Authors: Martyn Bedford
Flip (25 page)
According to the police, he denies everything: says he’s never heard of me, never went down to London that time before, has no idea how he came to be at my hospital bedside or what he was doing with that pillow
.
But then, he would say all that, wouldn’t he? Even if he knows the truth, it’s not a story that anyone is ever going to believe
.
I don’t know which would be toughest: remembering everything, remembering a little, or remembering nothing. Whichever, I don’t suppose there’s any way Flip can ever make sense of all this
.
I’m not sure I can
.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and it’s like I’m back there, in that bedroom at 20 Tyrol Place. Like it’s happening all over again. And then I’ll see my curtains and it’s all right. That’s what I do now, first thing every
morning—the moment I wake up, I open my eyes and look at those curtains
.
I like to imagine Flip doing the same, in his room. If I think of him doing that, I can almost believe he’s going to be okay
.
Right, time for that walk. EEK!! I’ll let you know how I get on
.
E-mail again soon with all your news, won’t you? And photos. Those ones of the hot springs were amazing—you looked like some sort of mud monster from the black lagoon!
(Is there really a place called Rotorua down there? It sounds like something you’d use to dig the garden. And is that cabin really yours?)
Take care,
Alex
p.s. Still no reply from Cherry. I know, I know, I know: you give me advice, and I ignore it. You tell me not to build myself up for a fall, and I just go right ahead and do it. The thing is, I miss her, Rob. And I wanted to tell her that
.
The walk is harder and easier than Alex anticipated. Harder physically—his legs, his lungs, his stamina—but mentally, he draws on reserves of strength and determination he didn’t know he possessed in what he thinks of as the Time Before Flip.
It hurts, it’s exhausting, he longs to stop … but he keeps on walking.
One foot, then the other; one foot, then the other. He counts the steps in tens, the way the physio has taught him when she has supervised him on the running machine (walking machine, in his case). If people look at him a bit funny, he pays no notice—stays focused; even Dad, cruising behind him in the car, like the support vehicle for a long-distance charity trek, fails to distract him from what he has to do.
He makes it to the retirement flats and sits down on the bench, as planned.
Dad pulls up, lowers the window with an electronic hum. “You don’t need me, do you?” he says, smiling.
Alex shakes his head. Smiles back.
His father carries on looking at him for a moment. Starts to say something, then changes his mind. It doesn’t matter. That smile, the sparkle in those eyes, tells Alex all he needs to know about what Dad thinks of him.
When Dad drives off, Alex sits awhile longer. It has started to rain—a few spits and spots which might become heavier—but he doesn’t mind.
It’s raining steadily by the time he reaches the house. His clothes, his hair are sodden. Alex imagines a long, hot soak in the bath.
He half expected Mum to be standing on the doorstep, waiting for him, giving him a round of applause or something as he came up the drive. But she isn’t. As he lets himself in, he hears her talking on the phone. Alex peels off his wet top and drapes it over the banister post. Treads off his trainers.
Stands there, knackered. Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.
Even though he’s been back home awhile, he can never enter the hallway without being reminded of that time he stood here as Philip Garamond, tricking his way into the house. The smell of home. How shrunken and confused his mum seemed then, and how much like her old self she has become. Not completely, though. A little of the mother—the woman—she was before has been lost, he thinks. Like a part of her died when she believed that death had come for him.
It occurs to Alex out of nowhere that if his mother and Mrs. Garamond ever met, they would probably become close friends.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part.
Alex is about to head upstairs when Mum appears in the hallway. “There’s a call for you,” she says, gesturing towards the lounge.
He frowns at her as though to ask who it is. “A friend,” she says with a shrug.
It might be Rob
, he thinks. He’s read the e-mail and is phoning from New Zealand to see how the walk went. Alex goes through and picks up the handset.
“Hello?” There’s a pause which lasts so long he wonders if the caller is still there. But he can hear breathing.
“Hello,”
he repeats.
“Is that you?”
Her words are quietly spoken, tentative. But they are enough for him to know right away who she is. Alex swallows, steadies his breath, which is still ragged from his trip down the road and back.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s me.”
I am grateful to the teenage readers who gave me valuable feedback on an early draft of
Flip:
Jessica and Nicholas Smith, and my niece, Meghan Hodgson, whose intelligent critique was matched by her courage in telling me why the original ending didn’t work. I would also like to thank Beth Woodley, at Guiseley School, West Yorkshire, for the loan of her planner from when she was in Year Nine.
A later draft benefited from comments by Alice Lutyens and my agents, Jonny Geller and Stephanie Thwaites at the Curtis Brown literary agency. Steph, especially, made a telling contribution or two to the final rewrite (quite apart from the terrific job she did in bringing the book to the attention of publishers). Thanks, too, to my U.S. agent, Tina Wexler, at ICM Talent; to my editors, Mara Bergman at Walker Books in London and Wendy Lamb at Random House in New York; and to Jennifer Black, the excellent copy editor of the U.S. edition.
For financial support during the writing of
Flip
, I am indebted to the Royal Literary Fund’s Fellowship Scheme, superbly managed by Steve Cook.
Finally, the greatest thanks of all to my wife, Damaris—always my first reader and truest supporter.
MARTYN BEDFORD
has written five novels for adults. A former journalist, he now teaches in the English and Writing program at Leeds Trinity University College. He lives in West Yorkshire, England, with his wife and two daughters.
Flip
is his first novel for young adults. Learn more about him at
martynbedford.com
.
