Bill says, ‘I saw you on the telly.’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Luther. ‘Did I look fat? The camera adds ten pounds, apparently.’
‘Are you all right, son?’
Luther considers telling the old man how not all right he is. Instead, he says, ‘You got kids, Bill?’
‘Four. Although they’re not kids no more.’
‘Grandkids?’
‘Great-grandkids, mate. Hundreds of the little sods. Like tadpoles.’
Luther chuckles. ‘Where are they?’
‘Who knows? When you get so old even your kids are in homes, you realize there’s nobody in the world who gives a tinker’s cuss if you live or die. So there you go. Rule number one: don’t get old.’
‘There’s not much hope of that.’
‘Ah. We all think that.’
‘I could find them for you,’ says Luther. ‘Your grandkids. Let them know what’s been going on.’
‘My eldest grandson’s in Australia,’ Bill says. ‘Went out as a plumber, back in the early nineties. They were crying out for tradesmen back then. He asked me along:
Come and live with us, Granddad
. But his missus didn’t want me there. You can tell.’
‘And the others?’
‘I couldn’t even give you their addresses.’
‘Eat your chips,’ Luther says. ‘They’ll put hair on your chest.’
Bill looks down at his chest. His shoulders shake.
Luther says, ‘Bill? Are you okay, mate?’
The old man just clenches and unclenches his crippled fists.
Luther goes to the sink to wash the chip grease from his fingers, dries his hands on an old tea towel, a souvenir of a long-ago day trip to Blackpool. Then he kneels at the old man’s side, pats his back. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey. Hey.’
When the crying is over, Luther says, ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
Bill sniffs, wipes his nose on his hand. ‘There’s whisky in the cupboard.’
Luther brings down the half bottle of whisky and pours a measure into a cloudy glass. ‘So what happened?’
Bill’s face is white-whiskered. He looks played-out. ‘I should never have called your lot,’ he says. ‘They mean well. But it’s calling the law that got me into this.’
Luther gathers up the remains of the fish and chips, shoves them into a carrier bag.
He twists and ties the handles of the carrier bag and places it in the doorway, ready to dump in a wheelie bin.
The old man sniffs.
Luther stares at the carrier bag. He’s so tired, he can’t seem to complete a thought.
Then it occurs to him.
He says, ‘Bill – where’s the dog?’
At 8.47 p.m., Stephanie Dalton picks up her elder son, Dan, from an evening drama class off the Chiswick High Road.
Dan’s fifteen and wants to be an actor.
Steph and Marcus would like for him to be anything but, but what kind of career should they actually be hoping for these days? It’s not like being a bank manager is any safer.
Steph grew up wanting to teach but fell into modelling at twenty-one, enjoyed a moderately successful career (catalogues, mostly) made some money, got tired of it all, then left and had the kids. Then Dan and Mia grew up a bit and Steph became bored hanging round the house all day.
She started a domestic cleaning company, called it Zita after the patron saint of cleaning – and of people who lost their keys, apparently. Although she didn’t mention that bit on the website.
After Zita took off, she started a company called Handy woman, supplying women-only handyman services to women-only clients and the elderly. Handywoman had a rockier start than Zita, but it’s grown into a franchise. All over the country, mothers and daughters, best friends, young mothers, drive around in little white Citroën vans, fixing taps and dry walls and power points. Steph’s proud of that.
The downturn has hit them pretty hard, but they’re riding it out. Things will turn round.
And Dan wants to be an actor. He’s already got the looks, in a still-growing, lanky way. He’s got the floppy fringe for it, and a certain way of wearing a shirt. And since he’s been taking the lessons there’s a new confidence in his voice, in his walk. She doesn’t know if it’s real or if it’s an act. But she supposes that’s the point.
Dan emerges from the shabby doorway and she flashes her headlights. He waves, huddled in his coat, and jogs across the road.
She reaches over to pop the passenger door. Dan slides in, bringing the night’s cold and wet with him. Sits with his Crumpler messenger bag on his lap.
Steph sees the look on his face. He’s not that good an actor, not yet.
She says, ‘So what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
She wants to reach out and brush the floppy fringe from his eyes. But she knows it’ll embarrass him. ‘Well, it’s not nothing,’ she says, ‘I can see it’s not nothing.’
‘It’s just, we’ve got these agents coming round,’ he says. ‘Like actual
agents
? We get to, like, quiz them about the business.’
The business
, she thinks, simultaneously cringing and burning with love.
‘And then after that,’ he says, ‘or before, or something. We’re putting on this, like,
performance
? Like the best in the class. And I got chosen to play Rosenkrantz?’
‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘That’s amazing!’
He beams at her. He looks pure and beautiful – somewhere in the sunlit grasslands between child and adult.
‘Don’t call Dad,’ he says, ‘I want to tell him when we get home.’
She pats his knee. ‘Tell him yourself. He’ll be so proud. He’ll burst!’
Dan hugs his messenger bag.
‘What should we have for tea?’ Steph says, pulling away. ‘Your choice. We’re celebrating.’
‘Don’t jinx it,’ he says.
‘I’m not jinxing it. We’re just celebrating this bit. Some good news. Everybody likes good news.’
‘What about KFC?’
‘We had KFC on your birthday.’
‘Yeah, ages ago.’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Yeah. Ages.’
Not far behind them, Henry and Patrick watch from a stolen Toyota Corolla.
They watch Steph pull away, indicate, turn onto Chiswick High Street.
‘Hurry up,’ Henry says. ‘You’ll lose them.’
‘We know where they live,’ says Patrick. ‘We’ve got a key. We can’t lose them.’
‘That’s not the point. I like the hunt.’
Patrick indicates, pulls away.
Henry says, ‘The kid. The one with the floppy hair. What’s his name again?’
‘Daniel,’ says Patrick. ‘Wants to be an actor.’
‘That’s right,’ says Henry. He sometimes gets them mixed up – all the second-players on the watch list. He says, ‘I’m going to cut his fucking head off. That’ll make him famous.’
He grins at Patrick, sidelong and ravenous.
Patrick’s arms flash with goosebumps. Its proper name is horripilation. Patrick knows that because he once looked it up in an old dictionary. The dictionary lay in what had once been Elaine’s bedroom, but was now Henry’s. It was next to the Bible, both of them water-stained and damp-smelling. They were inscribed inside with long-faded blue ink, given as a spelling prize when Elaine was a young girl.
So he knows that’s what Henry gives him at times like this: horripilation.
And that’s what looking in the dictionary gave him, too.
He thought of it, passing through time, sitting in the room already old the day Henry was born, older still the day Patrick was born. Sitting in the room through all those years and all those hands.
Only Patrick, the killer’s son, used it to look up the proper word for gooseflesh before throwing the book into the garbage. The book’s owner, once a clever child, lay beneath a compost heap in the garden, a half-rotted old lady.
Marcus Dalton is an architect, currently thanking God he didn’t take the decision to strike out by himself when he was thirty-five. He’s kept the reasonably boring but reasonably safe job with a large firm based in Covent Garden.
Right now he’s at home, playing on the Wii with Mia. She’s eleven and she’s kicking his ass at Super Mario Cart.
Marcus delights in getting his ass kicked. It makes him proud of her.
He’s seen competitive parents at the sidelines of primary school football matches wrapped in parkas and scarves and muddy wellingtons; grown men and women with craziness in their eyes for loss of possession or an uncalled foul during a game played by eight-year-olds.
Marcus hates that, and hates them, and hates himself for not enjoying his kids’ sporting activities. He’d rather spend time with them in less active ways. Being beaten on the Wii excuses him from congratulating or commiserating from the edge of a divoty soccer field where he sorely does not want to be.
In the kitchen, Gabriella the Gorgeous is making popcorn. Gabriella’s tiny, Italian American, ravishing. In the early days, the nickname took some of the heat from her swanning round the house in micro-shorts and crop tops.
But Gabriella’s part of the family now. Any incipient lust Marcus might passingly have felt has long since dissipated, exorcized by damp towels left on bathroom floors, Gabriella playing twee lo-fi rock at ear-bleeding volume, Gabriella never putting the milk back in the sodding fridge.
She comes in carrying a big Pyrex bowl of hot microwave popcorn, plonks it down on the sofa next to her.
She says, ‘We had another phone call tonight.’
Marcus concentrates on the screen. On the second lap of Coconut Mall he keeps driving his avatar the wrong way up the escalator. ‘Not him again?’
‘I don’t know. I guess. It was a girl this time though.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Kind of threat-type things.’
‘What kind of threat-type things?’
‘I don’t really know. She sounded drunk or something. I think she was maybe crying.’
Mia says, ‘Was it your boyfriend again?’
‘Yes,’ says Gabriella.
‘He’s crazy,’ Mia says.
‘He is.’
‘Crazy in lurve,’ says Mia.
Marcus bites down on his irritation. He gives Gabriella a look:
Let’s talk about this later.
Mia says, ‘What time’s Mum coming home?’
‘She’s on her way,’ Marcus tells her. ‘She’s bringing KFC.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Daniel chose.’
‘Daniel always chooses.’
She sticks out her tongue and makes a gagging noise. Marcus gently cuffs the back of her head and says, ‘Behave.’
‘I am behaving. I just don’t want KFC. It’s all greasy and there’s all these
veins
. I want to be a vegetarian.’
‘We could go and cook you an omelette?’
‘Let’s finish this level,’ Mia says.
‘Fine. What do you want in your omelette?’
‘Just cheese.’
‘There’s some nice bacon.’
‘
Meh. Just cheese.’
‘Salad?’
‘Have we got them little tomatoes?’
‘
Those
little tomatoes. I think so.’
‘Then I’ll have some salad. Did I tell you I like beetroot?’
‘Since when?’
‘I had some at Fiona’s house. It was really nice. Not slimy. Have we got any?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Can we get some next time we go to the shops?’
‘Absolutely.’
They finish the level. Mia wins. Her Mii is called
Giant Wonder Mia
.
Gabriella asks if they want help in the kitchen. Marcus tells her no; this is a little bit of father–daughter time.
Marcus and Mia step into the kitchen together. She’s still young enough to hold his hand as they go.
The kitchen is big and bright. The windows are black mirrors. They spend a lot of time in here.
Mia takes some eggs from the box, cracks them into a Pyrex dish. Marcus goes hunting for the frying pan. He doesn’t find it in the drawer. It’s in the dishwasher, residually warm from this morning’s cycle.
He spritzes it with sunflower oil, puts it on the hob.
Mia grabs a fork and mixes the eggs. The trick is to fold them, not beat them. She sprinkles in a little salt, a good dash of pepper. She likes pepper.
She hears the key in the lock. The front door opens. It’s a sound as familiar to her as the sound of her own heartbeat; Mia was born in this house, in a birthing pool in the dining room.
She’s never lived anywhere else. It’s a big house, a bit messy. But she loves it and never wants to leave
.
She’s eleven years old, and home is heaven.
Gabriella shovels popcorn into her mouth and watches an episode of
The Biggest Loser
recorded on Sky Plus.
Gabriella never puts on weight; it doesn’t matter what she eats. Partly because of this,
The Biggest Loser
is one of her favourite shows. She enjoys watching it while snacking on popcorn or ice cream or, once, a six-pack of doughnuts. The crystals of sugar at the edge of her lips, her fingers sticky with it, while shame-faced, dirigible-sized husbands, wives and daughters took to the scales like prisoners about to be executed.
But Steph disapproves of
The Biggest Loser
. Steph disapproves of all reality shows. She doesn’t mind if Gabriella watches them, as long as the kids aren’t around.
Gabriella thinks this is bullshit, but she doesn’t have Sky Plus in her room – despite the dropping of some fairly heavy hints on deaf ears.
Steph takes a detour to the KFC drive-through, tries to pay with an expired debit card: she forgot to replace it with the new one that arrived about three weeks ago. So has to hunt round her receipt-stuffed purse to find cash.
They drive the rest of the way in silence, Dan’s shoulders tense with the scale of his mortification, the greasy bucket in its plastic carrier bag balanced on his narrow lap.
Steph doesn’t notice the car driving two or three places behind them.
She’s experienced moments of urban terror: she’s been burgled more than once – most recently less than a year ago. (She thought for a while that her house keys had been stolen. In fact, they turned up on her kitchen table as if placed there by a poltergeist.)
And she’s had a few dodgy phone calls. The most recent sequence of them, she was relieved and strangely chagrined to learn, were from a lovelorn kid called Will who nursed a obsessional crush on Gabriella the Gorgeous.
Steph was distressed, and slightly vexed by young Will’s lovelorn want of imagination. But a few difficult phone calls – first to the boy himself, and several to the police – soon put things right.