Fifteen Days Without a Head Page 6

  ‘A ZAPPA man, are you?’ says Baz. ‘Don’t eat the yellow snow!’

  They both laugh. This is it, I’m going out.

  ‘Erm,’ says Mac. ‘It’s going to have to be a guess. I’ll say, B: Arctic Monkeys.’

  The clang of swords again, then a pause. ‘It’s a flesh wound,’ says Baz. ‘But you’re BOTH STILL BREATHING. Fuzzy Logic was in fact the debut LP for Super Furry Animals. Daniel, you’re BACK in play!’

  I don’t believe it! But there’s no time to celebrate, Baz is already reading the next question.

  ‘Daniel. What element makes up approximately seventy-eight per cent of the air we breathe? Is it A: nitrogen? B: oxygen? Or C: argon?’

  Oxygen. We breathe oxygen. Surely that’s too easy? It must be a trick question. But what if it’s not?

  I answer before I have time to change my mind. ‘B: oxygen.’

  Another clang of metal—it’s starting to get on my nerves now.

  Baz groans and I know I’m wrong. ‘You’re on SELF-DESTRUCT tonight, Daniel! NITROGEN is the main element, comprising seventy-eight per cent of the air we breathe.’

  I open my mouth to argue, but Baz is already talking to Mac. ‘It’s in YOUR hands now, Mac. This is the closest ANYBODY has come to defeating our champion. Are YOU—a fellow countryman—the man to do it? What do you think, Mac? DO you feel LUCKY?’

  Big surprise, Mac feels lucky. Why wouldn’t he? Like Baz said, I’m on self-destruct tonight.

  ‘Here we go,’ says Baz. ‘Who wrote the original book from which the film Coraline was made? Was it A: Roald Dahl? B: Tim Burton? Or C: Neil Gaiman?’

  ‘I saw that,’ says Mac, ‘good film!’

  That’s it then. All over.

  ‘You want to know who wrote it? Erm … I’m not sure … maybe Roald Dahl? No … hang on, I’ve got a feeling it was Tim Burton.’

  ‘So you’re going for B: Tim Burton as the man who wrote the original story, Coraline?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He’s got it right. Baz only asks if you’re sure, when you’re right.

  ‘No,’ says Mac. ‘But I’ll stick with it.’

  I hear Baz draw breath. Here it comes …

  ‘Mac, I have to tell you that NEIL GAIMAN wrote the book that inspired the film Coraline.’

  A groan from Mac.

  ‘Come ON, fellas!’ says Baz. ‘This is hardly a good advert for Scottish brainpower! You know we’ll keep going till somebody gets one right. Even if it does take ALL NIGHT!’

  Mac laughs. I don’t say anything. My whole body is quivering. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  ‘Daniel?’ says Baz. ‘Are you still there, my friend?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Come ON, Danny Boy! You’re our REIGNING CHAMPION. You’ve toyed with the opposition for long enough—can we FINISH this now?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good man!’

  Jay’s still fighting the trees. He keeps running back to the phone box, then darting out to attack, then back, then out to a different tree. There doesn’t seem to be any sequence to it, sometimes he goes for the same tree, two or three times. I wonder how long it will be before someone comes along and tells him to stop it?

  ‘Daniel. WHICH of the following countries does NOT border France? Is it A: Monaco? B: Andorra? Or C: Netherlands?’

  Geography! Why did it have to be geography?

  My mind is blank. No gut feeling, no instinct. Nothing.

  I watch Jay fighting the trees. He runs back to the box, then turns to face them again. Three trees. A, B, or C.

  ‘Daniel?’ says Baz.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jay is poised, stick in hand like a sword, like a mighty claymore. Tree A, Tree B, or Tree C. There can be only one.

  ‘I need an answer, champ.’

  Jay leaps forward towards Tree B, then swerves round and past it, delivering a slicing blow to Tree C instead.

  ‘Tree C,’ I tell Baz. ‘I mean—C.’

  Baz laughs. ‘Are you CRACKING under the pressure, champ? WORRIED you might lose your head?’

  I manage a strangled laugh.

  ‘Let’s get this right. You’re telling ME that C: Netherlands, does NOT border the lovely nation of France? Is that correct?’

  Jay is smashing the life out of Tree C.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Silence.

  ‘There can be only one,’ says Baz, barely above a whisper. ‘Daniel … you’re absolutely RIGHT.’ The Highlander music blasts down the phone. ‘Mac, my friend—well played. You pushed him all the way—but as we knew at the start there could BE only one!’

  I let Jay stay up late, so he doesn’t argue too much when I say it’s time for bed. If I’m honest, I want the company. Tonight the flat is too big and too quiet.

  I stand at the window and look out over the grey sprawl of Hardacre, slowly disappearing in the dusk. Mum’s out there somewhere, I know she is. But where? And when is she coming home?

  Something flickers in the depths of my brain, a glowing ember of doubt … what if she doesn’t?

  I shake my head and the glow fades.

  You make your own luck—that’s what Nanna used to say. She believed that if you expected the worst, that’s what you’d get. But if you counted on good things happening, then they usually would. The Power of Positive Thought, she called it.

  I wish Nanna was here now. She’d know what to do.

  But no amount of Positive Thought is going to make that happen.

  Jay’s in a bad mood. He wants to know where Mum is.

  It’s a good question.

  I wish I knew the answer.

  I tell him she’s working—she had to leave early before he was awake. I even make up a story about her coming in to see him before she went, how we both laughed because he was snoring.

  Jay doesn’t believe me.

  He doesn’t say anything though—just scowls and turns up the TV. But the question won’t go away.

  I’ve been pretending that everything was normal, for Jay and Nelly, and anybody else who might be watching. At least, that’s who I thought I was doing it for. Maybe it was as much for me as anyone? Because once you stop pretending, the only thing left is reality—and that’s scary.

  I go into the kitchen and fill up the kettle. I don’t want a drink. I’m delaying, distracting myself from what I should be doing. So I’m almost relieved when the doorbell goes, until my brain throws up a couple of possibilities of who it could be:

  The police.

  Social Services.

  It’s OK. I don’t have to answer it.

  The buzzer goes again.

  Whoever is out there really wants to come in.

  But there’s nobody I want to see—except Mum, and she’s got a key … unless she lost it?

  Then I hear small feet running up the hall …

  I sprint after him, but it’s too late—he’s already opening the door.

  ‘Mum!’ says Jay.

  It takes an age for my eyes to focus on the woman standing in the doorway, then a few seconds longer for my brain to register that the face I’m looking at does not belong to my mother.

  ‘I thought you were my mum,’ says Jay, shoulders sagging.

  Nelly smiles. ‘Oh, sorry to disappoint you, dear. Is she not at home then?’

  ‘Dunno where she is,’ says Jay, already on his way back to the television.

  ‘She’s at work, I told you,’ I remind him, for Nelly’s benefit.

  ‘On a Saturday?’ Nelly’s eyebrows attempt simultaneous vertical take-off, so I guess she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’ I ask her.

  The treacle smile evaporates. ‘I wish to speak with your mother. What time are you expecting her?’

  I shrug, on purpose. ‘Dunno, she might have to do overtime. Then we’re going out, to a friend’s house, so we won’t be back until late.’

  ‘I see.’

&nb
sp; And I believe she does see—right through me. Nelly doesn’t believe a word of it. I wonder if she knows it was me dressed up as Mum who left the Heights yesterday morning.

  ‘Not to worry,’ she says. ‘I’m sure our paths will cross before too long.’ Nelly shows me her teeth. I think it’s meant to be a smile, but doesn’t quite make it.

  I watch her shuffle towards the stairs.

  Ugly stone steps.

  Hard stone steps.

  One push and she’d be down the lot …

  Nelly knows Mum’s not been here, I’m sure of it. All it takes is one phone call from her and the do-gooders from the social will be round here like a SWAT team.

  One quick push and the problem is eliminated.

  I could say she tripped, it would be easy.

  Do it! Do it now, before it’s too late. Do it for Jay.

  ‘Yes?’ Nosy Nelly turns, one foot on the stairs.

  I realize I’m halfway across the landing, just an arm’s length away. I don’t remember leaving the flat.

  Nelly blinks, sending tiny crumbs of orange make-up rolling down her cheek. There’s anger in her eyes, but fear too, as though she can see what I was thinking, what I was going to do.

  I shake my head and run back into the flat, slamming the door behind me.

  My hands are shaking.

  I feel sick.

  Was I really going to push Nelly down the stairs? I could have killed her!

  But that was the point, wasn’t it?

  I go to the bathroom and fill the sink, dunking my face in the cold water. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, then lift my head to look in the mirror. The glass is gone, smashed by Mum one drunken night. I’d forgotten, but I’m glad I can’t see my reflection—I’m afraid it might scare me.

  I try to watch TV with Jay, but I can’t concentrate. I keep seeing Nelly at the bottom of the stairs, a red stain spreading out from her head. If she hadn’t turned round, would I have done it? Would I have pushed her?

  That’s another question I can’t answer. My head is full of them, hissing and scratching around my brain like the roaches in the kitchen. I want to rip my head off so I don’t have to listen to them any more.

  But I can’t go on pretending this is normal. Mum’s never left us on our own for this long before.

  I kept telling myself that she was just out on one of her drinking sessions, that she’d come home after a few days when the money ran out. But she didn’t. And now Nelly wants to talk to her, and won’t stop hounding us until she gets what she wants. I need to find Mum. But where do I start?

  What do I know?

  Not much. Mum just didn’t come home after work on Wednesday night.

  But that’s a start—the one thing I know for sure.

  OK … so why not?

  Either something happened so she couldn’t come home, or she chose to go somewhere else instead. If Mum had killed herself, or been in an accident, or got arrested, by now somebody would know. The police would have discovered who she was and come round here for me and Jay. Which means Mum didn’t come home because she didn’t want to.

  But where did she go?

  I start in her bedroom, emptying out drawers, looking under the bed, on top of the wardrobe. I don’t know what I’m looking for—anything I suppose—a clue as to where she might have gone.

  The place is a mess of dirty clothes, bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. It stinks in here too, of stale cigarettes, chip fat, and perfume. Going through Mum’s things feels wrong, and I get that crawling feeling up my back, that when I turn round she’s going to be there in the doorway. Though if she was I’d be glad—even if she did give me a slap for going through her stuff.

  But there’s nothing here. Just Mum’s rubbish. A pair of muddy trainers in a Parade Wines carrier bag in the corner; a few magazines and old newspapers by the bed, but nothing circled in red pen, or intriguingly snipped out. No mysterious letters, or receipts, no membership cards for seedy clubs in town. No clues—just stuff. The same as you’d find in anybody’s room.

  Mum’s cleaning overall is on the bed where I left it, but I can’t find her chip shop one. So I know she went to work on Wednesday afternoon. But what stopped her from coming home?

  I don’t think she planned to go away, because as far as I can see, she didn’t take anything with her. If she meant to leave, or if she was planning to … do something … she wouldn’t have gone to work first. So something must have happened while she was at work—if she even got there. And if she did, what time did she leave? Was she with anybody? I need to find out.

  I go back into the front room where Jay is lying upside down on the settee watching Scooby-Doo. It’s the part at the end of the show when Velma explains how she solved the mystery. It was easy, she says, I just retraced his footsteps, then followed the clues!

  ‘Are we going to see Mum?’ says Jay, when he sees the chip shop ahead.

  ‘No, she’s at her other job.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks disappointed.

  ‘Come on, Scoob, remember we’ve got to look for clues,’ I say in my best Shaggy from Scooby-Doo voice.

  Of course, now I actually want Jay to pretend he’s a dog, he won’t have anything to do with the idea. He stares at me like I’m deranged. Maybe I am, for thinking this could possibly work, but I don’t know what else to do and I’ve got to do something.

  ‘You stay here and keep a look out, Scoob, while I go inside and look for clues,’ I tell him, when we get to the chip shop.

  Jay frowns. ‘I want to come with you. Scooby and Shaggy always stay together.’

  ‘They don’t allow dogs in there, Scooby, old pal!’ I’m trying to keep it going, doing the voice and everything; people walking past are staring. ‘I’ll bring you a bag of Scooby Snacks!’

  Jay’s lip quivers, but eventually he nods. ‘OK, but don’t be too long.’

  My brother has more in common with that dog than he knows.

  The moment I step into Choi’s Chip Shop & Takeaway, my skin tingles and I can feel Mum’s presence, though I know she’s not here.

  Mrs Choi is shovelling chips into a plastic tray for a bloke in a vest and football shorts. She knows me from the times I’ve been in to see Mum.

  ‘What happen your mum?’ she says, and my heart thuds.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She no come to work—two days! Salt, vinegar?’ she asks the bloke.

  I realize Mrs Choi doesn’t know anything. Just that Mum didn’t turn up for work. ‘She’s ill,’ I say.

  The bloke turns and looks at me. His face is red, sunburned.

  ‘When she come back to work?’

  ‘I dunno. Soon.’

  ‘She no come back soon, I give job to someone else.’

  Red Face takes his chips and leaves.

  ‘What you want?’ Mrs Choi waits, her scoop poised.

  I want to ask questions, but now I’m here I don’t know where to start.

  ‘You want something to eat?’

  I wonder if she means for free?

  ‘A portion of chips, please.’

  Mrs Choi grunts and starts scooping chips into a tray.

  ‘Mum came in on Wednesday didn’t she?’

  ‘Wednesday yes, Thursday no. Salt, vinegar?’

  ‘Please.’

  She hands me the chips. ‘One pounds fifty!’

  I hear the door open and think it might be Jay, but he’s still outside, frowning at me through the window. A woman in sunglasses comes in and stands behind me.

  I turn back to Mrs Choi. ‘Was she OK? I mean … what time did she leave … on Wednesday?’

  Mrs Choi looks at me. ‘Same time always.’

  ‘Was she with anyone?’

  She frowns. ‘Why you want to know? What happen? Your mum OK?’

  ‘Yeah! She’s fine. I mean, she’s ill … but …’

  Mrs Choi shakes her head. ‘She come back Tuesday, yes? Or I get new girl.’ She turns to the woman in the sunglasses. ‘Yes
, please?’

  I am completely useless. I should have thought about what to ask before we came. It was a waste of time, except for the chips, and I had to pay for those.

  We find a strip of shade by the wall of the launderette, and sit down. The smell of soap and warm washing mingles with the acid tang of vinegar, but the chips taste good. We’re being watched by a ratty brown dog, a string of clear saliva drooling from its mouth.

  ‘Disgusting!’ says Jay with admiration, and throws it a chip. The dog hoovers up the food in a single gulp and shuffles a bit closer. I tell Jay to ignore him, so of course he throws it another.

  I look around the Parade. Mrs Choi told me that Mum left work as normal on Wednesday night, which means she was only minutes away from coming home. So why didn’t she? Where did she go when she left the chip shop?

  If she turned left instead of right, she would have walked where we are sitting now, past the post office and the nail bar, and on towards the launderette.

  ‘Stupid dog!’ says Jay.

  The brown dog is chasing a red carrier bag across the pavement, but each time he gets near it, the wind whips the bag away. Jay thinks it’s hilarious. Eventually the dog gives up and the bag drifts back down the Parade towards us. It’s from the off-licence, there was one just like it in Mum’s room …

  Parade Wines is empty, except for a scruffy bloke with a silver-grey ponytail buying six cans of lager and a bottle of red wine. I wait for him to leave, then go up to the counter. The man at the till frowns.

  ‘I’ll need to see ID if you want to get served.’

  ‘I don’t want to buy anything, I’m looking for my mum.’

  He gestures at the empty shop. ‘She’s not in here.’

  ‘Not today. Last Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday?’ The man shakes his head. ‘I wasn’t here on Wednesday. That would have been Ann.’

  ‘Do you know when she’s in next?’

  ‘Who, Ann?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll have to check the rota.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile.

  He sighs and waddles across to a dog-eared sheet of paper stuck to the back wall. ‘Ann,’ he says, running his finger across the sheet. ‘Monday, Wednesday, Friday. After six.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try then.’

  He nods, then looks at me suddenly, like he’s just noticed I’m here. ‘Hey, hang on a minute. Why d’you want to know about last Wednesday? That was three days ago. Have you not seen her since then?’