Chapter 15
THE WRITER
“A book?” said Tash Hanbury. “What, with words in it, not just pictures?”
“Real words,” said Faultless. “Some of them quite big words.”
“Who’d’ve believed it?”
“Not you.”
“No way. Charlie Faultless a writer? Writing books? Do people pay you for doing that?”
“I’ve got an advance, yes.”
“Is that a lot?”
“Not a lot, no. Enough to live on for six months.”
“I don’t know how much that can be, because I live on dust for six months, honestly.”
“Can I help at all?”
She blushed. “I’m not begging.”
“I know, but ask if you want.”
She nodded. “What books have you written?”
He took a sip of coffee. “I wrote one called Graveyard Of Empires about Afghanistan.”
“The war?”
“The country. The war. All the other wars that have been fought there.”
She raised her eyebrows and sliced her hand over her head. “What else?”
“Couple of years ago I had one called Scapegoat published. It was about a British soldier who got drummed out of the Army for murdering a civilian. But it wasn’t a civilian. It was a suicide bomber. The soldier was a hero, but the authorities didn’t want to know.”
She looked at him. Her blonde hair was piled up on top of her head. Her eyes were wide. She had pale, smooth skin and long, delicate fingers. She was beautiful—just like Rachel.
His heart ached.
Tash considered him and said, “I never thought it would be safe for you to come back.”
“I don’t know if it is.”
“Have you seen my . . . ” she trailed off.
He shook his head.
She said, “Hang on a sec,” and called out. “Jasmine, you are late. I am not amused, now.”
“How old is she?” said Faultless.
“Eleven.”
“The dad around?”
“What do you think?”
“Would I know him?”
She blushed.
He said, “That’s a ‘yes.’ Who?”
“Pete Rayner.”
“Jesus. Rayner?”
“Don’t laugh,” she said and then: “Jasmine, this is an amber warning.”
“What happens when it gets to red?”
“A ruck,” she said, smiling. It made her even more gorgeous.
Christ, she looked so much like Rachel. He’d never noticed before.
“So how did Pete Rayner happen? I mean you—you’re—you know . . . ” he said.
“What? What am I?” She was fishing.
He smiled. “You and Pete Rayner.”
They were sitting at her kitchen table. Everything was clean and white. It smelled of disinfectant and flowers. Nothing was broken inside her flat. It was tidy and aspirational.
She said, “There was no one left. I was nineteen. My friends were mums already. He, you know, the old man—he was behind bars. Rachel was—” She stopped. Her lip trembled. Her eyes became glittery. “But Pete was around. He was kind. I was having a bad day. Must have been a very bad one, because they were all pretty shitty back then. Well, I thought, why not—one night. And . . . Jasmine.”
“Where is he now?”
She laughed. “Where they all are, I hope—the bad dads’ graveyard. What about you? Girlfriend? Wife? Both?”
“I was married. It didn’t work.”
“Why?”
“Because I did.”
“You did what?”
“Work. I worked. I worked like a fool. We never saw each other. You know . . . ”
“What’s the book about?” she said. “The one you’re writing.”
He drank more coffee. It was cold. The way he liked it. Half an hour ago, when Tash put it on the kitchen table in front of him, steam had billowed from the mug. He’d balked and left it.
He was about to answer when she called, “Jasmine,” again.
Jasmine trudged into the kitchen. She wore a blue school uniform and a glum expression. She was a pretty girl. Natural selection had opted, wisely, for the Hanbury genes, rejecting her dad’s heritable traits.
“She looks like you,” said Faultless.
“And Rachel.”
He nodded. “Hello, Jasmine, I’m Charlie.”
Jasmine nodded.
“Say hello properly,” said her mum.
“Hello properly,” said Jasmine, giving a fake smile.
“Ha, ha,” said Faultless. “Have you got any more jokes?”
“Tons,” said Jasmine. “Are you mums boyfriend?”
“Jas—” Tash started to say.
But Faultless interrupted. “No, why? Doesn’t she have one?”
“She ain’t had one for ages.”
“Hasn’t, Jasmine, hasn’t. Charlie’s a writer, so speak proper.”
“What do you write? Stories?” said Jasmine.
“Yeah, stories.”
“Harry Potter?”
“No. You like Harry Potter?”
Jasmine shrugged and started making toast, getting butter and a knife.
Tash said, “It’s not cool, liking books. Jasmine, hurry up and drink your juice.”
Charlie looked at Tash. Twenty-nine and drained of hope. She had been about fourteen or fifteen when Charlie was dating Rachel. Both sisters had wanted to be models. Just like his mum. Neither made it. Just like his mum.
Tash said, “Put the knife down, Jasmine, or I’ll ring your grandad.”
Jasmine slammed the knife down on the table.
Faultless said, “How is he, then? Grandad. Your dad.”
“Godly.”
“Godly?”
Someone knocked on the front door. Faultless watched Tash leave the kitchen to answer it. He heard her open door and sigh.
“Morning, Hallam,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“You look lovely today, Tash,” said a man. Faultless couldn’t see him properly. He looked at Jasmine, who was eating her toast.
“You like school?” he said.
Jasmine curled her lip.
“Neither did I,” said Faultless.
“It’s boring.”
“I thought so, too.”
“I don’t want to go. I’ve been having headaches.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She scowled at him. “You’re doing the ‘I don’t believe you’ voice. Mum does it. But it’s true. My head hurts. And I get horrible dreams, too.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Jasmine asked.
“I’m an old friend of the family. I knew your mum and her—”
Tash returned and interrupted him. “Jasmine, time for you to leave.”
“Me too,” said Faultless.
Tash said, “You going?”
Jasmine, gathering her things, said, “Yeah, mum would like you to stay. She’s in love.”
“Jasmine,” said Tash, scarlet now. “The light is turning red.”
Jasmine grumbled and headed for the door.
As she went her mum said, “And don’t forget you’ve got tae kwon do tonight, so no hanging around with Candice.”
“Whatever,” said Jasmine, and she was gone.
“She’s a lovely girl,” said Faultless.
“Most times.”
He looked at her and she looked right back.
“Tash, I just thought you’d need to get on—”
“On with what?”
“I don’t know—stuff. You work?”
“I do care work three afternoons a week.”
“Okay. Just thought you’d be busy, that’s all.”
“Yeah, my life is so full here. It’s all go.” She bit her lips. “I’m sorry. You know what it’s like. You’ve got to go, I understand. I’m just . . . ”
“What? Just what?”
She cried. “Fucking lonely and sad and desperate, Charlie.”
She fell into him, and he held her as she wept, stroking her hair. It felt like her sister’s hair. She smelled like Rachel too. He eased her away, because she was jazzing up his biology, and it was the last thing he needed.
“Where does your old man live?”
“If I tell you,” she said, eyes wet and red, a smile on her face, “will you stay for another coffee? I’ll make it cold this time.”