Nothing.
Sometimes Alex didn’t notice Benjy because Benjy was eight. Then, sometimes, he remembered being eight himself and how hard it could be. Why don’t you come with me?
OK, said Benjy. He smiled and Alex felt his heart lift a little.
♦
She sits in Shepherd’s stealing glances at other girls, other women. Panic, fascination, guilt. A tired young mum in a shapeless grey tracksuit, unwashed hair scraped back, baby in a high chair, two older ladies straight out of a sitcom, all cake and bosom and jollity. In the corner a girl of sixteen, seventeen, with her family but not really with them. Long brown hair, bangles, black T-shirt with a skull on that might be goth or ironic, it’s hard to tell. That mix of sullenness and under-confidence, still not quite sure of who she is yet. She turns to look at Daisy, or something over Daisy’s shoulder, or maybe nothing at all. Daisy glances away feeling both utterly invisible and completely exposed. The girl turns back to her family. Is Daisy attracted to her? She imagines talking to her, imagines touching her. The long ripple of her backbone as she takes that t-shirt off. A little jolt of what? desire? fear? disgust? But how did you know if someone returned your feelings? Was there a secret language? She feels unqualified, like she’s failed to prepare for a vital interview. She stares at the table’s plastic surface, tiny ticks and slashes, beige, brown, blue. Classic FM in the background, something orchestral and slushy. Because now that she thinks about it there’s a feeling, isn’t there, a feeling that’s always been there, so constant she never really notices it. When she looks at women. Not even sexual, really, just a rightness, a comfort in their presence. Melissa, of all people. Magnetism and self-assurance. Was it so wrong to want these things? Was it so wrong to want someone who had these things? Maybe it wasn’t God after all, maybe it was the heart which punished one with such exquisite accuracy.
♦
Machine guns. Popguns. Potato guns. Cap guns. Bows and arrows. Axes. Tomahawks. Brooms. Dusters. J-Cloths. Nail brushes. Dog chews made of dried pigs’ ears. Kendal Mint Cake. Butter dishes. Lovespoons. Skipping ropes. Golf balls. Tennis balls. Squishy cow keyrings that moo and light up when you squeeze them. Squishy duck keyrings that quack and light up when you squeeze them. Little forks for indoor gardening. Rubber knee mats for outdoor gardening. Creosote. Weedkiller. Hanging baskets. Brillo pads. Orthopaedic pangrips and tin openers. Stanley 15-mm heavy-duty nails. Clout nails, galvanised, in ten sizes. Baby Bio. Itching powder. Whoopee cushions. Vampire teeth. Hoover bags. Alarm clocks with bells on top. Plastic farm animals. Videos of Mall Cop, Hannah Montana, Transformers. Fish food. Cafetières. Musical birthday cards. Peanuts in lard for overwintering birds. Wooden chocks to hold doors open. Ashtrays in the shape of tiny toilets. Sports whistles. Firedogs. Bootscrapers. Laces of assorted length. Postcards of hills. Postcards of sheep.
♦
Cally picked up the phone at the far end. Melissa.
What the fuck is going on?
You are not going to believe this.
Just tell me, all right?
Megan the genius. She texted Michelle.
Saying what?
Oh, something along the lines of, ‘You’re a bitch and a liar.’ Like, we’re being accused of bullying her, so she bullies her. Sends actual proof to Michelle’s phone. How fucking moronic is that?
Think, think. Over the road a fat man was stooping to pick up a piece of dogshit using a little pink plastic bag as a glove. Her brain wouldn’t work. I’ll be back tomorrow, right? We’ll have, like, a war cabinet. It was starting to rain, dark spots on the tarmac. What if they blamed everything on Megan? Megan the loose cannon, Megan the bully. A blue umbrella popping open on the far pavement. She wanted to lie down and curl up and sleep, she wanted someone to come along and pick her up and look after her. She wanted someone to be kind to her for once.
♦
Alex and Benjy were sitting on the bench at the side of the market square, just off the main drag so Mum and Dad didn’t catch Benjy eating the ice cream Alex had bought him. What’s up, kid?
Nothing.
This is a holiday and you’re meant to be having a good time.
I don’t want to say.
Was Dad horrible to you this morning?
No. But he had to tell someone and if he was going to tell anyone it was best to tell Alex. I found a message.
A message? It sounded like a rolled-up treasure map in a bottle on a beach.
It was on Dad’s phone. He felt silly now for getting so panicked. I went downstairs in the night, and there was a beep.
What did it say?
It said, ‘ Call me’. And it said, ‘I can’t bear this’. He could still see it blocking out the picture of them at Blakeney.
And who was it from?
It was from someone called Amy.
Alex let it sink in. A kind of satisfaction almost, as if he’d been waiting all along for Dad to fuck up properly and justify his disdain.
Who’s Amy? asked Benjy.
Amy… He had to take this slowly, he had to get this right. Amy works at Waterstone’s with Dad. She was stealing books. Yes, that was it. Dad caught her stealing books.
Will she go to prison?
Poor Benjy. He looked so sad on this woman’s behalf. She wants Dad to keep it a secret.
But he has to tell the truth.
Yeh, he has to tell the truth.
Benjy hated thinking of Dad being put in a difficult position like this, but he was flattered, too, by this brief view through the closed door of the adult world.
Spatters of rain out of a darkening sky. You’re wasting your ice cream, mate.
Benjy changed hands and stuck all four creamy fingers into his mouth. Alex leant back against the wall. What an arsehole, what a fucking amateur. It’s a secret, by the way. So don’t tell anyone, even Mum.
It’s OK. You can trust me.
Good man.
Can we go to the shop?
Which shop?
The Shop of Crap. I didn’t want to buy anything before, but I do now.
♦
What? Melissa guessed instantly but she was going to make Mum work for this.
That was your headmaster on the phone. Michelle tried to kill herself. After you, Cally and Megan bullied her.
We had an argument. Melissa tried to sound as if she were discussing a group of people in whom she had merely a passing interest. Michelle can get a bit over-dramatic sometimes.
Avison wants us to come in.
It’ll be fine. Trust me.
Trust you? Are you serious, Melissa? You knew all about this and you didn’t even think to tell me.
Because I didn’t want to mess up your holiday.
Tell me about the photograph.
I think you’re better off not knowing, frankly.