I’m no sprinter but I think I just broke the world record for the hundred metres. An Olympic athlete has nothing on Dan Hope when he’s trying to get to his mother’s mobile phone. As it turns out, my text ended up going to Mum and I need to get to her handbag to stop her receiving it. The bag is in the hallway and I rummage through it as though I’m a trainee surgeon trying to find an appendix. The mobile phone isn’t there.
Okay, if it’s not there, it’s on the coffee table.
Okay, if it’s not there, it’s in Mum’s hand.
Okay, it’s in Mum’s hand. She looks at the display, furrows her brow and says, “Want a drink?”
“Yah,” I reply. What sort of idiot says “Yah”? The sort of idiot who sends their mother a text saying she’s pregnant, that’s who.
The instant Mum leaves the room I grab the phone and scroll through the messages.
“Orange or milkshake?” Mum pokes her head back into the living room.
The phone goes under my bum as I say, “Squash, please.” There is a small vibration as a text comes through. Mum nods and leaves the room again as I pull the phone out from under my bum. This message is from Big Dave:
Sumthin happened a couple of nights ago. Will explain evrything when I ring u l8er. Luv u. By the way when will you break it 2 kids? Hope they understand.
To me, it sounds like there are problems between Big Dave and Caroline 1973. It could be that she’s discovered the affair and chucked him out. What if he’s homeless at Christmas and we have to take him in like a stray mongrel? Surely Mum wouldn’t take him in if she knew he had a wife? Underneath Big Dave’s message is mine and it has already been read. I quickly put the phone back on the coffee table and run upstairs to hide in the supermassive black hole. Next door, Grace is still listening to misery music and wailing about how she’ll never find another man like Stan. Hard to believe: the precinct is full of blokes just like him.
If I had a proper dad none of this would have happened. Jo wouldn’t have given me a medal because of my sadness. And if I didn’t have the medal, Christopher wouldn’t have fallen out with me about my secret chats with Jo. Grace wouldn’t have ended up pregnant. Mum wouldn’t be dating Big Dave and she wouldn’t have got my text. The dog wouldn’t have been so sick. (Okay, the dog would still have been sick, but we’d have one extra person to clean it up.) All this mess has happened because Dad isn’t here. If Dad came back, we’d be normal again. In fact, our family would be perfect. That’s the reason I need to talk to him. If I can make him see sense, everything will come right again.
Downstairs I can hear the phone ringing in the hallway and the slap of Mum’s feet as she walks to answer it. There is a click as she picks up the receiver.
After a moment, I hear her say: “How did that even happen?”
Silence.
“That’s terrible.”
Silence.
“You’re lucky to get out alive. Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Uh-huh.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to say something else.
“Uh-huh.”
Forget it, I have to breathe.
“Uh-huh. No, I wouldn’t have spent days worrying. You’re so lucky it’s just a scorch mark on the wallpaper and curtains.”
Silence.
“But why were you outside looking at your car tyres? And why leave burning candles unattended in the house? I’m not sure that was a clever thing to do. Your landlord won’t be best pleased.”
Silence.
“He’s what? Given you notice because of some burn marks in the bedroom? That’s a bit dramatic of him. Of course it was an accident. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a home here. I know you didn’t want to rush things because Kit wasn’t ready, but perhaps this fire is a sign.”
Silence.
“Yes, I know you’re protecting him.”
I stop listening after that. My ears tune out like they do when Mum puts on Radio 2, and all I can hear is a little voice inside my head saying that it’s our fault Big Dave’s house is charcoal. We’re lucky Mum isn’t getting a phone call to say he’s been flame grilled. Then where would we have been? Ninja Grace could add another name to her list – Ninja Grace Arsonist. That’s what they call people who burn things (Kevin told me that when he was experimenting with the sun’s rays, a magnifying glass and the school’s wooden bench). Grace said she’d knocked stuff over and she’d said there were candles. I bet the candle set fire to the curtains and then whoosh, crikey combustibles! Big Dave needs to come live in our house. Where does this leave Caroline 1973 and their son, Kit? Worse still, if Big Dave moves in with us then there won’t be any room for my real dad.
I’ve got to talk to Dad, and fast.
My opportunity arrives the very next day and it is weird how it happens. Some people might call it fate, but not me. I think it was meant to be. Everything begins with Mrs Parfitt telling the class that she wants to recount a fairy tale.
“Class, my story begins with two fellows. Let us call them Graham and Michael.”
Everyone groans. No good story has a main character called Graham.
“Shush.” Mrs Parfitt watches us as she glides through the space between the desks. “I think you’ll enjoy this tale. Once upon a time Graham and Michael were friends. They played together, they ate together, they chatted and, in fact, they did everything together. One day they fell out with each other. No one knows why. Perhaps it was over a fair maiden: a girl so beautiful and with such long flowing hair that neither could live without her approval. Perhaps it was over who should slay the dragon. Anyway, we know not why and, frankly, it doesn’t matter for the purpose of this fairy tale.”
The whole class are leaning forward in their seats, hoping the story will go on long enough that we don’t have to do our maths test.
“There was a huge fight just beyond the castle turrets: a fight that involved Graham and Michael thumping each other and one of them losing an animal they loved. Let us call this animal Boo. That’s a good name for a pet.”
My eyes pop when I realize that this story is about me and Christopher. Slowly I try to sink further down in my chair. But Mrs Parfitt isn’t finished with us. It’s as if she’s strapped us into the world’s highest drop-tower ride and she’s making us do it so many times we feel like puking.
“Someone beautiful and wise had to step in to save the situation. This lady saw everything from afar. She happened to look outside and saw this unsavoury sight and it made her weep. Anyway, here is what this beautiful and wise woman said: ‘Daniel and Christopher, you’re living in cloud cuckoo land if you think you’re permitted to fight on school premises. For doing so, you will forfeit your rights to something you were looking forward to.’ That is what the beautiful and wise woman said.”
Everyone in the class turns round to look at me and Christopher. They’re nudging and elbowing each other and saying how we’re going to live unhappily ever after. A few have their hands over their mouths in case they break out laughing. Kevin is pinching hillocks on his hand to stop himself snorting with glee.
“I think we can drop the whole fairy tale thing now because fighting is not a pretty story. Fighting is ugly and not tolerated. You two will not be allowed onto the stage at the Project Eco Everywhere show. Instead you will be expected to work behind the scenes helping everyone else. Don’t think you’ve been let off lightly, because I haven’t finished yet. You will also write fifty lines saying: I AM HAPPY TO WORK WITH MY FRIEND, BEHIND THE SCENES. And…”
Will the agony never end?
“You will not be allowed to do PE this afternoon. Instead you will go to the library and write these lines, and if you have a spare moment, you will think about the misdemeanour. From the library you will go straight home and tomorrow you will come back to school and be the model pupils I know you can be.”
Later on, when Mrs Parfitt is going on about prime factorization, I start writing my lines under the desk. By the time I get halfway I’ve started making mistakes. I AM HAPPY WITH MY BEHIND is the last line I scribble before Mrs Parfitt declares it is time for Christopher and me to take the walk of shame. We’re to get our coats and go to the library.
For some reason I take a wrong turning. Easily done. The library is left and I go right and walk straight out the front door and through the school gates. With a whole afternoon free and thoughts of Dad in my mind, I head towards the buildings on the outskirts of town. Luckily, I’ve got enough bus money and an idea of seeing Dad. This is stage three of Operation Baskerville.
The TV studio looks like a large shard of broken glass nestled between older Victorian buildings. A wintery sun throws a pale wash across the windows and just inside I can see a Christmas tree stretching from floor to ceiling and decorated with hundreds of silver bells. If I go in by the front door I’m going to have to explain why I’m there. And I doubt Dad is going to be impressed if he gets a call from the receptionist saying, “Your son is here.”
Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t do it that way. He’d use observation. As I wander around the shard, figuring out what I’m going to do next, I spot an open fire exit with stone steps leading up inside the building. The door might as well be saying, Come in. This is an open invitation. Checking no one can see me, I slip in and run up the stairs until I come to a door marked First Floor. I don’t take that one because I’m worried it will be too close to reception. Instead, I run up two more flights. Before I open the door there, I rest my head against the wall. The light from the fluorescent tube above me turns my skin into beige hummus and my breath comes in ragged little gulps.
I’m scared about what I’ll find on the other side.