Wake Up Happy Every Day (41 page)

It’s out before she can stop herself.

‘The Twin Towers.’ Shit. She groans inside. She knows it is the worst thing to say. It’s a gift to this annoying old git, an open goal. The Twin Towers are never the answer to any question worth asking.

He twinkles. ‘Well, yes, the Twin Towers. The World Trade Centre. And what happened to them again? Without God – without the idea of God – human beings are always at Ground Zero scrabbling around for something more important than themselves.’

‘What about all the wars in the name of religion?’

He waves a hand as if to say, not that old chestnut. Have you nothing better to offer than that? Is that really all you’ve got? Dear, oh, dear.

‘Well, now, war is something I know about. You might say war is my specialist subject. And I can tell you no war in history has ever actually been about God. For the people that start wars they’re about money and power. And for the poor sods that actually fight them it’s about the chance to ride around in a truck with a big gun making some exciting bangs. Never underestimate the appeal of fireworks. I’ll agree that religion has quite often been used as an excuse. A fig leaf if you will. And it’s one of the things He might be extremely annoyed about actually.’

‘But say there is a God. If you’ve lived a good life don’t you think He will let you into heaven anyway? Even if you didn’t believe.’

‘Oh, sweetheart. No, I absolutely don’t think that. I would say that from what has been written about God through the ages, He is very unlikely to react like that. That would be the reaction of a
Guardian
-reading God. A PBS God. And that particular God definitely doesn’t exist. And in any case’ – he looks away now, his skin loose and reptilian again, his voice dropping to an unnerving whisper – ‘I haven’t lived a good life. I have done terrible things. Terrible, terrible things.’

He’s grave now. Still and silent. And, despite herself, she’s intrigued.

‘Really? Like what?’

‘Everything. I’ve done everything. I’ve done the very worst things you can think of.’ He shakes his head and it’s obvious he means it. Sarah tries not to wonder what the worst might mean. Rape? Murder? Child murder? Child rape? This harmless old guy? She remembers the extraordinary power in his fingers and shivers.

He stands. ‘Well, it’s been lovely to talk to you. But that’s our five minutes up and I must tootle along. I’m sure I haven’t convinced you or converted you. But maybe I’ve planted a seed.’

Good heavens, he’s ending the conversation first. It’s him dreaming up an excuse to leave. She’s surprised by that. And oddly offended, like it was a date with some hopeless geek and then he’s the one to say it’s never going to happen between them. She wonders for a minute how her life might have turned out if Nicky had said no to going for a drink after his annual review. Not that there was ever any chance of that. She’d known right from the off that he would fall in love with her.

The old man puts out his hand. She stands to take it. Shy. Not wanting to be rude, but not really wanting to touch him. He looks her in the eyes again as if searching for something. She thinks that he doesn’t find it, whatever it is, because he frowns, his whole lizardy face scrunching up like an empty crisp packet. She catches a whiff of that hot, sweet, sweaty-sandwich smell again.

‘Jack Tough,’ he says. Good name. Can’t be real though, can it?

‘Sarah,’ she says. ‘Sarah Fisher.’

‘And don’t worry,’ he says, as he shuffles along the pew away from her. ‘You’ve probably got time to put everything right.’

‘What? Time to put what right?’

He looks back at her. ‘Whatever it is you’ve done or left undone.’

She watches him as he leaves the church. He walks with a martial briskness. It’s surely true that he’s been a soldier.

And she sits there for a while. Could have been a long time, could have been a short time. She just sits there not really thinking of anything. And then she wonders how to put things right in her life. Scarlett, she thinks. Scarlett’s life will be my defence. If there really is a fierce old judge with a beard she will be able to say, Here my Lord, here is something good. And if it’s not enough. Well, fuck him.

And now, finally, here’s a vicar. A woman. Pretty, spiky-haired and pixie-faced. Her dog collar giving her the look of a singer in a punk band. She has kind eyes and a collection plate.

‘Hope you don’t mind . . .’ she says and waits. Expectant. And of course Sarah has no money. Not a dime.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ she begins and the elfin punky vicar just shakes her head, puts her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK. Really, it’s OK.’ She moves down the pew.

Sarah gets up to go. She checks she has everything. Bag. Empty wallet. Keys. She switches her phone on and instantly the jokey bounce of her ringtone insults the cool ecumenical air. Heads turn her way. An Asian tourist with a heavy camera gives her a thumbs up.

She is giving him a thumbs up back as she clicks Answer.

‘Nicky,’ she whispers, ‘I’m in church. What is it?’

And then she’s running. Sprinting from cool gloom to the bright light outside. The light that hurts and leaves her blinking and disorientated. She has to stop. Shield her eyes, gather herself. And then she’s running again.

Forty-five

NICKY

I hear her coming before she reaches the house. Even though I am inside and on the landline phone raging to Sarah, I still hear that distinctive tlot-tlot crunching unevenly over our gated gravel.

I stop whatever it is I’m yelling, and am at the door in a stride yanking it open. Scarlett is smiling, face all pinked up in the September sun, curls the colour of vanilla ice cream swaying gently in the breeze, looking like a poster child for hemiplegia. Looking like the kind of HD snap that brings in millions from soppy-hearted rich guys, or unlocks the dosh from those frightened billionaires trying to manipulate the karmic stock exchange before they snuff it.

Scarlett sees my face and her smile wobbles and she looks behind her. Which is when I see the psycho nutjob. Catherine. She’s standing near the gate, also smiling – though thinly. Hands on hips. I’m gobsmacked and my first thought is a furious one. Did she have something to do with this whole abduction thing? I step forward and scoop Scarlett up. Hold her fierce against me.

This Catherine woman speaks.

‘The babysitter and her boyfriend.’

‘Mary? Bollocks.’

‘Daddy.’ A small, disapproving voice. I can’t believe it. What did she just say? What did my beautiful, clever girl say?

‘Daddy don’ swear,’ she says now, and I find I’m crying. This is all too much. I put my hand to my eyes. ‘Daddy sad,’ she says now.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Daddy not sad. Daddy happy.’ And I bury my face in her neck. She smells of leather and amber. Paco Rabanne. Jesus’s aftershave.

‘I doubt they’ll try it again. It was all very G4S.’

‘Very what?’

‘Sorry, work slang. I mean the work was shoddy, not very robust. DIY in the extreme. Unprofessional.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I think I scared the poo out of them.’

‘Bad word.’ This is Scarlett again. I laugh. And then I start crying again. I have to take several deep, deep breaths.

‘Not really, sweetheart. Poo is not really a bad word.’ And then I can’t speak any more. No matter how many deep breaths I take. I’m all tears and snot. Scarlett uses her good arm to stroke my hair.

This Catherine woman sighs. I guess I might have to stop thinking of her as a mentalist. ‘Thank you.’ I cough out eventually. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. But, sir, the other things I’ve told you, you need to act on them.’ Her voice is urgent. For a moment my mind is blank and then I remember. Oh yes, right, the other things, like dropping down dead at any moment.

‘And that’s all certain is it? Definite?’

She shrugs. ‘I’ve never known it not work.’ She pauses and then says doubtfully, ‘We could have got a duff batch, I suppose. We might have switched suppliers. Everyone is trying to make savings these days. Does usually work before this, to be honest.’

‘Or maybe I’m super-strong, super-immune, super-resilient.’ I’m sure that to Catherine it sounds flippant. But my baby’s back. And she’s talking, so I don’t really give too much of a shit about anything else.

‘Hungry,’ Scarlett says now.

‘Of course, darling. I’ll get you something. What would you like?’

‘What you got?’

‘You’ll have trouble there.’ This Catherine is not smiling, not joking, clearly. Telling us our little princess might be a bit spoilt. And she’s probably right. But who the fuck cares if she is? My feeling is that spoilt people often get on. It gives them a high opinion of themselves and means they attempt things others wouldn’t because they think they can do anything. Get anything. And I would say that if you’re a wonky-bodied kid, then you need that self-belief. That sense that the world actually does owe you a living.

But Catherine’s got something else to say, anyway. She is trying to make sure I understand her properly. She walks over to where we are. It’s only fifteen metres or so and she walks them deliberately and I am reminded of old Sunday afternoon westerns. The slow walk of a righteous gunslinger.

‘You need to assume it will happen. You need to make plans. I’m sorry. I wish it was different. I really do.’ And if I retained any thoughts that she might still be a nutter, I shed them now. I’ve never seen anyone radiate such certainty, such clear-eyed common sense.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘OK.’

She puts her hand on my shoulder. She ruffles Scarlett’s hair. I wouldn’t say she was a natural hair ruffler.

‘Bye-bye,’ says Scarlett.

‘Ooh, you chatterbox,’ I say to her, and then I am startled as this Catherine leans in very close to my ear almost as though she were going to kiss me. She doesn’t though, instead she whispers hard and low and fast, ‘Also, you do need to get out of here. Do it as soon as you can. Tonight. And do it discreetly and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

‘Jesus and Mary?’ I whisper back.

She wraps her arms around me and Scarlett. A big hug as if she can’t bear to be parted from us, and under cover of this she breathes, ‘No, I think you’re safe from them – but there are people watching the house. Not amateurs. Pros. Or more or less.’

‘What do they want?’

I feel her cheek against my face, her breath warm against my ear. She smells sharp, clean. Fresh earth.

‘Who knows? Be as low profile as you can. Go as soon as you can.’ And then she releases us. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. And she does look it. In fact now she looks like she’s about to cry. There’s a lot of it about today. I try for a cheery grin.

‘Hey, like you say – maybe a dodgy batch . . .’ She looks at me seriously, and seems to come to a sudden decision.

‘OK look,’ she sighs. ‘Go and pack – I’ll try and sort something out.’

I’m in the house stuffing pants and socks into a large Adidas holdall with one hand, while holding Scarlett with the other – I’m not putting her down, not just yet, she can wriggle and squirm all she likes – when I remember a case in the papers from years back. A bloke had convinced his best mate and his best mate’s girlfriend that they were wanted by the IRA or someone, and managed to keep them prisoner in his flat because they were too shit scared to go outside. He’d also managed to con them out of hundreds of thousands of pounds along the way, though I can’t quite remember the details of how he’d done it.

I wonder if something similar is going on here, because it all seems so mad. But then I think, what if it is? I hate this house. I hate everything about how we’ve been living our lives. So, if this Catherine is some kind of master con artist, with some plan that doesn’t make sense yet, well, who cares? Who gives a shit? Let’s just go along with it, see where it leads.

And that’s when Sarah comes in, so red in the face and breathless that I almost laugh. Grace Cathedral isn’t that far away. She needs to let Linwood get her on a programme.

She sees Scarlett, who just holds out her good arm. Sarah crosses the room and takes her from me.

‘What happened?’ she says. ‘I thought she’d been taken.’

‘Well.’ And I can’t face going through it all.

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, I think we just had a bit of a Noel situation. Mary let Scarlett wander off and it was panic stations for a while, but a nice neighbour found her.’

‘She got a gun.’

This is Scarlett, and Sarah’s mouth forms a perfect O.

‘Yeah, apparently our baby can speak now. I sacked Mary by the way. And we’re going away – all of us, right now.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, we are. No arguing. We’re going to England, but we’re going via Las Vegas.’

‘Vegas? And why would we do such a thing?’

‘So that we can get married in the Church of Elvis or somewhere.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And because marriage is so good, we’re going to do it twice. One time we’re going to come out Mr and Mrs Knox and second time – in a different church – we’re going to come out Mr and Mrs Fisher. We’re going to cover all bases.’