What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible

by Ross Welford

  People laughed at first, because of the line about ‘may the winds blow’ and its perfectly timed follow-up.

  But then the odour began to spread.

  Have you ever seen on the news when police fire tear gas at protesters? It was like that in Mrs West’s English Literature class. People were actually getting up from their desks and moving away, coughing.

  And best of all, I didn’t get the blame. Everyone thought it was Andreas Hansen, who was sitting next to me, mainly because he turned and pointed at me, and no one – and I mean, no one – would ever imagine that I, quiet little Ethel Leatherhead, would do such a thing. I helped it by coughing a bit and looking accusingly at Andreas.

  At least I know that the drink is working.

  Boydy has come round, and we have gone over for a third time the process for wiping content from both Windows and Mac computers.

  Open up this drive, locate this file, locate this backup file, and so on and on …

  Check for film-editing software: Windows Movie Maker, iMovie.

  Check for film files: .mpgs, .jpgs, .avi files.

  Check if they’ve been backed up in transferring to the edit programmes.

  And all the while hoping – hoping – that at each stage, the computer doesn’t ask for passwords for the different functions.

  ‘You’ll probably be all right,’ says Boydy, but I don’t like the ‘probably’. ‘I looked it up last night. Hardly anyone sets their personal computers to have passwords for different commands. It’s too much hassle. One password to get in, and then the computer stays open, and most people don’t even bother to shut their computers down properly: they just let them go to sleep on their own.’

  It’s a bit reassuring.

  Downstairs in the garage, the sunbed is in position and we have rigged up my laptop with a webcam recording directly onto a plug-in hard drive. I want the whole thing in HD.

  Two more scoops of the drink mixture mean that the packet is pretty much empty apart from the little bit I have left for analysis once I have all the evidence I need on film.

  ‘Look after this for me, will you?’ I say to Boydy, and I hand him the near-empty packet. I’m not completely sure why: I think I want to show him that I trust him, and that I appreciate his involvement.

  I certainly wouldn’t be able to do this alone.

  He takes it, folds it and shoves it in his blazer pocket. He’s still in his school uniform. He keeps hitching his trousers up with his hands, and it’s then that I notice.

  ‘Have you, erm … Have you lost weight, Boydy?’ I say, before draining the last of Mr Chang’s vomitous creation and swallowing hard.

  I have never seen anyone blush so fast and so hard. Poor Boydy doesn’t just go pink – he goes fuchsia (which, in case you didn’t know, is a type of bright, deep pink).

  ‘Ca-can you tell?’

  ‘Either that or you’re going for an eighties “baggy trousers” look. They don’t fit any more, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘Just eating a bit healthier, you know?’

  I smile at him, and he blushes even more for some reason.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Time for me to get undressed and onto that sunbed. I don’t need you for this bit.’

  ‘Eh? What? Yeah, of course, Eff. All in the name of science, eh? Ha ha.’

  He’s gone weird. I give him a quizzical look.

  ‘Whatever. See you at our rendezvous spot in two hours. Oh, hang on – hold on to your hat.’

  I let rip with another huge burp.

  ‘Nice one, Eff. Very, erm … Yeah. Bye.’

  He leaves, with his hand over his nose, and I don’t blame him.

  Even Lady whimpers and retires to her basket.

  It’s eight o’clock. The evening shadows are long, and the threat of rain has receded. The sky has cleared to a pale mauve with long streaks of grey cloud. The sea is grey-brown and still, like freshly laid concrete.

  Boydy and I are standing outside the front door of the Knights’ house. He’s holding a clipboard and a pen.

  ‘You there?’ he says.

  ‘I’m here, behind you.’

  ‘Where?’ He reaches out his hand at chest level. ‘Oops, sorry, Effow.’

  ‘It’s OK. Just, you know, a bit higher next time, eh?’

  ‘Got it. You ready?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Boydy rings the doorbell, and for a brief moment I wonder if the sound will be drowned out by the banging of my heart.

  From inside the house comes a loud barking that gets nearer and nearer, then two paws thump against the door and the barking continues. Instinctively, I shrink back, but then move closer when I hear a deep, posh-sounding voice coming towards the door.

  ‘Maggie! Maggie! Be quiet, will you, darling? Get out of the way. Jesmond! Come and get the dog, please!’ It’s a man’s voice – I’m guessing it’s Tommy Knight, their dad. I remember the time at the school bazaar when he bought the soaps and was softer spoken than I expected: like a lion who purrs like a cat.

  There are sounds of a struggle and then the same voice, but tinnier, crackles out of a brass panel that has a little screen with a camera behind it.

  ‘Hello. Who’s that?’

  Boydy grins at the brass panel.

  ‘Hello! I’m from Light The Light, the campaign to reinstate a light in St Mary’s Lighthouse, and I was wondering if you could spare a minute to—’

  ‘Yes! Hold on.’

  There’s an electronic beeping behind the door, and then it opens just a crack while a balding white-blond man eases himself into the space, blocking it off from the growling dog. The man gives a shy smile and jerks his head towards the dog.

  ‘Sorry, old son. She’s a bit excitable. Now tell me about your campaign: I’m all ears. I love it when youngsters take the initiative.’

  Youngsters?

  So Boydy does tell him all about the campaign, and Tommy Knight listens intently, and chuckles, and says it all sounds ‘splendid’, and all the time I’m looking at him and his swept-back hair and his expensive-looking teeth, and I forget myself. I forget that I’m invisible and start to say, ‘Are you Jesmond and Jarrow’s dad?’ because it seems so unlikely.

  I get as far as ‘Are’, then I remember, and I stop.

  Tommy Knight, who has stopped talking, glances in my direction and Boydy fakes a coughing fit to cover the strange noise.

  ‘Anyway, I’m happy to sign!’ he says.

  He takes Boydy’s clipboard, signs his name with a flourish with the ballpoint pen and hands it back.

  ‘Jolly good luck to you. I wish I could get my two off their phones to do something like this!’ Tommy Knight is grinning and good-natured.

  He’s about to close the door, so Boydy pipes up.

  ‘We – that is, I – ah … I’m a friend of Jesmond’s. I wonder if he’d like to sign as well?’

  ‘Good idea! Look, I’m going to take the dog into the back room. Jesmond will be down. Jesmond! Friend of yours at the door!’

  Tommy Knight retreats down the hallway, pulling Maggie by the collar and shooting a friendly ‘cheerio!’ over his shoulder.

  Footsteps thump down the stairs and Jesmond is standing in the doorway.

  Any warmth that Tommy Knight has given to our encounter is immediately dispersed by the chill in Jesmond’s eyes.

  ‘Boyd? What do you want?’

  ‘All right, Jez?’ Boydy lowers his voice. ‘It’s about, you know … the payments.’

  Jez glances back to check his dad’s not there.

  Boydy keeps up the friendly approach.

  ‘I told your dad it was about the lighthouse campaign, but really it’s about how me and Ethel get the money to you.’

  Jesmond looks over Boydy’s shoulder, and left and right.

  ‘Where is she, then?’

  ‘She’s back home. She sent me as negotiator. Come on, man.’

  Boydy’s pleading works, but only up to a point. Jesmond opens the door fully bu
t stands, arms folded, blocking the way. Boydy hands him the clipboard and peels back the top sheet with the Light The Light petition on it. Beneath is a sheet of printed paper.

  Jez looks at it and reads aloud: ‘“We the undersigned formally declare that on receipt of the agreed sum of one thousand pounds, we will surrender all physical and digital copies of the video clips featuring Ms Ethel Leatherhead …”’

  I have to hand it to Boydy. He can do this legal-sounding stuff really well. Jesmond’s voice is flat as he reads. I don’t think he understands a word, and I’m not surprised.

  ‘“… And in addition will relinquish all claims, moral and legal, in respect of said intellectual property in perpetuity henceforth from this day forward, signed …”’

  He stops and looks at Boydy closely.

  ‘That it? That’s yer legal document, is it? I’m not signin’ that. It’s just a bit o’ paper.’

  ‘Well … we’ve ’ad some problems at the printer’s. Still waitin’ for the proper version.’

  ‘Well, come back when you’ve got summin’ worth signin’. Y’know what, you can save yourself a trip and not bother comin’ back at all, Boyd, because I’m not signin’ anyth— OOOOF! What the HELL?’

  Seeing our only chance slipping away as Jesmond backs away and starts closing the door, I do the only thing I can think of. With all of my strength, I barge at Boydy right in his back. He, in turn, stumbles forward into Jesmond Knight, and the two fall through the open door, ending up in a mess on the floor. I take the chance, and hop over them into the hallway.

  ‘Are you completely mad, Boyd? What are you doin’? Gerroff me.’

  ‘Sorry, Jez, sorry … I just, erm … tripped up, like.’

  ‘Tripped up? On what? Get out, you fat idiot!’ Jesmond hustles him out the door and slams it shut, then stands looking at the wood, shaking his head.

  I’m in. I’m actually in the Knights’ house, and invisible, standing on the dark tiles of the hallway and staring at Jesmond, trying to anticipate where he will move next, so that I can get out of his way.

  The Knights’ house is pretty big, and the hallway is wide. The stairs run up the right side of the hall, and there’s a rack full of coats right behind me.

  Jesmond turns away from the door. Unless he reaches for a coat, I’m safe. He walks past me towards an internal door a little along the hall. When he opens it, there’s a blur of tan fur as Maggie, the huge Japanese tosa, bundles out, and runs right at me.

  ‘Oi! Maggie! Calm down. What’s the matter with you?’

  The dog has stopped about half a metre away from me and is sniffing the air, turning her huge head from side to side, then dropping it to the ground, inching a little closer and snarling.

  I can do nothing but stay absolutely still. I look down and, horrified, I can see that my bare feet have left faint, sweaty footprints on the tiles.

  ‘What is the matter with you, Maggie? Come here. Come!’

  The dog doesn’t budge, but continues its sniffing and snarling.

  Jesmond’s voice gets harsher. ‘Maggie! Come here now!’

  No reaction. Jesmond strides forward to grab Maggie’s collar. Honestly, he’s close enough to hear me breathing, so I hold my breath as he wrestles the massive hound away from the coats and me. As the dog reluctantly succumbs, Jesmond gives it a vicious kick in the backside.

  ‘Stupid dog. Get in there!’

  I hear his dad’s voice from behind the door, gently chiding: ‘Jesmond, old son. Be nice.’

  The door slams behind them both and I am alone in the hallway. Now I just have to wait for Boydy to enact the next part of the plan.

  Sure enough, exactly five minutes later, I hear the ringtone of a mobile phone. Jesmond’s is first. Boydy has both of the twins’ numbers from a class list that went round last year, and I hear Jesmond, through the shut door, answer and say a brusque ‘Hullo’.

  Right away, Boydy hangs up. He’s concealed the caller number.

  That’s all. The only purpose of the call is to make Jesmond’s phone ring so that I can locate it, and it’s worked. He has it on him. Not ideal, but it’s kind of what we expected.

  Jarrow’s phone is next. I hear it ring upstairs, a jaunty preset tone like a sea shanty. It rings and rings and rings and then stops. Excellent!

  That puts me in a good mood. It means that at least one of my tasks has become a little easier. I relax a bit, and even sit down on the third stair to calm my breathing. I try closing my eyes, forgetting that my eyelids are transparent, so I just breathe through my nose a bit, and although I can still see when I close my eyes, the feeling of them being closed is oddly calming.

  I get my bearings. The Knights’ house is not how I expected it, and that is both comforting and disturbing at the same time.

  I was expecting it to be messy and dirty, because that’s how it looks from the outside – but it’s not.

  Apart from the dark red tiles on the floor, everything in the hallway is brilliant white: the walls, the skirting board, the radiator, the ceiling. The stair posts are white; the stair carpet is creamy white. At the end of the hallway there’s a mirror, and in front of the mirror is a big bunch of white lilies in a white vase.

  Arranged in a line on the wall are photographic portraits of the entire Knight clan: the ones where you go to a studio and everyone has to wear blue jeans and a white shirt. Second along are Jesmond and Jarrow, looking on point, like teen models.

  Everything smells of lilies and floor polish and disinfectant. It’s like the sort of place you see in Hello! – where film stars live.

  Attached to the wall of the hallway is a glass-fronted cabinet, with a light inside it and a brass plaque saying, An A–Z of Man’s Best Friend. Arranged on four glass shelves are loads of tiny china dogs, each a different breed, with little brass labels in front of them: Affenpinscher, Border collie, Chihuahua. There’s even something called a xolo and a Yorkie and a zuchon. It’s the sort of thing that people collect, and I think of Tommy Knight’s doggy soaps and know it must be him.

  Further along the hallway are doors leading to other rooms – I’m guessing the kitchen, living room and so on. That’s where the noise of the TV is coming from, and where Jesmond went.

  I’ll come back down and check it out later. Right now I want to go and find Jarrow’s phone.

  The plan says that if Jarrow doesn’t pick up, it’s safe to call it again two minutes later to help me find it. If I have already found it, I’ll turn off the volume so that it doesn’t ring again.

  See? This plan is slick.

  Upstairs, exactly two minutes later, the phone goes again, the sea shanty louder now and easily identifiable as coming from the doorway right ahead of me. I don’t dare open the door yet: it might make the ringtone loud enough for Jarrow to hear it downstairs and come looking for it.

  I’m feeling a calmness that is unusual as I wait for it to ring out, then open the door. The room’s light is on, but the screen of the phone is still glowing from having rung. It’s right ahead of me on the desk, and I stride forward and almost scream when a huge swivel chair spins round and Jarrow, in an oversized onesie with a zebra pattern on it, leaps to her feet. She takes off her headphones in the same action as reaching for the phone and turning it on with her passcode.

  She looks quizzically at the screen for a few seconds and sees that it shows ‘number withheld’ (at least, it should, if Boydy’s done it right), puts the phone down and gets back in her swivel chair, picks up her laptop, and spins round again, so her back is towards me.

  This is a huge opportunity. The smartphone is unlocked, and will stay that way until it locks itself, usually after about half a minute of not being touched.

  All I need to do is cross the room to the desk and touch the screen to stop it locking itself, then I can access all Jarrow’s phone data.

  Four steps, I reckon. Five, maybe.

  I’m going too slowly. At three steps, there’s a creaky floorboard and I don’t know for cert
ain if Jarrow’s headphones are back on: the back of the chair is too high. And now I can’t wait any longer: the screen goes half dark, preparing to shut down. I take one big step, the floorboard creaks, and the minute I touch the screen to reactivate it, the chair swivels round again.

  ‘Jez?’ she says.

  She must have heard something. I stand stiller than I have ever stood in my life, holding my breath until she swivels back – but only halfway.

  She can’t see me, obviously. But she will see the screen on her phone changing if I do anything. She’s not looking at it, but it will attract her attention.

  All I can do is stand there. I’m about a metre away from her, and my finger is hovering over the phone, preventing it from shutting down by touching it now and then, and I’m watching Jarrow very carefully in case she makes a sudden move in my direction.

  Any calmness I had begun to feel has melted away and I’m so tense I swear you could twang me like a guitar string.

  This goes on for nine whole minutes. I know because there’s a clock on the front of Jarrow’s phone showing the advancing time. Eventually, just as a cramp that started in my left foot is spreading up my leg, Jarrow sighs. She snaps shut her laptop, removes her headphones and stands up. She’s about to reach out for her phone so I take my hand away, but then she changes her mind and leaves it on the desk.

  The minute she is out of the door, I’ve flipped open her laptop, and if I weren’t so nervous, I’d probably do a little jig of joy because it springs to life again, meaning I won’t need a password to access her stuff.

  Result. Yay. Brilliant. Etc.

  Now, get on with it, Ethel.

  I’ve got her phone in my hands, and I’m scrolling through and trying to find where she might have the film of me.

  It’s not a model I’m familiar with. I’ve got Gram’s old iPhone and I can find my way round one of them easily. This one’s an Android phone, and not even a well-known Android phone. Most of the app icons are the same, though, and I quickly work out where the movie clips are.

  And there it is! The one taken in the school theatre has been sent to her on a clip-sharing app, and it’s easiest to delete the entire app and its contents. The whole film, including the security footage and the close-ups, is in a ‘Videos’ app, and that gets sent straight to the bin.