Matt grinned at her. “Great. We’ll get the eggnog brewing or something. You can tell us all about what kind of loser Patrick was at school. I bet he wrapped his textbooks in wallpaper and always got his homework in on time.”
Nicola laughed.
Patrick felt his grin stiffen on his face.
Matt nodded to the pheasant. “I suppose we should move this.” He looked at Nicola. “Unless you want it? A bit of a wash and some plucking and it’ll be sound.”
“Not for us. But thanks.”
“Leave it, Matt. I’ll deal with it,” Patrick said quickly.
Nicola gave a wave. Patrick saw that familiar crinkle of her nose as she smiled. She turned back to her own lodge.
Patrick watched her walk away. “Nicola Garcia, right next door.” He turned to Matt. “She was really popular at school. One of the cool girls. Wore great big hoop earrings.”
Matt grinned at him. “You can knock one out to that memory later.”
Patrick tutted.
“What?”
“No need to be crass.”
“Pat.” Matt touched Patrick on the arm. “I was just dicking about.”
“I’ve got a fourteen-year-old daughter, Matt.”
Matt held his hands up. “I said sorry. You’ve made it sound bad and I didn’t mean it like that.”
Patrick leaned down and picked up the pheasant.
The two walked to the recycling area by the side of the lodge. Matt lifted the lid of the gray bin and gestured to Patrick. “Go ahead.”
“Wrong bin. Open the green one.”
“Pheasants can be recycled?”
“It’s food,” Patrick said. “It can go in with garden waste.”
Matt put his head to one side. “Pheasants can be recycled. Who knew?”
He opened the green bin lid, and Patrick shoved the dead bird inside.
* * *
—
When Patrick had been fourteen, he’d observed Nicola mutely from afar. (It hit Patrick that his technique with girls hadn’t got any more sophisticated in the last thirty years.)
Nicola wasn’t the only one Patrick noticed. He observed all of the earring girls, and that was easy to do all at once because they were always together: standing thick in an intimidating throng in the playground or canteen.
But Nicola caught his attention most of all. She was shorter than the others, using her low center of gravity to propel her along in a bouncing swagger. Her lips were perma-tinged synthetic red from those lollipops she sucked at every break.
It was the reason he’d taken drama: to meet girls like that. Yet it had turned out to be an unsuccessful strategy. Everyone pair up, Mrs. Hunter said at the beginning of every class. And, however much Patrick had inched his way in the direction of the earring girls, somehow he would end up paired with the skinny Goth boy who hummed to himself.
Patrick spoke to Nicola once, at Steven Andrews’s house party.
Steven Andrews had only been at St. Swithin’s for three weeks. He had been expelled from somewhere else (for some reason about which the rumors flew), giving him a certain insta-cachet.
Steven had sat next to Patrick in the first geography class and Patrick had lent him a pen. Three pens, in fact—one at the start of every lesson. But that was OK. Patrick was a boy who traveled with spare stationery.
That third week as they packed up their books, Steven turned to Patrick. “I’ve got a free house this weekend, if you want to come? Tell your mates. My parents are at the cottage.”
Patrick didn’t know what “at the cottage” meant, but it didn’t matter right now.
Patrick hoped Steven couldn’t tell how fast his heart was going. That this was the first house party anyone outside the computer club had ever invited him to. And even Patrick knew that computer club parties didn’t count.
The night of the party, Patrick put on his best Iron Maiden T-shirt and headed to Steven’s house, clutching the four-pack of cider his dad had thrust onto him unrequested. Reflecting now, Patrick’s dad was clearly also delighted his son was going to a non–computer club party.
On arrival, Patrick hid two cans of cider in Steven’s garage, within the drum of the washing machine. Patrick took the other two cans with him, through to the lounge.
He stood in the lounge, leaning against the piano with deliberate nonchalance, drinking his cider and watching other people chat and laugh. He looked from group to group, listening to the conversations.
“Have you seen Paula?”
“She’s gone upstairs with Shakey.”
“Let’s give them five minutes then pile in when he’s got his knob out.”
After some more standing and watching, Patrick headed back to the garage. He got his last two cans of cider out of the washing machine.
He was maneuvering himself carefully past a clutch of bicycles when Nicola Garcia opened the door.
Nicola gave him a breezy smile and stepped inside the garage. “Hi.”
Patrick coughed. “Hi.”
Nicola’s lips were a different kind of red than usual. A thicker red: colored by lipstick, not lollies. “Having a good time?”
Patrick smiled.
Nicola shut the garage door behind her. “I’m looking for more alcohol. Apparently people have been hiding theirs in here.”
After a beat, Patrick held out the two cans in his hand. “I’ve found these.”
“Nice.”
Patrick detached a can from the plastic loop and held it out to Nicola. “I’m sure I can find more.”
“Great!” Nicola smiled at him. “Thanks.” She took the can. “Hey, it’s cold and everything!”
Patrick glowed. He’d stored the ciders in the freezer at home until they were deeply chilled. He’d anticipated the lack of fridge space or ice, but he’d never hoped to dream such planning would impress a girl like Nicola.
He watched Nicola put the can to her lips. She took a swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. In the half-light of the garage, drinking from that can of Strongbow, Nicola’s cheeks puffed out cherubically.
Patrick looked down at the piece of looped plastic in his hand that had previously held the four cans together. He pulled on one plastic circle until it snapped. He turned the plastic by ninety degrees and pulled on the next circle.
“What are you doing?” There was a lilting laugh in Nicola’s voice.
“You have to do it. This plastic can strangle seabirds.”
“That’s good of you.”
“Would you like to come to the cinema with me sometime, Nicola?” The words were out there before he could stop them.
Nicola blinked at him.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbled.
Nicola gave him a smile—a smile that was much too kind. “I go out with Adam Camberwell.”
Patrick crunched his toes up in his shoes.
Nicola patted Patrick’s arm. “Adam’s the hardest lad in the fifth year.”
Patrick flushed. He didn’t know how you got that title: whether it was some kind of committee-bestowed thing, or whether it lasted after you left school. But it was an absolute: Patrick knew that.
“He’s getting his provisional license in September,” Nicola continued.
“I’m sorry.” Patrick knew, in that moment, he would never drink cider again. “Please don’t tell Adam. I meant no disrespect.”
Nicola laughed. “Disrespect!”
“Is he here tonight? Will he kick my head in?”
Nicola looked at him, pity in her smile. “He wouldn’t come to a fourth-year party. I’m meeting him in the park afterward.” She touched Patrick’s arm and gave a tilt of her head. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. Your head’s safe for now.” She gestured with her cider hand. “But thanks for this. I owe you.”
&n
bsp; She walked away, sipping her cider.
* * *
—
Patrick stared at the dead bird in the dustbin; its body bent in the middle where he’d shoved it round the bin bags. Patrick adjusted the body so the bird was straight. He shut the bin lid carefully and followed Matt back inside.
Patrick thought of Nicola in her lodge, wearing her farmer’s wife waistcoat. Still beautiful, of course. But now more attainable. Something had seesawed in the last twenty-five years and boys like Adam Camberwell were in prison now (probably), and girls like Nicola looked at men like Patrick differently.
On reflection, Patrick remembered reading an article in the local paper about the charity Adam Camberwell had set up with the profits from his property empire in the Canaries. But that was the exception that proved the rule.
Patrick put his hand on the door handle of the lodge. He stopped.
He hadn’t even told Nicola he was a barrister. And he hadn’t mentioned the Ironman.
The thought soothed him a little.
Next time. He’d tell her next time.
29
“She’s a murderer!” Scarlett shouted.
Mum and Dad stood blocking her exit, trapping her inside the bedroom, both trying to hold on to her. But Scarlett didn’t want to be held. She kept pushing them away.
This was their fault. They’d invited Alex here, hadn’t they?
Across the room, Posey paced up and down, up and down. He kept pulling his ears down and letting them flip up again.
“Scarlett, let me explain,” Dad said.
“I want to go home.”
Mum looked at Dad. “Please, no! This is our special holiday.”
“Then get her out of here.”
“That bird was already hurt,” Mum said. “Alex didn’t kill it on purpose, she killed it to put it out of its misery. Because it was in pain and dying. Do you understand?”
Posey bumped down onto the floor in his angry pose. “It just happened to be in pain and dying, did it? That’s what she says.”
“That’s what she says,” Scarlett said. “You trust the word of a killer?”
“She was being kind to the pheasant,” Dad said.
“Kind!” Posey jumped up and started pacing again.
“Shall we have some more of that advent calendar now?” Dad said, hope in his voice.
Posey turned and paced again. “As if we could think about chocolate at a time like this.”
“Why do you want me to like Alex?” Scarlett said. “Can’t you see she’s awful?”
Claire and Matt looked at each other helplessly.
“Posey said he knew she was a murderer all along. I said I didn’t believe him, but Posey insisted. And he was right!”
“I don’t think Posey’s really helping this situation,” Dad said carefully.
“Don’t you be horrible to Posey!”
Mum put her hands on Scarlett’s shoulders. “Maybe Posey should take a breath and calm down. Let’s all do something fun. Do you want to give me a piggyback?”
Scarlett panted for air. “No! Just leave me alone!”
She couldn’t breathe. Her tummy was going weird from seeing Mum and Dad comfort her together.
But she couldn’t trust them. She knew she couldn’t trust them—especially when they were trying to comfort her together.
That was why she had Posey now.
* * *
—
Three years before, Scarlett had sat cross-legged on the bed after tea, resting her foil picture in her lap. She concentrated hard, scraping at the picture with the tool in her hand, following the outlines. When you scratched the black topping off, it left foil shining brightly beneath, and made a beautiful picture.
There was a knock on the door.
Scarlett knew, from the number of footsteps, that it was both Mum and Dad outside. Scarlett didn’t want them to come in. There had been lots of whispering downstairs lately, rather than fighting. It should have been a good thing, but she didn’t like it. So she kept working on her picture.
The foil picture was of a peacock, and Scarlett had worked very hard at following the feather lines. She didn’t always manage to get the lines exactly right, but it was good enough. You could definitely tell it was a peacock. A good peacock.
Mum and Dad entered the room together. Dad shut the door softly behind them. The two stood there, just by the door, not coming farther in the room.
Mum stared at Scarlett. Dad looked at the floor.
Scarlett put her scraping tool down on the bedside table. It rolled a little, and she put a hand on it to make it still.
Mum glanced at Dad and back at Scarlett. “We need to speak to you about something important.”
Scarlett put her foil picture down. She pulled her pillow up the bed and placed it on her lap, squeezing it to her body.
Mum looked at Dad again. When he didn’t say anything, Mum added, “It’s something sad.”
Dad kept staring at the carpet.
Mum sighed. “You’ll have noticed things have been a bit difficult round here lately. Mummy and Daddy have been shouting at each other more than they want to. We’ve been making each other unhappy.”
Scarlett saw the foil scraper had left little bits of black on the bedside table, making the white wood dirty. She dabbed carefully at the black bits with her finger, lifting them up.
“And we have to think what’s best for you. What kind of home we want you to grow up in. So we need you to be brave while we tell you something.” Mum took another deep breath. “Daddy’s moving out. He’s going to live somewhere else.”
Scarlett rubbed her finger and thumb against an empty sweet wrapper, trying to scrape all the black bits off her skin.
“Do you understand what that means?” Mum said. “We will still be a family, a loving family, all supporting one another. Just a different kind of family. One who don’t all live in the same house.” Mum looked to Dad. “Matt.”
Dad didn’t say anything. Something about his face made Scarlett hug the pillow again.
“Am I really doing all the talking, Matt?”
Mum turned to face Scarlett again, but Scarlett said fiercely, “Don’t say anything.” It was important, she knew, that Mum stopped talking.
The bedroom door opened again.
Mum and Dad didn’t turn round to face the door. They stayed looking at Scarlett, their faces serious.
But Scarlett stared at the door. And she knew what was coming, right away, before she saw it.
A head appeared round the doorway. A human-sized purple head, with big pointy ears.
Scarlett shrieked. She let the pillow drop into her lap.
Mum and Dad both jerked their heads back in surprise.
Posey flapped one ear toward Scarlett in a casual hello. “Anyone miss me?”
Scarlett clapped her hands together with happiness. She shrieked again.
“Are you OK, Scarlett?”
Posey grinned at Scarlett. “Howdy. That’s Chinese for ‘Hello.’ ”
“I know it must be hard to take in.”
Scarlett stared at Posey. He was so much bigger than Scarlett remembered. He was the same size as Scarlett now—bigger if you counted the long ears, though Scarlett wasn’t sure where you measured a rabbit from—but it was definitely him. He had the same purple fur, the same patches faded in the places where Scarlett used to hold him. He had the same white round patch on his tummy. The same white pom-pom tail, the same red tag that said Made in China.
“Your daddy has some things to say to you too. We both want you to know how much we love you. And how nothing will change that ever.”
Scarlett clapped her hands together. “I thought Dad left you in that red car in Tenerife!”
Posey shook his head. “He didn’t
leave me. I went back home for a holiday. To China.” Posey flicked the Made in China tag on his bum. “Got to catch up with the old gang once in a while.”
“Without saying goodbye?”
“I always come back. Don’t I?”
“I thought you’d gone forever.”
“Scarlett? Scarlett, what’s going on?”
Posey looked at Mum. He stood on the bed then sat down next to Scarlett. She crossed her legs, facing Mum and Dad.
“Scarlett?”
Posey nodded toward Mum. “He’s talking to you.”
Scarlett looked at Posey. Posey nodded again. Scarlett turned slowly back to face her mum and dad.
“We’re so sorry about this, Scarlett.” Mum pushed her fringe out of her eyes. “We both love you so much. We will always put you first. But we’re going to live in separate houses from now on.”
Scarlett felt one of Posey’s hand-paws slip into her palm. The paw was almost too big to hold. It felt like a towel, warm from being in the airing cupboard.
“We will always love each other,” Dad said, “because we made you together. And you are the best thing that ever happened to us.”
Scarlett squeezed Posey’s paw tightly.
“You and I will stay living here. And Daddy will only be at Grandma Janet’s. That’s not far away.”
“I’ll always be at the end of the phone. You can call me anytime. Call me, and I’ll come straight o-ver.”
Dad’s voice went funny on that last word. He turned around to look at the wall by the door, at Scarlett’s drawing of The Little Mermaid. Dad looked at the drawing hard.
“Just leave me here with Posey,” Scarlett said. “Both of you. Go away.”
Posey squeezed Scarlett’s hand.
Mum glanced at Dad. “Posey’s here? Now?”
“He’s come back. From China.”
Daddy scratched his neck. “I thought we left him in Tenerife.”
“He went to China. On holiday. And now he’s come back.”
Mum and Dad looked at each other again.
“So can you both leave us, please. I want to speak to Posey.”
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