The storm’s so loud, I don’t hear the knock at the door for a while. At some point, I realise that there’s another sound on top of the rattling and creaking and groaning and I make my way downstairs. It’s not coming from the back – someone’s at the front door. No one ever comes to the front. I slide back the bolts, but there’s no key for the lock. The door won’t open.
I lean down and flip up the letter box.
‘Who is it?’
I can see a shiny patent belt wrapped tightly around the middle of someone’s coat. There’s a pause and then the someone bends down and there’s a chin level with the box.
‘My name’s Marie Southwell. I’m from Children’s Services.’
Shit!
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to Sally Harrison. Is that you?’
For a split second I feel a flood of relief. Sally Harrison? It’s a mistake, wrong address. Then I remember that’s me, the me that checked in at the hospital.
‘You’ll have to come round the back, down the alleyway and into the yard. I’ll meet you.’
‘Okay.’
I let the letter box spring shut and race into the kitchen, snatching up some of the dirty plates and mugs, shoving them into a cupboard and slamming the door shut. The woman who appears in the back alley is windswept, but still smart, with black patent boots to match her shiny belt. She shows me her ID and I lead her into the house, all at once painfully aware of how it must look to an outsider. Grease and dirt on the ceiling, mouse droppings on the floor, the baseball bat leaning up against the wall.
‘Cup of tea?’ I ask, hoping to distract her, but her eyes are everywhere, taking it all in.
She smiles. ‘Yes please. Milk, no sugar.’
I’m all fingers and thumbs as I try to make the tea. The milk’s out on the worktop. When I add it to the tea it forms white clots. I pour it down the sink.
‘Shit. Milk’s off. Sorry, I’ll make some more. Can you drink it black?’
‘Don’t worry about the tea. Shall we sit down? It’s just a routine follow-up. About you … and the baby. Is she here?’
‘Yes, she’s upstairs.’
‘I’d like to see her. When we’ve had our chat.’
‘Okay.’ My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans and sit down. ‘She’s fine, the baby. There’s nothing wrong with her.’
She looks up from the papers she’s sorting on the kitchen table.
‘No, no, of course there isn’t. Just that you both seem to have slipped through the system before. It’s just routine.’
‘How did you … how did you find us?’
‘She was chipped in the hospital, wasn’t she? The baby, Louise.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘The hospital notified Children’s Services and she was tracked here.’
Tracked. I’m speechless. Wherever we go now, we can be found.
‘I never wanted her chipped. They just did it.’
‘Well, yes, I know a lot of people don’t like the idea, but it doesn’t hurt them and it’s a legal requirement now.’
‘I know. Well, the law stinks.’
I can hear myself saying it, and I’m kicking myself, thinking, Stop it, act normal, act friendly, and she’ll go away.
The smile on her face goes a little tighter.
‘Well, it’s done now. And it means that we can give you the advice and support you need. Are you in contact with Louise’s father?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No. He never even knew.’
‘I’ll need his details, because there’s child support to consider. He should be paying child support.’
‘I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘But you could do with some money …’ She looks around.
‘I’m all right. I manage. I’ve got friends here, they help out.’
‘You’re entitled to money of your own.’
‘I don’t want it. I don’t want anything off anybody. I just want to be left alone.’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, not when you have a child. The local authority has a duty of care, to ensure the welfare of children in the borough.’
Care? Care? Who cared about me when I was still at home? Who bothered to find out what was wrong when I started playing up at school? They didn’t look further than the wrought-iron gates and the gravel driveway. Nothing wrong with that home, she’s just a bad lot.
‘We can apply online now, if you like. I’ve brought my laptop.’
‘I told you I don’t want anything.’
‘Maybe next time …’
‘I’ll fetch Louise down now, if you like. She’s fine and I’m fine. We’re fine.’
‘I’d like to see her room, if I may? The baby’s room?’
I sigh.
‘Sure.’
And I lead her up the stairs, with the empty light sockets, the wallpaper hanging off the walls, the doors off the landing kicked in at the bottom. Mia’s still asleep in her drawer. She’s clean and safe and well. That’s what they’re looking for, isn’t it?
‘You’re leaving,’ Marie says, seeing the plastic bags full of clothes and nappies.
‘No, just tidying up. It’s not easy keeping tidy here …’ Shut up. It’s fine here.
‘No,’ she says, ‘it’s not easy. I can see that.’
My pictures are in heaps all over the place. She wanders over to one, picks a drawing up off the top of the pile.
‘You’re an artist. These are good.’
Then she notices the next one. It’s Adam and Mia, in my nightmare. She bends to pick it up, frowns.
‘What’s this?’
‘Nothing, it’s nothing. Just a nightmare. I drew a nightmare.’
‘It’s … powerful stuff. Disturbing. Is this the father?’
I start to laugh but then blurt out, ‘Yes, yes that’s him. Scumbag. Dumped me before I even knew I was pregnant.’ It’s ridiculous. I’m obviously lying. There’s Mia lying in her cot with her lily-white skin and blue eyes to prove it, but Marie doesn’t seem to have noticed the evidence.
‘We should be able to find him,’ she says. ‘His face is very … distinctive.’
‘I don’t want him found. I told you, I don’t want anything to do with him.’
We both hear the back door slam. Vinny and the boys are back.
‘Your housemates?’
I nod.
‘I’ll quickly examine Louise, and leave you to it, then.’
She kneels down by the drawer. The boys are on good form, I can hear them clattering about in the kitchen, and I start to wonder what state they’re in.
‘That looks fine,’ Marie says. ‘No need to wake her up.’
She stands up, dusting down her coat with her hands.
‘I’ll come back next week, we can talk through your benefits then. It’s what you’re entitled to. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say. I feel like I’m being bulldozed, back in the system, officially on the books, but it’s fine. This time next week, I’ll be long gone. We go downstairs, me leading the way. I’m cursing the lost front-door key – I could have let her out that way, and bypassed the boys altogether. It’s no good, I’ll have to take her through the back. But she’s right behind me. There’s no time for damage limitation.
They’ve got the foil and the spoons and the syringes all on the go. Vinny and Tom and Frank in the kitchen, cooking up a storm.
Chapter 39: Adam
At twenty past two we’re outside the Council One-Stop-Shop, and Nan’s having a last fag for courage.
‘Nan, what are we going to say? Have you thought about it?’
She tips her head back and blows a long stream of smoke up the sky, then drops the end of the cigarette on the floor and grinds it under her shoe.
‘I’ve thought about it. I’m ready. Come on, Adam. Let’s get in there.’
As well as a black polyester jacket and skirt, she’s wearing shiny court shoes
. They’ve only got a little heel, but that’s five centimetres more than her usual slippers or crocs, and she’s having a bit of trouble walking. She’s tried so hard to dress up and look smart, but I can’t help thinking the overall effect is pretty close to a man in drag. She’s made me put on some clean jeans and a school shirt. The collar’s digging in, so I undo the top couple of buttons.
‘Nan, we should’ve worn normal clothes. I feel stupid like …’
‘Shh, we’re here now.’
The automatic doors swish open in front of us and we go into a lobby area. There’s a touch screen offering options. We pick ‘appointment’, ‘14.30’ and ‘Vernon Taylor’ and then another set of doors opens and we’re sent into a waiting room.
It’s light and bright, with chairs grouped round coffee tables piled with magazines. The walls are mostly glass, so you can see through to the interview rooms the other side, but dotted about on them are screens, running films of people telling us how much the local council has helped them. In between clips, a slogan flashes up, ‘Twenty-first century services for twenty-first century people’.
I look round the room at the other ‘twenty-first century people’. There’s a young woman sitting staring into space while her little boy runs round and round the chairs screaming at the top of his voice; there’s a man in his forties or fifties, wearing a dressing gown over his clothes, talking to himself. The video loop is interrupted and a message comes up on screen.
‘Mrs Dawson to Suite 3.’
I nudge Nan’s arm.
‘That’s us. Look.’
‘Suite 3. Where’s that, Adam?’
Room 3 is in the corner to our right. Through the glass we can see someone already in there, waiting for us, a man in a crumpled suit with a crumpled face to match. He half gets up when we go in, wipes his hand on his jacket and holds it out towards Nan.
‘Vernon Taylor,’ he says.
‘Valerie Dawson,’ Nan says and shakes his hand. He don’t offer it to me. The room is empty apart from a desk, three chairs and a laptop.
‘Do sit down. Do sit down. Now then, Mrs … aah …’
‘Dawson,’ says Nan again.
‘Quite. How can I help you?’
Nan takes a deep breath, and launches in. It sounds as lame as I thought it would. I mean, would you believe it if someone told you my story? I’m cringing as I sit there listening, embarrassed for all three of us. My eyes start roaming round, looking for a distraction. The little boy in the waiting room is looking in at us. He squashes his face against the glass, so it looks like the bottom of a slug. Nan and Mr Taylor take no notice, but I stick my tongue out at him. His face changes. He backs off from the window so quickly he trips over this own feet and starts to cry. He sits there, on the floor, while his mother carries on ignoring him.
I hate the way no-one’s paying him any attention and I hate that my face made him cry. I turn back to Mr Taylor. Nan’s got to the nitty-gritty now. Mr Taylor’s making notes on the laptop as she speaks, but when she mentions the date, the first of January, he stops typing, and his eyes flick from the screen to Nan and then to me. I’ve already clocked his number, but it hits me again. He’s one of them, a twenty-seven, but he’s a drowner. I’ve seen quite a few more now, heard the rushing of water in my ears, felt it choking my lungs, filling my stomach, dragging me down.
He’s still looking at me, and then he interrupts Nan, and talks to me directly for the first time.
‘The first of January, New Year’s Day. What do you think is going to happen?’
‘I don’t know. Something big. It’s going to make buildings collapse and things catch fire. There’s water too, lots of water.’ I feel sick saying this to him, and there’s a tell-tale tremble in my voice. ‘And it’s going to kill people. Lots of people.’
‘Nothing more than that? No details? No real information?’
‘It is real. All of this is real. I know it don’t sound real, but it is.’
Nan leans forward in her chair.
‘He’s always seen them. The numbers. Always. I didn’t think you’d believe me, so I brought these.’ She fetches out the file of cuttings she showed me. ‘His mum was the same, you see. She could see the numbers too. You might remember her. Jem, Jem Marsh – she was all over the papers. She predicted the London Eye bomb in 2009. Look, I’ve got the cuttings.’
‘Nan?’
‘Shh, Adam, it’ll help. It will.’
She shoves the file across the desk. Mr Taylor fishes in his suit pocket for his glasses and starts to read.
‘Yes,’ he says in a low voice, like he’s talking to himself, ‘yes, I do remember. And this was your mother?’ He looks up at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘But she denied it later, didn’t she? Said she’d made it all up?’
‘She said that to get everyone off her back. That’s all.’
He leans forward over the desk, and shuffles through the papers a bit more. Then he takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes and it’s a long time before he speaks again. It’s a long time before he even moves, and Nan and I are exchanging looks when he springs back into life.
‘Let me tell you about my job,’ he says. ‘There are people in councils all over the country doing what I do. We put the plans in place that make sure that we can cope with whatever life throws at us; flood, epidemics, accidents, terrorism, war even. It’s all about risk assessment and forward planning. We have regular meetings with the emergency services and the government and the armed forces, and there are strategies and plans and procedures for every eventuality.’ He’s leaning forward again now, and his elbows slide on Nan’s cuttings. ‘I want you both to understand that if something happens at the New Year, we are well-placed to deal with it. I want you to go away from here feeling confident that the systems are set up to cope. I don’t want you to worry any more.’
He starts gathering up the press clippings, bending right down to get a couple that have fallen onto the floor. It’s obvious we’re about to be dismissed. He’s on auto-pilot now.
‘We have early warning systems, you see. Long-range, medium-range and short-term forecasting, backed up by the most sophisticated computer systems. We …’
‘It’s not just me,’ I cut in, ‘there’s other people too. There’s a mural, a painting near Paddington. The girl that did it, she’s seen it all in a dream. She’s seen the same date as me. And it’s all on the internet, people who know something’s coming.’
He carries on stuffing the cuttings back into their folder.
‘It’s probably a film, or something on the television. Science fiction. Something that’s stuck. Happens a lot. It can seem very real.’
‘It’s not a film, you patronising bastard, it’s real! We need to get everyone out of London. Don’t you understand?’
‘Adam!’
‘It’s all right, Mrs … ah. It’s all right. You feel that this is real, and worrying, but in fact, it’s all under control. There’s no need to panic, no need at all. You can leave it all to us now.’
‘So you’ll do something? Start moving people out?’ Nan’s trying to get him in her headlights, but he isn’t fazed. His eyes are half-closed and he’s trotting out the official line.
‘There’s no need to move anyone. We have the systems in place to cope with any eventuality.’
‘You need to get people out!’ I’m practically screaming now. ‘It’s not safe. It’s …’
‘The worst thing would be to panic. You know what the media are like. They could whip up a story like this in an instant, and then people will be running round like headless chickens. If everyone tries to leave at once, the transport system won’t cope. It would be dangerous, so I must insist that you keep quiet about this, and leave it to the professionals.’ He stands up and holds his hand out to Nan. ‘Thank you for coming in today.’
She takes his hand and holds onto it, and she gives him one of her
looks. She’s got him now and I can feel how uncomfortable he is.
‘So you’ll definitely do something about it, will you?’ Nan says. ‘You’ll take it further. You’ll tell the police and the firemen and whoever else needs to know.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll follow the procedures we have.’
‘You will?’ She’s not letting go yet.
‘I will. Thank you, Mrs Dawson. And if I were you,’ he says in a lower voice, ‘I’d think about booking a doctor’s appointment. He’s obviously agitated, disturbed.‘ His voice is down to a whisper. ‘These things can run in families.’
I want to shout in his face, I’m here, in the same room as you, you tosser, but for once I keep quiet. I just want to get out of here, out of this bright, white shit-hole.
The boy and his mum are gone from the waiting room. I can see them in another interview room. He’s quiet now, sitting on his mum’s lap, sucking his thumb. She’s got her arm round him. Does she care after all? Is he going to be all right? Suddenly I want to know his number. I want to know if this boy is going to survive. It matters. We didn’t make eye contact before, he only looked as far as my scar.
Nan tugs on my sleeve.
‘Come on, Adam, what are you gawping at? Let’s get out of here.’
I let her lead me away and out into the wind and rain battering the High Street.
‘Well,’ she says on the way to the bus stop, ‘at least we tried. Nobody could say we didn’t try.’
‘He just thought I’d got a screw loose.’
‘Do you think so? Don’t you think he was listening?’
‘I dunno, Nan. He was full of it, though, wasn’t he? Council-speak crap. Plans and systems.’
‘Well, you need plans, don’t you?’ She don’t sound convinced.
‘Nan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What happens if the guy in charge of dealing with an emergency dies along with everyone else?’
She stops walking then, and turns to face me.
‘Is that right?’ I nod. ‘Shit.’
‘What are we going to do, Nan?’
‘I dunno, darlin’, I dunno.’ Standing there, she suddenly looks old again, and I think, How the hell are we going to do this, save the world? An OAP and a sixteen-year-old kid. We’re fucked, aren’t we? The whole world is fucked.