The Carbon Diaries 2015

by Saci Lloyd

  “Let’s not rush in too fast. It could all be a coincidence. Did you really believe Tracey when she said she hadn’t seen Kim?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe . . .” I started to lose it. “It’s just . . . so . . . hard. I feel like I’m the only normal one left—and I’m only just holding it together. Arthur, I really messed my exams up, but I can’t tell anyone. I’m trying to sort it out, but I’m so scared.”

  He gave me a long, slow look. “Don’t be scared.”

  “But I am—”

  “Enough now, Laura. Enough. I’m going to help you. We give it one more day and then we’ll have to go to the police. This is too big for us to deal with. Agreed?”

  I nodded.

  Thurs., Oct. 15

  Kim’s back! She sneaked into my room dead early this morning.

  “Jesus, where’ve you been?” I cried. “I’ve been so scared! Been calling and calling . . .”

  She sat down heavily on the bed. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just I saw that carbon policewoman coming out of Tracey’s door last week and I . . . panicked. I just ran out the house, didn’t even take my cell with me.”

  “But where’ve you been?”

  “Down at the Leopard. Always wanted to sleep at the pub.” She laughed, but it was pretty fake.

  “Kim, are you all right? She hasn’t hurt . . .”

  “Who? Trace? Nah.”

  “I went around there to see her.”

  Kim turned to me in amazement. “What? You went to the Leaders’ house?”

  “I didn’t know where you were—and I didn’t want to tell Dad. I promised you not to . . .”

  She grabbed my hand and held it to her cheek. “Oh, Laur—I’m so sorry . . .” Hot tears spilled onto my palm. “I’m not giving in. I’ve found something I wanna do—and I can’t let her . . . Even if it means I’ve got to stay down in Soho.” She squeezed my hand tight. “I’m so scared, but please let me just ride it out a bit longer?”

  I think I’ve just got my sister back, after 2 years. And all because of Tracey Leader. Unbelievable.

  Arthur tapped on his living-room window when I went past.

  “She’s back. It’s all right!” I whispered.

  “Excellent! But now for the second stage,” he hissed, swishing back a corner of net curtain. “What’s the homework for this week?”

  I sighed. “I’ve got to do a report on the Carbon Vote.”

  “When by?”

  “Monday.”

  “Come first thing Saturday and we’ll do it together.”

  “Arthur, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Toodle-pip!” He disappeared behind the net like some old posh spy out of James Bond.

  Fri., Oct. 16

  Voting begins tomorrow all over Europe at 6 A.M. for 2 whole days. The polls predict it will be 47% Yes to Rationing.

  Sat., Oct. 17

  I went around to Arthur’s to watch. Millions of people are lining up for hours at the centers. But by the end of the day they’re saying the No votes are ahead by 5%.

  “But they’ve got to vote yes!” I shouted. “People can’t be that stupid.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Yes, they can.”

  I sloshed home thru the soaking garden in a dead bad mood. I can’t remember a day without rain.

  Where’s Adi gone? So weird.

  Sun., Oct. 18

  When the polls closed at 10 tonight, the Yes and No votes were equal. Each side thinks they’ve won. Won’t know till 5 A.M. tomorrow.

  Mon., Oct. 19

  Dad shook me awake. “Laura, we’ve won! By 2 percent. Europe’s going on rations!”

  God, it feels so good not to be freaks anymore.

  Tues., Oct. 20

  They tried to do these big celebrations across France, Germany, Holland, and Belgium, but no one turned up. It’s like celebrating poking yourself in the eye. My card’s totally scaring me, another block’s just gone. I’ve only got 2 left for the whole year.

  Thurs., Oct. 22

  Ravi knocked on my door.

  “I’m going tomorrow.”

  Dead silence. Then we just lunged at each other, kissed for ages. And then just as quickly, we broke apart.

  “Sorry. I really—” he began.

  “Yeah, but not enough to stay.”

  “Laura . . .”

  I shook my head. “Take care of yourself, Ravi.” And then I turned and came indoors. I’m in my room now and I feel different—it’s like things have gone simpler for me. Basically, either someone is with you, or they’re not.

  Fri., Oct. 23

  Yes! I got an A for my Carbon Vote essay, thanks to Arthur. It feels like I’m totally fixing up. I ran around to see him.

  “Good girl.” He laughed. “But there’s still a long way to go. What’s next?”

  He is like one of those crazed Olympic athlete trainers.

  I’m really starting to freak out about Adi. He says he just wants to be on his own for a bit, which is cool—but I keep seeing him out with other people. It’s like he’s avoiding me.

  Sat., Oct. 24

  Woke up and our porch was totally flooded so I spent the rest of the morning helping Dad clear leaves out of all the drains and gutters.

  Dad sighed. “I don’t know how much longer we can keep going in this city. It’s really time to think about moving out.”

  “But where? This is our home!”

  He blew out his cheeks. “Can you start collecting garbage can liners and plastic bags? I think we’re going to have to make up some sandbags.”

  My heart sank. Not another disaster, please.

  Sun., Oct. 25

  Band practice and Adi a no-show.

  “What’s with that boy?” asked Stace.

  “Yeah—I’ve been like totally stalking this A&R guy 24/7 and he can’t even be arsed to come to practice,” Claire muttered.

  “Any news on PoleCat?” I asked.

  Claire shook her head. “But it’s only a matter of time till I hunt the man down and destroy him.”

  “Did Adi try and call any of you?” I looked from one to the other.

  “Not about tonight but, yeah, we’ve been talking most days,” said Stace.

  “Really? He—he said he needed space to me.”

  Stace glanced over for a second. “Oh . . . I dunno then.”

  I got home and found Kieran in the garden. “Oh, Laura, thank God—I can’t do anything with this pig.”

  “Huh?”

  He flipped his hands impatiently. “It’s nothing bad, it’s just I’ve got this damn Mail on Sunday journalist coming over to do a feature. The shoot was supposed to be on my balcony, y’know—casual-young-entrepreneur-at-home-type thing—but that’s not gonna happen in this rain. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to work on another angle—and then I saw the pig in the back garden, and I thought, mud! Pig! Make the rain fun—a strength, not a weakness!”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Pleeease. It’s our first national exposure. They’re coming in half an hour, but Larkin won’t let me near him.”

  “So what’re you going to do—nothing weird?”

  “No-o, very tasteful actually. You can be in the shot, too, it’d be great publicity for the angels. Did I tell you it was national?”

  “Yeah. The Mail on Sunday. That’s really gonna hit our fan base.”

  Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. All those little straight edgers come from Middle-England suburbia. What d’you think made them so angry in the first place?”

  I chewed my lip. “All right, but just no weirdness. Larkin rocks.”

  “Promise.”

  And so half an hour later I was standing in the pigpen with these stuck-up guys from the Mail, Justin and Leo. Leo took one look at the garden, wrinkled his nose and went “Jesus” and started fussing around with lights and gels and angles while Kieran was being interviewed inside. Finally, I couldn’t take the drizzle anymore and headed indoors.

&n
bsp; It was nearly dark when Kieran popped his head into my room.

  “Ready when you are!” he trilled in a strange, high voice.

  I lifted my hands off the bass frets. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, course. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Look, maybe it’s better that it’s just you in the shot. It’ll be cool—I’ve got to get this essay done.”

  “No, you have to come. The pig still won’t . . . cooperate.”

  “The pig has a name. Larkin. So you’ve already tried to do it without me, anyway? What’s going on, Kier?”

  “Nothing!”

  Oh, traitor, traitor. When I got down to Larkin’s sty, they’d dressed him in these disgusting pink, heart-shaped shades and looped a string of pearls around his neck.

  “What have you done?”

  Leo rolled his eyes. “Look, love—we needed an angle. It’s an article about dating, so we can’t just give the readers a picture of a pig. But a pig in pearls with a pretty girl, that’s another thing.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not gonna be in that shot. You’ve stripped away all his dignity.”

  Leo threw his hands up in the air. “Right, that’s it. Can’t work under these conditions. Somebody straighten her out.”

  Kier grabbed me by the elbow and walked me down to the rabbit hutches.

  “Oh, c’mon—where’s your sense of fun?”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “I know. But if I don’t give them the shot, there’ll be no feature. This is a really big deal for us. Please, Laura,” he whined.

  I gazed around the sodden garden.

  “I really hate you sometimes. Okay, I’ll hold him, but they’re gonna have to crop me out.”

  He started to say something, but I held my hand up. “Final offer.”

  I think I may have started to find my inner power.

  Mon., Oct. 26

  Oh, shit. I thought I’d got away with it, but no. I was crunching down a slice of toast this morning when Dad came into the kitchen.

  “So what time shall I come tonight?”

  My mind went blank.

  “Parents’ evening. I bumped into Louise Foster’s old man down at the green center. Weren’t you going to tell me?”

  “No need to come to that, Dad, I’m doing fine. It’d be really boring. . . .”

  Dad looked meaningfully into my eyes. “No, I want to come, see how you’re getting on. Not ashamed of me, are you?”

  I glanced at him, raggedy garden trousers held up with bits of string.

  “Course not. But honestly, there’s no point.”

  Dad smiled slyly. “Hmm. She doth protest too much. . . . I’m definitely coming down now. Be there at seven.”

  That smile’s so gonna be wiped off his stubbly face when he gets a sniff of my results.

  At 6:50 I was standing in a big puddle outside the school gates, my only hope to maneuvre Dad over to see Dave Beard (bribed to say good things with a box of shortcakes) then basically get him lost in the workshops until it’s time to leave. And then I heard clopping hooves. Oh, God, he hadn’t—but oh yes he had. A horse-drawn cart turned onto the street. And then I heard a voice behind me.

  “Yoo-hoo, Laura!”

  I swiveled around. Mum, on the other side of the road, waving at me from a hydro van with WOMEN MOVING FORWARD spray painted down the side. I could hear a group of kids laughing behind me as she crossed the road. I shut my eyes. I am the child of carnival folk.

  “Mum, what are you doing here?”

  “Parents’ evening, of course! I am still your mother, darling.” She smoothed my hair behind my ears. “And Gwen invited me even if you didn’t.”

  I cursed the name, shape, and form of Gwen Parry-Jones.

  “Whoah!” The carriage pulled up alongside. Dad turned to a boy next to him on the seat. “Look after her for half an hour, Johnny.”

  Mother stared up at him. “Good God, you’ve gone native.”

  Dad glanced at her dungarees. “Likewise.”

  “At least brush the straw off your sweater.” She started plucking at bits of random hay on him. “Your father was a complete bum when I first met him: wore the same shirt for six months. Hasn’t taken you long to revert, has it?”

  “You loved that shirt.”

  “No, Nick.” She glanced at him shyly. “I hated it—it was lime green and too small in the arms. But you were so cute.”

  Dad blushed.

  “Right then!” I suddenly felt frantic to move this parental road show on toward its hellish end.

  And so 10 minutes later there we were, sitting in plastic chairs in front of Gwen Parry-Jones. One big happy family. GPJ stretched her lips into her most caring smile. Stoat of Death.

  “So, I imagine you must be pretty disappointed in Laura’s bad AS results, but I can assure you that all isn’t lost—”

  Mum frowned. “Excuse me?”

  Big pause. GPJ took in my burning face. “You haven’t told them?”

  “Laura!” My mother. Dangerous.

  GPJ held up her hand. “Just before we all get overexcited, I think we should ask Laura for her explanation.”

  I dug my nails into the palm of my hand, just willing myself not to cry. Silence.

  Mum turned on Dad. “Honestly, Nick, I can’t believe you didn’t know about this!”

  “Me? At least I’m at home, not stuck up my own arse in a commune somewhere.” He leaned forward and took my hand. “Laura, love, why didn’t you say?”

  I stared back at him, so angry. What was I gonna say? Cos you and Mum are so messed up it’s like I’m your parents right now?

  GPJ picked up my results sheet. “Maybe we should focus on the grades and move away from these personal issues. Hmm, an E in Design Tech. It seems that practical skills are not a strong point in the family, Julia.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean? You know I’ve been working really hard in the skills sessions, Gwen.” Mum’s bottom lip began to tremble.

  “Oh, Jesus,” cut in Dad. “This is about Laura, not you.”

  “Really? Well, you don’t seem to have been taking much notice of her in the past few months if you’ve let this slip. What, are you having some little affair?”

  Dad blushed. “Of course not.”

  I stood up so sharply that my chair skidded across the room. “Stop it. Both of you. Why do you think I didn’t say anything? Like there’s any point! And Arthur’s been helping me. He—he—listens.”

  Now it was their turn to be silent.

  I overheard Dad and Arthur in the garden this evening. Dad asked Arthur why he hadn’t said anything. For the first time ever, I heard Arthur sounding sharp.

  “Because Laura asked me not to. And I would never betray a trust,” he said, before marching off stiffly between the bean poles, like the old soldier he is.

  Tues., Oct. 27

  Dad came into my room this morning and put his head in his hands.

  “It will get better, Laura. I promise.”

  Poor man. Who’s he trying to kid?

  Fri., Oct. 30

  The school stank today. I sat in the back of Design Tech with a scarf around my nose. Dave Beard came in, looking sick.

  “What’s going on, sir?”

  “The sewers are backed up.”

  “What exactly are sewers?” Claire muttered.

  I shrugged. Dave looked over.

  “They’re pipelines that connect buildings to drainage pipes underground—which connect eventually to sewage treatment plants.”

  “Yeah, but what’s in them? I mean, I know about . . . waste from the house, but what about rain and that? Does it all just get mixed up?”

  “In London, yes.”

  “So we’ve got miles of shit running underneath us all the time?”

  Dave nodded. “Not so far underneath right now.”

  November

  Sun., Nov. 1

  Shame, shame.

  Dad is so proud. It is like Larkin is his own chi
ld.

  Tues., Nov. 3

  The whole country’s gone nuts about Bonfire Night. Everyone’s going on about this threat to our national way of life. Classic British—you can take away our cars, holidays, freedom of choice, future—but back off our right to stand in a muddy field, clutching a sparkler and a burned potato smeared in Utterly Butterly. Who cares? I guess we’ll all just have to find another way to celebrate the murder of a 400-year-old Catholic.

  Thurs., Nov. 5

  The council called off the bonfire in Greenwich Park because a bunch of people stood around the unlit fire in the rain all night long. Like that is going to save the planet. Anyway, Arthur’s invited Dad and me around for indoor fireworks. I haven’t seen Dad for days; he’s shut himself away in the cellar making home brew. I banged on the cellar door and had to wait for ages for him to open up. He stood there, blinking into the light like a mad scientist.

  “Are you coming to Arthur’s?”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid. At a very delicate point with the yeast. And the parsnips. But you go.”

  So I went next door to see my needy person. Ha, ha. As soon as I walked in he ladled me out a tin mug of lethal rum punch.

  “Marvelous. Now we can get this show on the road. Fireworks forever!” He took down a box of matches from a shelf above the stove and set fire to a tiny Catherine Wheel on the wall. We watched in silence as it began a jerky spin, flinging off a total of about 6 sparks—while spurting out what looked like dog poo into Arthur’s bacon-frying pan. Arthur cleared his throat.

  “Of course, I remember rationing in the war. We were out in the country, before I enlisted, so things weren’t so bad. You could always bag a rabbit or a rook for the pot. . . .”

  I tried to do the sum in my head.

  “How old were you when you joined up?”

  “Ah, umm, seventeen?”

  “What year?”

  “Oof. Nineteen for-ty . . . ah—three.”

  “So that must make you . . . 89?”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Suppose it must. Time rather flies when you’re having fun.”

  “You call this fun?”