Rockoholic (27 page)

Now look where my religion has got me.

My last potato and few carrots have gone all shrivelly under the grill, so I gollop down my strawberry-rhubarb crumble and race straight upstairs to call Mac, only his phone goes to bloody voice mail. Rehearsals tonight, I forgot. It’s the performance on Friday.

“Shit,” I say, my frantic heartbeat the only sound in my ears. She bloody knows!

I can’t go out and check on Jackson until after ten o’clock cos Mum is fannying about at the dishwasher and Halley’s doing the laundry from her camping trip in the utility room. He’s OK, though. I take him out some leftover dinner and crumble with custard and a couple of games to play — Connect Four and Operation. I’ve been trying to rotate his toys like we do with the children at work, to keep him entertained. When I go in, he’s drawing on a sketchbook I’ve given him.

“Oh hey,” he says. He accepts the food and scarfs all of it down, apart from the pieces of soggy rhubarb in the crumble, which he leaves lined up around the edge of the bowl. I just watch him and listen to his guzzling sounds. There
is
no good way to tell him about Dinkley so I don’t think I’ll mention it. He’ll have another sick-fit. I don’t want to see that crumble again.

He has a little bit of color in his cheeks when he’s done eating. “Any news?”

I shake my head and smile. “No, no news.”

I have to wait until the next morning on my walk to work before I can talk about the Dinkley Bombshell to Mac. After the ninth attempt, he answers his phone.

“Mac, thank God, where have you been?”

“I’m at the Playhouse,” he says. “We’re so busy. We were doing this scene last night and there was this almighty crash and half the scenery came down. We’ve spent half the night fixing it. We all had to pitch in and —”

“A reporter came to the house yesterday. Jackson saw her through the window. She came back last night and asked me about a billion questions. Mac, she knows, she knows he wasn’t in Italy.”

“Whoa, how?”

“One of the photos. There was a bloody flyer for Nuffing Market on the ground and she recognized the Italian bloke at the counter. What the hell am I going to do? She’s staying at the Torrance. She’s determined to sniff him out.” There’s a long silence. I can hear Mac’s breathing. “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m still here, I’m thinking. What did she look like? She might have been in the pub.”

“Bleached blonde hair, a yellow Primark jacket like Halley’s got, five-inch heels, skinny . . .”

“Tell me everything she asked.”

“I can’t, I’m already late for work. She wants to meet me for lunch at the Whistling Kettle. Can you come to the day care center before one?”

“Yeah. I’m at the Playhouse ’til then, anyway. Then I’ve got Cree so she’ll have to tag along as well. I’ll try and nip out to check on Jackson in a bit. Nobody’ll be home, will they?”

“No. Mum’s in Cardiff of all places at some work seminar and Halley’s at school until seven for netball.”

“Right, I’ll be at the day care about twelve, then. ’Kay?”

“’Kay,” I say and off he goes.

• • •

All morning at work, Dinkley’s in my brain like a headbanger’s headache. Her words
Where is he? Why are you protecting him?
are on a constant loop. As bad days go, it’s another world-record-beater. Snotty noses and shitty arses a-go-go and Ashley barely speaks to me, except to bark orders. Even the part-timer is looking at me like she’s on the ghost train and I’ve just sprung out of some crevice. I think they’re all secretly glad I’m leaving. At least then they might get some enthusiastic college student filling my shoes who actually turns up on time. The children I’m responsible for today are Kezzy, Mitch, and Jaden. Lovely. All bases covered — one to cough in my face, one with chronic thrush, and one who screeches in my arms until his mum comes back for him at lunchtime. Superb.

In fact I’m holding Jaden (plus taggy blanket, teddy, blankie blanket, bottle, and sticky pacifier) when the door buzzer goes at 11:30
A.M
. That’ll be Mac. I hand Jaden over to the part-timer, whom he promptly has a nice kicky tantrum on, and catch sight of Ashley glaring at me through her false eyelashes.

“I’m just saying hello to Cree,” I explain. She seems to accept this but, quite honestly, I wouldn’t care if she didn’t. What’s she going to do? I have like three days left so I’m zero bothered.

“Dody!” says Cree and her whole face lights up as she sees me. I can always count on her to make me feel good. I lift her up and she snuggles in, then pulls back and grabs my earlobes as usual when she wants to talk to me, woman to woman. “Dody, my brought my snell today.”

“Did you? Where is he?” I say, looking at Mac, who is carrying Roly’s see-through plastic animal carrier. All I can see is grass and a few twigs inside. “Is he asleep?”

Cree shakes her head.

“She thinks he’s d-e-a-d,” Mac spells out with a wry smile. “But she’s not sure. She wants to ask ‘the Man’ for his opinion.” He rolls his eyes.

“Man wants to see my snell,” Cree explains. “He won’t come out of his shail.” She sighs. “He just won’t come out.”

“Maybe the magic Man can talk him out, yeah?” I say to her and she snuggles in again. “Did you see him?” I ask Mac.

“Yeah,” he says, adjusting his beat-up black fedora on the back of his head and checking his hair in the porch mirror. “I looked in on him on my break. He wanted the loo but your back door was locked.”

My heart hurts. “Oh no. I forgot to leave it open for him.”

“He’s fine. He took a piss in the flower bed.”

“Stunning. On my mum’s polyanthus I suppose.”

Mac smiles. “Give me your key. I’ll go back and unlock the door for him.”

“No, I’m coming, it’s fine. Wait here a minute. . . .”

I go back into the classroom with Cree in my arms and stride across to the coat hooks to get my bag. “Is it OK if I take my lunch now, Ashley?”

“It’s not twelve o’clock yet,” she says, looking up from her Play-Doh birds’ nest, which Mitch proceeds to bash with his fist the moment her face is turned.

“It’s an emergency,” I say, which it kind of is. I mean, if Jackson’s got to go, he’s got to go, and there are limits when it comes to my mum’s flower bed. I hear no further argument, which doesn’t mean there isn’t any, since once the door is shut I would put money on the fact that they all start bitching about me.

We walk back to my house and look in on Jackson. Cree immediately runs in with Roly’s animal case and shows him. “My brought Roly.”

“Hi. Sorry, I forgot to leave the door open,” I tell him.

Jackson puts the book he was reading down by his side and takes the animal carrier from Cree. “Where is he? I can’t see him.”

She shakes her head. “He won’t come out. Fink he’s died-ed.”

Jackson peers into Roly’s carry case, squinting like he’s conducting an experiment. “Nah, he’s probably just asleep.” He looks up at me. “Is it OK if I take a shower?”

“Sure, yeah, of course, absolutely,” I say. “I’ll go and get everything ready for you.”

“Come on, Creature,” says Mac, holding his hand out for his sister, but she sidles up to Jackson. “No, my want Man to make Roly come out.”

Jackson gets to his feet and shakes off the feathers. “He probably just needs some new leaves or something, Cree. We’ll go and find some, okay?”

She nods, staring up at him like he’s Santa Claus, and they both walk past us out into the yard, where they start foraging around in the flower bed for bits and pieces for the snail, Cree hanging on to Jackson’s hand all the while. I can tell Mac’s not happy about it at all as he follows me into the kitchen. “So who’s this reporter, then, and when are you going to tell him you’ve talked to her?” He jerks his head toward the yard when he says “him.”

“Her name’s Sally Dinkley. And I’m not going to tell him. Yet. One mention of the word ‘reporter’ will tip him over the edge, and I’ve only just yanked him back from it.”

“Sally Dinkley?” says Mac as we begin up the stairs. “That’s definitely her name?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I went to school with someone called Sally Dinkley.”

“She said she went to Nuffing for a bit.”

“Yeah. She was a few years above me, though. Left before you came.”

“She’s just starting out as a journalist, apparently,” I tell him. “I‘ve seen her gossip column in the
Chronicle
— she just talks about the different lipsticks she’s tried and who she thinks the mayor might be shagging.” I search for fresh towels.

“I think he ought to know, Jode. So he can prepare if she comes around again.”

I walk into Mum’s bathroom and get some shower gel. Mac follows me in. He’s standing right behind me when I turn around. “You just want him gone.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I can’t lie, I do want him gone. The longer he’s here, the worse this is going to be. For you, in the long run. But you should tell him about Dinkley. Just so he’s aware.”

“No, there’s no point. Anyway, he’s seen her. He’s already on high alert. If she comes around here again he’ll be able to avoid her.”

“Jody!” a voice calls.

I look at Mac. Mac looks at me. We both turn to stone. It’s not Jackson’s voice. It’s not Cree’s voice. It’s not even Mum’s voice. It’s Sally Dinkley’s voice. And it’s coming from outside.

I turn and peer through the bathroom window. You know that saying “speak of the devil and he appears”? That’s exactly how it feels. Like we have the devil herself standing in the middle of my backyard, calling up at the window. Except this devil wears Primark.

“Oh my God,” I say with the small amount of breath I can muster.

“Where’s Jackson?” asks Mac, peering slowly out the window.

“Where’s Cree?” asks Me.

We both leg it downstairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. It’s starting to rain. Dinkley’s standing underneath a pink umbrella in the center of the yard like a large scary garden gnome, still in her yellow jacket, her designer heels sinking slowly into the damp grass.

“Oh, Sally, hi,” I pant. There’s no sign of Jackson or Cree anywhere. “Sorry, I thought we were meeting —”

“At one o’clock, yeah I know, sorry, I thought I’d see if you were here first and walk down with you if that’s all right? Not quite sure where it is. I think it’s relocated.”

“No, it’s still where it’s always been,” I pant.

“Oh.” She does the
doink
thing with her hand on her forehead. “Should have known. Well, anyway, I’m here now. What a lovely house you’ve got.”

“Thanks.”

“And who’s this nice young man?” she smiles, shielding her hand over her eyes to look at Mac, who is just as out of breath as I am.

“Mackenzie,” he says, offering his hand like he always does when he meets someone new. “You used to go to Nuffing Comp, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yes. I thought I knew your face,” she says, batting her eyes.

Mac blinks. Droplets of rain hang on his eyelashes. “You were on the school magazine committee.”

And then she snaps her fingers like she’s plucking a thought out of the air. “Got it. On a poster I just walked past.”

“Oh yeah,
Rocky Horror
. We’re putting it on at the Playhouse on Friday night.”

I bring the conversation back to its point. “I’m sorry but I can’t talk to you now, I’m afraid,” I say to her, not in the least bit afraid or sorry. “Something’s come up, so . . .”

“Oh, Jody, you are quite a noodle, aren’t you?” She laughs but her eyes don’t. I can tell she’s getting pissed off with me.

Mac points at her. “You left Nuffing Comp a year early, didn’t you?”

“Good memory! My family moved.”

“Why was that?”

“Well, I think that’s probably a story for another time,” she chuckles. “Jody, I’m afraid we really must speak because I’ve got to get my article in by seven o’clock tonight at the very latest or else it won’t make tomorrow’s edition. Just five minutes?” she says, looking around the yard, her eyes settling on the drum room. The door is open. She must have seen him in there with Cree — there’s no way she couldn’t have. She gets out her electronic pebble and starts dusting it again.

“No, I tell you what,” I say, thinking of a bone I can throw her. “Mac’s dad owns the Pack Horse, it’s a pub just up the street. It’s open all day. Why don’t you meet us there about six? Then we can get everything out in the open and —”

“Marvelous,” she says, “yep, that would be perfect for me. I’ll bring my laptop and we’ll do the interview and I can e-mail it straight off. And maybe we could do some photos, somewhere picturesque?”

“The restaurant’s got a garden with some pampas grass?” suggests Mac.

“Lovely,” she says, putting her pebble thing in her satchel. “Well, I’ll drop by around six-ish, then, OK?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Great,” says Mac. “And we can talk about school days. Happiest days of your life and all that.” Her smile wipes from her mouth.

She wanders slowly toward the far end of the yard and just as she gets to the drum room, she glances inside. To my amazement, she keeps on walking around the corner and out of sight.

“Where the hell’s Cree?” says Mac, forehead stretching back in alarm.

Once my heart restarts and my legs remember how to bend, I run to the open door of the drum room. No Jackson. No Cree. It’s just the feathers. And books. And the bucket. With any luck she’ll have thought we keep ducks in there or something.