Breaking East (10 page)

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t doctored it?’

He looked hurt. ‘No. Why would I do that?’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I found it.’

The picture, the face, with the second paper crease running across under his nose like a thin white tash, was of my dad. ‘Where? Where did you find it?’

‘There was a pile of them at a newsstand. Read it.’

Award winning International journalist tells us why London should share the wealth and health with the rest of the country.

‘He’s a journalist.’

Gav nodded. ‘An award winning journalist. He’s changed his name to Sal Greg. Lives in Europe somewhere.’

‘All this time.’

Gavin frowned. ‘You’re happy though, yeah?’

I didn’t know. Of course Dad being alive had to be a good thing. I’d thought he might be dead or locked up, but never did I think he’d just run off to be a journo. ‘He left me.’ I said. ‘Left me and went off to write stupid leaflets. Left me in West Basley with the cons and the paedos.’

‘He left you with Joe.’

I laughed, gobsmacked. ‘Are you serious? Joe is a lot of things but nurturing daddy he ain’t. I wouldn’t leave my cats with him let alone a kid.’

‘Hey. I thought you and him were tight. He’s always looked after you. He’s been good to me too, all of us.’

True, but I didn’t want to listen to reason. ‘Joe should at least have let me know that Dad was safe, don’t you think? He watched me cry at night.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t know.’

‘You never were the smartest, Gavin.’ I screwed the leaflet up and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and he caught it. ‘Take it back and show him. Tell him I’ve seen it and there’s no need to look out for me any more. I’m going to go and find Gemma.’

‘You’re not thinking straight,’ said Gavin. ‘Why didn’t your dad tell you, eh? Maybe Joe wanted to tell you but couldn’t. Come home, let him explain himself at least. And forget about this Gemma kid. Let Joe handle it.’

And then a spark of the red flash shot behind my eyes. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I said, ‘I should just forget about Stacey too. Remember her? The baby your mate Carl sold?’ Gavin floundered for something to say. ‘Stay away from me, Gavin.’

Gavin had seen that flash behind my eyes often enough to know when to keep his distance. It might scare him, but it scared me even more. The fury is real, heavy, like a brick in my chest, squashing my lungs and sticking in my throat. It makes me want to claw at my own flesh let alone any poor sap who gets in my way. I snatched the leaflet back out of Gavin’s hand and shoved it in my back pocket. ‘I’m going to find out who wrote this rubbish and kill the bricking lot of them.’

I walked back to the hotel, past madam Poshtits and into the lift. Gavin could take the stairs or wait outside, or drop dead. As if I gave a frack. But as soon as I opened the bedroom door I knew Stuart had gone. All my stuff, including the lotions he’d bought for me, lay in the bin. All he’d left behind was a small bundle of cash next to the fish tank.

I found Stuart sitting at a table in a café opposite the train station and slid into the seat opposite. ‘Hi.’

His face told me nothing about what he might be thinking. ‘Hi.’

‘I wondered where you’d got to.’ I looked at the empty mug he held in both hands. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

‘Yeah, why not? Coffee, black.’

I fetched our drinks and two huge cheese rolls. Gavin hovered outside but he might as well have been squatting on the table between us.

‘Your friend is still with you.’

‘Ignore him,’ I said. ‘And he’s not my friend.’

We ate in silence. I wanted to tell him about my dad and the leaflet, but I worried it might look like I was seeking sympathy or trying to detract or delay the inevitable chat about Gavin and everything he’d said. I blushed. The café heaved with other customers. Some were the suited and booted officey type but an awful lot looked homeless and desperate. One guy, lemondrop-skinny, hovered at the doorway asking everybody who passed if they could spare a fiver. Occasionally a security guy happened by and moved him along. Within seconds he was back. I watched but nobody gave him anything.

‘I’ll get him a sandwich on the way out,’ Stuart said.

‘It’s your money he’s after, not food.’

‘It’s a waste of time giving him money.’

‘You think?’

‘He’d only buy more drugs and kill himself.’

‘Maybe if you had his life you’d want to spend it in an alternate world too.’

He gave a maybe or maybe not shrug. ‘Possibly. Lots of people might be better off dead but it doesn’t mean I feel comfortable helping them along.’ He looked at me. ‘Where would you draw the line, Atty?’

‘What line?’

‘The line where you give up on people and assume that it’s okay to give the likes of him the tools to kill themselves.’

I fidgeted. ‘None of us have the right to make that call.’

‘That’s right. So we get him a sandwich.’ He stood and went to the counter.

It was clearly time to meet the serious and assertive Stuart but, what I wanted - no, what I needed, as much as I hated to admit it, was a hug. There were a lot of layers to how I felt - betrayed, gullible, abandoned, but top of the list – lonely.

‘Coming?’ Stuart had returned to the table and was looking down at me. ‘Can’t sit here all day.’

Stuart didn’t simply hand over the sandwich he shook the guy’s hand and asked him how he felt, like he was trying to prove some sort of point – maybe that he wasn’t just an over-privileged nob-head. I pretended to fish something out of my pocket. If it was some type of good-citizen test, I didn’t want to take it. Guaranteed I’d cock it up.

There aren’t any trains running to or from Basley, haven’t been for years. The trains only run between major cities like Craffid to London or Birmingham. Consequently, there are few seats available and each one is subject to a bidding war. Sometimes even money isn’t enough and people have been known to spill their blood to get their family where they need to go.

The station was huge, an ancient warehouse-type building with a cavernous glass ceiling which grabbed sounds and whirled them around the roof space. The platform vibrated into a single mass of bodies, like a giant rolling maggot, and the noise grew and spread until it buzzed a continuous hum.

I stuck close to Stuart as he pushed his way through the crowd to the touts who stood on boxes along the back wall. He stopped when there were about six bodies between us and the action.

‘Aren’t you going to go up and ask?’ I spoke into his ear. Stuart looked behind, scanning the crowd. ‘If you’re looking for Gavin,’ I said, ‘he’s outside, watching the door.’

A man with a thin, tired looking wife told us he’d been waiting a week trying to secure a ticket. ‘Why don’t you walk?’ he asked us, ‘You’re both young and fit.’ He looked deflated, like all the hope had been wrung out of him years ago. ‘People have been known to die waiting for a seat they can afford.’

Stuart ignored him and turned to me, ‘Look, this is too obvious,’ he said, ‘We need to think of a plan B.’

More like plan F.

When we’d moved out of earshot I hooked my arm through Stuart’s, trying to force us back to that closeness we had in the hotel room. ‘It must be because they haven’t much money. But we’ve got loads, right? We’ll get something. Or why don’t we go back and get the bike? My arse can handle a bit of an ache.’

‘It’s probably been nicked by now. Anyway, can’t you think of a better idea than going backwards? You’re supposed to be the, what was it again? Oh yes, the
experienced
and
practical
one.’

He was likely right about the bike, but I could do without the stroppiness. ‘Listen to me. Gavin has weird ideas about reality, warped, we’re not even that close. Never have been. He’s different to me. Practical?’ I huffed. ‘That’s the longest word I’ve heard him say. He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t.’

‘Is that so?’ he walked faster.

‘Ease up. My knee.’

He stopped, hands in his pockets, looking at the sky.

We were standing amidst a bunch of sweaty foreign students that stunk to hell and back, the noise was doing my head right in, and all the while I kept thinking, ‘Dad’s alive. Dad’s a journalist. Dad’s alive. Dad’s a journo.’ Round and round, over and over. And all Stuart’s sulkiness did was piss me off even further. ‘Yes.’ I spoke into his face. ‘That is most definitely so. Why would you believe him over me?’

He didn’t speak for ages and when he did it was so quiet I had to lean in to catch the tail end. ‘ … know, more than anything else is, did you tell him?’

‘Tell who what?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You know what I mean. Gavin. Did you tell him where we’re going, where Gemma is?’

‘No.’

He looked so angry.

‘No! Why would I do that? You heard what was said, he came looking for me to take me home.’ I scoffed for effect. ‘I wouldn’t tell him anything.’

‘Yeah I heard what you both said when you were in the room, but you took him outside. Though I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t have to listen to you having a good old mess about on the bed, huh?’

‘Mess about? Is that posh easty talk for a shag?’

A passing kid paused to smirk. I gave him the finger and he laughed before strolling away.

Stuart put a dead-end look on his face. ‘Such a lady.’

People nudged past, jostling us sideways and into each other. The skin on Stuart’s bare upper arm was hot but dry when it brushed my cheek. I rubbed his scent off me and scowled at anybody who happened to make eye contact. Very few.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘can we do this somewhere else?’

Stuart set off at an almost trot.

I tagged along as best I could. ‘Where are we going now? Can you at least slow down?’

He headed back into the café, bypassing lemondrop-guy trying to flog his sandwich, and ordered more tea. The easty answer to everything. I stood alongside him trying not to wince with the pain of my poor knee.

‘I think you should go back with Gavin,’ he said without taking his eyes off the tea being poured out by a fat woman with damp, yellow patches at her pits. When she looked at me I held up my hand.

‘Not for me, ta.’

‘Gavin’s right,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s dangerous and if you go home at least the resistance might stop chasing me down. I’ve enough to worry about.’

‘The resistance isn’t chasing you, it’s only, well … it’s only Gavin.’

‘Sent by Joe.’

‘Joe’s been lying to me.’

‘What?’

‘He’s been lying to me. For years it would seem.’

He raised his hands to stop me saying any more, paid the woman with a note, waved away the change and carried his mug to the same table we were sat at not half hour earlier.

I sat opposite him, as before. ‘I thought you didn’t like going backwards.’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I can’t think about your problem with Joe right now,’ he said. ‘In fact, I can’t get mixed up in your life, Atty. In case you haven’t noticed I’ve got enough hassle in my own life to unravel. Maybe when I’ve found Gemma and you’ve sorted out what and who you want …’

‘But I do know. I want to find Gemma and Stacey. Everything else can wait.’

He looked uncertain, wavering.

I kept up the nagging. ‘We can do this … we can get Gemma back, your mum need never know she’d gone anywhere.’

He put his head in his hands and groaned. His knees jigged under the table, heels tapping a rapid beat on the tiles. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I do. If we want tickets we look for the greedy guy.’ I deliberately misunderstood him and the look on his face suggested he knew it.

‘Everybody is greedy for something, Atty.’

‘Okay, the greed-iest. In fact, if we just flash a little of your cash about, chances are a ticket guy will find us.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘If I don’t find a way to get us tickets I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back with Gavin and leave you do it your way. Deal?’

‘It’s not that I don’t want you with me...’

‘Good.’ I stood up. ‘Come on, let’s get on with it.’

And so we trawled the stalls outside the station, picking up items and bartering. We never showed too much cash at any one table, but each time Stuart took a wad out, it was from a different pocket. To any individual trader, he might look flush, but not so much to risk getting arrested or a beating for trying to steal off him. We let everybody know we wanted tickets. A tout would find us, I felt certain of it.

When we paused to touch and try on some seriously costly scarves I spotted, for the second time, a bloke in a hood shifting in and out the crowd. As he lit a cigarette I noted he was too old for his clothes, must have been around the late thirties mark and still wearing baggie combats and a tog-hood. When we made eye contact he overcooked the deal by raising his chin before walking away. Talk about amateur. I crouched to re-tie my boots and check for any suspect types lurking nearby. None appeared obvious. Apart from Gavin, of course. I stood and lowered my voice to Stuart. ‘I think we’ve got our man already.’

He swung his head round to gawp in all directions.

‘Don’t.’ I grabbed his arm and checked my tone. ‘Try and be a little more subtle, eh?’

‘Yeah, course, sorry. Who?’

‘The guy in the hood, walking up ahead over there.’

‘What makes you think …’

‘Trust me, okay? We haven’t got time to stop and chat about it.’

We followed the hood and Gavin followed us. Like we’d left the romantic thriller and slipped into an old political farce. As the hood dodged into a dowdy looking back-street pub I considered whether we should stop off for a violin case.

Stuart hesitated. ‘The last time one of us went in a pub things didn’t turn out too great.’

‘I survived.’

‘But even so.’ He stopped and looked at the boarded windows and patched up door. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘No. But that guy in there’s either got tickets or a twitch.’

Stuart fidgeted.

‘Got any other ideas, Stuart?’

‘Suppose not.’

‘Then let’s do this.’ I pushed at the heavy door and stepped inside.

Before my eyes had finished adjusting to the gloom I scanned the bar looking for our mark. He stood alone at the end of the bar, his back to us. But, in fairness, I could hardly mistake him as there were no other customers. The only other person present was the barman who was younger than the typical and only glanced at us, ‘You got ID?’ before looking back to his phone.

‘Not stopping,’ I said and headed straight for the hood.

Up close I reassessed his age. Maybe late twenties but weathered and likely lemondropped into early wrinkleville. His cheekbones stood out sharp and pale, probably because his face had caved in where his teeth had either fallen out or been knocked out. There is no such thing as a pretty junkie. ‘You know where we can get tickets for a train north?’

He looked at my chest. ‘Of course.’ He closed his eyes in a slow blink. When he opened them he was looking back at my face. ‘How do you want to pay?’

Stuart stepped up to my shoulder. ‘Cash.’

One of the hood’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Friend of yours?’

Stuart nudged me sideways. ‘I’m the friend with the means to pay. Cash is the only thing on offer here.’

The eyes drifted down, past my chest to my feet and all the way back up. I fought the urge to squirm as my skin crinkled up with revulsion.

Stuart grabbed at my arm. ‘Let’s go. He’s got nothing for us.’

‘How much?’ The bloke leaned on the bar in an effort to look casual but the angle of his feet, flat on the floor, suggested he felt anything but.

‘Depends.’ Stuart paused to swap his backpack from one shoulder to another. ‘We need to go today.’

‘Tonight is the soonest I can get you out. But it will cost. A couple of hundred each.’