by Amy Lloyd
Though I’m not hungry I go to Kelly’s and order tea and toast. Every table is covered with spilled sugar, coffee rings and sticky patches of tomato sauce. I wander from seat to seat before asking Kelly for a damp cloth to wipe the table nearest the window.
‘I haven’t had a single second yet today,’ she says, angry and out of the blue. ‘It’s been non-stop.’
I look at the empty café: the only other person is an old lady with candyfloss white hair, lipstick on her teeth and a vague smile as she stares into the distance.
‘Um,’ I say. ‘So can I have a cloth, please?’
Kelly sighs; she shakes her head. ‘Where are you sitting?’ she asks. I point to the window seat. ‘I’ll be there right now, madam, if you’d like to take your seat.’
‘The cloth?’ I ask.
‘Yes! I will wipe your table down as soon as I can get a minute!’ she half shouts. Confused, ashamed, I sit at the dirty table and hold my hands between my knees. What did I say wrong? Kelly appears and wipes the table down aggressively. Some of the sugar lands on my legs and I hold myself still because I somehow know that brushing it off will only make her angrier.
‘There,’ she says as she leaves. ‘I’ll bring your tea and toast now.’
‘Than—’ I start to say but she has stormed off before I can finish. I look at the table and the waves of damp from the cloth, half-circles and zigzags and some patches of dry where the cloth never touched at all.
I get a napkin and rub and rub at the edges of the pattern but it hardly makes a difference. Kelly catches me doing it when she returns and in frustration she puts my tea down too hard and it sloshes over the edge of the mug.
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at the white bread that I didn’t order and the tea dribbling down the porcelain, collecting on the red table top. I’m not hungry. My stomach cramps thinking of Dr Isherwood and her illness, Sean and whatever has stopped him from calling me. But I remember what the vicar used to say: You have to put on your own oxygen mask before you help others. So I eat the toast, even though Kelly has only buttered the middle of the bread and not up to the crusts and even though it is white bread and I had ordered brown because I’m trying to be healthier.
Suddenly my phone rings so loudly that the old lady at the other side of the café makes a small, scared noise. I apologise while I try and find it in my bag and turn to see her holding her hands over her heart and I worry I’ve given her a heart attack. The screen reads Unavailable.
‘Hello?’ I whisper into the phone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sean says.
‘Why?’
‘For not calling you. I was fucked yesterday, hungover. Couldn’t face the chat.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say. I am just glad he’s all right.
‘Nah, it isn’t OK, though. You should be angry with me. Tell me to fuck off.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I say.
‘You’re allowed to be mad with people if they let you down,’ Sean says.
‘You didn’t let me down,’ I lie.
‘Come on! Fucking shout at me, tell me I’m a prick, do something!’
‘I’m in a café,’ I say quietly.
‘Well, anyway, I am sorry. All right?’ Sean says this as if I have argued with him.
‘Yeah. OK,’ is all I can say.
Sean sighs and at the end he laughs a little. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Not really,’ he says.
‘Why?’ I start to panic again. When I think of Sean not being OK, I don’t feel OK either.
‘Just bullshit, just life. You know.’ We both sit quietly on the phone and that feels like enough. ‘Cheer me up, Petal,’ Sean says eventually. ‘Make me laugh.’
The café is dead silent and both the old woman and Kelly seem to be staring at me, daring me to keep talking on the phone. So I grab my bag and hold my phone between my shoulder and face and open the heavy front door.
‘This guy,’ I say. ‘This guy from work sent me a picture of his penis.’
Sean starts to laugh loud and hard. ‘How do you always say the last fucking thing I’m expecting?’ he says. I laugh too. ‘What did you do?’ he says, so I tell him the whole conversation we had and he keeps telling me to stop because he can’t breathe. I’m laughing but am not always sure what’s so funny. I want to ask but I feel I can’t.
‘Did I say the wrong thing?’ I manage, between giggles.
‘Actually I think you were pretty fucking spot on,’ he says. ‘You should show your boss, get him sacked. What a loser.’
‘Um,’ I say.
‘Oh no. Don’t tell me you like him?’
‘No!’ We both laugh again. A man passing by smiles like he’s in on the joke.
‘So? Ruin him! He sounds like a prick.’
Hesitantly, I tell Sean about the underwear, about the date, about how I gave him my number so it’s really my fault.
‘It’s not your fucking fault, pet. Jack’s a fucking predator. What’s he going to do now? Tell the boss he saw you pinching weeks ago and he’s only just decided to say something? That he was just browsing the CCTV for the past few weeks and happened to notice you took something? He’s bullshitting you, pet. Tell him to jog on, he’s got fuck all on you.’
It sounds good. I imagine myself saying these things, tough and cool, but I also know it will never happen. Sean just doesn’t understand how hard it is to say no over and over again because when Sean says no, people listen.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Maybe I’ll need him to help me one time, with my ankle tag.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sean says, his voice all wary and thin.
‘You said I needed to know someone bad, that they would know what to do. Especially because he works in security and he might know someone from the company who does my tag and—’
‘Forget I said that; you don’t want to go fucking around with that shit. I was talking bollocks. Leave it.’
‘But what if I need to go “off-grid”.’ I try to sound out the air quotes and feel silly doing it.
‘What would you need to go off-grid for?’ Sean mimics my silly voice and I blush.
‘I’m worried about Dr Isherwood,’ I say. ‘I think she’s sick.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s tired all the time and she’s not listening to me,’ I say. Then I feel like I am confessing something, admitting that I know it’s wrong but: ‘She’s visiting the doctor a lot.’
‘Look, don’t worry about Isherwood, OK? She isn’t sick.’
‘But she’s not herself. What if they say I can’t visit her when she’s in hospital? What if I need to sneak in so that—’
‘Stop, OK? I shouldn’t have told you about the fucking phone-tracking thing. I was messing with you and it wasn’t right. Forget it.’
‘What do you mean, messing with me?’ It feels like a bone stuck in my throat.
‘I got jealous, yeah? Isherwood just gave you a phone so you could call her whenever. She probably fucking pays for it and all. I don’t have anyone who would do that for me. It pissed me off, so I thought I’d mess with your head. It was shit, yeah? I’m sorry.’
I hear Sean sniff, that noise he always made when he was trying not to cry.
‘It isn’t that bad,’ I say, trying to make him feel better. ‘At least now I know that she isn’t well. I can look after her if she needs it.’
‘You’re not listening to me!’ Sean shouts. ‘Isherwood is fine! You don’t need to look after her; you shouldn’t be watching her on the phone. If she finds out you’re tracking her she’s going to be freaked out. It’ll ruin everything.’
‘I think she left it on purpose,’ I say. It suddenly seems true, that this is her sign to me that she needs me as much as I need her. ‘I think she wants me to help her.’
‘You sound fucking insane,’ Sean says. ‘She’s not sick! She’s just … busy. She just didn’t think about giving you her old phone because she’s distracted.’
‘By what?’ I wait for Sean to answer but he’s silent. ‘Because she’s not well!’
He sighs; it turns into a groan. ‘Look, Isherwood is fine. Trust me.’
‘How would you know?’ I ask. ‘You don’t even know her!’
‘Because I hacked into her emails, OK? Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. How do you think I always find you?’
I feel cold, suddenly. ‘Why?’ It’s all I can ask.
‘Because you ruined my life! And I fucking care about you! You were my only friend.’
‘So … you want to ruin my life?’
‘No. I don’t know! I miss you. Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I feel so bad about everything that I don’t even know what I want any more.’ Sean stops; he sniffs. ‘You’re like a loose tooth I can’t stop messing with. Stubborn, clinging at the root. You know?’
I close my eyes and try to remember loose teeth, dying for them to come out but fearing it as well. That bitter taste of blood on the tongue. We are quiet for a moment.
I walk towards the lake, the phone against my ear.
‘So what is distracting Dr Isherwood?’ I ask. ‘If she isn’t sick?’
‘She’s fine, Petal, that’s all you need to know.’
‘No, really,’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t even look at the map thing again if you tell me.’
Sean hisses air through his teeth.
‘Please?’ I say. ‘Come on, Tanks. Is she really OK?’
Sean waits a long time and then says gently, ‘It’s good news, pet. She has a baby now.’
‘What?’ I say. The cold hits me again; my breath is gone. ‘You’re lying. You’re still messing with me.’
‘I’m not, I promise!’ Sean says.
‘Then how come she hasn’t even been pregnant?’ I ask. After everything he’s said I can’t believe he’s still lying to me.
‘Isherwood adopted her, over the summer, while you were still inside.’
‘No but … wait. No.’ I have to sit down but there are no benches and so I walk backwards, towards the grassy verge at the side of the path. I sit on the damp grass.
‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Sean says. ‘It’s good news. Isn’t it better than her being sick?’
No, I think. No, it isn’t. Dr Isherwood won’t need me any more. Then I remember how she left her phone tracker on for me and I realise he is lying. He is still trying to hurt me.
‘Liar,’ I say. I feel eight again; I feel the same as I always did when he made fun of me. Except I have decided that I won’t believe it this time, I won’t let him ruin what Dr Isherwood and I have. ‘You’re jealous. You’re messing with me because you wish someone loved you like Dr Isherwood loves me.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not now. Petal, listen to me. The only person who’s going to ruin it is you.’
‘Leave me alone,’ I shout, and I hang up.
I realise I have never hung up before. Sean calls back and I hang up again and again and again every time he calls. The world seems loud, the sounds of people and things competing with the noise inside my head. I put my phone on silent and clutch my hands over my ears but it doesn’t help. So I run. I run without knowing where I’m going; I ignore people who stare at my red face and the tears and my gasping breaths. I run until I reach a church, the railings painted green, a sign that reads ‘St. Saviour’s’, trees as old as life, huge things that look tired and seem to sigh in the wind. It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear the scuff of my trainers on the stone path.
The door is open and inside is dark, the light that gets through the stained-glass windows tinged with reds and blues. It all smells like Sunday mornings: dusty books, incense, burned matches and candles blown out in the draught. A vicar fusses with something at the lectern but he is the only one here. He looks up and smiles. I force a smile and take a seat near the back. I bow my head, close my eyes as though I’m praying, and enjoy the silence.
31
Her: Then
After church on Sunday Auntie Fay takes me to the front to light a candle for Luke. Lots of the candles are lit and we use a long stick to take the flame from one candle and light a new one. Auntie Fay holds my hands to help me and even though the stick is really long I still feel scared of getting burned and my hands shake. All the candles are in little red glasses and together they look beautiful and serious. Auntie Fay drops a coin into the wooden box next to them where you pay God to listen to your prayer. I look at all of the light and all of the red until Auntie Fay tells me it’s time to go.
On the way out we shake the vicar’s hand and he rubs my hair too hard. Auntie Fay knows everyone so it always takes ages to leave church. Ryan is running around the graveyard with some other boys. All the grown-ups are talking about Luke and how awful it is.
‘It’s a tragedy,’ Auntie Fay says, holding the golden cross around her neck. ‘But no one could have prevented it.’
‘They’re saying it wasn’t an accident,’ someone says. Auntie Fay holds the cross tighter.
‘Didn’t you know?’ someone else asks. ‘On the news they’re saying that Luke was seen with two other children. They’re calling for witnesses.’
‘Children?’ Auntie Fay says. ‘Well, then it is an accident, surely.’
A woman with frizzy orange hair looks at me and then talks quietly, but I can still hear her.
‘There were … marks, on his body,’ she says. Auntie Fay gasps.
‘How awful. Oh, don’t tell me any more, I can’t – it’s too terrible. That poor boy’s mother,’ Auntie Fay says.
‘Can we go now?’ I ask, pulling at Auntie Fay’s sleeve.
‘Yes, in a minute, love, I’m just talking,’ she says. Then she starts on about Luke again even though she said she didn’t want them to tell her any more about it.
‘They think that maybe he was taken from the back garden,’ someone says. ‘When his mum wasn’t watching him.’
‘That poor woman,’ Auntie Fay says again.
The woman with the frizzy orange hair looks at me again and it isn’t a nice look.
‘They said it was a boy and a girl that he was with,’ the frizzy hair says.
‘Teenagers?’ Auntie Fay says.
The frizzy hair bounces as she shakes her head.
‘The boy has red hair and freckles,’ the woman says. ‘They think he might be twelve, thirteen. But the girl … has blonde hair. And she might be as young as eight.’
The woman isn’t looking at me now but it feels like everyone is. I hold Auntie Fay’s sleeve and kick at the loose paving stone. There is silence and Auntie Fay grips my hand too tightly.
‘Well,’ Auntie Fay says. Her hand squeezes mine even tighter. ‘How awful. The truth will out, eventually.’
Everyone agrees.
‘I must get on now. I suppose this one is getting hungry, aren’t you?’ she says, turning to me. Her smile is fixed; her eyes are quivering and filling with water. I nod. ‘See you soon,’ she says. ‘Say goodbye now,’ she adds to me.
‘Paul,’ Auntie Fay calls across the crowd. ‘I’m going to walk her home and get lunch started. Can you look after Ryan?’
Uncle Paul gives a thumbs up and winks at me like he always does.
‘Come on,’ Auntie Fay says, putting her head down and walking so fast that I have to run to keep up. She walks until we’re around the corner and out of sight of the church. She bends down and she puts her hands either side of my head. ‘Listen, love,’ she says. She keeps stroking my cheeks with her thumbs, until my tears roll down and collect in the creases of her hands. ‘Listen …’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Listen. You know you can tell me anything, don’t you, love?’ She tries to pull her taut lips into a smile. I nod but her hands hold my head too tightly. ‘If anything has happened … if you know anything about Luke …’ The name makes me choke a little. ‘Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me and we can make it better.’
I feel all the days of keeping it inside starting to leak out of me, the fluttering in my stoma
ch turning into a quake, but I still can’t talk.
Then Auntie Fay starts to turn angry, her face scrunching inwards. ‘What are you hiding? I know you’re hiding something. Tell me! For God’s sake, tell me what you’ve done!’
She’s shaking me, hard, and I can’t tell her to stop. I can’t do anything. Suddenly she stops shaking me and puts a hand over her mouth and then grabs me with both arms and hugs me. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
‘I tried to help him,’ I say in a whisper.
‘What do you mean, sweetheart?’ Auntie Fay asks me. She looks afraid.
‘It wasn’t our fault. We were just trying to help him get home.’
‘Luke? You were helping Luke?’
‘But a bad man took him away again,’ I say quickly, before the words can creep back inside.
‘Tell me everything,’ Auntie Fay says. ‘From the beginning.’
So I do.
32
Her: Now
I leave the church and instead of getting a bus back to the home, I walk. I claw at the scraps of memories and try to piece them together into something coherent, but I can’t. I remember Auntie Fay’s eyes as I told her about Luke, about the underpass. As I told her about the old man with his toothless mouth and his long bony finger.
I am still deep in thought when I round the corner to the home but I look up at the giggles I hear as I approach. The group of smokers have their backs to me; the smell of cigarettes in the crisp air blows in my direction. One turns and says, ‘Here she is now, look!’ The rest all make a sound like a cheer and I smile uncertainly, wondering what is going on.
Then the women part and I see, standing in front of them, Jack, a red rose in his hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
The women all groan and tell me to be nicer to him.
‘He’s all right, he is!’ one says.
‘Give him a chance, love, he’s made an effort!’ says another.
‘She keeps breaking my heart, see, girls!’ Jack says. He pulls his mouth down like a sad clown, the rose almost drooping in his hand. The women all laugh and pretend to comfort him.
