By the time Daniel had cycled to Rosie’s house, Mason had called fifteen times. But left no messages. He watched the streets warily as he pedalled, expecting the blue BMW to turn out of one and start following him or for Mason to walk out of a shop and shout at him to stop.
Rosie’s house was Georgian, with plump red bricks separated by clean beige lines of cement. The white sash windows were full of sky. A bronze knocker hung from a black varnished door. The house was set back from the road and Daniel wheeled his bike up the gravel drive, dotted with weeds and covered in tiny slicks of bird shit.
He waited, studying the glossy black door, and adjusting his head to see what small bits of him he could find in the shiny paint.
But no one came to answer so he rapped the knocker again.
He tried the wooden gate at the side of the house, but that was locked.
He stood in the driveway, watching a Frisbee riding the breeze in the street as two kids spun it between them, and then he got back on his bike.
When Agatha opened the door, she nodded, as if satisfied it was him she had seen through the spyhole, and held out a hand to welcome him in.
But, as he stepped over the threshold into the hallway, she clutched his arm. ‘Rosie’s here but she’s not well. The chemotherapy is making her feel very sick.’
‘Is it just that?’
‘I think so, yes.’ Agatha held on to his arm. ‘She told me what happened last night. She’s in no state to do anything if that’s why you’re here. I wouldn’t allow it.’
‘I didn’t come for that. I just want to see her.’
Agatha nodded and then let go of Daniel and shut the door behind him.
Rosie was lying with a red bedspread pulled up to her chin. Her eyes opened when Daniel sat down on the bed and the grey in her face seemed to fade as she smiled.
‘Did you find the person you said might be able to help?’ Daniel nodded. But when he said nothing more, the grey rushed back into Rosie’s cheeks. He watched her eyes contracting in their dark cups. When she sighed, something rattled in her chest. ‘I’ve got a splitting headache. Like I’m going to throw up. The tablets the hospital gave me don’t seem to work that well.’
‘I went round to your house.’
‘Mum and Dad had an argument about money again. Dad stormed out. Packed a case and said he was leaving. I couldn’t stand it so I came round to Gran’s. I’m going to stay here for now. I think the poison the hospital is putting in me is seeping into them. I’m making it worse between them.’
‘You can’t be.’
‘I’m their little girl. But they can’t do anything to help me.’ She coughed and her fingers felt for his hand, gripping it like the feet of a tiny bird. ‘Daniel, what’s going to happen? If we don’t find the flask, what’s Mason going to do?’
Daniel picked at a thread in the bedspread. ‘I don’t want to think about it now.’ He lay down beside her and they held each other close. ‘Dad’s more ill than ever. He’s got pneumonia.’
She stroked his hair.
He closed his eyes and shut out the world.
After falling asleep, he dreamt of Bobby sitting on his father’s bed, holding the darning needle and swishing it back and forth as if sewing a thread into the air in front of him.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Daniel.
‘Sewing in a bit that doesn’t make sense. Making up a story about your dad you can believe in.’
‘What are you sewing in, Bobby?’
‘He’s dead, Daniel, and you’ve got to accept it somehow because there’s nothing you can do to help him. I’ve almost sewn it in. I almost have—’
When Daniel woke, it was warm and dark and there was a film of sweat under his shirt. Rosie was asleep. He stood up and let himself out of her bedroom without waking her.
Agatha was drinking tea and when he came in to say goodbye she turned the TV to mute and clinked her teacup down in its saucer.
‘It’s up to you to look after my granddaughter,’ she said. ‘Protect her from Mason. You’re the one who brought him into her life.’
‘I will,’ he replied.
But Agatha just turned on the volume again and started watching what was on the screen.
Daniel let himself out of the door and took his bike off the wall.
He cycled a little way down the street until he saw a nail on the path under a street lamp, and he braked and stooped to pick it up. He leant over, juggling his bike between his legs, and scratched a word on the pavement in white, wiry letters.
HELP
He tossed the nail and waited.
But nothing happened this time.
He saw no way out from this new dark place he was in.