Dangerous to Know (11 page)

Dear Jack, I’ve got to see you. I’m counting the hours till the weekend. Are you still coming? If you reply to this, I wish I could keep your letter. But I won’t be able to – I’ll have to burn it. I don’t trust Mum not to search through my stuff. I hate her. I can’t wait to see you.

I wouldn’t write; I’d already decided. The words never come out how I mean them. I’d phone her, hang up if her parents answered. I knew her number by heart, even though I’d never actually called her house.

“What do you reckon?” I said. “Are you guys coming or not?”

I tried to sound offhand but actually the thought of gatecrashing some really posh party without Sammy and Jono as accomplices was kind of scary. It’s one of those things that’s funny if you do it with friends, terrifying on your own.

“May as well,” said Sammy. “Why not?”

Jono just shrugged but I could tell he was up for it.

“We can’t just turn up with nothing, then,” I said. “Bad form. It’s a party.”

Sammy rolled over onto his back, puffing smoke up at the grey sky as he lay next to me. “What, are you talking about scoring? Sounds like more trouble. Anyway, aren’t we all skint? There’s going to be loads of free drink – may as well just stick to that.”

“Don’t be a gay,” Jono replied. He really is a brainless caveman sometimes. Usually. “What about your sister? I bet she could sort us out.”

Sammy shut his eyes, half dozing. “No good. Leila’s doing another festival for Mum and Dad – some boring poetry thing in the middle of nowhere. Left on Wednesday night.”

I stared up at the clouds. “Well,” I said, “Owen’s back, isn’t he?”

Jono and Sammy both rolled over and stared at me, grinning.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Jono asked.

“Because you’re an idiot,” I told him, sighing. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.”

Sammy gave me a look, clearly thinking about the Buggy/Mrs Hannay’s TV situation and not wanting to repeat it any time soon. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

You had to admire him for speaking his mind, even when it made him look like he was just scared of getting caught. The way I saw it, if we were going to get spotted by Bethany’s parents at this jolly old party, I’d far rather be off my face when it happened.

I called Bethany on Friday night. Mum and Louis were in the kitchen, making supper and drinking wine. I stood by the desk in Louis’ study for what felt like years before I finally picked up the phone.

My heart was banging like crazy.
Calm down.
I thought.
Calm down. If someone else answers just hang up
.

The phone rang four, five times before someone picked up.

“Hello?” It was Bethany. Relief washed over me like someone had just poured a bucket of warm water down my back.

“It’s me.”

“Oh, yes, that’s OK. See you on Monday.” Bethany wasn’t making any sense, but even just hearing her voice was enough to make me want to run across town; I would have given anything to be with her. I realized one of her parents must be standing near by, listening in.

“We’re coming tomorrow. We’ll be there.” I took a long breath, not wanting to sound like an idiot. “Listen, I can’t wait to see you. I miss you.”

“Me, too,” she said, softly, and then, “Yeah, I’ll bring the notes from yesterday. OK, bye.”

Bethany hung up, and I stood there with the phone in one hand, stupidly not wanting to let go of it. It was my last link with her. I looked at my watch. It was nine p.m.
Twenty-four hours
, I told myself.
Twenty-four hours till we’re together.

I counted every one.

Jono and I were crammed into the back of Yvonne’s car, next to a load of empty plastic crates. I couldn’t stop yawning – I was knackered. I’d slept badly; every time I closed my eyes Bethany was there, yet not there. It was torture.

Sammy was in the front, fielding enquiries from his mum.

“I know where the commune is. It’s on the road outside Lower Wenlock.” Yvonne sounded harassed. “What I want to know is why you’re going and why on earth you’re so desperate to get there right this minute.” We’d caught Yvonne on the hop, just as she was getting ready to leave for a meeting with some woman about chutney. She stopped at the lights, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. We were heading out of town. We’d already passed Bethany’s house. I’d forced myself not to stare as we went by, wondering what she was doing. It was early, not even half nine. Was she thinking about the party? Was she thinking about me?

“It’s my brother,” I said. “Owen. He’s staying there for a bit.”

Yvonne turned and stared at me. “
Owen?
Really?” I could tell straight away she was wondering why Mum wasn’t giving me a lift out to see my long-lost brother if I was so desperate for his company.

The lie slipped off my tongue like warm honey. “I wouldn’t have asked, only Mum and Louis are busy this morning, and I just really wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” Yvonne said, quickly. “I’ve just realized the less I know about this, the better.” She sighed, and switched on Radio 4.

Beside me, Jono smirked.

We pulled up on a tiny lane, just by a fence made of woven willow branches. “The commune’s in there,” Yvonne said. “You’ll have to walk a fair way down the path, but you’ll find it. I’ll be an hour with Jeanette, and I’ve got stuff to do back in town, so don’t be late. I’ll see you here at quarter to twelve. OK?”

We bundled out of the car and she drove off, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust. For a minute we stood in the lane like a bunch of idiots, ducking into the hedge when a Land Rover shot past.

“How does your mum know about this place, anyway?” Jono asked. He looked slightly nervous and I hoped I didn’t. I couldn’t help feeling a bit nervy, launching myself into the midst of a load of random crusties.

Sammy shrugged. “Some bird that works for her and Dad used to live here. Come on. She meant it about not being late.”

I found a gap in the hedge and, silently, we trudged down a path shaded by trees. We were in a wood. It was kind of pretty, with stripes of golden sunlight pouring down between the trees, puddling all over last autumn’s dried leaves. I could smell smoke from a fire, but there was no other sign of life. “Are you sure this is the right place?” Jono muttered, kicking aside an overgrown tangle of bracken. “It’s the middle of bloody nowhere. Why didn’t Owen and his woman stay at yours?”

I shrugged. “It’s where he told Mum they’d be. Till next week – then they’re off to see Natasha’s parents in Scotland. You know what he’s like.”

After a bit, the smell of woodsmoke got stronger and the path opened out into a clearing. I don’t know what I’d been expecting but it wasn’t much of a commune: a couple of vans, a knackered old London bus with ivy growing up the wheels and one massive tipi. Someone had drawn birds on the tipi canvas in faded fluorescent paint, but that must have been years ago. The remains of a campfire smouldered next to a crumpled beer can. A tin mug lay on the ground. On the far side of the clearing, I could just see an old guy with grey dreds chopping logs on a tree trunk, but he didn’t notice us.

One of the vans was Owen’s Sprinter. Or perhaps it was Natasha’s.

I realized that Jono and Sammy were both staring at me, waiting.

“Well,” I said, “that’s Owen’s van. I reckon we’ll go and wake him up.”

I knocked on the side of the van and for a minute nothing happened. Then the double doors at the back opened. Jono and Sammy shrank away, leaving me standing there alone.

It was Natasha, wearing an old white shirt and not much else. Red hair everywhere. She smiled, managing not to look surprised.

“Jack,” she said, as if we’d just met in the street. “How are you?” In the morning light, I could see a spatter of gold freckles across her nose and cheekbones. I was trying not to look at her long, pale legs. I could see past her into the van – a double mattress on a plywood platform behind the front seats, a small bench with ethnic-looking cushions crammed in opposite a wood-burner.

“Fine.” I really didn’t know what else to say.

Natasha smiled again. “Owen’s asleep. Listen, I’ll wake him up. Why don’t you get the fire going?” She handed me a fire-blackened steel kettle and a jerrycan that sloshed when I took it. “There’s a pile of kindling behind the van. Should be some newspaper under the tarpaulin. You’ve got a lighter, haven’t you?”

Laden with hippy camping gear, I wandered over to the fire, dazed, Jono and Sammy scurrying after me.

“What did she say?” Sammy hissed as we squatted by the fire, blowing frantically at the tiny, flickering flames I’d managed to stir up. “Is that really Owen’s girlfriend? She looks like a model.”

“Ginger, though. Shame,” said Jono, with an annoying air of long experience. “Bet she’s got a firecrotch.”

“Shut up!” hissed Sammy.
“
Bloody hell!
”

I looked over my shoulder and there were Owen and Natasha, ambling over to the campfire. He had one arm slung around her shoulder, carrying a handful of mugs. She was holding a carton of UHT milk and, thank Christ, was now wearing a long silky skirt and flip-flops. I didn’t think Sammy would have been able to cope with her legs otherwise; I knew I couldn’t have.

Owen smiled at Sammy and Jono. “Hello.” It was hard to tell if he recognized them or not; either way, he made it seem like he did.

“I’ll leave you to it, O,” Natasha said. Then, turning to Sammy and Jono. “Would you two like to come and have a look around?”

I thought Sammy was going to faint. Jono just about managed to smile and mutter, “Yeah, go on then.”

And I was alone with Owen. At first he said nothing, just chucked a load more kindling onto the pathetic fire I’d made. The flames leapt into life and I felt like an idiot.

“Put the kettle on, then.” Owen squinted across the clearing, raising one hand at the old guy chopping wood, who returned the greeting. “My head’s killing me. Nige brews his own cider and it’s murder.”

Fumbling, I poured water into the kettle and sat it in the fire, just near the edge.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Owen said.

Now it was just the two of us, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I just looked at the kettle, steam rising from the spout.

“Quiet, aren’t you?”Owen watched me, obviously amused. I noticed he still wore an earring: a tiny silver loop halfway up the lobe. “So he’s gone, then.” Owen rolled a fag and held the tip to a flame, taking a deep draw. He was talking about Herod. I hadn’t expected that. “They told me last night but I had this feeling there was something up with him before we got back. Couldn’t get it out of my head. We were in France.” He blew out a cloud of smoke. “We were coming home anyway – felt like doing Glastonbury this year. Drove all night from the South to Calais. Fucking silly, really. I still don’t know where he is.”

“The kettle’s boiling.”

Owen reached for a stick, hooked the kettle out of the fire and, wrapping the sleeve of his jumper round the handle, poured boiling water into two mugs. The teabags floated to the surface in a swirl of milk. Everything he did was confident, precise. “Hope you don’t take sugar. We haven’t got any.”

“It’s OK.” It wasn’t what I’d come to ask but I said it anyway: “Where do you think he’s gone? They’ve called the police.” Only this morning, I’d overheard Mum and Louis talking quietly in the kitchen, thinking I was still asleep.

“What worries me is that he’s ill again, badly, in hospital somewhere,” Mum had said. “What if he’s been sectioned with no ID on him? They won’t know who he is.”

“Ed made you think that,” Louis told her. And the police have checked all the local hospitals, haven’t they? For all we know, Herod’s gone on holiday. Maybe he just didn’t bother telling Andrea. Last time we were there he was fine. Totally fine. Didn’t you think so?”

Mum had sighed. “Well, yes, I did. I just wish he’d phone. Sergeant Prentice said there’d been no sign of him at all yet. Nothing. Maybe we should go down there, Louis.”

Owen fished the teabag out of his mug and threw it into the fire, taking a long swig. He shrugged. “I don’t know where Herod is. I just don’t know.” He turned, watching me with those tilted, golden-yellow eyes. “Why did you come, anyway?” He smiled, faintly. “You didn’t bring your mates out here to catch up with your dear old brother, did you?”

Suddenly, I felt ashamed: it was pretty shallow, the reason why I’d gone. It wasn’t as if I owed him anything, though. Owen hadn’t sent me so much as a postcard in five years. I drank some of my own tea, biding my time before answering, but I couldn’t shake off the impression that he knew what I was doing, was secretly laughing at my tactics. “We’re going to a party tonight.”

It was all I needed to say.

Owen laughed. “For Christ’s sake. Come back after five years and everyone still thinks I’m a drug dealer. Whoever it is you’re trying to impress, she’s not worth it.”

He didn’t know Bethany. He didn’t know anything about her. He’d touched a nerve, though. Why was I really doing this? To impress her?
Do you honestly reckon she’s going to think you’re cool for scoring a load of nasty speed?

I would be with her again in a matter of hours; that was all I cared about. I ignored the small, quiet voice whispering,
Is this party thing a good idea?
Mum would never let me go if she knew about it. She was in enough of a state about Herod.
But she’s never going to find out, is she?

I was on edge waiting to see Bethany again.

“What do you know about it?” I snapped at Owen, furious with myself for letting him get to me. I glanced away, took a steadying breath. “Have you got anything or not?”

Owen watched me over his mug. “You make me feel old.” He looked up at the sun slanting through the trees. He’d never worn a watch. “Early still. Your mates wouldn’t be too happy being dragged all the way out here for nothing, would they?” He sighed, chucking the dregs of his tea into the fire, getting to his feet. “So are you coming or not?”

I could see Yvonne’s car waiting in the lane as we trudged back down the path. She’d kept the engine idling.

“What did he give you?” Jono had demanded, as soon as we’d left the tipi behind.