Finding Davey (26 page)

Evening was a long time coming. Office people called Kylee impatient, but she’d always been called stupid words, no worth in any of them. Not by Bray, though. Bray never called her anything. Sometimes he’d ask if she really ought to do this, that, because he was thick. A kid. She never minded Bray because when she shot abuse back he just nodded like she’d said something clever, and make like she’d won. Friends were a waste of space. A drink and a fuck, not much else.

She still saw Porky for a quick shag or when she wanted something done, like the discs she’d seen nicked from work by a librarian. Porky’d done the librarian’s house over without raising a gallop. Except Porky was in trouble again, and this time there was no juve excuse because he was old enough to get done, nicking stuff off of a pantechnicon transporter down the Blackwall Tunnel.

Lately she’d taken up with a bloke in Systems. Creb was tidy and clever, named from his schoolmates’ belief that clever meant he cribbed in exams. He was good at snooker, had a brother in nick from a robbery went peary. He slept half the fucking day in the office, then worked threeish
and the moon up before he dragged off to his pit.

First time they did it, she had to show him what to do, glad because that meant she was his first shag. He was astonished at the whole thing. She’d laughed. Creb asked her how she’d “worked it out”, barmy fucker. Silicon, fluid feedbacks, recycling Boolean over-shoots, he’d sussed all that when he was three, and getting your clothes off was like brain surgery.

She wondered if Bray’d like him. She took to Creb, though he was true weird for somebody seventeen, washed and wearing a fucking tie like he was twenty-eight even. One thing, he had a fucking sister, might turn out to be a right fucking mare, all talons if her precious brother got himself a tart and learnt what. Vital for Bray that Creb did what he was told.

“Are you well, Kylee?” said this prat in the canteen.

“Not good,” she confessed. She’d never had to play a scene. Pretence was beyond her. First time in her life she’d wanted to ask some other bint what the hell. They all seemed to know, simpering to get the edge on some lad. Finally she’d not bothered.

“What is it?” he asked. They always sat apart from the others, into fluid recursives that she guessed, no,
knew
, she would invent.

She told him about a non-family, a poxy shagnasty mother, dud dad, the ruination called childhood. He wanted to go and see the courthouse where she was given a sentence, stupid sod.

“It’s my grandad,” she invented, wondering if she could get away with a tear or two. Except what if tears actually started? Fuck, she might be good at it and then what? “Difficulties.”

What difficulties, though? And how should the story go?

“Difficulties?” Creb asked, so gentle she could have stabbed the silly fucker.

“Er, a public relations thing.”

“What public relations thing?”

She burst out, “Don’t ask so many fucking loony questions. He wants something doing.”

The dopey berk asked, “Can I do anything?”

“Them KV things.”

“On kids’ telly?”

“That’s them. He needs them blammed.”

She used to pull faces in the mirror. Sighs didn’t work.

“It’s complicated.” She usually finished his chips, if he’d enough tomato sauce, but didn’t this time in case she didn’t look sincere. “Can’t be done.”

“Blammed how?” asked this clean marvel.

“It’s in books, telly. He’s against the whole KV thing.”

“What for?”

“How the fuck —?” She halted, began again. “It’s bad for children, their education. He’s written to the papers. This week it’s starting a USA telly quiz. Four-part, one question every episode. The winner gets an antique worth a gillion.”

“I didn’t know you had a grampa.”

“Well I fucking well have!” she shot at him across the table, and angrily seized his plate. He never finished his meal anyway. “He was good to me.”

“You said —”

“Fuck what I said,” she groused, scoffing. “He asked me to help. Can’t be done.”

Creb’s eyes went into middle distance, face shining. “Everything can be done, Kylee.”

“Yeah, Creb?” Like she hadn’t a clue.

“Give me an hour,” he said. “How long’ve we got?”

“The first question goes out soon.” She shoved his empty plate back across the Formica and waited. The goon couldn’t talk and walk at the same time. They left the canteen together.

“You like your grampa, Kylee?”

She spoke the truth. “I’d do anything. I want to ruin the KV series before the quiz ends.”

Creb was into his palmtop before they reached her floor. He was glowing. “Grampa’s problems are over!”

About fucking time the penny dropped, Kylee thought. She had to get the message to Bray.

The first three days wore them down. Lottie was phlegmatic.

“I’m used to this,” she explained when Bray began to wonder. “I’m practical about people. You’re a wood man.”

They were outside a vast three-storey Tyrolean edifice that had hosted Bray’s sixth presentation, the limo already waiting. White wines, enormous quantities of food, the greensward thronged by people who had attended his talk on “Valuable Cottage and Farmhouse Antiques – Genuine and Fake.” Bray was relieved there was time to walk round before they moved on.

“We advertise,” the owner cut in, eager to show Bray the terracing overlooking the rolling parkland. “Nobody spends like Blenheem Antiquo Ltd, nobody. This decking was built for our first advertising meet.”

“Your country has everything.” Bray was unable to keep the envy out of his voice. “So many resources.”

Dane Blenheem glanced at him keenly. “You want to visit with us for a period, Bray? We’d work something out with Gilson Mather. Antiques, replicas, set up a trimester course at Vergaine. It has quite a reputation.”

“That’s kind, Dane. I’m tempted.” Their stunning frankness was hard to take.

Dane moved Bray away from an approaching group. Quickly Lottie intercepted the visitors and began a conversation about Bray’s contentious views on regional variants. One man, a portly figure in loose-fitting greys, ignored Lottie’s manoeuvre and strolled after Bray.

“How long could you spend here, if we could work things out?” Dane persisted. “We’d handle accommodations. You’d not be disappointed.”

Bray smiled. “I’m not sure I can take more of this hospitality!”

Dane laughed. “Hey, Bray. Look at the people! Three hundred, half of them buyers! That’s tribute enough.” His voice sank to a confidential low. “Do you know that we had forty – that’s four-oh – written questions before you started your talk?”

Bray caught sight of the stout moustached man with the grey hair and spectacles standing patiently by, casually listening to a cluster of dealers. His eyes did not waver.

“I’m afraid my opinions on your Lancashire dresser and the Isle of Man chair stirred up a hornet’s nest, Dane.”

“Bray,” the art dealer said seriously, “some people think antiques ridiculous. But money stops them laughing every time. Your craftsmanship’s what’s needed!”

The big elderly man was now a step away. He raised his wine glass in salutation.

“We’ll talk some more, Bray,” Dane said, displeased at the persistent man.

“Enjoyed your talk,” the newcomer said.

Bray said levelly, “Notice I didn’t mention the things I know nothing about?”

The man laughed. “That’s clever, right enough! Wish I
was sensible. Never could keep my mouth shut, though.”

Lottie started to drift towards them through the crowd. Dane asked the man if he was a local dealer.

“Retired now.” He smiled. “Came a long way to hear your speaker. Interesting stuff, Mr Charleston.”

Dane said eagerly, “If you still deal, I’d be pleased to show you the displays, Mr…?”

“Stazio,” the man said affably, shaking Blenheem’s hand. “Jim Stazio.”

Bray extended his hand. “Pleased you came.”

“Have you met?” Dane Blenheem asked.

“Have now!” the ex-policeman said, “and that’s for sure.”

Creb rushed into Kylee’s office exactly at the wrong time. She was sulking, refusing to report on a fluid recursive non-crystalline system she’d guessed up. It was only a series of digital three-element interfaces, hardly worth the bother. The ignorant bastards shouldn’t waste her time. The head of marketing kept phoning. She told him to piss off, talking into her spread phone while seated on the window. She’d come to work without one shoe, the secretaries staring like it was her fault if a shoe forgot.

“Look at this!” Creb cried. He knew her foibles. “I’ve got protests everywhere! Newspapers! I have a group lobbying politicians in the States. Four pressure groups —”

Kylee focussed slowly. He meant the competition. She’d heard Jim Stazio and Lottie Vinson were there now, quite a team while she was stuck here in this dump. Creb was jubilant.

“Told you! I’ll have them rioting! National newspapers tomorrow.” He was flushed. “Their government’s banging the education drum.” He went shy. “I’ve twenty-five addresses. Worked all night. Fifty television outlets replied!”

Kylee leaned back. She felt out of things.

“You know what, Kylee?” Creb said wistfully. “Fraud feels really splendid. I only wish I’d started earlier.”

He was eager to share his achievement and spread his papers over her desk.

“Commercialism of childhood! That’s first, because the stories are innocent, see? That got them going. Then comparisons: the KV lack of aims. Nobody has jobs in KV. Everything just happens.” He struck a pose and intoned, “Is this a proper way to teach children life isn’t simply all games? Your grandad’s problems are over.”

“Who?”

Creb looked at his copies critically. “We ought to set up some PR division of our own. Here, I mean. I’m brilliant at it.”

“Grandad’ll be grateful, Creb.” He collected his sheaf. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“Too much?” Creb laughed, pleased. “There really is no such thing as bad publicity. That prize – an antique, I think – is like a red rag to a bull. All you need is the angle.” He whispered confidentially, “I made so many phone calls I got confused who I was! I’m enjoying this!”

She thought of Buster, who was only a lousy dog.

“Can I meet him?”

“Who?”

“Your grandad.” His smile faded. “Aren’t you pleased?”

Kylee said. “Piss off. I’ve summert to do.”

“See you later?”

She shrugged.

Jim Stazio’s idea of quiet disconcerted Lottie.

“The place is so noisy!”

A Country and Western group was hard at it, bars
competing in talk, babble at the crowded tables. The ex-policeman was pleased.

“This is America, Lottie! We play as hard earning a dollar!”

The place pleased Bray. He’d worried that they would run out of things to say. Jim insisted on ordering while they fenced around impressions of the States. Bray confessed that American hospitality took him aback.

“We mean it, sure,” Jim reassured him. “Addresses are for using.”

“We’re not quite like that. We use bland expressions to conclude conversations. They mean nothing. ‘Yes, do keep in touch,’ sort of thing.”

Lottie smiled. “Well, Jim proved difficult!”

He batted his eyelids in mock shyness. “I’m so sensitive, right?”

“Knowing you were in right from, well…”

“The start,” he capped, pleased. “Where’s the beef?” and translated to their blank expressions, “What’s the plan?”

“We think we’ve a way to narrow the search.” Lottie got Bray’s nod to continue. “A friend of Bray’s into computers.”

“Can we do it all at once?”

“Impossible.” Lottie watched the food and drinks arrive. “Dear heaven! We may never move again!”

The ex-policeman was delighted. “You get a decent plate in America. The beer’s good.” He cocked an eye at Bray. “The plan?”

“I have a young friend, a computer talent.”

“That’s youth for you,” Jim sighed. “And what happens?”

“It’s a competition. One reply every week for four weeks. The first comes in the day after next. It’s the catchment.”

“Catchment?” The American gestured at the food. “Start.”

“Sort out, and the replies tell where Davey will be.”

Stazio paused, licked his finger. “Why didn’t we do this before?”

“It’s taken time to set up, Jim.”

“Sure, sure.” They raised their voices as folk began to sing along. “This is the punch?”

“Maybe,” Bray said quickly, alarmed. Optimism seemed as much a threat as despond. “One step each week.”

“To a total of four? How do we get the gauntlet?”

“Gauntlet!” Lottie repeated. “That’s exactly it! We hear from home.”

“This catchment shows places where Davey might be, right?”

Lottie waited for Bray to answer.

“Forty-three thousand, minimum,” he managed. The beer was the lightest he’d ever tasted.

“Jesus Aitch,” Jim said. “That many?”

“I’m banking on narrowing down.”

“How do we weed out the phoneys?”

They dealt with the food in silence. It was serious beef and vegetables, gravy thick enough to float on with a dozen different condiments. “It’s the only way that makes any sense.”

Lottie noted Bray’s hesitation. “I wasn’t very supportive, Jim,” she admitted. “I had a tantrum, said it was ridiculous.” Jim watched her heightened colour. “I’ve seen sense, of course. We must go for it.”

“Right.” He resumed his meal. “Your friend back there. She reliable?”

“Utterly,” Bray said.

“She’s a right cow,” Lottie said with innocent sweetness,
giving them all a smile. “But Bray’s right.”

“Do I get to know which locations are still in the race?”

Bray said, “I couldn’t do it without you, Jim. That’s the truth.”

“The nearer we get, the more essential you’ll be.”

“Can you really cut the numbers down?”

“We don’t,” Bray said. “I get a breakdown. Kylee works them out.”

“Is it safe?” For the first time since they’d met Jim Stazio seemed uncomfortable. “I mean, perps have informants, track infos. They have resources.”

Bray said soberly, “I started out trusting nobody. We are it.”

“When will you need me?”

“In a fortnight, Jim. Is that all right?” Bray checked with Lottie. “Until then we’ll just have half continental USA, always assuming we’ve got the right country and get the right answers.”

Jim Stazio asked heavily, “One thing. What if the gauntlet doesn’t work?”

“If there’s no narrowing down?”

“Devil’s advocate: The phoneys might hang on in whatever your system says, right? We might never narrow the possibles.”

After a pause Bray said, “Then I shall have to think again.”

“We could have it down to three or four towns,” Lottie said defiantly. “That’s a workable number.”

“Is there a chance your scheme could alert the perps?”

“A small risk.” Bray was unwilling to say more.

“The clues come from the boy?” Jim asked.

“Yes,” Lottie answered for Bray, seeing he was having difficulty coping.

“Then here’s to us.” Jim toasted with his beer. “Great
food, eh? This is a multinational pub, right across the States.”

“God save us,” Lottie said.