by Simon Mason
They exchanged looks among themselves. Garvie’s mother consulted her watch, and Singh and Uncle Len got to their feet. They were going to meet Aunt Maxie at a restaurant in Market Square. As Singh limped past Garvie on his crutches, Garvie held out his hand and Singh gripped it with his own, then went on.
After they had gone out, Garvie’s mother stayed behind a moment, and exchanged a long look with her son.
‘What?’
‘At least you texted him,’ she said.
Garvie shrugged. ‘Tanner left me on my own, there was nothing else to do. I hate being bored.’
‘I know that. I also know you’d rather step on a tack than admit to being in need of Raminder’s help.’
‘Yeah, well. On balance I thought I’d risk asking him anyway.’
She nodded.
‘You look good, by the way,’ he said.
She was wearing a blue short-sleeved wrap dress with red floral print design.
‘It’s a nice place we’re going,’ she said.
They were silent for a moment.
Garvie said, ‘You know what? You can tell him to bring his toothbrush over if he wants.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can. But I wasn’t going to until you said it.’
‘I’m saying it now.’
‘Do you mean it?’
‘Let’s pretend I do; it’ll save time. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’ve been to his place. It’s a dump. He’ll be better off here.’
At the door she turned back. ‘What are you doing tonight? Are you going out?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Got asked. Just thinking about it.’
‘OK. See you later.’
‘Yeah. Be good.’
He stayed where he was for half an hour or so staring at the carpet. Then he got up and went to look for his jacket.
51
The voice speaking out of the intercom said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Smith,’ he said, and waited.
He realized, as the big wooden gates swung sedately apart, that he’d only ever been through them before in a van with Smudge. Those days seemed far off now. The driveway opened up in front of him, gracefully curved and smoothly lit, and he walked up it towards the house standing above, solid and confident on its rise against a tastefully twilit sky.
The door was opened by a bald, narrow man wearing a short red towelling dressing gown and flip-flops.
‘Hello!’ he said. ‘You’re Smith then.’
His teeth were too large for his mouth and when he smiled he seemed to be about to spill them down his front.
‘Yeah.’
‘Smith, the maths genius.’ He continued to smile. It seemed to power his tufts of faded ginger hair which rose slightly as he spoke.
Garvie said, ‘Your ex-wife’ll remember me as the trespasser in her little art gallery.’
‘Ah. You’ve worked out who I am.’
‘It’s not hard. You were described to me as a nut.’
Professor Roecastle’s smile threatened to burst out of his mouth altogether. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Some people think logic’s the thing but I prefer laughter and rudeness. You’ve left school, I hear. Why’s that?’
‘First reason is, I didn’t get the grades to stay on. Second is, I didn’t want to stay on.’
‘Excellent reasons, both of them. You were up here doing the fence, I think?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Excellent thing, fencing. I bet you’re pretty good at it.’
Amy came at speed into the hall behind her father and began to manoeuvre him out of the way.
‘You said you’d change, Dad. Look at you.’
‘Who cares about knees? I don’t. I bet Smith doesn’t.’
‘I can live with your knees,’ Garvie said. ‘It’s your smile that’s so alarming.’
Professor Roecastle threw back his head and laughed hard at the innocent ceiling. ‘He’s as appalling as your mother told me,’ he said, and went at last up the stairs to get dressed.
Garvie had remained all this time on the doorstep. He thought to himself, as before, that this was not his world, nor his people, nor his art, gabled house or tastefully twilit sky.
Not his Amy either.
She stood by the plinth of a late LeClerk looking at him shyly. She was wearing blue jeans and the black vest he’d first seen in the photograph before he met her, and she’d put her hair up, leaving her shoulders and neck exposed, and for a moment he was hit all over again by her beauty.
‘Hey, Sherlock,’ she said softly.
‘Hey.’
‘Sorry about Dad.’
‘Thought he didn’t live with you.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘So what’s he doing here in his dressing gown?’
‘We just don’t know. He arrived with a suitcase this morning, on his way to Perm in the Urals.’
‘Course. Should have worked that out.’
They looked at each for a while.
‘Aren’t you going to come in?’
‘Actually, I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘They want to thank you.’
‘Can’t they send me a card or something?’
But he stepped into the hall as Dr Roecastle appeared from the living room, a glass of white wine in her hand.
‘So good of you to come,’ she said. ‘Please. This way. My … Professor Roecastle will be down in a minute. Dressed, I hope.’
They went into the living room and sat on different sofas, and Dr Roecastle put a glass of orange juice in Garvie’s hand, and they all looked about them in different directions. Garvie remembered the way Dr Roecastle had sat there before, weeping, frightened, the way she had fixed him with her wet angry eyes. Now she was cool and brisk but strangely ill at ease. Soon Professor Roecastle reappeared, wearing a different dressing gown.
‘Don’t you want a beer?’ he said to Garvie.
‘I’m all right.’
‘How about a smoke? An addict like you might develop a twitch.’
‘I’ll try to keep my shit together.’
No one seemed inclined to say anything useful. Garvie drained his glass.
‘Well,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘thanks for the orange juice.’
‘Sit down, you fool,’ Professor Roecastle said. ‘Listen. I know my … Dr Roecastle here has had a tough time of it recently, and Amy too; it’s been pretty extraordinary however you compute it, and I know you’re just about the most difficult boy my … Dr Roecastle has had to deal with, although actually, that other one, the young man who died, sounds like a nightmare too, and before that there were some real—’
‘For God’s sake,’ Amy said.
Dr Roecastle said abruptly to Garvie, ‘I would like to apologize to you.’ It sounded like the introduction to a much longer speech but, having said it, she fell silent.
‘None of us knows how to behave,’ Professor Roecastle said, smiling as if it was all a joke. ‘That’s the trouble. We’re trying to thank you for what you did. Not that we like the way you did it. But frankly, Amy had got herself into danger, and no parent likes that, so we’re grateful, very, very grateful, to you for helping her, and I for one believe your help was sincerely meant and not just, you know, arsing around, like my … like Dr Roecastle here thinks.’ He cleared his throat nervously and put his teeth away for a moment. ‘We were wondering if you could use some extra cash.’
Garvie stood up and looked at them all. ‘My mother works hard all hours at the hospital and she’s still waiting on a promotion that was promised months ago, and if she got it now it would be because it’s well-deserved, not because it’s a gift.’
Professor Roecastle nodded. ‘Point taken. Dr Roecastle, take note. Well, good luck with the fencing.’
‘Thanks.’
He went with Garvie as far as the living-room door. He had an envelope in his hand, Garvie noticed. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I was meaning to have a little chat before you go about proofs for limits of sequence
s.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’re interesting things. I’m a little surprised, that’s all, that you’d already encountered them at school. I mean, usually that sort of thing is introduced at university, sometimes not until post-graduate study.’
Garvie said nothing.
He fixed Garvie with a stare almost as alarming as his smile. ‘I saw Amy’s book. No workings. Just the answer. That’s interesting too.’
‘Didn’t have much time.’
‘Sort of thing that’s hard to do in your head, I’d have thought.’
‘You’d know. You’re the maths genius.’
Professor Roecastle nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. They even named a theorem after me, the fools. But what if ε were and the common ratio were he said. ‘I wonder if I could work out what N would be then, in my head.’
Garvie stared at him evenly. ‘Eight,’ he said after a moment.
‘Or ?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the thirteenth term is
‘And what else?’
Garvie hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘No, of course not. You wouldn’t. You’d never even heard of this stuff, let alone been taught it. Yes, it’s all very interesting.’ His smile returned, all over his face. ‘So. You’re not going back to school.’
‘Told you. Didn’t get the grades.’
‘That’s right. Never mind, fencing’s a great thing. As I say, you’re probably pretty good at it. Well, anyway. Off you go then. Oh, one last thing.’
He held out the envelope.
Garvie looked at it. ‘I told you already.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not money. Ever heard of the National Mathematics Foundation?’
‘No.’
‘Government thing. They’re a bit dull, but well-meaning. Anyway, I seem to be their president. They give out bursaries – grants – for bright kids to study maths at a higher level. You know, special cases.’
‘I just told you—’
‘Of course. I only mention it in case for some reason the fencing doesn’t work out. There’s a letter in there you can give to the appropriate person at your school. At Marsh, that’s Olivia.’
‘Olivia?’
‘You know her as Miss Perkins. She’s special liaison with our committee. One of the best maths brains in schools education. She thinks you’re a nightmare. I expect you are. But if you give her that letter, she’ll make sure you get your place in the sixth form. The choice is entirely yours. You can throw the letter away if you feel like it. After all, there’s nothing wrong with fencing. Perhaps it’s your fate. Goodbye.’
Garvie was halfway down the drive before Amy caught up with him. She took hold of him and kissed him hard, her hands in his hair, her perfume all round him, and backed off a little, and they stood looking at each other in the moonlight.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Me too.’
‘It was when they told me at the hospital that—’
‘I know.’
‘It all came clear then. How I felt.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I loved him, Garvie. I think I still do.’
‘No need to go on.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m thinking quite seriously of having a cigarette.’
‘I mean, you know, the rest of your life.’
He shrugged. ‘What about you?’
‘Didn’t I say? I’m going to San Francisco with my dad. He’s doing research there after Perm. Just for a few months at first. But if I like it maybe I’ll go to school there.’
He nodded and smiled.
‘What?’
‘Those American boys, they’re going to have to watch out. You’re a bit unpredictable.’
‘That’s me.’ Her eyes shone as she smiled. ‘Hey,’ she said softly.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘Good.’
He turned then before she could see the wetness on his cheek, and walked back down the drive. The gates were already open. He raised a hand without looking back, and then he was gone into the darkness of the lane beyond, and she turned and went back to the house.
He walked across the turnaround, past the bus shelter where he had hidden, through the unmoving shadows of the trees, onto the lane. It wasn’t his world, nor would it ever be, and he was glad. He lit up, and began to walk down the hill towards the city.
After a while he remembered the envelope. Taking it out of his pocket, he was on the point of lobbing it over a fence into someone’s garden when he stopped himself. He thought of people doing things for those they loved: Damon for Tanner, Amy for Damon. That saying of his mother’s came into his head: everyone needs to be given something once in a while. He thought of the kid in Pirrip Street with the middle-aged man’s face and an utter determination not to be taken advantage of, and he put the envelope back in his pocket and walked on.
Fencing wasn’t to be his fate. He thought to himself that maybe he wouldn’t bother with fate much at all.
When he was halfway down Battery Hill he got a call from Smudge asking him if he was coming out.
‘Where to? Old Ditch Road?’ He thought of the kiddies’ playground, the cramped roundabout, the torture of the tiny swings. The drizzle.
‘What?’ Smudge said. ‘The playground? Grow up, mate. No, it’s like a bit of a celebration at ours.’
‘What celebration?’
‘Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t like to come out with it all at once.’ Garvie could hear the embarrassment in Smudge’s voice. ‘It’s my brother, right? He’s, well … he’s lost his head and taken me on. You know, full-time. In the business. A proper apprenticeship like. With training and all that.’
‘Course he has,’ Garvie said. ‘You’re a fencing genius.’
‘Yeah, well, you know, some people just take to it, I suppose. Best thing is, looks like I might be getting a van out of it.’
‘Smudge,’ Garvie said. ‘That’ll be one lucky van.’
‘Thing is,’ Smudge went on, ‘some of the boys are coming round, you know, just to have a few drinks.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘You’ll come? My brother’ll be there, though. I know you didn’t hit it off.’
‘No problem.’
‘Really?’
‘For you, mate, anything.’
He was smiling as he put his phone back in his pocket, zipped up his jacket, and walked on in darkness down the hill.
Acknowledgements
I’m enormously grateful for the help I received in writing this book. My editors at DFB – David Fickling, Bella Pearson and Anthony Hinton – provided bumper amounts of both criticism and encouragement through several drafts; and Christiane Steen at Rowohlt provided further decisive and valuable comments. Linda Sargent, DFB’s outside reader, pointed out troublesome areas with her usual acuity and tact. Eleri Mason ripped the arse out of the first hundred pages of a late draft without any tact whatsoever, and more power to her. Alex Williams provided much-needed assistance on brands. Sue Cook’s copyedit and Julia Bruce’s proofread, as always, saved me embarrassment. Sam Hoggard checked the maths. Alison Gadsby masterminded the cover design supplied by Alice Todd. My thanks to all.
The point, as ever, is to make the book better, and I remain deeply grateful for all these interventions.
My friend Joe Nicholas died during the book’s composition, and, in affectionate memory of our many conversations at that time, I dedicate it to Joe, and to my two children.
Also by Simon Mason
The Garvie Smith Mysteries
Running Girl
Kid Got Shot
Moon Pie
The Quigleys
The Quigleys
The Quigleys at Large
The Quigleys Not for Sale
The Quigleys in a Spin
Copyright
HEY, SHERLOCK!
First published in 2019
by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street, Oxford, OX1 2NP
This ebook edition first published in 2019
All rights reserved
Text © SIMON MASON, 2019
The right of SIMON MASON to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978–1–78845–067–6