Lifesaving for Beginners (45 page)

Adrian says, ‘Get off me, you little runt.’

Faith says, ‘Fuck off, Adrian.
Don’t talk to him like that.’

Dad says, ‘Faith, your language .
.
.’

It’s Ant who clamps my arms to my sides and drags me off Adrian.
I’m yelling and roaring like I don’t want him to pull me away, but I’m glad about it really.
I reckon Adrian would have flattened me once he got his bearings.
He usually makes mincemeat out of Ant when they scrap.

I’m in the middle of saying something like, ‘Lemme go, I’m going to knock his block off!’
or something like that, when Dad says, ‘Can you PLEASE stop shouting?
Celia is trying to get some rest.
PLEASE!’
Even though he’s pretty much shouting himself.
Adrian struggles up out of the couch and his hair is sticking up in a clump at the front, like an arrow.
He looks at me with a sort of half-smile on his face, rubbing his arm like it’s sore or something.
He says, ‘Not bad, kiddo, not bad.’

I say, ‘I beat you,’ because it’s true, and he says, ‘I let you win,’ and Dad says, ‘Can you all please SHUT UP!’
There’s a cabinet in the corner where Celia keeps stuff that her grandparents owned.
Things like china shepherdesses with long thin staffs in their hands, and silver thimbles and glasses that are called sherry glasses.
Everything in the cabinet rattles across the glass shelf in a way that Celia won’t like one little bit.
And I’m just about to point this out to Dad when Celia rushes in and says, ‘I think the baby’s coming.’

Everybody groans apart from Dad, who says, ‘Are you sure this time, pet?’

Celia doesn’t look very sure but she nods anyway.

Dad says, ‘You’re positive it’s not indigestion.
Like the last time?’
and that’s when Celia bursts into tears and says something like, ‘Why is nobody on my side?’
At least, I think that’s what she says.
It’s hard to make it out on account of the crying.
Dad looks at Faith and says, ‘We’ll talk about this when I get back.’
Then he adds, in a lower voice, ‘I shouldn’t be long.’

I say, ‘What do you mean, a decoy?’

Minnie says, ‘You’re a crime writer.
You know what a decoy is.’
She’s talking to me and typing on her iPad at the same time.
And I’d say there’s not one spelling mistake in whatever it is she’s typing.
She’s one of the best multi-taskers I know.

I say, ‘Well, yes.
But you can’t be the decoy.
You don’t look anything like me.’

Minnie says, ‘We’re the same height and build.
I’ll just put a hat on my head and wear sunglasses.
They’ll be expecting that.
Recluses always wear hats and sunglasses.’

I say, ‘I am not a recluse.’

Minnie peers at the iPad, types something, presses Enter.
‘Minnie!’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not a bloody recluse.’

‘They don’t know that.’
Minnie nods towards the window and I look out.
They’re everywhere.
Sky’s got the biggest van.
It’s more truck than van.
I’d say RTE are embarrassed, with their little Hiace.
It’s bedlam out there.
They’re interviewing anyone who happens along.
We saw Mrs Byrne – the next-door neighbour and chairman of the Residents’ Association – on the lunchtime news.
‘We always thought Kat was a nice, quiet kind of a girl.
We had no idea.’
Mrs Byrne scurries away, looking around her as if I’m about to jump out of a bush and write her into a story.

I shake my head and say, ‘I can’t just take a plane to England.’

Minnie presses Enter again and says, ‘Give me one good reason why not, and you’re not allowed to say “Ed”.
There’s not a bother on that fella.’
We both look towards the couch where Ed is lying, eating what’s left of his hospital grapes and watching the
Coronation Street
omnibus.

I say, ‘I can’t just .
.
.
arrive.
On her doorstep.
I don’t even know her address.’

‘We have the name of the café.’

‘But .
.
.
I can’t just appear .
.
.
with no notice.’

‘No notice is better than notice, in a case like this.’

‘But .
.
.’

Minnie switches off her iPad and says, ‘There.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve booked you on the morning flight to Gatwick.
Tomorrow.’

‘But tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
I can’t just show up on Christmas Eve.
The café might be closed.’

Minnie continues as if I have said nothing.
‘From Gatwick, you get a Southern service straight to Brighton.
You’ll be there by lunchtime.’

‘No, Minnie, I can’t.
I can’t go tomorrow.
It’s too soon.
I’ll wait till after Christmas.
St Stephen’s Day, maybe.’

‘Too late, I’ve already booked your flight and your train.’

‘You’ve done all that already?’
Minnie nods.

‘Just now?’

Minnie nods again, this time adding one of her smug smiles.
I can’t blame her, I suppose.
She really is a tour de force.

I say, ‘But .
.
.
after everything that’s happened in the last few days, I’m in no fit state to do this.
I need to gather my wits about me.
I’m exhausted.’

Minnie says, ‘You’re not exhausted,’ like it’s a fact rather than merely an opinion that she happens to hold.

‘I won’t know what to say.’

Minnie pats my shoulder and says, ‘You’ll think of something.’
I know I’ll go in the end.
I have no choice.
Arguing with Minnie is one of the most useless and exhausting pursuits any human being could engage in.
She’s as relentless as a tank.

We end up eating chilli con carne on Christmas Eve, which happens to be one of my favourite dinners, on account of the kidney beans and the chilli peppers.
Dad said he was going to cook his speciality for us on Christmas Eve, which is steak and chips, but he’s still at the hospital with Celia.
The baby hasn’t arrived yet but the doctor said that Celia was exhausted with all the coming and going so she should stay another night.
She’s asleep now, Dad said, when he phoned.
I told him to get some sleep too and he said, ‘I think it might be on BBC Four.’
He sounded like an actual zombie when he said that.

Ant makes so much chilli that there’ll be enough for Christmas Day too, even though there’s a turkey hanging on a hook in the pantry.
Dad got it from a friend of his who’s a farmer.
It still has feathers.
Dad was going to show me how to pluck it.
It’s starting to stink a bit.
I hope we don’t have to eat it.
It would seem too much like Christmas if we had turkey.

Adrian mashes up avocados and garlic for the guacamole.
I put the garlic bread in the oven and Faith sets the table.
Adrian flexes his shoulder every now and again and says, ‘You’ve got a good right hook, all the same.’
He winks at me when he says it so I’m pretty sure there’re no hard feelings.

Every time the news comes on the telly, they show the woman again.
Saying the same thing about her books and about Faith being her daughter, except she doesn’t say Faith’s name and she always says, ‘No comment,’ when the people ask questions about Faith.

The newsreader says, ‘Sales of the Declan Darker series of books have surged, since the revelations about their author, Katherine Kavanagh, who has been writing under the pseudonym Killian Kobain for nearly twenty years.’
There’s a shot of people in a bookshop but you can’t see what books they’re buying.
Not really.

Faith says, ‘That worked out well for her.’

Ant says, ‘What?’

‘That little publicity stunt.’

Ant shakes his head and says, ‘Hardly.
The woman must be up to her crow’s feet in loot.’

Faith and Adrian turn their heads towards Ant and say, at exactly the same time, ‘Shut up.’
In fairness to Ant, he’s pretty easy-going.
He just shrugs his shoulders and spoons some more chilli and rice and sour cream and salsa onto his plate, and eats his way through it.
Then he says, ‘I bet she never washes her tea towels.
She probably just throws them away when they’re dirty.
And her socks too.’

Adrian says, ‘So that’s what you’d do, is it?
If you were rich and famous?
You’d stop washing your tea towels?
Let’s hope your lotto numbers come up really soon.’

Ant says, ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?
Dad got Milo the Declan Darker game for Christmas – what’s it called?
Mind Games, or something.’

Adrian says, ‘But that’s rated eighteen.
And it’s on Xbox.
Milo is .
.
.’
He looks at me.
‘How old are you, Milo?’

I say, ‘I’m ten tomorrow.’

Adrian says, ‘Oh shit,’ which probably means he’s forgotten to buy me a birthday present, which is the really bad thing about having your birthday on the same day as Christmas Day.

I look at Adrian.
‘But I don’t have an Xbox.’
Mind Games sounds legend.

‘He got you an Xbox too.’

Ant says, ‘It’s not fair.
Dad never tries to buy our love with good pressies anymore.’

Adrian says, ‘Yeah.
Remember the quad bikes?’

‘That was some summer.’

‘You’re not supposed to tell me what present Dad got me.’
An Xbox!
And an Xbox game!
For me!
And even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help wondering if he got me the goggles too.

Later, Ant comes up from the cellar with cobwebs in his hair and says, ‘I’ve found the good stuff.’
He’s got a bottle in each hand and one tucked under each armpit.
They’re covered in dust.
He puts them on the table.

Faith picks one up.
‘We can’t drink this.
It’s nearly eighty years old.’

Ant looks at the label.
‘Probably past its “best before”.
We’ll be doing the old man a favour.’

Adrian pops the cork and I get the glasses.
Four of them.
Faith says I’m too young to have wine but she pours cranberry juice in my glass, which looks pretty much like wine and tastes way nicer.

Ant says, ‘A toast.’

Faith says, ‘Let’s just get it drunk before Dad gets back.’

Adrian says, ‘Let’s drink a toast to Mam.’

And they look at me and I pick up my glass and we all clink and say, ‘To Mam!’
like it’s her birthday or something.

My eyes don’t sting.
I feel a bit happy, I think.
Maybe it’s because Ant made the chilli and Celia’s baby might come soon and I’m getting an Xbox and we don’t have to eat the turkey tomorrow.
Mam made the best chestnut stuffing in the world at Christmas time.

Minnie’s decoy plan turns out to be pretty formulaic.
She could have lifted it from any number of mainstream films;
Ocean’s Eleven
or
Mission Impossible
.

She arrives at my parents’ house the following morning in a taxi since her car is still barricaded into the car park of my apartment block.
We saw it on the telly.
She’s dressed for business in a military-style black leather coat with enormous golden buttons, black tights, high black leather boots, and a black peaked cap.

She leaves in my trench coat and trilby, a pair of my ankle boots and an enormous pair of dark glasses.
The hat is vital because of its ‘dual functionality’, according to Minnie.
It looks like a hat a reclusive writer-type would wear and you can tuck your hair under it.
She completes the ‘disguise’ with one of Dad’s golf umbrellas.
I say, ‘What do you need the umbrella for?’

Minnie says, ‘To beat them with if any of the fuckers get too close.’

I don’t have to look out of the window to see what happens.
I watch it on the telly.
When Minnie steps onto the driveway, they descend like a pack of wolves on a lamb.
Except that Minnie Driver is no lamb.
She holds the umbrella like a sword and pokes anyone within poking distance.
One man carrying one of those fluffy things that look like a feather duster gets it in the stomach.
He drops the duster and doubles over.
You can’t hear him but I’d say he’s roaring with the pain.
That umbrella has a particularly long, pointy bit at the end and she went in deep with it.
Another journalist – a woman – gets a straightforward whack on the head with the rolled-up middle bit.
She staggers against the belly of an incredibly fat man and sort of bounces back on her feet.
She turns to smile a grateful smile at the fat man and he emits a stoic nod, as if this is not the first time his belly has been involved in such chivalry.

After that, the crowd parts obediently, and Minnie strolls to Dad’s car, gets in and scorches out of the driveway.
No one’s ever scorched away in Dad’s car before and I can tell he’s a little worried.
I say, ‘Minnie’s a good driver,’ and he nods and I look at the screen again and I can’t help smiling.
There is something a little magnificent about Minnie Driver.

One of the reporters is saying that it’s like a scene from a Declan Darker novel, which is nonsense.
None of my characters have ever used an umbrella, other than to stave off the rain.
There is a scramble for cars and vans and trucks as they prepare to give chase.

Mum lends me her walking stick, and I tuck my hair inside one of Ed’s woolly hats.
It itches terribly.
I pick up the overnight bag Mum has packed for me, and the keys to her car.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind me taking the car?’

Mum shakes her head.
She pulls my hat down so it covers both ears.
It’s the type of itch you can’t scratch.
‘How long do you think you’ll be gone?’

I shrug.
‘I don’t know.
It depends.’

Mum steps away from me, her arms held tightly by each side, her back ramrod straight.
She says, ‘You’re doing the right thing.’

I nod, although it’s impossible to know if this is true.
But she seems pretty convinced so I allow myself to be buoyed by her certainty.

I point to the window and say, ‘I’m sorry.
About all this.’

She tucks a stray strand of my hair inside the itchy hat.
‘Adds a bit of colour to my quiet life.’

‘You like your quiet life.’

‘Maybe I like it a bit too much.’
I don’t say anything.
Instead, I touch her arm and she pats my hand, and then she wraps her arms round me and suddenly she’s hugging me and I feel the warmth of her face against mine, the skin there soft and delicate, smelling of the same talcum powder I remember from when I was a child.
She stops as suddenly as she started.
Pats me down.
Like she’s checking I’m still in one piece.

Dad says, ‘Do you have enough money, Kat?’

Mum turns on him.
‘For goodness’ sake, Kenneth.
She got paid one and a half million pounds for the film rights to
The Right to Remain Silent
.
Of course she has enough money.’
I didn’t tell her that.
She heard that on
Morning Ireland
.

I say, ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ and I kiss his cheek.

I take a breath and go into the den, where Ed is playing the Wii.
He says, ‘Do you want a turn, Kat?’

I say, ‘I have to go now.’

‘To see Faith?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Milo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they going to come and see us again?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell them to come soon.
It’s really hard work keeping my bedroom tidy every day.’

‘Why are you keeping your room tidy?

‘In case they come for a sleepover.
I already told Faith that she could sleep in my room the next time she comes, and Milo would probably come too so he’d have to sleep on the top bunk because he’s never had bunk beds, and kids love sleeping on top bunks, don’t they?’

When I hug Ed, he feels solid in my arms and I say it again, in my head: Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.
I don’t know who I’m thanking but I am thankful, nonetheless.
That he is here.
That he is OK.

I put on my mother’s tweed coat and pick up the walking stick.
Stoop my back a little.
Practise hobbling a bit.
For authenticity.
I find another golf umbrella in the cloakroom and arm myself with it.
Just in case.

But, oddly, Minnie’s plan works.
It wouldn’t have the nerve not to.
The remaining journos watch me like hawks and take a few pictures and shout a few questions at me from a distance, as if they’re worried about the umbrella or not really expecting an answer.
I make it to Mum’s car, open the boot and get the suitcase inside, then open the driver’s door and get myself inside.
It takes ages to get the key in the ignition with the shaking of my fingers.
But I needn’t worry because the journos have lost whatever minimal interest they may have had in me.
They are here for one thing and there is an air of dejection about the place, which I can only assume is because the one thing that they are here for is not here anymore.
Or so they think.
My hands on the wheel are slick with sweat.
I turn the key.
I have a terrible feeling that this is the exact opposite of the right thing to do.
But in spite of all these things, in spite of everything, I start the engine.
I even remember to drive out of the driveway and down the road like an old lady: slow and steady.

Slow and steady wins the race.
That’s what Mrs Higginbotham used to tell me and Ed.

There are several moments when I want to stop.
Turn back.
Go home and hide in my apartment, like I have been doing for the past while.
Years, really.

Like at the airport when the gate is about to close and I haven’t boarded yet.

Like on the plane when I hear several passengers talking about Killian Kobain and Declan Darker and Kat Kavanagh.

Like when the plane lands and the captain’s voice says, ‘Welcome to London Gatwick.
Weather is cold and bright with snow forecast for later, so it looks like it might be a white Christmas after all.’

But I don’t stop, or turn back.
I don’t go home and hide in my apartment.

I keep going.

It’s the strangest thing.

I disembark at Gatwick.
I look at Minnie’s instructions and follow them to the letter.
Now I’m on a train to Brighton.
When I get there, it’s lunchtime, just like Minnie said it would be.
I get into a taxi and say, ‘Take me to the Funky Banana, please.’
It sounds even weirder when you say it out loud.

The taxi driver puts the car in drive and moves into the lunchtime traffic.
He is taciturn and therefore unlike any other taximan I have come across and I have come across a fair few in my time, being a great believer in drinking and not driving.
At least I was until the bloody Ed situation.
Day eight.
Three hundred and fifty-seven days to go.

I clear my throat.
‘The traffic’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’

‘Could be worse.’

Silence again.
I’m twitchy as a pulse.

I wish Minnie were here.
It would be .
.
.
nice, I suppose.
To have someone here.
With me.
Someone in my corner, so to speak.
I haven’t thought about what I’m going to say.
I just got on a plane and a train and now here I am, in a taxi with a non-verbal taxi driver, and suddenly the back seat of the cab feels enormous, with just me here.
And I’ve nothing prepared.
No lines to say.

It’s only when I see the café from the top of the street that I realise I was hoping it would be closed.
The awning in front of the café is one of the brightest yellows I’ve ever seen, and I’m delighted that I don’t have a hangover because this yellow is so bright it would surely take the sight out of your eyes if you weren’t in the full of your health.

The sign that pokes out at a right angle from the café is in the shape of a banana.
A fairly ordinary-looking banana, to be honest.

The taxi driver pulls up in front of the café.
It’s packed with people in good form, eating and talking and smiling and even laughing.
There’s a lot of joviality, which is weird when you remember it’s Christmas Eve.

The taxi driver puts the car in neutral and sits back, without saying anything.
The meter reads twelve pounds forty-five pence and I give him twenty pounds.
I don’t even say, ‘Keep the change.’
I just get out of the car.
It seems like the least I can do.

The café is quirky by accident rather than design.
There’s quite a bit of yellow.
There’s a sizeable amount of banana-inspired food.
Banana and chocolate-chip milkshakes I can understand, but most people would have to draw the line at banana-infused tea, wouldn’t they?
Minnie would tell me to think outside my box of Lyons teabags, but I don’t think even she or Maurice would have the stomach for it.
There is not one matching chair in the place but because they’ve been painted such bright colours, it works somehow.
I sit at the only vacant table.
It’s the one nearest the door, which means there’ll be a draught and I’ll catch my death of cold, on top of everything else.

I sit down.
There’s a hint of Ireland about the place.
The clock, for instance.
Green and shaped like a shamrock.
And the dish of the day is Irish stew.
The weird thing is that, even though I’m not crazy about stew, when the waiter comes to take my order, I say, ‘Stew, please,’ and he says, ‘Good choice,’ as if he has sensed my hesitation and wants to assure me that I’m doing the right thing.

The Christmas tree in the corner is real, hanging with all manner of wooden fruit, among which bananas feature prominently.
Oddly, I’ve ordered a glass of milk with my stew, as if I’m six and not so close to forty I can see the whites of its eyes.
Well, I can’t drink a proper drink like wine because of the deal I made with God, which is crazy when you consider that I don’t even believe in God.
But something won’t let me disregard the promise.
Just in case.

I don’t think Faith is here.
In the café.
There’s just the waiter, who is a Maurice Minor, which is Minnie’s name for not-quite-a-man-not-quite-a-boy, and a fully grown man I can see in the kitchen every time the Maurice Minor opens the door.
He’s got long dark hair, which is in a high ponytail and tucked neatly inside a hairnet.
He’s chopping shallots with one of those gigantic, shiny blades that could separate a head from a body with a single swipe, if you were in that humour.