Now You See Me (8 page)

He nodded at the sideboard. ‘Help yourself, duck.'

But it is rubbish about art school, that's the last thing I would ever do. Since I was about three all I really wanted to be was a doctor. I used to toddle about with one of those plastic hammers banging people on the knee and bandaging their fingers together. Then when I got older I could see myself in a white coat, rushing importantly from ward to ward, stethoscope slung around my neck. In a way I
still
want to be a doctor but I do realise I've totally blown it now.

Mr Dickens poured the tea and rabbited on while I turned the pages of the album very slowly, watching the tissue flutter between the stiff card. I stared and stared at Zita in all her fantastic dresses and hats and especially the wigs. When I got to the page with Zita holding the baby I stopped.

‘Whose baby?'

‘Ah …'

I could have kicked myself when I saw Mr Dickens' face cave in. His eyes went dull as if there'd been a power cut inside him.

‘It's OK,' I said.

But he swallowed and said, ‘Belinda, our little lass. We had her three weeks. It were what they now call a cot death.'

We sat quiet for a minute then listening to Doughnut wheezing and the clock ticking. I was thinking back to what he'd said before, that there was only the one offspring between the three brothers. I wanted to ask if he didn't count Belinda just because she had died. Do you count babies that have died as offspring or not? It seemed like an important question. I wanted to ask that but how could I?

‘Two tragedies of my life,' Mr Dickens said. ‘Cot death – and then Zita. I do wonder if their deaths had been more run of mill it might not have been so …' He stared at the plastic flames then he did a long sigh like he was going to breathe his whole soul out. ‘On the other hand,' he said, ‘they would still be …'

‘Yes,' I said fast to stop him saying it.

He looked up. ‘Sarah says I must get someone on to garden,' he said and I breathed out. He's good like that, Mr Dickens. Brave. He took a long slurpy sip of tea. ‘Know anyone?'

I shook my head.

‘She reckons tree roots'll be getting in foundations. Eat your cake. It'll be hers one day.'

‘What?'

‘This.' He patted the arm of his chair and I thought,
that
old thing. Then I realised what he meant. He meant it all.

We talked a bit more about this and that and then I let Doughnut out into the back garden, stood there looking into the brown leafy mess as it got dark. A bird was warbling on the wet branch of a nearly-bare tree. Somewhere there was a crackle and a bang and a skinny silver streak in the sky. Someone having an early firework party.

‘When's she coming back?' I asked as I put my jacket on.

‘Who?'

‘Sarah.'

‘Don't know,' he said. ‘She comes and goes, you know. Take it.' He nodded at the album. ‘If it's useful for your whatsit.'

‘Thesis. Sure?'

‘Long as you look after it. You haven't touched your cake.'

I picked up the crumby lump and the album.

‘Ta,' I said. His eyes were bright as a child's. I had a stupid desire to kiss him. I mean the
cleaner
kissing him.

‘And if you think of anyone … for garden.'

‘Course,' I said, thinking, that's a laugh,
me
know someone.

I went down and stared at Zita and made myself stare at the baby which was just a blur in a bonnet and a shawl. It was only seven o'clock. I couldn't eat the cake but I needed something. I fancied some beer so I thought I'd go to the pub. It's an OK pub, the Duke's Head.

I sat inside because it was wet and empty in the beer-garden, no sign of a single person there. I drank half a pint of beer and ate a packet of prawn crisps. I flicked through a Sunday-supplement magazine someone had left on a seat. There was an article about artificial human parts, how they can now grow them, bits of bone and stuff. How one day they might be able to grow a whole new human heart. I thought about it, how maybe you could have a shiny clean new heart put in, a heart that had never beaten in a chest before, or felt anything, that had never fallen in love or been broken. But there was no one to say it to so I finished my drink and went.

Ten

It was a Mrs Banks morning. Doggo didn't show up. If he'd wanted to find me he would have been lurking about like before. I'd woken with a feeling in my bones that he'd be there but my bones turned out to be wrong, there was no one, only an old bloke with hedge clippers giving me a funny look. I went in, thinking how glad I was. Mrs Banks was out but she'd left a note:

Dear Lamb, there's some left-over curry in the fridge, do eat it up. Would you tidy the living room and water all the plants, please, and yet again there's ironing. I'll pay you on Friday – but call this evening if you're short
.

Take care. Marion
.

I did everything and then stuck around for a bit in case she came back. I wouldn't have minded seeing her. I kept looking out of the window to see if anyone was out there. It's natural to be curious about someone when they've said they
know you
in that way. When they've squeezed the tip of your middle finger and made it glow. Not that I expected to see him ever again, or even wanted to. I cleaned the kitchen worktops and emptied the bin because there wasn't enough in what she said to last me two hours. I tried some of her lipstick but it was too sugary pink for me, too pretty, it made the rest of me look worse. I scrubbed it off.

I stared at a picture of Roy, a nursery-school photo with a cardboard frame, trying to see Doggo in him – and there was something apart from the dark hair, I don't know what, just a look, like you wouldn't be surprised to hear that they were brothers.

I only had the quickest shower, using the minimum of shower gel, but I scrubbed the bath after me and picked all the hairs – most of them not even mine – out of the plug-hole. I scooped the curry into an ice-cream carton and put it in my satchel, not that I wanted it, but I didn't want to seem ungrateful.

When I left the house I looked up and down the road but there was no one and nothing, just an empty street and a pile of rusty hedge-trimmings where the man had been. I felt just about as empty as that street.

The afternoon was free. And the day stretched ahead of me so far I couldn't see the end of it. Being free isn't as great as people make out. It can be the saddest and most tedious thing. I wandered along to the Duke's Head and through to the beer-garden just for the hell of it. And you will never guess – he was there. Doggo.

I got a jolt right through me, seeing him sitting there. My feet stuck to the ground. He looked different with his beard grown thicker and different sunglasses. Better ones. I could have darted off before he looked up, I would have done but by the time I could move again, Norma had seen me. Her mouth opened in a doggy smile and she wagged her stumpy tail. Doggo was drinking a pint of Guinness and smoking.

‘Like the shades,' I said.

‘Fuck me.' He jumped a mile, spilling a creamy lick of froth down the side of the glass.

‘Nice to see you too,' I said.

Norma frisked round my ankles but Gordon just raised his eyebrows and did a long-suffering sigh, like oh God not
her
again.

‘You alone?' he said, looking behind me. ‘Meeting anyone?'

‘No.'

‘Drink?' He got up.

‘I'll get it.'

‘You got the last one.'

‘K.' I sat down and watched him go in. Norma twisted her lead right round the table to put her head on my foot. I don't know what was going on. He could buy me a drink if he wanted. Nothing wrong in that. My heart was like a stupid trumpet.

There was an old woman at one of the other tables. She'd tipped all the money out of her purse and was counting it in piles of silver and copper. I heard her get to two pounds thirty-three, before Doggo plonked my drink down. ‘Got you some crisps,' he said. ‘Like crisps, don't you?'

‘They're OK.' I thought, Jesus I'm going to turn into a crisp at this rate. We sat and stared across the table at each other. What now? I thought.

‘Why did you do that thing,' I said, ‘with the matches?' But he shrugged that subject off. We sat in an awkward silence till the old woman, who had got to three pounds seventy-six, stopped counting. She came over and petted the dogs.

‘Do you know what I'm reduced to?' she said. ‘After a lifetime of sturdy service?'

‘Three pounds seventy-six?' I said.

‘It's not on,' she said, ‘it really is not on.'

‘No,' Doggo said, ‘it is definitely not on.' He nudged my knee under the table and an electric shock shot right up my leg.

‘I'll leave you young lovers to it,' she said. ‘A lifetime of sturdy service, I ask you.'

I went scarlet. Young lovers!
God
. When she'd gone I sneaked a look at Doggo but he was staring deeply into his pint. I said I needed to go to the toilet, went in, locked myself into a cubicle and leant against the door. I stayed there until the riot in my chest had calmed down. When I was sure there was no one else in there, I went and looked in the mirror. I blotted my shiny face all over with a bit of bog-roll. I wish I hadn't picked my spots. That's why I've got the craters like Mum warned me I would. My skin is terrible. I know why. I haven't eaten a vegetable for weeks unless you count crisps as vegetables.

I went out again. Norma was sniffing at my satchel. ‘It's got food in,' I said. ‘From your mum.'

‘She OK?'

‘Go and see for yourself.'

He lit a fag and shook his head as he blew out the smoke.

‘I prefer those shades,' I said.

‘Yeah?'

‘Where's your old ones?'

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled them out.

I picked them up. ‘These are so naff,' I said.

‘Have them if you want,' he said. I laughed. It was cold sitting there and there was nothing to say. That was good. Not like there was any rapport going on between us. I thought I'd just finish my pint then go. Maybe to the library. A sparrow hopped on the table, pecking at a speck of crisp.

‘Did you find somewhere to crash?' I asked. ‘Who are you lying low from?'

He tipped his head back and lipped a perfect smoke ring.

‘Very clever,' I said, as it rose and thinned and disappeared.

‘What's she like these days?' he said. ‘What's her old man like?'

‘K, I think,' I said.

He looked cold and dishevelled. A tuft of his beard was sticking out and I wanted to smooth it down. I wanted him to squeeze my fingertip again. The voice was telling me to back off, quick, finish up my drink and go. The sun came out, not far off warm. I took a sip of beer and it tasted like autumn leaves. A breeze riffled the litter about. I looked at the scar in his eyebrow. His eyebrows are black as black and thick, nearly joined up in the middle. I like the way his beard starts out thin at the edges, on the high-up slopes of his cheeks like the start of a forest, and then thickens around his soft pink lips. But what with the sunglasses there's not much of his face you can actually see.

‘Got to go,' I said, standing up.

‘You haven't finished your pint.'

‘I've had enough.' I picked up my satchel. ‘I'll take these and chuck them for you,' I said, putting the old sunglasses inside. ‘See you.'

I walked away. It was hard. I felt rude. The voices were quarrelling and I was losing track. A strand of warm toffee had attached itself to my belly, stretching out to him and the beer and the sun. The street was shadowy and cold like a different climate. I walked on and didn't stop or even look back. Not once did I look back.

I walked for a long while without breathing. I walked to the Botanical Gardens which is my favourite place on earth. Except it's usually full of couples holding hands and people pushing buggies. I like it best on weekdays, specially when the weather's wet and there's hardly anyone about. I go there to soak up what time of year it is – is it buds or roses or falling leaves? The squirrels come out from between the tree-trunks like little puffs of smoke, they'll eat out of your hand if you take some nuts.

I walked till the strand of toffee set hard and cold and broke in a spike. Then I sat down on a bench. The cold stripes of wood chilled my thighs. I put my head back and squinted at the ivory smudge of sun. Looking at the sun always makes tears come. The bare twigs squeaked like fingers against the glassy sky. I closed my eyes. Someone sat down beside me on the bench, a wet nose snuffled against my hand.

‘What do you want?' I said without even opening my eyes.

‘You know,' he said. A human hand took mine. It was even colder than my own but between the two cold palms a little warmth started, a spark struck between stones.

‘I don't know who you are or what you've done or who you're hiding from,' I said. ‘Where I live it's … I can't let you in. I can't let anyone in. I would help you if I could.' I opened my eyes and looked down at our hands. ‘I
might
help you, if I could, but I can't. I really can't.'

I was amazed to have said so much and sounded so sensible.

‘I could always follow you,' he said. ‘I could follow you home.'

I tried to pull my hand away but he squeezed till the thin bones rubbed together then suddenly let go, grinning.

‘I wouldn't go home then. That hurt.'

‘Never?'

‘Not if you were following me.'

‘How would you know?'

‘I could … call the police.'

‘But you wouldn't do that.' His voice was coaxing, a smile on his lips.

‘Oh wouldn't I?' I sounded so childish I couldn't bear it. A woman in a fur coat walked past and smiled at us and the dogs. Doggo smiled back, charmingly. She left a trail of chemical perfume that jarred in the fresh air. Gordon put his paws over his nose. I'm glad I'm not a dog and assaulted by these smells all the time.