried to lift her legs over the side of the bed but they wouldn’t move.

  ‘Mrs Moon, I am waiting for an explanation.’

  Lou gave up on her legs and looked up at Nurse Thornhill. She couldn’t help but laugh inside: a ninety-two-year-old woman caught in bed with an old man and a pig.

  Nurse Thornhill sucked her teeth. ‘Oh, of course, I forgot – her ladyship doesn’t speak.’

  She walked round the bed and ripped the blanket off Petros’s body.

  Petros tugged it back in his sleep.

  Nurse Thornhill tugged harder.

  Hamlet spat out Lou’s marriage proposal, bounced onto his feet and ran around the bed squealing.

  ‘What in heaven’s name!’ Nurse Thornhill leant over the bed and stared at Hamlet.

  Petros rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Heidi!’ Nurse Thornhill shouted through the open door.

  A few moments later, Nurse Heidi ran in.

  ‘What is it? Is something wrong with Mrs Moon?’

  Lou smiled at the young girl.

  ‘Yes, something is wrong with Mrs Moon. And with Mr Spiteri. And with this animal they’ve let into the room.’

  ‘An animal?’ Nurse Heidi’s eyes fell on the bed. ‘Oh, the piglet.’

  ‘“Oh, the piglet”? You knew about this?’ asked Nurse Thornhill. ‘Something else you wanted the inspectors to see?’

  ‘No, I just —’ Nurse Heidi looked from Hamlet to Lou to Petros.

  As Lou watched Petros sit up, she had to hold herself back from reaching out and passing her hand through the grey strands of hair sticking up at odd angles around his head.

  Petros rubbed Hamlet’s head. ‘I told Nurse Heidi that Mrs Moon’s grandson had a pig. We showed her a picture, that is why she recognises him.’

  Hamlet grunted.

  ‘Take him out. Now.’ Nurse Thornhill clasped her forehead. ‘If the inspectors had seen this… goodness knows…’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Mrs Moseley stood at the door in her nightdress. She pressed PLAY on her tape recorder and held it to her ear. ‘Makes him feel close,’ she said. ‘Dear Roland.’ Her brown cheeks shone.

  ‘Turn that thing down and go back to your room, Mrs Moseley,’ said Nurse Thornhill.

  Lou heard Mrs Moseley scuttle away – in the opposite direction to her room.

  ‘I thought I could trust you, Mr Spiteri.’ Nurse Thornhill paused. ‘We have an understanding. Come to my office, please.’

  Nurse Heidi lifted Hamlet off the bed. ‘He’s heavier than he looks, isn’t he?’ She carried him to the door. Lou stretched out her hand towards Hamlet.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Moon, I’ll make sure he’s okay.’ Nurse Heidi smiled.

  ‘Stop being sentimental, Heidi. Pigs are dirty farm animals, just get rid of it.’

  Petros was on his feet now. He walked to the door, his knees creakier than ever from his long sleep on a narrow bed. ‘Please, Nurse Thornhill, the pig belongs to Milo, he is Milo’s special pig. He is very clever and he is clean, cleaner than we are. You cannot take him away, Milo will never forgive me, or Louisa.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. Nurse Heidi, go!’

  At that moment, Hamlet wriggled out of Heidi’s arms, dropped on the floor snout first and squealed. The four of them watched him dash down the corridor, ears back, corkscrew tail lifted to the ceiling.

  ‘After him, Heidi.’

  ‘Ooh, a pig!’ Mrs Swift called out from the corridor.

  Maybe she’ll do his make-up, thought Lou.

  Nurse Heidi dashed out of the room.

  Nurse Thornhill’s face went grey as a tombstone.

  Petros pushed past her and made his way down the corridor after Heidi and Hamlet.

  ‘Mr Spiteri, come back here!’ said Nurse Thornhill.

  Petros turned round and walked back to Lou’s room.

  ‘Remember our arrangement, Mr Spiteri?’

  His broad shoulders sank.

  Lou didn’t like all this talk of arrangements and special understandings. Her head ached. So tired. Slipping… slipping again… What was she doing here? And where was Milo? Why wasn’t he here yet?

  ‘You haven’t forgotten, have you, Mr Spiteri?’ Nurse Thornhill asked Petros. ‘That you owe a special debt to Forget Me Not? To me?’

  Petros nodded.

  And then it came back to Lou. Petros’s lips in the night, her proposal.

  She propped herself up in bed and cleared her throat.

  Petros and Nurse Thornhill turned to look at her.

  Lou coughed again and asked: ‘What debt?’

  The room fell silent.

  Had she really spoken? Had the words actually come out?

  ‘Did you say something, Mrs Moon?’

  ‘Louisa…?’ Petros reached out for her.

  Lou sat up straighter, rested her fingers on her throat and tried again.

  ‘What debt?’ Her voice like a stranger’s.

  Nurse Thornhill brushed down her uniform. ‘So you’ve found your voice again, Mrs Moon? Well, I’m afraid this is none of your business.’

  Words pushed up Lou’s throat, aching to get out.

  Lou had thought that maybe her voice would never come back, like an engine left to go cold, but here it was, waiting in her mouth, ready to carry her words.

  Sixty-three years of silence, banished in a moment.

  She gripped her throat and spoke again. ‘T-there is every reason for m-me to get involved. P-Petros and I are getting m-married.’

  ‘Gran?’

  Milo stood at the door, his eyes wide and bloodshot like that night a year ago when he’d found his father in the shed; the night his eyes let him down and he fell off his bike into the path of an oncoming truck.

  If the driver hadn’t looked up, seen Milo intrigued by the whistling and reached for the brake, …

  If he hadn’t swerved onto the pavement at just the right time.

  51

  MILO

  Milo had met the old ladies standing in the corridor in their nightdresses. Mrs Moseley had whispered in his ear: They’ve gone and done it now… naughty children… And then they’d followed him to Gran’s room.

  Mrs Moseley led the way, propping up Mrs Zimmer who’d just woken up, followed by Mrs Sharp Mrs Swift Mrs Foxton Mrs Turner Mrs Wong.

  When they heard Gran speak, they started clapping.
<
br />   Mrs Moseley turned up the volume on her tape player and Bob Marley’s dreadlocky voice filled the room.

  ‘I’ll do your make-up for the wedding,’ said Mrs Swift.

  ‘My Roland can come and play with his band,’ said Mrs Moseley.

  Milo left them behind and walked to the wardrobe. He stared at Gran’s empty shoes.

  ‘Where’s Hamlet?’

  He didn’t care about anything any more. What was the point in trying to get Gran back home when all she wanted was to marry that stupid Greek guy and stay in this crummy nursing home? He was even angry at Clouds for having made him believe he could be an undercover reporter and actually make things better. It was all hopeless. From now on, he was going to let the grown-ups sort out their own mess.

  He’d take Hamlet home, close his bedroom door and not let anyone in. And he’d refuse to go to school or to do anything any adult told him to do ever again.

  Kneeling down, Milo looked under the bed. He made his eyes zoom in and out and shifted his head an inch at a time so he didn’t miss a bit. The duskiness made it difficult to see but he knew that if Hamlet was under there, he’d hear his pink snuffling.

  ‘Milo…’ Gran’s fingers fluttered on his back. She’d pulled herself out of bed. ‘Hamlet wouldn’t fit under there, not any more.’ Her voice sounded rough and croaky like she’d been smoking one of Mrs Harris’s cigarettes.

  He didn’t want Gran to talk, he wanted things back to how they were before: Gran with her pad and her pen and her funny pictures. He wanted to be the one who looked after her.

  Milo pulled away from Gran’s hand and stood up.

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  Mum came into the room. She’d been taking Milo to school this morning, the first time in ages. They set off early so they could stop by Forget Me Not. She wanted to come in and check whether everything Tripi and Milo had said was true.

  And so Mum had heard everything too. Gran speaking for the first time – and Gran saying she was going to marry Petros.

  Everyone had heard it.

  ‘If what you’re referring to is that filthy pig…’ Nurse Thornhill stood in the doorway.

  Petros stepped forward. ‘He is with Nurse Heidi. She is giving him a wash.’ He rubbed under his armpits and grinned.

  Nurse Thornhill looked at Petros and shook her head.

  ‘He doesn’t need to be washed,’ said Milo.

  ‘Well, Heidi thought he’d like a bath, a bit of special treatment.’

  Why was Petros getting involved? And what did he know about Hamlet? Only a few days ago, he’d implied all Hamlet was good for was salami.

  Nurse Heidi ran in, her cheeks flushed. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing through Mrs Moseley Mrs Zimmer Mrs Sharp Mrs Swift Mrs Foxton Mrs Turner Mrs Wong. ‘I can’t find him.’

  Milo saw Petros put his finger to his lips but Nurse Heidi didn’t notice.

  ‘I ran after him down the corridors and round the lounge and then out towards reception – and then he disappeared.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him disappear,’ said Mrs Swift. ‘Fast as an arrow, that pig.’

  ‘What do you mean, he disappeared?’ asked Nurse Thornhill.

  ‘Why were you running after Hamlet?’ asked Milo.

  ‘Well, Nurse Thornhill asked me to take him away —’

  The room went quiet.

  ‘So, you weren’t giving him a bath, then?’ asked Milo.

  Gran sat down in her armchair and rubbed her brow. Petros came and stood beside her and touched her shoulder.

  ‘A bath?’ Nurse Heidi looked from Nurse Thornhill to Milo.

  Milo pushed past Nurse Thornhill and Mum and all the old ladies and walked straight down the corridor and out through the front door.

  Although it was Tuesday morning, the high street buzzed with Christmas shoppers. They were all laughing at him: the mums buying last minute presents; the sellers on the market stalls shouting out two for one offers on crackers and cards; toddlers in Santa Claus hats with chocolate smeared round their mouths.

  And then it got worse.

  Milo walked past the front window of Bill the Butcher’s. Pieces of paper tacked to the window. Closing Down Sale. Everything Must Go. And then a hand-drawn poster with a big lump in the middle: A Ham for Christmas! Milo looked down at the pink shiny bits of meat in the window display. Rashers of bacon and fat, pale sausages and big lumps of gammon.

  He hated Christmas.

  Milo focused his eyes down the street. Where would Hamlet have gone? Would he have managed the steps outside the front of Forget Me Not? Would someone in the street have picked him up and taken him home? Mum said that teacup pigs were expensive and that Dad shouldn’t have wasted so much money on a pet. Maybe someone had stolen him and was going to try and sell him.

  Milo stopped at the RSPCA shop. In the window was a picture of a Labrador puppy, so thin his bones poked out of his chest, sore patches on his back, his eyes two shining black pools.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen him,’ said Mrs RSPCA. Milo had never found out the name of the woman who sat behind the till. ‘But I’ll keep an eye out. Why don’t you make some posters and put them around Slipton? I could put one in the window for you.’

  Mrs RSPCA was the only one who understood how important Hamlet was. And she was right – if he didn’t turn up in the next hour, Milo would make some posters. He’d think of a reward. He still had the bike Dad gave him last Christmas sitting in the garage going rusty, it wasn’t like he was ever going to be able to ride it again, so he could sell that. He could photocopy the posters at Mr Gupta’s, like he’d done with Ayishah’s picture. Ayishah. For the first time Milo realised how sad Tripi must be. Last summer, he had looked for Ayishah for weeks and she was somewhere dangerous, much more dangerous than Slipton was for Hamlet.

  He screwed shut his eyes. Hamlet? Where are you?

  When Milo talked to Hamlet in his head he could tell Hamlet understood because he stopped snuffling and the shape of his eyes changed. Gran talked to him too. But they’d never tried it when Hamlet wasn’t in the same room.

  Wherever you are, Hamlet, stay away from Bill the Butcher’s. And if someone tries to grab you, run away.

  Milo didn’t know where to go next. Without Hamlet or Gran, home wasn’t home any more.

  He walked past the pink house and saw Big Mike standing at the kitchen window smiling out onto the street. He must have found a way to get Lalana to come home with him.

  And then Milo thought of Tripi and how he’d lost his home too.

  That’s what he’d do, find Tripi, the one person he could still trust.

  Milo turned off the high street and walked along the canal. He crawled under the bench to see whether Tripi’s things were there, but then he realised that they’d probably still be in Big Mike’s house. Maybe they’d even been taken away for inspection by the police. So that meant Tripi must have spent the night without a sleeping bag and without his things. And what about Ayishah’s red backpack? Tripi would flip if he didn’t have that.

  When he couldn’t find him at the canal, Milo went to the park where he’d first seen Tripi doing his prayers on the grass. But he wasn’t there either.

  Then he had an idea.

  He went to one of the old payphones on the high street. It smelt of beer and wee and stale smoke. After slotting in 50p, he dialled his own mobile number. Tripi had answered it when Dad called, maybe he’d answer it again.

  Milo counted each ring tone. If Tripi didn’t pick up within the next two rings, the messaging service would kick in.

  ‘Hello?’

  Tripi sounded miles away.

  ‘Tripi, it’s me, Milo. Where are you?’

  In the background, Milo heard traffic whooshing past. Horns beeping. The clatter of a lorry.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ said Milo.

  ‘I’m sorry I took your phone.’

  ‘What? I don’t care about the phone.’

  ‘I didn’t kn
ow where to leave it.’

  ‘Where you are? I have to speak to you.’