Follow Me Down

by Tanya Byrne

  I held my breath as she told me what she knew, that someone had tried to carjack my father at a gas station and when my father refused to hand over the keys, the man shot him. Other than that, all she knew was that he was in surgery.

  ‘Poor Papa,’ I breathed.

  ‘He shouldn’t be on his own,’ she murmured and I don’t know if she meant to say it out loud, but I felt it like a needle in my heart. My chin trembled and I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want her to have to hear me cry.

  When she got to JFK, I heard the cab driver muttering the fare. She told me she’d call me back and I had to swallow another sob before I told her that I loved her. ‘Ahuru m gi n’anya, nne,’ I blurted out before she hung up.

  It was a moment or two before the dizziness passed and I could lift my head, and when I did, Mr Lucas was driving down the narrow road. When he got to the bottom and turned left out of Crofton, I managed a small smile. ‘Thank you.’

  He didn’t look at me, just nodded. ‘You’d better call Mrs Delaney.’

  ‘OK.’

  My phone buzzed then, then again and again as the news about my father spread and everyone got in touch to check I was OK. I read each text message before I called Mrs Delaney – in case any of them were from my relatives in Nigeria – but it wasn’t until Mr Lucas drove past Scarlett’s huge cake-coloured house that I realised that none of them were from her. I got one from Olivia, sending her love and asking if there was anything she could do, but that was it and I shouldn’t have been so surprised; I knew what Scarlett was like, but that didn’t make it right and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t make an excuse for her.

  Mrs Delaney was relieved to hear from me, but was far from amused. When I told Mr Lucas that she wanted to speak to him, he seemed reluctant to take the phone and when he did and his cheeks went from pink to red, I realised that she was telling him off. I felt awful, it wasn’t his fault, and when I offered to take the phone to tell her so, he mouthed, ‘It’s OK.’

  Eventually, she let him respond and they began discussing the logistics of getting me to the airport. I could only hear his half of the conversation, but it sounded unnecessarily complicated. He had to give her his full name, his registration number, the make, model and colour of his car, then tell her what time he thought we were going to arrive at the airport. When he ended the call and handed me back the phone, he looked exhausted and I apologised.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sir. The embassy are mad strict about security.’

  ‘It’s not just them. Virgin Atlantic are just as strict. I had no idea travelling first class was so difficult,’ he said with a smile that drooped when he saw that the snow was getting heavier. He turned on the windscreen wipers and when they began sweeping back and forth, he caught himself, turning to me with a brighter smile. ‘Mrs Delaney is going to call back shortly with directions and a code. It seems Virgin’s First Class lounge is contained in an underground bunker somewhere at Heathrow!’

  I bit my lip, turning to look out the window at the snow settling in clumps on the hedges that lined the narrow road. When my gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror, I looked at the road rolling away from us, the tarmac dusted with snow and the tyres of his car leaving two black lines, like the ones they’d left at Crofton.

  He began apologising, fiddling with the various knobs on the console until the fan on the dashboard in front of me blasted heat, hot and fast, like a hairdryer. ‘Sorry. As much as I love this old thing, Triumph were yet to discover heated seats when it was made in the seventies, but we should be there in an hour or so,’ he said over the scrape of the wiper blades. ‘I hope they don’t frown at my car when I drop you off.’

  ‘It’s fine. Just drop me outside Departures.’

  He chuckled. ‘Are you ashamed of my car, too?’

  I didn’t laugh. It was such a British thing to do. If he could, he’d be making tea, no doubt, and, while I appreciated the effort to distract me from the searing pain I felt each time I thought about my father, it was taking every crumb of energy I had not to collapse into a sobbing heap so I just wanted to focus on not doing that.

  So I looked out at the road, at everything going from green to white. When we moved onto the freeway, relief gave way to dread as the snow got heavier, sticking to the cars rolling past us. After a few minutes, they began to slow until all I could see was a string of brake lights ahead of us and I felt panic fizz up in me again.

  We weren’t going to make it.

  Mr Lucas must have known what I was thinking, because he patted the dashboard and said, ‘Don’t worry, Adamma, she’ll get us there.’ I couldn’t look at him, a hand on my stomach as it knotted at the thought of my flight being delayed, or worse, cancelled. He must have known I was thinking that too, because he persisted, ‘A concierge from the airline is going to meet us and escort you to the lounge. You can wait there until your flight leaves. At least you’ll be comfortable. They have a masseuse, apparently.’

  I turned to glare at him. ‘Can I have a facial, too? Maybe I can get my hair done. Look nice and pretty for my dying father.’

  He stared at me for a moment, the corners of his mouth falling into a straight line. When he turned to look back out at the road, I felt awful. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, his tone suddenly sharper. ‘I know you’re upset.’

  But it wasn’t OK and, with that, I felt a curtain drop between us.

  By the time we got to the airport, it was snowing heavily. The concierge had to dash from the door to the car, his head dipped, fat flakes settling on the shoulders of his black suit. Mr Lucas kept the engine running. It made me feel wretched, but it was probably for the best; he hadn’t said a word except to enquire after my father when my mother called again, so if he’d gotten out of the car with me, I might have tried to hug him in a clumsy effort to apologise and make things more awkward.

  ‘Have a safe flight, Miss Okomma,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘I hope your father is out of surgery soon and makes a speedy recovery.’

  I started to apologise, the words tumbling over themselves as I tried to force them out, but before I could open my mouth, the concierge opened the car door and let in a gust of cold air. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Okomma,’ he said with a smooth smile.

  My heart sank. I glanced at Mr Lucas, my jaw juddering with panic, but before I could speak, before I could tell him how sorry I was for being so rude when he’d been trying to help, the concierge reached down for the holdall by my feet. I watched him and when he stood up again, standing to attention with his hand on the top of the open car door, waiting for me to get out, I began to shake and turned to look at Mr Lucas again. He wasn’t looking at me, his hands wringing the steering wheel, obviously waiting for me to get out.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said in a breathless rush, and immediately dissolved into tears. I didn’t mean to, it seemed to just spill out of me.

  My outburst must have surprised him too, because he let go of the wheel for the first time since he’d clambered in next to me back at Crofton. As he turned to me, he clearly didn’t know what to do with his hands and I tensed, sure that he was going to touch me, but instead, he asked the concierge, ‘Can we have a moment, please?’

  I heard the concierge close the door and as soon as he did, Mr Lucas leaned towards me and said all the right things. He told me that it would be OK, that my father would be fine, that he was in the best hands. He reminded me that I used to live in New York, that planes take off in worse snow, that my aunt would be at the hospital soon so my father wouldn’t be alone. He smoothed each of my nerves as I sobbed and sobbed and as soon as I’d caught my breath, I thanked him.

  ‘Will you be OK, Adamma?’

  I wiped under my eyes with my fingers. ‘I kind of have to be.’

  I probably should have lied, flashed him a brave smile and told him I’d be fi
ne, but I didn’t have the energy. It was all I could do to keep breathing. He thought about what I’d said, his eyebrows knotted, then sighed. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching across me and opening the glove compartment. He rooted through it for a second or two, before pulling out a red biro and a receipt. He scribbled something down and stared at it, his lips pressed together, then handed it to me. ‘This is my mobile number.’ He waited until I looked at him, then leaned a little closer. ‘If you need anything, call me, and I’ll come straight back, OK?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said softly, and he smiled at me.

  He got out with me, walking around the front of the car to greet the concierge who darted back through the snow towards us. He put his hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice as we walked towards the glass doors, but I still heard him, ‘I don’t know if the airline has explained the situation, but Miss Okomma has had an awful shock. I hate the thought of leaving her to wait alone for her flight, but I can’t wait with her unless I’m flying, too, so I need you to keep a close eye on her.’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’ The concierge nodded.

  He turned to me and took off his glasses, the snow catching in his eyelashes. ‘You’re going to be OK, Miss Okomma. And if your father is half as stubborn as you are, then he will be too.’ He smiled and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ It was almost impossible to say it around the lump in my throat, but I think he heard me. ‘I’ll text you when I land.’

  He nodded. ‘And I’ll let Mrs Delaney know.’

  When the concierge opened the glass door for me, he smiled and asked if there was anything he could do. I turned to watch Mr Lucas’s car roll out of view, then sighed. ‘I just want to go home.’

  The First Class lounge was busier than I had expected. It wasn’t full, but there was a buzz; half of the tables were taken and there was a string people sitting at the bar. Some sat sipping coffee, flicking aimlessly through magazines, while others muttered into their cellphones, asking their assistants to look into alternative arrangements if their flights were delayed. A group of women sat around one of the tables, laughing and clapping, clearly drunk on champagne, and it should all have been comforting – the noise, the heat and bustle of other people – but I still felt alone, the hours before my flight departed suddenly stretching out in front of me like an endless black road.

  The staff were more than attentive, a stream of glossy men and women in neat red uniforms stopping to ask if I needed anything when I retreated to the Viewing Deck to watch the snow fall onto the runway. I appreciated the kind smiles and the urges to eat something, but after half an hour, it began to wear thin, so I asked for a glass of Diet Coke and some potato chips just so that they’d leave me alone.

  I only got a few minutes’ peace before someone else approached. I almost barked at them, but managed to stop myself when I looked up to find Dominic standing over me with a brown leather holdall in his hand.

  ‘Dominic.’ I looked around, half expecting a security guard to come charging after him, shouting at him to get out.

  He smiled smoothly. ‘Fancy meeting you here, Miss Okomma.’

  I watched as he dropped the holdall onto the floor by my feet and sank into the leather chair opposite mine. ‘What are you doing here, Dominic?’

  ‘Just off to see a friend in Dubai.’

  ‘Dubai?’

  ‘Yeah, for the night.’

  ‘The night?’

  ‘Stop repeating everything I say, Miss Okomma,’ he said, tugging off his black leather gloves. ‘It’s very annoying.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I sat forward, suddenly livid that he was doing something so foolish, every emotion I was feeling piling on top of one another, all at once until I was breathless. ‘You can’t just go to Dubai for the night! What about school? You’ll be kicked out!’ I hissed but then he tilted his head and smiled and with that, I realised. Fresh tears pooled in my eyes and his face went out of focus. I had to take a breath before I could speak again. ‘You’re here to be with me.’

  My chin trembled and his face softened when it did. Usually, I would have been furious that he’d seen that moment of vulnerability, but I didn’t care and found myself resisting the urge to climb over the table between us and hug him.

  ‘You gonna eat those?’

  ‘They’ll make you fly to Dubai, you know.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, stopping to reach for a chip. ‘I haven’t done anything to piss my father off this week. At least I’ll get a holiday out of it.’

  I tried not to laugh, because it wasn’t funny. ‘Ballard will kill you.’

  He didn’t seem bothered and gestured at a woman in a red suit, who came over with a bright smile. ‘Two Diet Cokes, please.’ He held up two fingers. ‘And a menu. Miss Okomma needs to eat something more substantial than a bowl of crisps.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Sim.’

  He watched her walk away and when he turned to look at me again, I arched an eyebrow at him. ‘How does she know your name?’

  He licked his lips and sat back with a slow smile. ‘They all know my name.’

  I rolled my eyes and sat back too. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Mrs Delaney.’

  I was impressed. ‘I thought she was beyond being charmed.’

  ‘It seems the lady is for turning.’

  I bit down on my lip to stop myself smiling. ‘I’m surprised she told you. I didn’t think they gave out that sort of information. I thought it was private.’

  ‘It is.’ He stopped to lick the salt from his fingers, then reached for another chip. ‘But she’s worried about you. She doesn’t want you to be here on your own.’

  ‘She’s worried?’

  His gaze dipped to the bowl of chips. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Changing the subject. Duly noted, Mr Sim.’

  He didn’t let me get away with it, either. ‘You’ve been crying.’

  He looked up at me again and it was my turn to stare at the bowl of chips. Luckily, I was saved by the waitress who brought our drinks and menus. I opened mine, avoiding his gaze. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘So how’s your dad? Any news?’

  Before I could respond, my cellphone rang. It was my mother and then my heart was beating too hard for another reason. ‘Nne m, keekwanu?’

  She was about to board her flight to Lagos and sounded much calmer. She must have been, because she responded in English. She usually only broke into Igbo in public when she was saying something she didn’t want anyone to hear. ‘I have no news. Papa is still in surgery. I just wanted to call to let you know that I’m boarding. Are you at Heathrow yet?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in the Virgin lounge now.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  I considered responding in Igbo so Dominic wouldn’t understand, but knew it would make her suspicious. ‘No,’ I said, looking at my nails. I’d forgotten to take off my blue nail polish and had already been told off about it in History, and I knew that my father would tease me mercilessly. Kedu, sisi? he’d say when he saw it. Then I realised that he might not be able to and felt a fresh wave of tears.

  I waited until I’d caught my breath and said, ‘I’m with Scarlett.’

  I knew Dominic was looking at me, but I just stared at my nails as I heard my mother’s breathing relax. I could have said I was alone, I suppose, but the lie was for her, not me. I didn’t want her thinking I was stuck in an airport by myself. And she liked Scarlett, I mean, she wasn’t as fond of her after the New York thing, but she still liked her.

  For a horrible moment, I thought she was going to ask to speak to her, but then I heard them calling her flight. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I land. Ahuru m gi n’anya.’

  I told her that I loved her too and blew some kisses down the phone. When I hung up, I l
ooked up to find Dominic smiling at me. ‘How’s your dad?’

  I put my cellphone down on the table between us. ‘Still in surgery.’

  There was a moment of silence as I waited for him to say something, but when he didn’t, I sighed with defeat. ‘Go on. Say it.’

  His licked his lips, then crossed his legs, sitting back in his chair with a smug smile. ‘Lying to your mother about me already. This bodes well.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I love my mother. She thinks she’s super liberal, but if she heard I was alone at an airport with a boy, she’d flip out.’

  I opened my menu again so I wouldn’t have to look at him, neglecting to mention that his reputation – the fight he had with Sam the day Scarlett ran off to New York, the rumours about why he got kicked out of Eton – had reached her and she’d be furious if she knew I’d even spoken to him. Lord knows what she’d do if she knew he was at the airport with me. I couldn’t tell her. She was stressed enough about my father, she didn’t need to spend the flight to Lagos worrying that Dominic was getting me knocked up, too.

  ‘Have you heard from her, by the way?’ I tried to sound nonchalant.

  He knew exactly who I was talking about, but still said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Scarlett.’

  I heard him sigh. ‘She’s done another runner.’

  ‘What?’ I snapped the menu shut. ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. She’s fine, she just texted Olivia to tell her she’s in London auditioning for a summer school at RADA, or something. She’ll be back tonight.’