Dangerous to Know (9 page)

“OK, no worries.” I wondered why the hell Buggy had gone back on our agreement. “I’ll just find him tonight.” The end of the month, I’d promised him. He’d agreed. But then Buggy wasn’t the kind of guy you messed with: if Buggy changed his mind, he changed his mind.

Ben gave me a sarcastic look. “Right,” he said. “You go looking for him. Right. Just watch out, Jack. How do you reckon I explained this to my mum? She thinks I fell down the stairs.”

He shoved past me and was gone, and it was a good thing he didn’t see me trying not to laugh. But really. You had to see the funny side. It was like a rubbish, small-town version of
The Godfather
.

All the same, I didn’t have a clue how I was going to get the money. I couldn’t ask Mum or Louis. Mum was suspicious enough already – if I started asking either of them for cash she’d be convinced I had a massive smack habit or something. There was no telling her I could smoke a few joints and be fine.

“Christ,” Sammy said again. “What are you going to do? I’m skint or I’d borrow you some.”

“It’s fine,” I told him, breezily. “I’ll sort it out.”

In the end, I did something desperate. Something stupid, in fact. Something I’d always sworn not to do in a situation like this. I called my dad. Using the payphone in the hall outside the secretary’s office, I tried the San Francisco number. I’ve got a direct line, but was only seven in the morning there and I wasn’t sure anyone would pick up. In the end, it rang through to a receptionist rather than his PA.

“I’m sorry, sir, can I ask who’s calling?” The receptionist sounded suspicious, wondering how I’d got hold of the private number.

“It’s Jack,” I said. “His son,” I added, after another icy silence.

“Oh…” There was a pause. I imagined her checking a list of approved callers. “Well, honey, I apologize, Mr MacNamara is at a conference in Tokyo this week. It’s kind of late out there now, but I can place a call to his personal assistant for you.” Now she just sounded sorry for me.

Don’t worry, love
, I thought,
I’m used to it
.

In one second flat, I was transferred. “This is the office of Edward MacNamara.” A smooth, young-sounding voice. A man this time.

“Can I speak to him, please? It’s Jack.”

This time there was no pause. The guy was obviously better trained than the first flunky I’d spoken to. He knew exactly who I was. “Jack! Hi. Your dad will be so pleased you called. He’s with a client right now but I can have him call you once they’re done at the restaurant. Is there any message?”

I was starting to feel like a real idiot now, but I was desperate, OK? There was no point in asking Dad to phone me back. He hardly ever did. There was always a good reason, but all the same, he wouldn’t call. Or not till it was way too late, anyway. “My mum said he’d given me some money for Christmas and, er, I haven’t had it yet. So I was just wondering where it was. I’ve been saving up for a new bike.”

It’s so easy to lie over the phone.

“Oh.” There was a slight pause. Maybe the guy was embarrassed at Dad’s laxness. It was June, after all. “Well, Jack, I’ll chase that right up for you.”

“Thanks.” I put the phone down, shaking my head. I don’t let that stuff get to me. It’s just the way it is.

The PA was probably the one who’d reminded Dad to give me a Christmas present in the first place. I bet he’s got a list: that old aunt of his, Blanche, in San Francisco, Owen, Herod, some secretaries and clients. And me. Oh, and the girlfriends – however many he had at the moment. One had been enough to push Mum over the edge, but I knew that he sometimes operated more. I thought of the blonde woman in the lobby of that London hotel, years ago – her high heels and polished fingernails. Had Dad had ever seen her again?

“I’ll transfer a couple of hundred. Sterling, not dollars.” I could imagine Dad barely looking up from his desk. “See to it, will you?” The bank forms were probably still sitting in his in-tray, waiting for a signature.

It must have been a continual mystery to my father how he ended up with kids like us – a super successful software genius with a couple of waster crusties and a layabout teenager for children. He probably blames Mum. My parents started off in the same place, but they’ve ended up being polar opposites of each other.

I remembered how Mum once slammed the phone down, hanging up on him.

“What now?” Louis had said.

“He’s suggested boarding school for Jack,” Mum spat. “So typical. He completely ignores the boys for years and now he can’t, he thinks it’s time to throw some money at the problem.”

“Boarding school?” Louis repeated.

“No way,” Mum said. “No way. It’s another world, all that money. We’d never get Jack back. We’d lose him completely.”

So Dad just kind of got further and further away till he wasn’t even really my dad any more.

He kept that promise he’d made to me in London, though. Not long before Herod went into hospital the first time, I flew out to San Francisco with the twins.

We walked out into the arrivals lounge, Owen rolling up a fag the second we got out of baggage reclaim, ready for lighting outside. Herod was very quiet with that blank expression again. It meant he was hearing voices, but I didn’t realize that at the time.

I thought Dad would be waiting on the other side of the barrier. “Wow,” I’d imagined him saying, “Jack you’ve grown so much I hardly recognize you.” Well, I’d hoped that was what he’d say.

But Dad wasn’t there. A jumble of unfamiliar faces, people shrieking out names, running towards each other, hugging, laughing.

“Fuck’s sake, not again,” Owen muttered, dropping his rollie back into his smoking tin. He patted me on the head. “Come on, J. We’ll find a cab. H, where are you going, man?”

Herod turned to look at us, shrugging. “I’m going to look at the arrivals board. I think we might have come in a bit early. Maybe we should wait.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Owen replied.

“Look,” I said. “Over there.” In amongst the crowd waiting for our flight there was a grey-haired, Spanish-looking guy, holding up a placard with M
AC
N
AMARA
printed on it.

Owen laughed. “It looks like we’ll be in time for our conference after all, boys.”

He started walking towards the guy with the placard, hefting his rucksack over one shoulder.

Dad was always at work by the time I woke. Herod and Owen used to sleep till almost lunchtime while I wandered around the house, barefoot on polished wooden floors, looking at the weird pictures on the walls, watching MTV and the best cartoons I’d ever seen on a telly with a massive screen – it seemed like there were ads every five seconds. Sometimes I swam in the square blue pool. One day, when I was exploring, I discovered a room at the top of the house. There was an artists’ easel, a trestle table covered in tubes of paint, a mug with a smear of black coffee in the bottom and a green glass beer bottle. Canvases leaned up against one wall, splashed with bright paint. So Dad was an artist, too – like Herod. Mum hardly ever talked about him and I realized there was a lot I didn’t know. I looked at the paintings for a long time, trying to find some clues about my dad. All I could see were puddles of colour.

On our last day I woke up much earlier than usual. I could smell coffee brewing; I knew he was still there. I went into the kitchen. As usual, breakfast was already laid out on the table – there was a Puerto Rican woman called Rita (pronounced “Heater”) who came in every day and was well suspicious. She kind of hovered, like she was hoping to catch one of us going through Dad’s pockets or something. Anyway, Dad was standing by the window. The house was on a hill; there was an amazing view of the city below and, in the distance, a strip of electric-blue ocean.

“Hello.” Dad turned around, smiling at me. It was six thirty in the morning. “Want some coffee?”

I liked the way Dad always spoke to me as if I was another adult. He passed me a cup without waiting for an answer. Silently, I went and stood next to him at the window. He looked down at me. Smiled. I took a swig of coffee, hot and bitter.

“You’re really getting kind of tall.” He shook his head, staring out across the city again. “Time passes, I guess.”

“The paintings upstairs – what are they of? All those colours,” I said, and suddenly got really embarrassed. I’d basically just admitted to sneaking around the house.

Dad didn’t seem to mind. “Music,” he told me. “I like painting music. I’m synaesthetic – it means I see music and numbers in a different way to most people. Every note has a colour, so does each number.”

I stared at him. “What happens when you do long division or something? What happens to the numbers?”

Dad smiled. “They change colour. If I close my eyes, I can see them doing it. Do you want to come into the office with me today?”

“OK,” I said, dizzy with joy.

What I remember most about the office was that no one wore a suit and tie – one guy was wandering around in Bermuda shorts with no shoes on. There were even people playing table tennis. I sat on the sofa in Dad’s office and drew, using up sheet after sheet of paper, wishing I could see music. He wasn’t even there most of the time but I was happy.

All through Art, I sat doing nothing, gazing out of the window. I couldn’t help wondering what it would take to bring Dad home. Make him step back into our lives like a character in a play. Act Four.
Herod
, I found myself thinking.
Would he come back for Herod?

“Jack? Where’s your still-life orange?” I looked up. Mr Trelawney was standing by my table. The others sniggered – Georgie Hicks who’d been freaking me out by staring at me all lesson when she thought I wasn’t looking, Joe Simmonds, Naomi Briggs – all of them except Sammy. Trelawney’s all right. Younger than the other teachers by about four hundred years, but still pretty ancient. Maybe mid-thirties or something. He’s our form tutor as well. We were lucky.

When I first had Trelawney for Art last year, he said to me, “I remember your brother, Herod. A very fine ceramicist. How is he getting on these days?”

Most people are afraid to mention Herod’s name, but not Mr Trelawney. And he didn’t remember the Creature; he remembered Herod – the fact that he was really good at ceramics. I liked that.

I’d got in at half twelve the night before (through my bedroom window – I wasn’t taking any chances), collapsed into bed and rushed out of the house this morning at quarter to nine with a bit of toast in one hand and my bag in the other. “Sorry,” I told Trelawney, “I forgot to bring my sketchpad and stuff. Can I give it to you tomorrow?”

Mr Trelawney gave me a look. “The same tale you told Mrs Wright about your Maths? Ten minutes late for registration. Not a great day for you so far, is it? Wait behind after the lesson, Jack. And get on with some work, for Christ’s sake.” He didn’t seem annoyed with me, though. Something else. Worried.

Probably remembering Herod
, I thought.
Wondering when I’m going to go off the deep end.

Just after we got back from San Francisco, about a week before Herod went to hospital the first time, Mr Trelawney brought him home one night. Mum, Louis and I were watching some crap on TV about detectives. It was quite late but nobody had told me to go to bed. Mum and Louis had other stuff on their minds. Owen and Herod were out; we thought they were together. It was dark and the curtains were drawn. The window had been left open slightly, though, letting in the warm smell of Mum’s lavender plants. Mum flinched when a car pulled up outside. It was almost as if she knew. Straight away, we heard voices in the street.

“The thing is, you don’t understand: they won’t let me work. I can’t get any peace. I can’t, oh, God—” Herod was speaking quickly, each word strangled as if his throat was rigid with fear.

“Herod, you can’t stay in the Art Room. You need to be at home, mate. It’s late. It’s Friday night.”

Mum rushed out of the room and Louis turned to me and said, “Jack, maybe it’s time you went to bed.”

I didn’t; I followed him into the hallway where Mum was answering the door to a man I’d never seen before and Herod, who was hollow-faced, eyes darting everywhere, his clothes covered in clay – even his hair was grey-streaked. The man was Trelawney – younger then, early twenties. Dressed in jeans and a hooded top, he didn’t seem like a teacher. Just worried.

“Mrs Lefebvre?” he asked. “I’m sorry to intrude—”

“Just let me stay, take me back,” Herod snapped. “I don’t need to be here. It’s pointless.”

“Herod,” Mum said. “Come in, darling. You look tired.” She glanced at Trelawney. “Thank you so much. I don’t understand. Where was he? Herod, where have you been?”

“I left my wallet in the classroom,” Trelawney said. “Herod was there when I went back for it. Some amazing work he’d done. Really beautiful. Your son is very talented.” He shook his head. “But the school won’t allow it – students on the premises after hours. It’s to do with insurance. I’m sorry.”

Herod pushed past us all, including me, and ran upstairs. Unseen, a door slammed.

Trelawney shrugged, looking helpless – embarrassed, even. “I don’t know, Mrs Lefebvre, if you want to look into it, but there’s a few places in town renting studio space to artists.”

“That’s a good idea,” Louis said. “A studio of his own. He’s got so much creativity he doesn’t know what to do with it, that boy.”

“Yes,” said Mum, “perhaps that’s it. And thank you again, Mr Trelawney. Have a good weekend.”

Was Trelawney remembering that night, too? Waiting for me to go off like an unexploded bomb from the Second World War. I had a distant hope he might forget about keeping me back after the lesson, but no such luck. No one had the decency to distract him; there was no acting up, not even from the usual suspects like Ginge Philips. So when everyone was bundling out of the classroom for break, Trelawney caught my eye.

“Don’t think you’ve slipped my mind,” he said. “Wait.” I stopped, and he shut the door. “Normally, Jack, I like the cut of your jib. Keeping your head down, quietly getting on with your own thing. You’re clever – you know how to keep people like me off your back. So why did you come in this morning completely unprepared for a school day?” His tone of voice changed very slightly. “Is there something wrong?”