"Yes?"
"We did sort of steal the food from that buffet, didn't we? I mean, if you look at it proportionally, we did take more than our share."
Mum stared at her feet for a minute, thinking. "If you're really worried, when we get your prize money we'll put five pounds in an envelope and send it to them. How does that sound?"
"I think, given the items we took, it would probably be nearer six pounds. Probably six pounds fifty," Tanzie said.
"Then that's what we'll send them. And now I think we should work really, really hard to get this fat old dog of yours to run around a bit, so that (a) he's tired enough to sleep the next leg of the journey, and (b) it might encourage him to go to the loo here and not fart his way through the next eighty miles."
--
They hit the road again. It rained. Mr. Nicholls had had One of His Phone Calls with a man called Sidney and talked about share prices and market movements and looked a bit serious, so Mum didn't sing for a bit. Tanzie tried not to sneak looks at her maths papers (Mum said it would make her sick). Her legs kept sticking to Mr. Nicholls's leather seats and she was sort of regretting wearing her shorts. Plus Norman had rolled in something in the woods and she kept getting this whiff of something really bad, but she didn't want to say anything in case Mr. Nicholls decided he'd had enough of them and their stinky dog. So she just held her nose with her fingers and tried to breathe through her mouth, only letting herself open her nostrils every thirty lampposts.
"What are you thinking about, Tanze?" Mum looked back through the seats.
"I was thinking about permutations and combinations."
Mum did that smile that she did when she didn't really get what Tanzie was saying.
"Well, I was thinking about that fruit salad at the breakfast bar. Like that's a combination--it doesn't matter whether the apples, pears, and bananas are in any order, right? But with permutations it does."
Mum still looked blank. Mr. Nicholls looked in the rearview mirror and then turned to Mum.
"Okay, so imagine pulling colored socks from a drawer. If you have six pairs of different-colored socks in the drawer--say twelve in total--there are six times five times four times three different combinations you could pull them out in, right?" he said.
"But if all twelve had different colors, you'd have a really big number of different ways of pulling them out--nearly half a billion."
"That sounds pretty much like our sock drawers," said Mum.
Mr. Nicholls looked back at Tanze and grinned. "So, Tanze, if you have a drawer with twelve socks but you can't see them, how many do you have to pull out to decide if there are at least two pairs?"
Tanzie was thinking about this for ages, so she didn't hear when Mr. Nicholls started talking to Nicky.
"You bored? You want to borrow my phone?"
"Really?" Nicky pushed himself upright from his slumped position.
"Sure. It's in the pocket of my jacket."
With Nicky glued again to a screen, Mum and Mr. Nicholls started talking. It was possible they'd forgotten anyone else was in the car.
"Still thinking about socks?" she said.
"Oh no. Those problems can fry your brain. I'll leave that to your daughter."
There was a short silence.
"So, tell me about your wife."
"Ex-wife. And no thanks."
"Why not? You weren't unfaithful. I'm guessing she wasn't, or you would have made that face."
"What face?"
Another short silence. Maybe ten lampposts.
"I'm not sure I would ever have made that face. But no. She wasn't. And no, I don't really want to discuss it. It's--"
"Private?"
"I just don't like talking about personal stuff. Do you want to talk about your ex?"
"In front of his children? Yup, that's always a great idea."
Nobody spoke for a few miles. Mum started tapping on the window. Tanzie glanced over at Mr. Nicholls. Every time Mum tapped, a little muscle tweaked in his jaw.
"So what shall we talk about, then? I'm not very interested in software and I'm guessing you have zero interest in what I do. I don't understand sock-related maths. And there are only so many times I can point at a field and say: 'Oh, look, cows.'"
Mr. Nicholls sighed.
"Come on. It's a long way to Scotland."
There was a thirty-lamppost silence. Nicky was taking pictures out of the window with Mr. Nicholls's phone.
"Lara. Italian. Model."
"Model." Mum laughed this great big laugh. "Of course."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mr. Nicholls said grumpily.
"All men like you go out with models."
"What do you mean, men like me?"
Mum pressed her lips together.
"What do you mean, men like me? Come on."
"Rich men."
"I'm not rich."
Mum shook her head. "Noooo."
"I'm not."
"I think it depends on how you define rich."
"I've seen rich. I'm not rich. I'm well-off, yes. But I'm a long way from rich."
Mum turned to him. He really had no idea whom he was dealing with. "Do you have more than one house?"
He signaled and swung the wheel. "I might."
"Do you have more than one car?"
He glanced sideways. "Yes."
"Then you're rich."
"Nope. Rich is private jets and yachts. Rich is staff."
"So what am I?"
Mr. Nicholls shook his head. "Not staff. You're . . ."
"What?"
"I'm just trying to imagine your face if I'd referred to you as my staff."
Mum started to laugh. "My woman servant. My cleaning wench."
"Yeah. Or those. Okay, well, what would you say is rich?"
Mum pulled one of the buffet apples from her bag and bit into it. She chewed for a minute before speaking. "Rich is paying every single bill on time without thinking about it. Rich is being able to have a holiday or get through Christmas without having to borrow against January and February. Actually, rich would be just not thinking about money all the bloody time."
"Everyone thinks about money. Even rich people."
"Yes, but you're just thinking what to do with it to make more money. Whereas I'm thinking how the hell we can get enough of it to get through another week."
Mr. Nicholls made a harrumphing sound. "I can't believe I'm driving you to Scotland and you're giving me a hard time because you've misguidedly decided I'm some kind of Donald Trump."
"I'm not giving you a hard time."
"Noooo."
"I'm just pointing out that there's a difference between what you consider to be rich and what is actually rich."
There was a sort of awkward silence. Mum blushed like she'd said too much and started eating her apple with big, noisy bites, even though she would have told Tanzie off if she had eaten like that. Tanzie was distracted from sock permutations. She didn't want Mum and Mr. Nicholls to stop talking to each other because they were having quite a nice day, so she put her head through the front seats. "Actually, I read somewhere that to qualify for the top one percent in this country, you would need to earn more than a hundred and forty thousand pounds a year," she said helpfully. "So if Mr. Nicholls doesn't earn that much, then he probably isn't rich." She smiled and sat back in her seat.
Mum looked at Mr. Nicholls. She kept looking at him.
Mr. Nicholls rubbed his head. "I tell you what," he said after a while, "shall we stop off and get some tea?"
--
Moreton Marston looked like it had been invented for tourists. Everything was made of the same gray stone and was really old, and everyone's gardens were perfect, with tiny blue flowers creeping over the tops of walls, and immaculate little baskets of trailing leaves, like something out of a book. The shops were all the kind you get on Christmas cards. In the market square there was a woman dressed in Victorian clothing, selling buns from a tray, with groups of tourists wanderin
g around taking pictures. Tanzie was so busy gazing out of the window that she didn't notice Nicky at first. It was only when they pulled into the parking space that she saw he had gone really white. She asked him whether his ribs were hurting, and he said no, and when she asked if he had an apple down his trousers that he couldn't get out, he said, "No, Tanze, just drop it," but the way he said it, there was definitely something. Tanzie looked at Mum, but she was busy not looking at Mr. Nicholls and Mr. Nicholls was busy making this big to-do about finding the best parking space. Norman just looked up at Tanzie, like "Don't even bother asking."
Everyone got out and stretched and Mr. Nicholls said they were all having tea and cake and it was his treat and please could we not make a big financial deal out of it as it was just tea, okay? Mum raised her eyebrows like she was going to say something and then just muttered, "Thank you," but not with good grace.
They sat down in a cafe whose name was Ye Spotted Sowe Tea Shoppe, even though Tanzie would bet there were no tea shops in medieval times. Nobody else seemed to mind. Nicky got up to go to the loo. And Mr. Nicholls and Mum were at the counter choosing what to eat, so she clicked on Mr. Nicholls's phone and the first thing that came up was Nicky's Facebook page. She waited for a minute because Nicky got really annoyed if people looked at his stuff, and then when she was sure he really was in the loo, she made the screen go bigger so she could read it, and then she went cold. The Fishers had posted messages and pictures of men doing rude things to other men all over Nicky's timeline. They had called him "gimp" and "fagboy," and even though Tanzie didn't know what the words meant, she knew they were bad and she suddenly felt sick. She looked up and Mum was coming back holding a tray.
"Tanzie! Be careful with Mr. Nicholls's phone!"
The phone had clattered onto the edge of the table. She didn't want to touch it. She wondered if Nicky was crying in the loo. She would be.
When she looked up, Mum was staring at her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
She sat down and pushed an orange cupcake on a plate across the table. Tanzie wasn't hungry anymore, even though it was covered with sprinkles.
"Tanze. What's wrong? Talk to me."
She pushed the phone slowly across the wooden table with the tip of her finger, like it was going to burn her or something. Mum frowned, and then looked down at it. She clicked on it and stared. "Jesus Christ," she said after a minute.
Mr. Nicholls sat down beside her. He had the biggest slice of chocolate cake Tanzie had ever seen. "Everyone happy?" he said. He looked happy.
"The little bastards," Mum said. And her eyes filled with tears.
"What?" Mr. Nicholls had a mouthful of cake.
"Is that like a pervert?"
Mum didn't seem to hear her. She pushed the chair back with a massive screech and began striding toward the toilets.
"That's the Gents, madam," a woman called, as Mum pushed the door open.
"I can read, thank you," Mum said, and she disappeared inside.
"What? What's going on now?" Mr. Nicholls struggled to swallow his mouthful. He glanced over at where Mum had gone. Then, when Tanzie didn't say anything, he looked down at his phone and tapped it twice. He just kept staring. Then he moved the screen around like he was reading everything. Tanzie felt a bit weird. She wasn't sure he should be looking at that.
"Did . . . is this something to do with what happened to your brother?"
She wanted to cry. She felt like the Fishers had ruined the nice day. It was as if they had followed them here, like they would never get away from them. She couldn't speak.
"Hey," he said, as a great big tear plopped down on the table. "Hey." He held out a paper napkin toward her and Tanzie wiped her eyes, and when she couldn't hide the sob that burst upward, he moved around the table and put an arm around her and pulled her in for a hug. He felt big and solid and smelled of lemons and men. She hadn't smelled that man smell since Dad left and that made her even sadder.
"Hey. Don't cry."
"Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. I'd cry if someone did that to my sister. That's--that's . . ." He clicked the phone off. "Sheez." He shook his head and blew out his cheeks. "Do they do that to him a lot?"
"I don't know." She sniffed. "He doesn't say much anymore."
Mr. Nicholls waited until she had stopped crying and then he moved back around the table and ordered a hot chocolate with marshmallows, chocolate shavings, and extra cream. "Cures all known ills," he said, pushing it toward her. "Trust me. I know everything."
And the weird thing was it was actually true.
--
Tanzie had finished her chocolate and cupcake by the time Mum and Nicky came out of the loo. Mum put on this bright smile, like nothing was wrong, and had her arm around Nicky's shoulders, which actually looked a bit odd now that he was half a head taller than her. He slid into the seat beside her at the table and stared at his cake. Tanzie watched Mr. Nicholls looking at Nicky and wondered if he was going to say anything about what was on his phone, but he didn't. She thought maybe he didn't want Nicky to get embarrassed. Either way, the happy day, she thought sadly, was over.
Mum got up to check on Norman, who was tied up outside, and Mr. Nicholls ordered a second cup of coffee and started stirring it slowly, like he was thinking about something. He looked up at Nicky from under his eyebrows and said quietly, "So. Nicky. You know anything about hacking?"
She got the feeling she wasn't supposed to listen, so she just stared really hard at the quadratic equations.
"No," said Nicky.
Mr. Nicholls leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice. "Well, I think now might be a good time to start."
--
"Where are they?" Mum said when she came back, looking around the room.
"They've gone to Mr. Nicholls's car. Mr. Nicholls said they're not to be disturbed." Tanzie sucked the end of her pencil.
Mum's eyebrows shot somewhere into her hairline.
"Mr. Nicholls said you'd look like that. He said to tell you he's sorting it out. The Facebook thing."
"He's doing what? How?"
"He said you'd say that, too." She rubbed at a two, which looked a bit too much like a five and blew away the rubbings. "He said to tell you to please give them twenty minutes, and he's ordered you another cup of tea and you should have some cake while you're waiting. They'll come back and fetch us when they're finished. And also to tell you the chocolate cake is really good."
Mum didn't like it. Tanzie sat and finished her unit until she was happy with the answers while Mum fidgeted and looked out of the window and made as if to speak, then closed her mouth again. She didn't eat any chocolate cake. She left the five pounds that Mr. Nicholls had put on the table sitting there and Tanzie put her eraser on it because she was worried that when someone opened the door it would blow away.
Finally, just as the woman was sweeping up close enough to their table to send a silent message, the door opened, a little bell rang, and Mr. Nicholls walked in with Nicky. Nicky had his hands in his pockets and his hair over his eyes, but there was a little smirk on his face.
Mum stood up and looked from one to the other. You could tell she really, really wanted to say something, but she didn't know what.
"Did you try the chocolate cake?" Mr. Nicholls said. His face was all bland, like a game-show host's.
"No."
"Shame. It was really good. Thank you! Your cake is the best!" he called to the woman, who went all smiley and twinkly. Then Mr. Nicholls and Nicky went straight back out again, striding across the road like they'd been mates all their lives, leaving Tanzie and Mum to gather up their things and hurry out after them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nicky
There was this article in the newspaper once, about a hairless baboon. Her skin wasn't black all over, like you'd expect, but kind of mottled, pink and black. Her eyes were black rimmed, like she had this really cool eyeliner on, and she had one long pink nipple and on
e black one, like a simian, booby David Bowie.
But she was all on her own. It turns out baboons don't like difference. And literally not one baboon was prepared to hang out with her. So she was photographed in picture after picture, just out looking for food, all bare and vulnerable, without a single baboon mate. Because even though all the other baboons, like, knew she was still a baboon, their dislike of difference was stronger than any genetic urge they had to stick with her.
Nicky thought this one thing quite often: that there was nothing sadder than a lonely hairless baboon.
Obviously, Mr. Nicholls was about to give him a lecture on the dangers of social networking or say that he had to report it all to his teachers or the police or something. But he opened his car door, pulled out his laptop from the boot, plugged the power lead into a connector near his gearshift, and then plugged in a dongle so that they had broadband.
"Right," he said, as Nicky eased himself into the passenger seat. "Tell me everything you know about this little charmer. Brothers, sisters, dates of birth, pets, address--whatever you've got."
"What?"
"We need to work out his password. Come on--you must know something."
They were sitting in the car park. There was no graffiti here, no discarded shopping trolley. This was the kind of place where they walked actual miles to return a shopping trolley. Nicky would have bet money they had one of those Best Kept Village signs, too. A gray-haired woman loading her car beside them caught his eye and smiled. She actually smiled. Or maybe she smiled at Norman, whose big head was hanging over Nicky's shoulder.
"Nicky?"
"Yeah. I'm thinking." He reeled off everything he knew about Fisher. He went through his address, his sister's name, his mum's name. He actually knew his birthday, as it was only three weeks previously and his dad had bought him one of those quad bikes, which he'd smashed up within a week.
Mr. Nicholls kept tapping away. "Nope. Nope. Come on. There must be something else. What music does he like? What team does he support? Oh, look, he's got a Hotmail address. Great, we can put that in."
Nothing worked. And then Nicky had a sudden thought. "Tulisa. He's got a thing about Tulisa. The singer."
Mr. Nicholls tapped away at his keyboard, then shook his head.
"Try Tulisa's Arse," Nicky said.
Mr. Nicholls typed. "Nope."
"IShaggedTulisa. All one word."
"Nope."
"Tulisa Fisher."