He sounded guarded if not wary. "How's the situation?" David said.
"David." This might have been the answer until his father said "I'm glad it's you."
"I'd have called sooner but I didn't want to disturb you, either of you. I thought you would have called me if there was a reason."
"I understand, You needn't blame yourself. I'm happy to hear from you now."
"It's the least I could do." None of this brought David any closer to the news he was anxious to hear. "So," he made himself say, "the situation. Has it changed at all?"
"It has, David."
David swallowed, but his mouth stayed dry. "For the better, I hope."
"You might like to think so."
"I'd more than like." David sat forward to brace himself for whatever he was about to hear, and between his elbows on the polished table an embryonic version of his face loomed up at him. "Just to be certain," he said, "we're talking about Payne."
"There's been plenty of that for Susan."
Perhaps this was the best joke his father could manage just now, or could it be a misunderstanding? "Luther Payne," David said.
"That's the name of the reason."
"I'm sorry," David said despite having yet to learn what he might be responsible for.
"You're not alone."
"And mother isn't when you're there," David said in a bid to render the phrase less ominous. "So how are you saying the situation has changed?"
"Mr Payne has. I don't know if I'd say it was any improvement."
"Just as long as it is for my mother."
"That's what I'm doubting. She's no better for it. In fact I'm not sure she won't end up even worse."
"It won't last, will it?" David's surge of guilt was close to panic, "You'll help her get over it," he pleaded, "and we can."
"I don't see how." With a hint of exasperation that David didn't understand his father said "What are we talking about?"
"Whatever's happened to Payne."
"Nothing's happened to him."
David's mouth was parched again, but it was too soon to know why. "I thought you said he'd changed."
"He's done that all right. He's more insistent than ever."
David managed to restrain himself before too many words escaped. "But how..."
"He's taken to calling her in the daytime. He didn't call last night, but of course she didn't know he mightn't, and so she got no sleep to speak of. And there's no guarantee he won't revert to calling at all hours. Between ourselves, David, she's so exhausted that I'm worried she'll have an accident while she's driving."
David felt as if one brand of guilt had made space for a worse one—the sense of having failed his mother. Beyond that he was too confused to think, which was why he said "At least you're answering the phone now."
"It's her mobile he calls, but she'd probably have answered this one as well, except she fell asleep in her chair not five minutes ago."
"Let her sleep, then." David was so distracted he lowered his voice. "Will you let me know if anything changes?" he said. "I know we don't pray, but if we did I would."
"I'm afraid it doesn't work," his father said, adding a sound too short to incorporate mirth. "I've been giving it a try myself."
David said goodbye along with an attempt at optimism, and then he stared at the phone lying inert on the rudimentary image of his face, covering its indistinct mouth. How could his wish on his mother's behalf not have worked? If it was taking its time, why should that be? The delay was bringing back his doubts—if he'd been right to make the wish and how it could be carried out, not just the method but whether he could honestly believe anything of the kind would take place. Might the hindrance be that he'd never met Payne? After all, he'd encountered most of the people he was afraid to bring to mind. He was wondering if he could somehow contrive to meet his mother's tormentor—he was disturbed to find himself trying to think of a way—when Stephanie came into the room. "I've finished if you want to read it," she said. "How's everyone? Oh dear, as bad as that?"
"One of her cases is ruining her sleep. Not just her sleep, by the sound of it her life. I wouldn't usually wish anyone dead, but—"
"Don't say that, David, I know you don't mean it, but don't say it either."
David had been on the brink of the admission he was both desperate and afraid to make. "Don't be so sure I didn't mean it, Steph."
"Then I'd rather not hear if you don't mind. I've had enough death for a while."
"I'm sorry. I should have realised I was reminding you of Mick."
"Not just him."
David's throat seemed to shrink, and his voice came out pinched. "Who else?"
"Well, I didn't actually see." As he groped to clasp her hand if not grip it Stephanie said "It wasn't long after you went out this morning. I was in the shower when I heard something happen on the road, and when I looked the traffic was backed up all along it. I should have known it couldn't really have been you, but I didn't even think to phone." Her wince made him relax his grasp on her hand before she said "I went down and someone told me it was a skater. He must have been one at the boys we see in the park. The lady who saw it said he lost control somehow and went straight in front of a bus."
TWENTY-THREE
I can see him between the words. He's behind the counter, next to the girl whose small face looks scrubbed raw or at any rate too pink and the woman who keeps tilting her head as if she's tipping her chatter out of the bin of her mind. Beside her is the character who might be after a clown's job, given the grin that he can't seem to keep off his face. Beyond all of them is the woman with a big face squeezed to a point at the chin. She's behind a window that her customers have to stoop to speak through, which makes me think of visiting a prison or going to confession, not that I'll ever do either. When our hero stops clacking his keyboard and the door to the staff quarters shuts behind him I go into the shop.
Nobody notices me at the racks of holiday brochures. I don't know when I fell into the habit of trying to be unobtrusive, even though nobody sees me unless I want them to. I leaf through a brochure full of slim young items as glossy as the pages, posed on beaches or in front of mountains or by swimming pools as if they're waiting for a guide to help them get acquainted with the locations—to kick them into the water and shove their heads all the way down to the tiles, or drag their artificially enthusiastic faces and their throats over the sharpest rocks, or grind their mouths and noses into the sand for as long as they continue to twitch; a foot on the back of each head ought to do the trick. All this is lending me some energy, but the man who's left at the counter reminds me I'm here to observe. "Are you letting us into the secret yet?" he says.
He sounds as if he's leaving himself the option to pass this off as a joke. The woman at the money desk responds with a cough like the yip of the kind of little dog you'd like to trample on and snap its back. "I didn't know we had any secrets here."
"Who's going, I meant." More than ever like a joke if it needs to be one, Smirkmug says "Or did he just go?"
"You mustn't say that," young Blushpuss protests but adds a giggle like her simper rendered audible, not to say even more insufferable. "You wouldn't want him hearing."
"Nobody's listening but us," Cockhead says and cants her cranium. "We ought to talk while we can."
"Speak up, then," Yaphack says through the money window. "What would anybody like me to take into consideration?"
Apparently none of them is eager to go first. I'm about to answer, though nobody would hear, when Blushpuss risks asking "What would you like us to say?"
"I don't want anyone to think I'm unsympathetic to your preferences. The rest of us will have to work together, so I think it would be only fair if you all tell me who you'd choose to go."
"We're having a vote on it, you mean?" says Smirkmug.
"You may see it that way if you wish."
"Then there's someone we aren't giving one," Smirkmug points out, though he hasn't stopped sounding amused.
"Of course he'll have it if he needs it. Perhaps he won't when he comes back."
I don't know if the silence means they're grasping Yaphack's implication or reluctant to commit themselves, and she sharpens her voice with a cough. "Has nobody anything to contribute?"
"Maybe he's got enough trouble in his life just now," Smirkmug says.
"May I ask what you're saying is trouble?"
"Mightn't his girlfriend be out of a job?" Presumably Smirkmug sees it's not enough just to let Yaphack know he wasn't talking about her, because he's in a hurry to add "He'll be worried and that's why he wasn't much use with your food idea."
"That's right, he was no use. Any other thoughts for me?"
As I wonder how many of them realise Smirkmug was simply pretending not to make our hero's chances worse, Cockhead says "Do you think she's why he's being argumentative?"
"With whom?"
"With you." In case ingratiating herself with Yaphack doesn't secure her job Cockhead says "And with people in the street when he was meant to be giving out your offers. You don't want him talking to customers like that."
Yaphack nods as if someone's yanked her chin down and then stares at Blushpuss. "We haven't heard from you yet."
"You don't mind working with him, do you?" Having let Yaphack take this how she likes, Blushpuss affects to find an issue too small to make a difference. "He hasn't put up any photos yet," she says. "He'll have a lot on his mind."
"He's not the only one, but some of us don't let it affect our work. Anything else any of you want me to take into account?"
Has Yaphack decided it's her choice after all, or does she want them to believe it wasn't theirs? "I think we've said enough," says Smirkmug.
"Is there anybody else I need to hear from?" When there's silence apart from a trumpet fumbling for a tune down the hill Yaphack says "Then that's settled, is it?"
"We don't have to vote," Smirkmug pretends to ask.
"I don’t want to," Blushpuss says not at all as though she isn't voting, but can't stop her face from turning pinker.
"I'd miss either of you two," Cockhead makes sure Yaphack hears as well, "if someone has to move on."
"That's mutual, ladies," Smirkmug says and puts on a show of including Yaphack.
"You know I would, both of you." Blushpuss doesn't pause too long before adding "But I'd miss him too."
She doesn't know I saw her glance at Yaphack first to check that her opinion comes too late to make a difference. Perhaps she even thinks she's innocent; I'm sure she would insist she was. She'd be more than surprised if I grabbed her by the hair and knocked out her teeth on the edge of the counter. That would see off her artificial smile and bring some more red to her face, and mightn't her colleagues think she was doing it to herself? It amuses me to conjure up the frantic antics she'd perform, but I don't suppose I should risk drawing the attention of an audience. I stay by the racks, where t imagine the staff may have the vague impression of a customer they don't need to acknowledge. "Somebody's going to have to be missed," Yaphack says. "Please keep all this to yourselves. I'll need to speak to head office before I make the announcement."
Suppose I make it when our hero reappears? How would that work? For a moment that feels like losing all my substance I'm confused almost beyond words. What would happen if I wait for him to come out of the staffroom—if I try to speak to him? The prospect seems to paralyse me, and I feel in danger of growing no more perceptible to myself than I am to the hypocrites lined up behind the counter like targets in a fairground. Loathing them lets me feel present again, but I'm at a loss where to go until I see someone heading for the shop. I ought to know him.
TWENTY-FOUR
As he makes to open the door I put a name to him. He's about to cross the threshold when I block his way, and he steps back. "Look where you're going, chum," he says with no chumminess at all.
"I am."
"I want to get in there," he complains and then pokes his large sharp face at me like an animal peering out of its lair. "Hang on, though. You're not—"
"What aren't I? Or are you saying who?"
"For a second there I thought you were someone else."
I've shut the door and am standing with my back to it. "You mean somebody who works here."
"That's him," he says and peers harder at me. "You're not related, are you?"
"You could say that."
"Thought so." He shoves a hand out so abruptly that I can't tell whether he's offering a handshake or trying to clear me out of his way. "Met him at All Write," he says. "Maybe you've heard about me."
"All your fame has preceded you, definitely."
"Anyway, I'm here for him," he says, nodding at the door like a threat to butt me if I don't move.
"And me. He's not available just now."
Scrawlrat squints between two of the posters on the window. "How do you mean, not available?"
"Not here. I don't see him, do you?"
He doesn't, but I can't tell how much longer this will last, and I wonder what the staff inside are seeing through the window—just the customer they've lost? If he looks as if he's talking to himself, presumably they'll assume he's on a phone, unless they have a vague sense of a companion with him, too generalised an impression to deserve a second glance. Everybody is too brainless to notice more than that, and their stupidity is multiplied when they're a crowd, like the one that's all around us. "Anything I can pass on?" I say to Scrawlrat.
"Don't say that, chum, if you don't mind."
"Forgive me," I say without remotely meaning it, "what's the problem?"
"My old nan used to talk about passing on and she hasn't long done it herself."
"I expect you'll be visiting her soon, will you? I can see you must feel close." I arrange a sympathetic expression on my face, mostly to hide my amusement. "How would you like me to put it, then?" I say. "You give me the words. You're the writer."
"Give us a hint what you're on about, chum."
For somebody who calls himself a writer he seems to have too much trouble with language. "I'm asking what message you'd like me to pass on to him."
Have I antagonised Scrawlrat by using the phrase he was whining about? I'm preparing to feign remorse—it amuses me to try—when he says "Tell him I warned him."
"I didn't catch you."
When I gesture at the trumpeter, who may fancy his racket is jazz, Scrawlrat trudges grudgingly uphill. He can't be seen by anybody in the shop now. "I said," he complains, "I warned him."
"I should know what about, should I?"
"He told us a title he'd thought up when he came to All Write. I said he should watch out nobody stole it, and somebody did."
"You don't think it could have been him all the time."
"I can't believe he'd be the kind to write that stuff. There's some things you shouldn't ever say."
"That doesn't sound like a writer." Before Scrawlrat has time to feel insulted I say "So is that your message?"
"I came to tell him it's got worse, the blog. I've been keeping an eye on it since I told him."
"And what do you think you've been seeing?"
Scrawlrat stares at me. I'd be delighted to learn he's figured out more than I thought, but he says "It's got no ideas of its own for a start. It just pinches from the news."
"Originality's the name of the game, is it?"
"I don't like anyone that steals ideas. They're all we've got, us writers. They're our lives."
"You want to do away with whatever you dislike, do you? I know how you feel." I give him a look innocent enough for Blushpuss as I say "You couldn't be mistaken about the blog."
"How am I going to be that?"
"If it was there first."
I'd enjoy provoking his suspicions, but he only says "Tell you what, chum, you've got a weird mind."
"Aren't writers meant to have those?"
"Not that weird. You'd know what I mean if you saw the blog."
"By all means show me wh
at's on your mind."
No doubt he takes my smile to underline the invitation, though in fact I'm fancying how it might feel to scoop out the contents of his skull through whichever orifice I could find or make. "My phone's at home charging," he complains. "Got yours?"
"I've never needed one. I'm electronic enough. You can show me on a computer."
"That's at home as well."
Scrawlrat's stare looks like the end of his words, but I say "Don't you think I should see what you want me to tell him about?"
The stare seems to begrudge Scrawlrat's answer. "You'd have to walk."
"I've learned to do that pretty well, you'll find."
"Funny with it, eh?" Scrawlrat says but doesn't laugh, and trudges uphill without looking back.
I could let him wonder where I've gone and surprise him with my reappearance, except there are questions I'd like to pursue. Once I'm alongside him he glances sideways as if at first he's not entirely certain what he's seeing. "So what do you think ought to be done?" I ask him.
"How do you mean, chum?"
"I'm asking what you think he ought to do."
Scrawlrat turns right opposite a church that has doffed its roof to God—it's as grey and empty as the sky—and heads towards Chinatown. "He'd better let folk know he's not mixed up with that thing online."
"How do you suggest he does that?"
"Come and tell them at All Write. They're the ones that heard his title."
"You aren't capable of telling them on his behalf."
"Len says we should all have our own voice. What's up with your brother? Can't he talk for himself?"
For a moment I can't talk either, and I don't know why. It's too soon to do without words; there's more I mean to learn. "What are you saying he ought to deny?"
"All that stuff on the blog. It even went on about Mick Magee last week."
"Should I know the name?"
"Mick Magee." When repeating it brings him no acknowledgement Scrawlrat says "Don't you know your footie?"
"I'm interested in other games."
"Not much of a Scouser if you don't care about football." This seems to be the worst he can say about me. "He died the other night and that blog made out he suffered even more than he would have," he says in the same offended tone. "You'd think whoever it is had some sort of grudge."
Think Yourself Lucky Page 15