Fifty Fifty

by S. L. Powell

  ‘Now, Gil,’ he said, tapping the leaflet with the back of his fingers. ‘I admire your commitment, and I’m sure this is an issue you feel strongly about. But you know, don’t you, that it’s against school rules to hand out this kind of literature on school premises. It’s not political, exactly, but even so we can’t allow it. Some of these animal rights groups are pretty extreme, and it would make things difficult for the school if we were seen to be encouraging young people to join them. Do you understand that?’

  He said it kindly, with no hint of a threat that Gil could hear.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gil said.

  ‘Do your parents know about your interest in this?’

  ‘Um – kind of.’

  ‘Your father’s a genetic scientist at the university, isn’t he?’

  ‘Uh – I think so, yes.’

  ‘You’re an intelligent young man, Gil. You don’t plan to follow in his footsteps, then?’

  Gil thought that he would rather shovel crap for the rest of his life than have anything to do with what Dad did for a living, but of course you didn’t say that sort of thing to a teacher.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said.

  ‘And is everything else OK? There’s nothing you want to talk to me about?’

  Gil looked down. Mr Montague’s eyes were searching his face, and it made him intensely uncomfortable. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation. It was way too personal.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, looking at the floor. He waited until Mr Montague started to speak again.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for me to take further action. Just – well, be careful, Gil. Be careful about what you get mixed up in. And I really don’t want to see any more of these leaflets. I’d like you to clear the playground before you go up to registration, please.’

  Gil saved as many leaflets as he could, but most of them were ruined – ripped in half or screwed up, or trodden on repeatedly.

  It was harder than Gil had expected, changing people’s minds. How many thousands of leaflets would he have to give out to make just one person think again? Even Louis didn’t want to listen, and he was supposed to be Gil’s friend. The rest of them were a bunch of brainwashed, mindless sheep.

  ‘You got into trouble, didn’t you?’ whispered Louis, as Gil slipped late into registration.

  Gil didn’t answer. He knew Louis would only say, I told you so.

  ‘I could really do without this,’ muttered Dad. He wriggled his shoulders irritably and Gil shut one eye so he didn’t have to see him. It was after school on Monday, and they were stuck at some roadworks. Ahead, a small machine crawled noisily over the surface of the road, chewing up the tarmac and spitting it out into the back of a truck. This is going to take for ever, Gil thought, and he slid down as low in the seat as he could to try and make himself invisible.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘Sit up properly,’ said Dad. The words whined in Gil’s ears like mosquitoes.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just sit up. You look like a slob.’

  ‘I’m bored. I want to be at home.’

  ‘And I’d rather be at work. This is the last thing I want to be doing.’

  ‘So let me out. I can walk from here.’

  ‘No. That privilege will be returned to you next week, if you’re lucky.’

  ‘I suppose you’re desperate to get back to work to murder a few more animals, aren’t you, Dad?’

  ‘Don’t be so utterly childish,’ said Dad coldly.

  Gil tried to remember Jude’s advice. Don’t argue with your dad. It’s a waste of time. But it was so hard to keep his mouth shut. The air inside the car was thick and hot and Gil could feel his brain squeezed and pummelled like pizza dough every time Dad spoke. He buzzed the window all the way down to give himself the illusion of escaping. Cold air streamed in, together with the juddering noise of the road resurfacer and the stink of car exhaust and burnt tarmac.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Dad. ‘Shut the window.’

  ‘I’m hot.’

  Dad pressed the button at his side that controlled the passenger window, and the window slid upwards. Gil jammed a finger on his button and the window stopped again. Then he faked a yawn, and tipped his head sideways to rest on the edge of the half-open window. It really wasn’t very comfortable but Gil had already decided he didn’t care. He could sense Dad’s eyes boring into the side of his head.

  I dare you, he thought. I dare you to close the window now and trap my head in it.

  The car crept towards the roadworks. Dad didn’t say another word, but the tension twanged like a guitar string.

  They arrived home late, and Mum was waiting at the entrance to the driveway looking anxious.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she said as Gil stepped out of the car.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Dad, sounding totally over-the-top. ‘Roadworks. Couldn’t be better. I’ll see you about seven, OK?’

  He drove off.

  ‘How was school, darling?’ said Mum. She put a hand on Gil’s shoulder. Then she frowned. ‘You smell of smoke,’ she said. ‘Gil, please tell me you haven’t been smoking.’

  ‘I have not been smoking, Mum,’ said Gil, glad to be able to stare her in the face and tell the absolute truth. ‘Smoking is stupid.’

  Mum looked pleased. ‘Let me make you something to eat.’

  Gil followed Mum into the house and through to the kitchen. As she got things out of the fridge he had a feeling that she was building herself up to say something. He wondered what it was. He thought about all the things he’d done that day that Mum would be horrified about and he hoped he wouldn’t have to lie too much if she asked questions. Lying was tricky. It was so easy to forget what you’d said, and if he told Mum one thing and Dad another there would soon be a showdown.

  ‘Gil,’ Mum said at last, ‘I want to apologise for yesterday. You know, when I . . . when I dropped the plate.’ She was buttering a piece of bread with great concentration. It seemed to be taking her longer than usual.

  ‘Oh,’ Gil said. ‘That.’

  ‘Dad was quite cross with me. He said I’d frightened you.’

  ‘Um – a bit. I thought you were ill.’

  Mum looked at Gil with a big deliberate smile. ‘I’m not ill, as far as I know. I just worry too much, that’s all. I got myself into a terrible state about nothing, Dad said. I’m sorry. He’s quite right, it wasn’t fair on you. You mustn’t feel any of it was your fault.’

  Gil wanted to believe her, but he wasn’t sure he did. Mum’s smile looked too artificial. Maybe she was lying to protect him, it was hard to tell. Gil studied the conversation like a chess board, trying to decide how to move.

  ‘I don’t understand why you were so upset about breaking a plate,’ he said finally. ‘Is it because it belonged to Granny?’

  ‘Well, partly, yes.’

  ‘Are you worried about Granny?’

  ‘Not worried, exactly. Sad, I suppose.’

  Gil took another step into the unknown. ‘What’s wrong with her, Mum? You never talk about it.’

  Mum was silent.

  ‘Why don’t you want me to visit her?’

  ‘It would upset you,’ said Mum, looking away. ‘And it would be pointless. I don’t think she’d know who you were.’

  ‘That’s because you never let me see her.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes she doesn’t even seem to know who I am, any more.’

  ‘So why do you visit?’

  ‘Because she’s my mother. She brought me up. She loved me. She still loves me, I think, or she would if . . .’

  ‘If she knew who you were.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has she got Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not Alzheimer’s.’

  Gil heard an edge in her voice that warned him to stop. He knew he’d gone far enough down this road for one day. There was no
point pushing Mum to the limit. He looked for a way to change the subject completely.

  ‘Mum, why did you and Dad call me Gil?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum, brightening up at once. ‘Well, you were named after Gilbert White. He’s one of Dad’s heroes.’

  ‘Who’s Gilbert White?’

  ‘He was a vicar in the 1700s who studied nature in his spare time. He wrote a book called The Natural History of Selborne. It’s a classic. He was one of the first real biologists.’

  Oh, great, thought Gil. Typical. He should have guessed he’d be named after a dullsville English vicar instead of a revolutionary black American.

  ‘And then of course Gilbert means bright promise,’ said Mum, smiling, shiny-eyed. ‘You were our bright promise. You still are, you know.’

  Gil cringed at the comment and took a large bite of sandwich to avoid having to reply. As he munched, he watched Mum tidy up a kitchen that already gleamed like a catalogue photo. He wondered if she had any idea at all what Dad did at work. Then he wondered whether to try and talk to her about it. He was still trying to find a way to start the discussion when Mum launched into something else that was clearly on her mind.

  ‘There’s another thing, Gil,’ she said. ‘I know this is difficult for you, but I’d really like you to stop fighting so badly with Dad.’

  ‘So you think it’s my fault we argue all the time.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t saying that. I know he needles you sometimes. But if you could try not to get so angry about little things, like not having a phone . . .’

  ‘That’s not a little thing to me.’

  ‘Just try, Gil, please. It would help so much.’

  ‘He drives me crazy,’ Gil muttered.

  ‘You’d had another row in the car today, hadn’t you? I could tell. Honestly, it seems to be getting worse and worse.’

  ‘Tell him to get off my back, then,’ Gil said. ‘He listens to you. He never listens to me.’

  ‘Yes, he does. That’s not true.’

  ‘What about yesterday, then, when he had a go at me for deciding to be a vegetarian? He clearly thought it was a crap idea.’

  ‘He thought you were doing it to annoy him,’ said Mum.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Of course not. It was a bit sudden, but I really respect your decision. I think it’s important to have principles.’

  Gil suddenly saw his chance, and jumped in with both feet before he could have second thoughts.

  ‘Well, what about other principles, then? What about animal rights, for example?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Mum groaned. ‘Please, please don’t get into that one with Dad.’

  ‘Mum, do you know what Dad does at work?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mum.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’ Gil demanded.

  ‘Well, Dad thought it was. . . I just didn’t . . .’ Mum trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘And you think it’s OK? All that horrible stuff with animals?’

  ‘It’s not horrible,’ said Mum, with sudden energy. ‘Gil, your dad is a good man. A really good man. He showed me the booklet you got from that stall in town. He told me what happened with that protester who got you into trouble with the police. It upset Dad dreadfully to be accused of torture when he’s working so hard to do things that benefit people. Animal rights is an emotive issue, I know, but you do have to try and see it from Dad’s point of view as well.’

  No, I really don’t, Gil wanted to say. But he kept the thought to himself.

  And a couple of days later at teatime, as Gil tried to work up some enthusiasm for eating the beanburgers that Mum had made specially, Mum quietly dropped a stunner of an idea into the silence.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Matt,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take Gil to work with you one day?’

  It took a moment for the idea to detonate. Then the shockwaves hit Gil, and Dad erupted. ‘What? Rachel, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, Gil’s read a few things about animal experiments and it’s bothering him. You know what the reality is. You know you’ve got nothing to hide. So why not take him to the labs, and put his mind at rest?’

  Take him to the labs. The labs that Jude had said were as hard to get into as Buckingham Palace. Gil almost stopped breathing. He was going to be given a free entry ticket to the labs. If he could just keep himself under control long enough not to mess it up.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Dad. ‘I’d never get security clearance.’

  Gil forced another chunk of beanburger into his mouth and mashed it to a gritty paste between his teeth. He clutched his knife and fork tightly to stop his hands from trembling.

  ‘He’s a boy, Matt,’ said Mum. ‘He’s your son. He’s read one booklet about animal rights, that’s all. He’s hardly a dangerous undercover agent, is he?’

  Dad looked at Gil for a long time, thoughtfully. Gil gazed back, as wide-eyed and innocent as he could manage, but it felt as if Dad had a hand inside his skull, rummaging through his thoughts. Any minute now he would seize on a memory of Gil’s forbidden meeting with Jude on Monday. Don’t find it, Gil pleaded silently.

  He didn’t find it.

  ‘What do you think, Gil?’ Dad said.

  ‘Do you think I’d be allowed?’ said Gil.

  ‘It’s not usual to allow visitors, for obvious reasons. But I think I could probably persuade the powers that be to let you in.’

  Gil could see the wheels turning in Dad’s mind, the logic kicking in – yes, of course, show Gil the labs, that’ll sort everything out, he’ll see how reasonable it all is, he can’t possibly argue about anything then.

  Mum was nodding, smiling, pleased with her peacemaking efforts.

  ‘It would be interesting to see what you do, Dad,’ said Gil. ‘Honestly.’ It was easy to sound genuine because he meant it, though perhaps not in quite the way Dad had in mind.

  ‘Oh, Gil, you always used to be so keen on science,’ said Mum. ‘All those trips to see the dinosaurs. This could be a new start for you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dad. ‘Maybe it’s not such a crazy idea. I’ll see what I can do. We could go on Saturday, perhaps.’

  Gil excused himself from the table as soon as he’d swallowed the last bit of beanburger on the grounds that he had a pile of homework to do. He went up to his room, shut the door and lay face down on the bed. It felt as if someone had punched a hole right through the middle of his ribcage and replaced it with a skin stretched as tight as a drum. He could feel the vibration of every emotion in his body, but still it was hard to tell if he was scared or excited. Perhaps he was both. What would Jude say if he told him he was going into the labs? What would he ask Gil to do?

  This is my big chance, Gil told himself. It was a chance to do something a bit more dramatic than handing out stupid leaflets. But what was he supposed to do? Plant a bomb? It wasn’t exactly going to help if he blew up a building full of animals that were already suffering. What then? What would Jude do?

  Gil lay with his face pressed into the pillow until his hair was damp with sweat. He had to let Jude know somehow. He was desperate to let him know, to hear Jude’s confident voice. OK, Gil, this is the plan. Here’s what we’re going to do . . . At last Gil rolled off the bed and slowly made his way back downstairs. In the doorway to the front room he paused. Mum was there, curled up on the sofa reading. There was no way he could sneak in and use the phone to call Jude.

  ‘How’s the homework?’ Mum asked, looking up. ‘You look a bit flushed. Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  Gil went on standing in the doorway, and after a minute Mum closed the book and put it down next to her.

  ‘What is it, then?’ she said.

  ‘I need to use the phone.’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’ She didn’t move.

  Gil hesitated. ‘It’s kind of private, Mum.’

  Mum looked puzzled, and then a look of unde
rstanding spread across her face.

  ‘You mean – a girl?’

  Gil nearly laughed out loud. He couldn’t have come up with a better lie if he’d tried all evening. He was aware of a stupid grin spreading across his hot face. It was perfect. It would tell Mum everything she thought she needed to know.

  ‘Well, if you want to be private,’ she said, jumping up, ‘you can borrow my mobile and go and hide yourself away somewhere if you like. Just this once.’

  Gil took Mum’s mobile and ran out of the back of the house, ducking under the apple tree and into the shed at the bottom of the garden. The shed smelt of winter, even though the flowerbeds outside were splashed yellow with daffodils. He unfolded a creaky garden chair and sat down to phone Jude, shuddering with more than just the cold.

  As he waited for Jude to answer he noticed something in a corner of the shed – the old cage where once upon a time he had kept a series of pet mice. He hadn’t thought about them in ages. The last two, Turbo and Minky, had died months ago, and he’d buried them under the apple tree. Now he wondered where Dad had got them from in the first place. Dad experimented on mice, didn’t he? Had his pet mice come from the labs?

  ‘Jude here,’ said the voice. He always sounded the same, thought Gil – decisive, alert, ready for anything.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Gil.’

  ‘Hi, Gil! How’s it going? Do you need more leaflets already?’

  ‘No, I – I’ve got something I need to tell you.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘I think my dad’s going to take me into work. To the labs. It was Mum’s idea but he’s really gone for it. I think he might take me on Saturday.’

  Far away, so far away he could have been speaking from the moon, Gil heard Jude swear softly under his breath, and then there was silence. In his mind Gil could see him clearly, twirling on his office chair in front of the picture of himself with the liberated beagle.

  ‘Jude, say something,’ Gil said at last. ‘I’m on my mum’s phone. I can’t be too long.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Gil, I don’t know what to say. Are you serious? You can’t be serious, surely. Would your dad really do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gil. ‘I think so. I mean – he doesn’t know I saw you on Monday. He doesn’t know I’m phoning you now. Mum thinks I’m phoning a girl. They don’t know anything. So if you can tell me what to do, if I get into the labs . . .’