by Pat Young
At the bottom of the rucksack is a poly bag, clear like the ones Mum puts sandwiches in. Inside is a passport. I throw it back into the rucksack and open the zipper on one of the outside pockets.
If someone came in right now and said, ‘What are you doing?’ of course I couldn’t answer. Not because I don’t talk but because inside my head, I don’t know the answer.
Don’t know what made me suspicious. Think it was when Joyce mentioned the tattoos. Then they started to discuss the colour of his hair. The hair he shaves off. Whether it was red. It was the word ginger that make me think, wait a minute. I’ve no idea what I’m hoping to find in Seb’s bag, but I go ahead and unzip one of the pockets.
Pull out a wallet thing and open it. Bits of paper and stuff. An email from Dad with our logo at the top, offering Seb a job. A thick bundle of money in an elastic band, some euros and lots of our kind of money, sterling. Don’t have time to count it but I flick over some of the corners and there must be hundreds of pounds. Wow! I’ve never seen so much money. Dad must pay them a lot. Should I steal it? That would be a good way to get my own back on Seb for hurting me. I picture his angry face, remember his rage that day, remember how scared I was that the beating would never stop. I put the money back, trying to make sure it goes in the same place I found it.
My fingers feel something else in the wallet, but there’s nothing to be seen. I wonder if there’s a secret compartment. I feel like a spy as I fiddle around, poking my finger in till it catches the edge of a notebook or something stuck behind the lining. Another passport. A green one this time. My stomach does a kind of flip over. How can one guy have two passports?
Republic of South Africa it says, in golden letters. République d’Afrique du Sud. That’s French. Maybe that’s why he speaks both. Flick through looking for the photo. There he is, Seb, on the inside of the back cover. Younger looking, but Seb.
Surname: WEBB
Given names: ANGUS JOHN
Read it again. Where’s the Sebastien?
Throw the passport onto the bed and delve to the bottom of the rucksack. Slide open the plastic zip thing and tip out the passport. This one’s burgundy, like mine, but French. My stomach feels all fizzy, like when I open presents and I’m nervous in case what’s inside isn’t what I was wanting.
Turn to the photo. Can’t say I recognise the face. Just a young guy, ordinary looking. Check the names.
LAMAR
SEBASTIEN, LOUIS
Sit down on the bed, kind of collapse, really, like my legs went weak. Feel the wetness of the towel. Hear a voice outside, in the distance, a wee child shouting for her daddy.
Wish I’d never come in here. Wish I hadn’t snooped. Curiosity killed the cat – that’s a proverb. Miss Lawson says a proverb is a simple saying, often repeated because it expresses a truth. It means being nosy isn’t good. Unless you’re a detective, and I’m not.
A detective would be saying, ‘Okay, this man is pretending to be the guy that he’s just killed.’
Why would anyone do that?
Don’t know the answer but I do know this passport is evidence. Bet the T-shirt on the floor is evidence too. Don’t want to touch it but know I’ve got to check it. Using two fingers like a crab’s claw, I catch a tiny bit of T-shirt in my pincers and hold it up. Too dark to see clearly but there are definitely stains and dirty marks on it.
Make up my mind really fast. Wrap the French passport up in the T-shirt. Not so bothered about touching it now. Just want to get out of here as quick as I can.
Put the other one, the green one, back where I found it. Have to make everything look like it was before I came in. Or I’m in deep trouble.
49
‘Seb? Can you come in here for one moment, please?’
Gus clicks his tongue against his teeth. What the hell does Pim want now?
He turns to his walking companions, the two Dutch boys. Nice kids actually, and no trouble. ‘Thanks, dudes. Really enjoyed that.’ Gus is surprised to find he means it.
‘Me too,’ says Jakob, the sixteen year old.
‘Can we do it again? asks his younger brother. ‘Maybe tomorrow?’
‘Err, do you mind if we take a rain check on that one, guys? Think we’ve got a schedule to follow and that Natalie is a real slave driver. Don’t be fooled by her cute smile.’
‘Oh, okay.’ The kid’s face speaks his disappointment and Gus feels bad. They’ve clearly had a good time and being stuck in a place like this with your parents and younger siblings can’t be much fun. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I see you at the pool later and maybe we can get some water volleyball going? I’m sure I saw a net somewhere.’
‘We’ll get our old man to play. That should be a laugh.’
Gus holds up his open palm and both boys slap it in a high five. ‘Later,’ he says and heads for reception.
‘What is it, Pim?’
‘No necessity for looking glum, Seb. I have a pleasant surprise for you.’
‘Listen mate, I’m really not in the mood for games here. I’m just in off a hike with an hour to shower and grab some food before I go on duty at the pool. What do you want?’
Pim smiles like a moron. ‘It’s not what I want. It’s what you want.’
Gus sighs loudly. It’s that or hit the guy in the mouth.
Pim seems to pick up the vibe. ‘No need for hostility, Seb. I have a parcel for you, that is all.’
A parcel? Who’d be sending him a parcel? His mother has missed his birthday for the last two years and, anyway, it’s not till September. He takes the small package and mutters his thanks.
There’s a handwritten label front and back. One says Sebastien Lamar and the campsite address. The other says from Catherine Lamar and a neatly written address in Paris. Shit. The dead guy’s mother. Has to be.
‘A gift from your mother, I suspect,’ says Pim, beaming like a department store Santa. ‘Might congratulations be in order? Or a celebratory drink in the bar later this evening?’ He rubs his hands.
‘Yeah, sure. If you’re paying! Catch you later.’ Gus smiles as the door marked reception swings closed behind him.
In the dorm the curtains are still shut. ‘Can’t see a thing in here,’ he mutters, grabbing a handful of material and yanking it so hard the curtain comes off the railing.
With a bit more light he unwraps the parcel. Whatever it is, the sender has packaged it well, protecting the contents with bubble wrap and then foam. The last piece of wrapping peels away to reveal a white box whose logo Gus recognises right away. A brand new iPhone.
Taped to the underside of the box is a little handwritten note.
Afraid your old phone didn’t survive its night amongst the cows.
What? Some sort of secret code?
Happy birthday, my darling. Rest of your presents when we see you. Call soon, please. 0633142677 (in case you can’t remember without your phone!) Love you.
A nice new phone could be handy, but it makes life a bit tricky too. Clearly this woman will be expecting a call soon. He got away with grunts and okays when she called before, but he won’t manage to fool her a second time.
He taps the box off his chin while he decides what to do. Sending a text might be the answer, but first he needs to think carefully what he wants to say and how to say it. A job for later.
He sticks the packaging in the waste bin, grimacing at the rubbish that’s already in there, mostly Pim’s, and drops the phone box into the rucksack. He adds the coastal path guidebook and mutters, ‘Good choice, Granny.’ The boss was well impressed this morning when he introduced Gus to the two boys and their dad, and, with the book, the path was easy to find.
Even though he knows exactly how much he’s got saved, Gus takes out his cash and counts it. Still not enough. He rubs his hand over his chin and cheeks, back and forward, back and forward. This woman’s bound to get suspicious when her son doesn’t come home for his granny’s funeral and shit’s gonna hit the fan, big time. He’s either got to get o
ut of here before that happens or play for time till he can make enough money to cover his flight.
50
‘You’re wrong, Catherine. I do understand, perfectly well, why you want to go right now.’
‘No, you don’t. Otherwise we’d be there already.’
‘Look, darling. It made no sense to go when you asked. We could have flown past each other, the two of us on one plane and Sebastien on another, on his way home.’ He moves his arms through the air, as if to help her visualise.
‘Except he wasn’t on his way home, was he?’
‘We know that now. Anyway, a few more days won’t make any difference. The funeral is over. Sebastien has missed it. There’s nothing we can do to change that.’
‘I’ve been thinking it may be my fault he didn’t come in time. I assumed he’d want to be here, so I didn’t make it sound urgent enough. This is the first death in the family since Sebastien was a child. He doesn’t know about these things, how quickly they’re arranged.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Catherine, he’s an adult. Everyone knows there’s a six-day limit. It’s the law.’
‘Why would Sebastien know that? He’s never heard it talked about as far as I know.’
‘Surely his employer would tell him to hurry home?’
‘I’ve been doing some research online. There’s no six-day limit in England.’
‘Sebastien’s in Scotland.’
‘I know that,’ she snaps, ‘it was just a slip. Anyway, same thing. It can take weeks for a funeral there.’
Eric looks genuinely shocked. ‘That can’t be true.’
‘It is. After Christmas, some families had to wait three or even four weeks. What if the people Sebastien is working for have told him there’s no rush?’
‘I should think that’s unlikely, but you have a point. I assume you’ve phoned him to ask where the hell he is?’
Catherine nods.
‘And?’
‘It went to voicemail. He hasn’t called back yet.’
‘Probably because he hasn’t got the parcel yet. Did you leave a message?’
‘I sent him a note with it, asking him to call me as soon as possible.’
‘Well, I suggest we get on with the house. There’s not that much left to do. You’ve been amazing. I promise you, the moment we’re finished, we’ll head for Scotland. If we hear from him before then, all the better.’
‘What if we don’t?’
51
Scotland
Thursday 26 July
I hate my life.
Hate living here. Everyone says, ‘You’re lucky, Charlie. Wish I lived on a campsite. You’ve got your own swimming pool and your own café.’
They think I just go and help myself to ice cream and Cola whenever I like. Jayden Jeffries even said, ‘Can you, like, just go and steal vodka if there’s, like, nobody watching?’
It’s even more rubbish in the summer holidays. Never see my friends. Dad’s too busy. Mum’s ‘run off my feet’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Seems to me she’s always getting dressed up and swanning off to ‘meetings’. Hope they’re not all with that sleazy-looking guy in the flash car.
Got this red bit on my arm where I keep scratching. Not because it’s itchy or got a rash. More like it’s a habit now. Mum hasn’t even noticed it. Sometimes I think she doesn’t care. She hardly ever gives me hugs. Not like she used to when I was wee.
Natalie used to hug me too but she doesn’t any more. I heard her telling Joyce one day that teachers aren’t allowed to hug pupils.
‘Whit?’ Joyce said. ‘That’s shite.’ I love Joyce. She’s the only one that treats me the same, still gives me a squeeze sometimes. Don’t see why Nat can’t hug me. She’s not even a proper teacher yet and, anyway, it’s not as if I’m her pupil. Although you’d think I was, the way she’s always trying to get me to talk. Funny really. She’s desperate for me to talk and there’s Seb, or whatever his real name is, desperate for me to keep quiet. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.
Kidz Klub is a waste of space. Rubbish activities, full of babies and he’s there all the time. Everywhere I go, he’s there. In the café, in the playbarn, at the pool. Watching me. As if he’s trying to work out what I’m going to do.
Every day I wake up and wonder when he’ll notice his T-shirt’s missing. Will that make him check for the dead guy’s passport? He’s bound to know it’s me. Who else would take it?
Kidz Klub finishes in the middle of August. That’s just a few weeks. Then he’ll be gone. All I have to do is keep out of his way till then. Except there’s one thing I need to do first. Maybe it’s crazy, but I’m still going to do it.
Dad deliberately built the pool where it would get shelter from the wind. It still causes arguments. Mum says campers would prefer to sit on their loungers and admire the sea view. Dad says the wind would blow them and their loungers to Ailsa Craig.
Can hear his voice before I get anywhere near the pool. Calling out a score.
‘Dad and Jakob’s team, nine. Lucas and Seb’s team, ten. Game point, boys.’
I sneak up to the corner and stand behind the big bush that grows there. Dad planted it as a windbreaker. Peek through the leaves so I can see the players, but they can’t see me. He’s in the water, taking part. His back’s to me and he’s about to serve. He holds the ball high. His big muscly arms are wet and shiny. His coloured tattoos sparkle like jewels in the sun. It goes quiet as if everyone is waiting to see who’ll win.
I’ve been practising this over and over, but I don’t know if I can do it. I take a big deep breath, push out my lips and, just as he’s about to serve, I shout, as loud as I can, ‘Webb!’
He turns his head towards the sound and the ball goes straight into the net. The other team cheer and jump about, high fiving. He stands and stares in my direction but I know he can’t see me behind the bush. I also know he definitely heard me. Shouting his real name. That’s proof.
His teammate slaps him on the back. ‘Let’s do this, Seb.’
That’s when I realise all my effort was a waste of time.
Webb sounds just like Seb.
52
It’s time he was headed home to South Africa. He’s starting to lose it. The guilt’s getting to him. Driving him mad.
Today at the pool, right in the middle of a game, at match point for fuck’s sake, he heard someone shout, ‘Webb’. He could swear he heard it and yet, when he looked round, there was nobody in sight.
He accused one of the kids he was playing with. Said, ‘You put me off.’ Told him, ‘Don’t shout, “Seb!” when I’m serving.’ They stared at him as if he was mad.
‘I didn’t,’ said the boy.
‘What did you shout then?’
He looked so hurt his dad chipped in. ‘Lucas didn’t shout anything. He knows how to play by the rules.’
Cost him the game and a round of cokes for the winners. But that’s the least of it.
If the kid didn’t shout, then who did? Who could possibly know his name’s Webb? He must be mistaken, and yet…
Annoyed at himself for feeling so neurotic, he reaches under the bed and pulls out his rucksack. Finds the travel wallet and pokes his finger into the rip in the lining. Lets out a relieved sigh. The passport’s still there, safe and sound. Of course it is. He imagined the whole thing.
Without stopping to wonder why, he roots around in the bottom of the bag. He relaxes a little when his fingers touch the plastic bag, but when he takes a hold of it, he realises it’s empty. He catches the rucksack by its bottom corners and upends it, holding it high over the bed and shaking hard. The iPhone box bounces on the bed and hits the floor. A T-shirt drops out followed by one sock and the sandwich bag, minus its contents. A final scrap of paper flutters to a standstill and some dust motes catch the light, swirling above his bed.
Gus sits and the bed complains at the sudden weight. ‘Shit,’ he whispers, putting both hands to his head.
Though he knows
the passport’s gone, he checks again, lifting the items one by one from the bed and dropping them. Something else is wrong here. He shakes his head, annoyed that he can’t think what it is. Then it comes to him, swift as a kick in the balls and just as much of a sickener. The T-shirt with blood on it. It’s been taken too.
The little bastard. Got to be him. Who else could it be? Pim wouldn’t touch his stuff. Okay, he’s a boring arsehole, but he’s harmless and unless. Gus has lost all judgement of character, Pim’s a straight-up honest guy. He’d bet on it.
The only other person who ever comes in here is Joyce and he didn’t have her marked down for a thief either.
‘Fuck!’ His money. Has it gone too? He rummages through the stuff on the bed, his panic growing when he can’t find the travel wallet that he had in his hands only moments ago. He lifts the rucksack and throws it at the far wall. Then he hits the floor as if he’s been told to give a coach ten press-ups and peers under the bed. Spots the wallet. Collapses onto his belly, all the air escaping from his lungs as he flops, relieved. He lies there for a second then grabs the wallet and rolls over on his back to check. The money’s there. Thank fuck for that.
Should he count it? What’s the point? A thief would have taken the lot, especially the iPhone. No thief could resist that. Poor little Joyce. Wrong of him to suspect her, even for a moment. He is losing the plot.
That leaves a prime suspect. The little shit’s got some nerve. What the hell made him come in here and start sniffing around, after all these weeks? He must have known what would happen to him if he got caught, and what will happen to him if he really has taken anything.
If Charlie’s got the passport, then Charlie knows Gus isn’t who he says he is. He also knows the identity of the dead guy on the hill. Plus, he’s got evidence now to link Gus to the body – a T-shirt to prove he was there.
