A Godawful Small Affair

by J. B. Morrison

  Zoe’s Facebook profile picture was the same one that was on posters all over Brixton. It had appeared in newspapers and on television. It was the picture Nathan was going to take it into Space.

  The only other pictures of Zoe taken in the six months following her alien abduction were two that her dad had taken at the National Space Centre. In one she was standing in front of the two huge rockets with her head tipped back, as it so often was, staring up at the Blue Streak and Thor-Able. Nathan was standing next to her in the picture, but he’d been unable to look up at the rockets without feeling giddy. In the other photo of Zoe taken at the Space Centre, she had her head inside an astronaut’s helmet and her body hidden behind the astronaut, so it looked like she was wearing a spacesuit. Nathan thought his dad should have given that picture to the police instead.

  After he found Zoe’s two friends in her phone, her dad had looked for more online. He began by searching for the two girls on Facebook, hoping to find Zoe in their photos and the photos of their friends, but she wasn’t there. He told Nathan that without any recent pictures of her, he felt like Zoe had been gone for an extra half a year already. He said he was worried about forgetting what she looked like and only being able to remember her when she was six months younger than when he’d last seen her. Nathan promised his dad he would remember what she looked like and would remind him if he ever forgot.

  Nathan’s dad read out loud the latest theories and answers to the question posed by the Facebook page’s title: Where is Zoe Love? Someone had seen her in a train station in Liverpool, another person was sure Zoe had asked them for directions on a high street in Glasgow. Zoe had been spotted as far away as Spain and America and in the duty-free shop at Gatwick Airport buying a bottle of brandy. Another Facebook post included a picture of a girl begging outside a pound shop in Cardiff. The girl’s face was obscured by her hoody, but it was obvious she wasn’t Zoe. Nathan’s dad stared at the picture for ages anyway. Zoe had black hair now, someone commented, another said she dressed like a boy and worked in a charity shop less than a mile away from the estate she was missing from.

  The FLOs had warned Nathan’s dad that after the television appeal a lot of people would want to help. Even if they had no genuine information to offer, they might make things up just to feel involved. Yesterday someone suggested Zoe was buried in her back garden. They weren’t trying to help. There would be a lot of people like that too, the FLOs said. The nasty comments on Facebook had more replies than any of the other well-intentioned ones. There was one particularly long thread of theories about where Zoe really was and how her family had invented the whole story to make themselves rich and famous.

  “There are a lot of new posts because of the television appeal,” Nathan’s dad said. He sounded so pleased that Nathan worried he was starting to enjoy the attention.

  “Can I watch cartoons?” Nathan said.

  His dad passed him the remote control. He gestured at the address written on the back of Nathan’s hand. Brixton, London, England, the World, Earth, the Solar System, the Universe.

  “What’s that for?”

  “In case I get lost.”

  “We’ll have to get it tattooed,” his dad said.

  Nathan looked at him. “Really?”

  His dad nodded. “I’ll get one done as well.”

  Nathan looked at the snake’s head on the back of his dad’s hand and the beginning of the snake’s body on his arm. It continued under the sleeve of his T-shirt, across his shoulders and back down the other arm, where it ended with the snake’s tail tattooed on his dad’s other hand.

  “Where?” Nathan said.

  “I’m sure I can find a space.”

  Nathan couldn’t think where that might be. His dad’s body was literally covered in tattoos. There was a lion, a tiger, and a kangaroo wearing boxing gloves on his back. Elephants, polar bears and penguins filled half of his chest – Nathan’s dad’s tattooist paid no heed to the laws of geography. Some of his tattoos were bright and beautifully coloured in, while others appeared unfinished, they were black or grey and looked like he’d fallen asleep on a damp newspaper. On his right ankle there was a tattooed pair of hands. The little fingers were hooked around each other in a pinkie swear and the words: South London Boys Forever 2013 were tattooed underneath. ‘Never go near a tattoo parlour when you’ve had a drink,’ his dad had declared before the tattoo had properly healed.

  On his chest, over his dad’s heart, there were three scratchy looking letters: ‘KAT’. Kilo Alpha Tango. Nathan and Zoe’s mum. Katherine. Their mum had five tattoos. Four black dots and one blue one. They were targets for the rays that were supposed to destroy her Earth cancer. Like when they’d shaved their heads to support her, the whole family had the same tattoos. Nathan and Zoe had drawn theirs on themselves with ballpoint pens.

  Nathan’s dad refreshed the Facebook page.

  “We need to give out more leaflets,” he said.

  “Do I have to go?”

  “Thirty-three million people go in and out of Brixton station every year, Nathan,” his dad said. Somebody on Facebook had told him that. “What if one of them has seen Zoe?”

  Nathan thought his dad must have noticed people were happier accepting leaflets from a man who had a small child with him. Nathan was like the well-dressed boys and girls who accompanied the religious people that knocked on their door every Saturday.

  “We can go for a McDonald’s after if you like,” his dad said.

  “I’m a vegetarian now.”

  Nathan regretted saying it so quickly. It sounded like he was making an excuse because he didn’t want to help his dad. Because he didn’t care about finding Zoe. But Nathan had decided he’d be a vegetarian last night. He thought, if he made himself more like Zoe, the aliens would be more likely to take him too.

  His dad closed the laptop and Nathan prepared himself for a lecture about priorities. Instead, he said, “Then I suppose I’ll have to be a vegetarian too.”

  15

  Because it was Sunday it wasn’t as busy in town as the day before, and Nathan didn’t feel like he was going to be trampled to death or swept away in a tide of commuters flowing in and out of the Tube. He even handed out a few leaflets himself. When they’d run out of leaflets, Nathan and his dad crossed the road and went to the Subway for their first-ever vegetarian lunch together. The sandwich shop was almost directly opposite the David Bowie mural and Nathan wondered if his dad had only given up meat because it gave him an excuse to read Zoe’s message on the wall again.

  They both had Veggie Delite sandwiches. It was Zoe’s favourite and Nathan asked for his sandwich with ‘the works’ like Zoe always did, even though he didn’t know what the works were. They sat at one of the tables outside and ate their sandwiches while they watched David Bowie fans and tourists posing for selfies in front of the mural. Nathan’s dad paid close attention to anyone who appeared to be reading the messages on the wall next to the painting.

  Nathan pulled the lid off his Fruit Shoot, tipped his head back and squeezed the plastic bottle, aiming a squirt of the juice into his mouth. He squished it around like mouthwash. His mouth was on fire.

  “You can pick the jalapeños out if you like,” his dad said.

  Nathan said he was fine. His mum used to say that if he ate something that he didn’t like enough times, eventually his brain would teach his mouth to like it. Nathan’s dad used to test the theory by bringing exotic, unusual fruit and vegetables home from the stall. Nathan and Zoe would eat starfruit and lychees, yams and butternut squashes, and other fruit and vegetables that didn’t look like real food at all.

  Nathan used to love watching his dad at work on the stall, juggling fruit and spinning the paper bags to seal them. He’d call out the names of fruit and vegetables in a voice he didn’t use at any other time, except maybe at the football. “You got your eeeeasy peelers…Nanas! Three for a parrrnd!” his dad would shout while trains rattled across the railway bridge overhead. Nathan won
dered what Zoe might be eating now. How weird must alien fruit be, and how many times would Zoe have to taste it before her brain taught her mouth to like it?

  Nathan’s dad was staring at a girl reading the messages on the wall opposite. Nathan wanted to tell him it wasn’t Zoe.

  “Are you going back to work?” Nathan said.

  His dad didn’t answer until the girl had walked away. “I can’t even think about that yet. You are going to have to go back to school though.”

  “Why do I have to go if you don’t?” Nathan said. “I want to help you find Zoe.”

  “I know you do, mate. But no one’s going to miss me at work. They’ll get their apples from Sainsbury’s or—”

  “Craig said half of Brixton will get scurvy if you don’t start selling them fruit again,” Nathan said. His dad shook his head and did his, tsk, Craig eh face. Nathan asked him what scurvy was.

  “It’s something to do with biscuits,” his dad said. “It’s what sailors used to get…I think…You see, Nathan. That’s exactly what I mean. If you don’t go to school, you’ll end up thick like your dad. You’ll never be a doctor or a lawyer if you don’t go to school—”

  “I don’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer.”

  “What do you want to be?”

  Nathan didn’t need any time to think about it. “An astronaut. Or work with you on the stall.”

  “Blimey, Nath,” his dad said, almost spitting his food out. “There’s got to be something in-between astronaut and greengrocer.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know…everything? Sorry, mate, but you’ve got to go back to school. And isn’t that astronaut day coming up soon? You were really looking forward to that.”

  Nathan was surprised his dad had remembered about the Space and Science Far Beyond Infinity Workshop. The letter from the school about it had been stuck to the fridge door since before Christmas. In the last week though, the letter had been gradually shifted along and then down the fridge door. It was now almost completely hidden under Zoe leaflets, police business cards, scraps of paper with phone numbers on and flyers for three separate private investigators that had been posted through the letterbox.

  It was true, Nathan had been looking forward to the ‘fun, scientific and out-of-this-world unforgettable space experience’ that the letter described. An astronaut was going to ‘touch down’ in Nathan’s classroom and spend the whole day with the students, taking them on ‘the intergalactic journey of a lifetime’. The day would include interactive HD videos and a quiz, and everyone would get the chance to see and touch actual items from space. They would also be able to try on an astronaut helmet and launch a rocket. But with Nathan’s sister in real space, on a genuine intergalactic journey of a lifetime, seeing and touching actual things that weren’t just from space, but in space, it all seemed a bit silly.

  Nathan tipped his head back and squeezed the last of his fruit juice into his mouth. The sun was in his eyes and he sat up straight and angled his chair away from it. It was just coming up to midday but there was a moon over H & M.

  “Have you got any fruit?” Nathan said.

  His dad patted his pockets, both real and imaginary. “Not on me. Why?”

  “Zoe showed me how there can be a sun and a moon in the day and at the same time. She used fruit. The orange was Earth and the grapefruit was the Sun. The Moon was a tomato. I think.”

  “Sorry, mate,” his dad said.

  “We could go to the stall and get some off Craig.”

  Nathan’s dad looked at his phone for the tenth time since they’d sat down for lunch. “We should probably get back,” he said. He’d already started to get up.

  “Can’t we stay a bit longer?” Nathan said.

  “Not today. The police are coming around.”

  “Again?”

  Nathan hadn’t meant to sound so selfish. He just didn’t want to be searching for Zoe all the time. He stood up and followed his dad. When he paused to read Zoe’s message for the zillionth time, Nathan looked at the Moon. It was more like a pickled onion than a tomato. It reminded him of the silvery grey lychees his dad brought home from work once. It seemed so out of place in the midday sky above H & M that Nathan wondered if it was actually a hot air balloon, tied to the roof of the shop to advertise jeans.

  There were fewer leaflets on the ground on the way to the bus stop. They ran for a bus but missed it. And then the driver opened the doors for them at the traffic lights, which never happens. And best of all, the Oyster card reader wasn’t working and the journey was free. His dad said it was his favourite thing in the whole world. Nathan could think of one thing to top it but didn’t say anything. It was only a short bus ride home, but they went upstairs and sat at the front. They talked about football and video games and his dad didn’t mention Zoe once.

  16

  Nathan ran a bath deep enough for water to spill out onto the floor when he climbed in. He pulled the swimming goggles over his eyes, took a huge breath and pinched his nose. He slid down the bath until his toes touched the tap and his face was under water. He started counting: one Mississippi, two Mississippi. His record for holding his breath was fifty-two Mississippis and he was determined to beat it. The Apollo astronauts had sophisticated spacesuits and helmets and boxes of oxygen strapped to their backs when they trained for space travel. There were pictures in Moonmen (and Women) of the astronauts training in a huge empty swimming pool and in the middle of the ocean. They had a team of frogmen and medical staff standing by in case they got into trouble. All Nathan had was a bath, some tinted swimming goggles, and his lungs.

  Everything sounded different underwater. Not louder like in the dark but more like his ears were selecting a few things for him to listen to. Like putting a shell to his ear. He could hear the water rushing through the pipes as the tank refilled and he heard either his heartbeat or drum and bass music in a car. After sixteen Mississippis the house phone rang and less than two Mississippis after that he heard his dad’s muffled voice. He waited for footsteps on the stairs, either running with good news, or if it was bad, a zombie dawdle. Twenty Mississippis passed. Nathan couldn’t hear his dad’s voice anymore but there were no footsteps on the stairs. He thought of all the times Auntie Maureen had told his dad that no news was good news and how that so obviously wasn’t true.

  Nathan wondered what it would feel like if Zoe was dead. How would he react to the news? When his mum died, he just remembered being confused. It felt more unfair than sad. Like they had unfinished business. But even though everyone had been expecting her to die for a long time and his dad had tried preparing Nathan for it, the actual moment was impossible to prepare for. When their dad told him and Zoe, it sounded like a mistake, or even a joke. The worst April fool’s joke ever.

  The water tank was almost full again and the pipes were quieter. The drip from the bath taps had slowed down. Nathan could feel the cold drip on his big toe. He would have to breathe like an astronaut if he wanted to beat his record. He cheat-counted his seconds faster. Brixtons instead of Mississippis. Forty-one Brixtons, forty-two Brixtons, forty-three. When it was time to resurface, the Navy or the Air Force would pop the hatch on the capsule, and he’d climb into a dingy. Fifty-two Brixtons, fifty-three. He’d be out of breath and the air tanks would be so heavy that they’d have to pull him into the dingy. Fifty-six, fifty-seven. An all-new Nathan J Love record. A new personal best. His PB. His Papa Bravo. Nathan counted down. Ten, nine, eight. Like David Bowie on Zoe’s favourite ever song. Seven, six. Ground Control to Major Zoe. He wondered how Zoe managed to breathe in space without a helmet, or without a box on her back, especially with her asthma. Nathan had seen her gasping for air when she couldn’t find her inhaler, and it had terrified him. He thought his sister was going to die. Four, three. Two. He sat up suddenly, sending a wave of water onto the floor. He climbed out of the bath, coughing up swallowed water. He pulled his pyjama trousers on, almost tripping over and falling headfirst into the bathroom doo
r. Less haste more speed, Nathan, his mum used to say. He never knew exactly what it meant but he knew it applied to this sort of situation.

  Still pulling his pyjama trousers on, he hopped along the landing, leaving single wet footprints on the carpet that would have confused detectives. He went into Zoe’s room, snapping the Sellotape across the door, setting off the alien alarms. The cotton bud fell off the dressing table. Only the plastic beads remained in place on the windowsill, still forming the shape of the initial of his asthmatic sister.

  Nathan sat on Zoe’s bed. He pulled his pyjama trousers up and opened the drawer in the bedside table. He took the inhalers out and shook them one by one. First the three pale blue inhalers and then the brown one. PC Torres had said it was unusual for a fifteen-year-old girl to leave home without her mobile phone, but what about a fifteen-year-old asthmatic girl leaving home without her inhaler? Nathan went along the landing to the top of the stairs. He leaned over the banisters and called out, “Dad. Zoe forgot her puffer.”

  “What?” his dad called back from the kitchen.

  Nathan repeated himself, louder and more urgently, picturing Zoe gasping for air with every second, turning blue, dying. “Zoe forgot her puffer.”

  His dad came out into the hall below. He looked up at Nathan.

  “I know,” he said calmly.

  “Shouldn’t you tell the police?”

  “They know too, Nath,” his dad tilted his head to get a clearer look up the stairs. “Why are you wearing swimming goggles?”

  Nathan pulled the goggles off the top of his head.

  “I didn’t want to get soap in my eyes.”

  “Okay, mate. Don’t forget to let the bath out.”

  Nathan walked back along the landing, stepping into his single wet footprints, hopping from one to the next. He pulled the plug out of the bath and watched the water until it started to gurgle and then he went back to Zoe’s room. He sat on her bed and looked at the inhalers on the bedside table. He put the brown one and two of the blue ones back in the drawer and closed it. Aliens would obviously be more advanced than humans. They could hide their spaceships in clouds. They could sneak into bedrooms unnoticed, like Father Christmas. Zoe wouldn’t need a stupid human inhaler. Nathan pictured her hooked up to a machine, full of beeps and blinks and flashing lights. There’d be tubes going into her and coming out again, feeding Zoe and emptying her, refuelling her, making her comfortable and keeping her alive, like their mum in hospital. It was when they removed the tubes, when they took Zoe to a nice private room on her own. That was when Nathan needed to worry.