Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Mr Frasiers?” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you get one of the drivers to take Uncle Kev directly to the meeting place and stay there with him until my gran arrives.”

  “A splendid idea, Miss. Are you sure he’ll wait for his mother?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Excellent idea. It will just be five minutes.”

  “Better make them a quick five minutes.”

  “Of course.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Did your boss just say me mam’s gonna be there at this meetin’?” Uncle Kev asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Well why didn’t you just say so? Give me that piece a paper.” He holds out his hand for the page. “Got a scribbler?”

  He means a pen, so Mr Frasiers hands him a beautiful Mont Blanc.

  “You’ll never see that pen again, pal.” I tell him fruitlessly.

  It was as easy as that. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds later, a car door slams outside, and Mr Frasiers ushers Uncle Kev into his coat, then into the back of a white stretch limousine, following in behind him. I have to look away from the screen. It’s making me seasick.

  “Bloody hell,” Kev says, “looky at those fancy bloody lights on the roof. ’Ere mate. You got a ’ole in this roof so I can stand up?”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry. The hatch is an emergency escape route.” The driver says.

  I’m impressed. The driver has obviously dealt with chavs before.

  * * *

  Stockport’s twin towers loom up in all their cream-and-green glory. Lancashire Hill Flats. A rabbit warren of inequity and depravity. Or so many believe, based on newspaper reports into the number of drugs dealers, sex workers, and unemployed people living in the place. Liam Hunter. Flat 152. Pendlebury Towers. Floor fifteen for those who might care. And the lift isn’t working. He’s gonna up his price for this, I just know it.

  Half an hour, fourteen flights of stairs later, and based on the hacking coughing and panting, three near-death experiences from lack of oxygen, Mr Frasiers seems ready for the final push. He opens the door onto the hallway, and the corridor’s much nicer than I expected. There is no graffiti. There are no sex workers waiting at the doors. And Mr Frasiers isn’t reaching for his hankie, so the stench of urine can’t be too bad. I am very pleasantly surprised. Liam’s mum’s flat is to the left of us, and the door’s answered promptly when he knocks, albeit by a little girl who looks to be three or four years old.

  “Hello. I’m looking for Liam. Is he here?” Mr Frasiers asks.

  She nods her head looking straight at the tiepin camera.

  “Can you get him for me?”

  She nods again but doesn’t move. Perhaps you need to be more specific. Obviously asking someone if they can do something, doesn’t mean they will take the hint and do it.

  “Will you ask him to come and talk to me, please?” Mr Frasiers obviously realises the same thing.

  She runs back into the flat then. A moment later I hear a childish voice shouting inside.

  “Liam, there’s an old man at the front door for ya.”

  I laugh. I can picture the look of incredulity on his face. But when you’re three, everyone looks old, don’t they?

  “Hello, can I help ya?” Liam looks exactly as he did the last time I saw him. His face is streaked with dust and muck from the warehouse and his hands look raw with the cold under the grime stains. His jeans are faded and patched at the knees. The toes of his steel-toed boots are worn to the steel. His top half looks too bulky for his slender hips, obviously from the many layers to keep warm throughout the day. Exactly like he has just come home from work. Which he has.

  “Are you Liam Hunter?” Mr Frasiers asks.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “My name is Roger Frasiers. I have an agreement to discuss that may be of some benefit to you. May I come in to discuss this with you?”

  Liam nods and holds the door open wide for him. The flat’s clean, if somewhat messy with children’s toys strewn over the floor. Little girls are playing in the front room before the telly, which is showing a TV show with a blue bear with enormous eyes and a pink cat with similarly outrageous eyes playing in some sort of wood. No wonder children’s IQs are suffering. They are traumatised at a very young age.

  Liam clears a child off a chair and squishes in beside a heavily pregnant teen on the sofa, then sits the child on his knee. He indicates for Mr Frasiers to sit on the chair.

  I do like Liam. He’s a good lad. So far, he’s shown Mr Frasiers manners and a responsible attitude to the children all around him. He works hard, always. No matter what he’s asked to do, he just does it. Mr Frasiers hands him the papers for the nondisclosure agreement. He takes the papers and after staring at it for barely a moment, he hands it to the pregnant girl beside him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Hunter, but the agreement is a private matter and of the strictest confidence. I’m afraid that by asking someone else to read the papers too, they will be forced into the same agreement—”

  “I can’t read them,” Liam says.

  “Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry,” I say aloud. I should have warned Mr Frasiers that Liam has problems reading. I slap my hand to my forehead. “I’m an idiot.”

  “I’m sorry?” Mr Frasiers says.

  “I’m dyslexic. It didn’t get picked up at school, so I never learnt to read properly. I’m in a class now, trying to learn how to do it better, but I can’t read these big words. Kylie’s my girlfriend. We’re having a baby, so if this affects me, it affects her too. She has to read it.”

  Good for you, kiddo, I think. You see why I like him, right?

  “Very well,” Mr Frasiers says. “If you want, we can go somewhere without the children, and I can go over all this with you.”

  “They’re not listening. Not while Waybuloo’s on the telly. My other sister should be here in a few minutes, then she can watch the kids,” Liam says.

  “Very well.”

  Kylie spends a few minutes reading the short contract and looks at Mr Frasiers expectantly.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “It says we have to agree not talk about this before we get to find out what it is. What if we don’t agree to that?” Kylie asks.

  “Then you cannot find out what the agreement is about, nor can you gain the benefit of it.”

  “What do you mean benefit?” she asks.

  “I cannot be specific at this point, but there is a lot to gain by agreeing to this. It will be of great value to you—both of you—and your baby. It will make a huge difference to your lives.”

  “What if we agree, and then we do say something to someone?” Liam asks.

  “If you agree and reap the reward, but then, at a later, date, tell someone, particularly members of the press—this agreement says that you will have to pay back everything you are given plus interest.”

  “So, if I told my mum, I’d have to give back whatever it is plus more?”

  “Yes,” Mr Frasiers says.

  “Ky, what if it’s not worth it?”

  “What if it is?” Kylie replies. “He says it’ll help us and the baby.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mister. You know what this prize is, don’t ya?” Kylie asks.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But you can’t tell us.”

  “Correct.” I can hear the smile in Mr Frasiers’s voice.

  “But can you tell me this? If it was you, would you sign this bit of paper and do it? If you were us, like?”

  “Without hesitation,” he says. Kylie looks confused. “Definitely,” he clarifies.

  “Right, so if he’d do it, if he thinks it’s worth it, Liam, I think we have to take the risk. For our baby, if nothing else.”

  “You sure?” Liam asks Kylie. “Ky, you have to agree not to talk too.”

  “If it’s for the good of our baby, I’d keep quiet about anything.”

  Young and poorly educated they may be,
but their desire to do the right thing by their unborn baby impresses me more than I ever thought it would. It’s people like Liam and Kylie who really grab at my heartstrings. They were born to a position that they want to escape from and work damn hard to do so, but life just keeps knocking them back down. These two are young enough to have a chance. Babies raising babies, as Cathy said, but maybe these babies will do it right.

  “Okay, mister. What do we do now?” Kylie asks.

  “You both must sign the contract, and then I have a car waiting downstairs to take you to the meeting, where you will find out about the details of this agreement.”

  “Right now?” Liam asks.

  “Yes.”

  “But we can’t go right now,” Kylie says, startled.

  “Why not?”

  “Not till we have someone else to look after the kids.” She looks at him as if he is ever so slightly stupid.

  “Of course,” Mr Frasiers says. “Didn’t you say your sister should be here soon?” he asks Liam.

  “She should already be here by now,” Liam replies. “We were supposed to go to baby class tonight, and she promised she’d come straight from school so we had time to get there on the bus. It’s not that far to walk, but with the lift out, it’s hard for Ky, so we were going to get the bus tonight. I ran home from work to save the bus fare for us both.”

  “Do you have a way to get in touch with her?”

  “Sarah’ll have her mobile with her. But our house phone got disconnected, and neither me or Ky have mobiles,” Liam says. “Sarah got hers for Christmas. She has it with her all the time. I’ll run down to the phone box and try to call her.”

  “It only takes phone cards now. Have you got enough to buy a card?” He stands up and plops the child down on the sofa before rummaging in his pockets for all the change he has.

  Mr Frasier hands them a mobile. “Use this to call her.”

  Liam takes hold of it but doesn’t move. “Have you got enough credit?”

  “Credit?” I can hear the confusion in Mr Frasiers’s voice.

  “Liam, it’s probably on contract and has free minutes,” Kylie says.

  Liam turns pink as he starts to dial. “Right, sorry. Should have thought of that.” He punches in numbers from memory. I’m seriously impressed as I can’t even remember my own mobile number. Then he walks over to the window, pushes it open, and hangs halfway out. “It’s the only way you can get any signal in here.”

  I smile and watch the young woman. Funny isn’t it? How, in just a few minutes, she’d gone from a heavily pregnant teen to a young woman, in my opinion. Just a few words, a concerned attitude, and a correct decision for the good of her child.

  “Sarah, where are ya? Well, can ya’ hurry up? We need to go out and Mum’s not ’ere. I don’t know where she is. Ky said she went out with ’im at dinnertime. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, but we’ve really got to go. No, I don’t know what a limo’s doing in the car park. Well, it must be a stretch one, then, if it’s that big. Lift’s out, so I’ll see you in a few. Yeah, I know, but it’s not like I can fix it. Right, don’t let Mum ’ear you talking like that. I know she says loads worse, but you know what she’ll do. Right, see you in a few minutes.” He disconnects and hands the phone back. “The first bus from school was full, so she had to wait for the next one. She’s coming up the stairs now.”

  “I’ll go and get ready. Liam, will you do the kids some spaghetti on toast? Then at least they’ve eaten their tea and Sarah doesn’t have to cook for ’em.”

  “Right. Did you get some bread today?”

  “There’s the last half a loaf in the freezer. We can use the bus fare we save on not going to baby class tonight to pick some up on the way home tonight. And some milk for the morning too.”

  Liam holds out his hands to help her up and kisses her forehead before he disappears into the kitchen to take care of his young charges. From boy to young man, in a few short steps. I want to ask where his mother is, but I know that the children are better off with the care they’re already getting.

  “Can I get you something to drink while we wait?” Liam’s head is hanging out of the kitchen door. The picture from the camera shifts as Mr Frasiers walks over to him.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. Can I help with anything?”

  “No, ta. I can do this. Just need to get washed up before I do. Don’t want ’em getting sick from the muck at the warehouse.” I watch him scrub his hands raw before he pulls open the freezer and toasts slices of thin white bread, heats spaghetti on the stove, and serves it up in small dishes. He sets them on the table as Kylie herds the little girls into the room and into their seats.

  “Why don’t you go and get changed, Liam?” she suggests.

  “Right, yeah.”

  The door bursts open, and a girl in a school uniform runs in, panting. “Okay, ya’ can go now. Who are you?”

  “He’s come to sort out a few things with me and Liam,” Kylie says. “That’s why we’ve got to go straight away. Thanks for rushing, Sarah. The kids are eating their tea now. There’s still some bread there for you to get something when you’re ready.”

  “Ta. Where are ya’ goin’?”

  “I’m not—”

  “It’s not far,” Mr Frasiers says. “The number Liam rang you on earlier, that’s my mobile number. If you need them, call me on that.”

  “Aw, you’re just a big softie, aren’t you, Roger?” I tap the screen and lean back as it zooms in on the hugely swollen belly Kylie is sporting, her pushed-out belly button clearly visible through the thin shirt she’s wearing. Shit. How do I get it to zoom back out?

  “Right. When will you be back?”

  “I don’t—” Kylie starts.

  “Liam and Kylie won’t be very late. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can.”

  I double-tap the screen and breathe out when the view returns to normal. Well, sort of. Kylie and Sarah are both staring at me as if I’ve grown a second head. Well, not me. Roger, of course. But it looks like they’re looking right at me. When Sarah turns away and looks into the near-empty cupboards, Kylie follows Mr Frasiers out of the kitchen.

  “Where is their mother?” he asks.

  Kylie frowns, clearly debating how much she is going to tell him about the situation. “Probably in the pub with her new fella. They went out at dinner time, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “So you’ve been looking after the three of them all day?”

  “No, Natalie, goes to playschool until two. So I picked her up and then we came back here.”

  “Do you look after them a lot?”

  She points at the youngest child, no more than two years old. “She calls me Mum.”

  I want to tell her that after tonight, everything will be all right. I want to tell her that she will be able to look after them all properly. Then I remember that even though she can, it still isn’t her job to do that. That she’s still a very young girl about to become a mother for the first time herself and is in no position to look after her sisters-in-law, even if they are babies.

  “Can I ask how you know Genna Collins?” Mr Frasiers asks.

  She looks at me…him…funny again, her eyes going a little squinty. “Of course, this is in confidence,” he says. She nods as though the information is penetrating her brain.

  You’re giving the game away, Rog! What’re you doing, man?

  “I don’t. Liam knows her. He told you before that he can’t read. Well, she runs this adult reading program. She helps lads like him learn how to cope with their dyslexia and learn to read so that they have more chances to get better jobs. She helped him get the job in the warehouse too. He started going when we found out I was pregnant. He wants to be a good dad for the baby, and he knows he needs to set a good example and try and get a better job so we can get our own place. There’s only two bedrooms here, you see. The girls are all together in one. His mum has the other one, and we sleep in the front room.”

  “What wi
ll happen to the children when you and Liam move somewhere else?”

  “I want to see if we can get a place big enough that they can come to us when their mother fuck—sorry, when she goes on one of her benders. But Sarah will ’ave to bring them, especially once I have the baby.”

  “Would you have them with you if you had the space?”

  “Yeah. They’re good girls most of the time, and it’s not that hard to look after ’em. I wouldn’t mind ’aving ’em at all. I don’t think Pat will let us take ’em, though. She gets the benefits for ’em, see. And the extra dole money. That’s what she’s drinkin’ away now. So is this all to do with Genna, then?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say, Kylie.”

  “Got it,” she says, and offers him a theatrical wink.

  Damn it, Roger. You weren’t supposed to tell them.

  Liam reappears and they set off down the stairs. It takes longer to go down with Kylie than it had taken Mr Frasiers to climb up, and I’m beginning to worry that they won’t make the meeting on time. Eventually, they climb into the limousine and settle in for the forty-minute ride.

  “Liam, close your mouth,” Kylie says.

  “But ’ave you seen all this? There’s a DVD player there!”

  I can’t help smiling at the joy evident in his voice.

  “Stop it.”

  “And there’s a fridge. It’s got drinks in it.”

  “Help yourselves,” Mr Frasiers says.

  “Really?” Liam’s eyes are as round as saucers.

  “Yes, I was going to ask if you wanted anything.”

  “Sweet!” Liam, grabs a bottle of Coke and holds one up for Kylie.

  She shakes her head. “Any juice?”

  “Orange, apple, bottles of water, or cranberry juice.”

  “Cranberry, please.”

  Liam pulls one out and hands it to her. “Do you want anythin’?” he asks Mr Frasiers.

  “I’ll have a bottle of water, please.”

  He hands one over before tapping on the partition window. “Mate, do you want anything to drink from this dinky fridge?” I can’t hear what the driver’s answer is, but I’m sure he’s surprised too.

  Liam barely takes his eyes off the modulating coloured light on the roof of the car, even though Kylie tells him to stop staring several times. She even slaps his arm to get his attention when they turn off the A6 and drive onto the grounds of the estate.