Finding Audrey

  He has called up a playlist on his computer.

  DAD

  Let’s have a listen now. Tell me your favourite song – we’ll put it on, play around.

  AUDREY (V.O.)

  My favourite song of all time?

  DAD

  No! Your favourite song by the Moonlit Turtles. Your favourite song that your old dad performs in. You must have one? A favourite?

  Long pause. Dad looks at the camera expectantly.

  DAD

  You told me you listened to the CD over and over on your iPod.

  AUDREY (V.O.)

  (quickly)

  I did! All the time. So. Um. Favourite song. There are so many.

  (pause)

  I think it would have to be . . . the loud one.

  DAD

  Loud one?

  AUDREY (V.O.)

  The one with the . . . um. Drums. It’s really good.

  The camera starts to back away as a heavy rock track powers through the room. Dad is nodding his head along.

  DAD

  This one?

  AUDREY (V.O.)

  Yes! Exactly! It’s great. So good. Dad, I have to go . . .

  The camera retreats out of the room.

  AUDREY (V.O.)

  Oh God.

  As I go to bed that night I’m thinking about Linus. I’m trying to picture myself greeting him at the front door when he comes round next. Like other people do. Normal people. I mean, I know how the script should go:

  ‘Hey, Linus.’

  ‘Hey, Audrey.’

  ‘How’s it been going?’

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  Maybe a high five. Maybe a hug. Definitely a pair of smiles.

  I can think of about sixty-five reasons why this is not going to happen any time soon. But it might, mightn’t it? It might?

  Dr Sarah says positive visualization is an incredibly effective weapon in our armoury and I should create in my mind scenarios of success that are realistic and encouraging.

  The trouble is, I don’t know how realistic my ideal scenario is.

  OK, yes I do: not at all.

  In the ideal scenario, I don’t have a lizard brain. Everything is easy. I can communicate like normal people. My hair is longer and my clothes are cooler and in my last fantasy, Linus wasn’t even at the front door, he was taking me on a picnic in a wood. I have no idea where that came from.

  Anyway. The ban is over tomorrow. Linus will be round again. And we’ll see.

  Except I hadn’t reckoned on the apocalypse, which hit our house at 3.43 a.m. this morning. I know, because that was the time I blinked awake and stared blearily at my clock, wondering if there was a fire. There was a distant high-pitched screaming noise, which could have been an alarm, or could have been a siren, and I grabbed my dressing gown off the floor and shoved my feet into my furry slippers and thought in a panic, What do I take?

  I grabbed my ancient pink teddy and my picture of me with Granny before she died, and I was halfway down the stairs when I realized that the noise wasn’t a siren. Or an alarm. It was Mum. I could hear her in the playroom, and she was screaming, ‘What are you DOING?’

  I skittered to the entrance and felt my whole body sag in astonishment. Frank was sitting at his computer playing LOC. At 3.43 a.m.

  I mean, obviously he wasn’t playing LOC right that second. He’d paused. But the graphics were there on the screen, and his headset was on and he was looking up at Mum like a cornered fox.

  ‘What are you DOING?’ Mum yelled again, then turned to Dad, who had just arrived at the doorway too. ‘What is he DOING? Frank, what are you DOING?’

  Parents have this way of asking really dumb, obvious questions.

  Are you going out in that skirt?

  No, I’m planning to take it off as soon as I get out of the front door.

  Do you think that’s a good idea?

  No, I think it’s a terrible idea, that’s why I’m doing it.

  Are you listening to me?

  Your voice is 100 decibels, I can hardly avoid it.

  ‘What are you DOING?’ Mum was still shrieking, and Dad put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Anne,’ he said. ‘Anne, I have an eight o’clock.’

  Big mistake. Mum turned on him like he was the baddie.

  ‘I don’t care about your eight o’clock! This is your son, Chris! Lying to us! Playing computer games at night! What else has he been doing?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Frank. ‘OK? That’s all. I couldn’t sleep and I thought “I’ll read a book”, but I couldn’t find a book, so I thought I’d just . . . you know. Wind down.’

  ‘How long have you been up?’ snapped Mum.

  ‘Since about two?’ Frank looked plaintively at her. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m getting insomnia.’

  Dad yawned and Mum glared at him.

  ‘Anne,’ he said. ‘Can we do this in the morning? It’s not going to help Frank’s insomnia if we all argue now. Please? Bed?’ He yawned again, his hair all tufty like a teddy bear’s. ‘Please?’

  So that was last night. And things have not been Happy Families today. Mum gave Frank the third degree over breakfast, about: How many times has he got up in the night to play LOC? and How long has he had insomnia? and Did he realize that computer games give people insomnia?

  Frank barely answered. He looked pretty gaunt and pale and out of it. The more Mum went on about circadian rhythms and light pollution and Why didn’t he drink Ovaltine before bed? the more he retreated into his Frank shell.

  I don’t even know what Ovaltine is. Mum always brings it up when she talks about sleep. She refers to it like it’s some magic potion and says, ‘Why don’t we drink it?’ but she’s never bought any, so how can we?

  So then Frank went off to school and I read Game of Thrones all morning and then fell asleep. This afternoon I’ve been filming some birds in the garden, which I sense is not what Dr Sarah wants, but it’s peaceful. They’re very cute. They come and eat crumbs off the bird table and fight with each other. Maybe I’ll become a wildlife photographer or film-maker or whatever. The only downer is your knees start to ache from crouching. Also, I’m not sure who’s going to watch an hour’s footage of birds eating crumbs.

  So I’m pretty zoned out, and I jump in surprise when I hear a car coming into the drive. It’s too early for Dad, so who is it? Maybe someone gave Frank a lift home from school. That happens sometimes.

  Maybe Linus.

  I cautiously creep round the edge of the house and peek into the drive. To my surprise, it is Dad. He’s getting out of his car in his business suit, looking a bit hassled. The next minute the front door has opened and Mum is coming down the path like she expected him.

  ‘Chris! At last.’

  ‘I came as soon as I could get away. But you know, I have a lot on right now . . . Is this really essential?’

  ‘Yes it is! This is a crisis, Chris. A crisis with our son. And I need your support!’

  OMG. What happened?

  I duck back into the garden and head silently into the kitchen, where I can hear them talking. I edge forward and see them coming into the hall.

  ‘I took Frank’s computer to my Pilates class,’ Mum is saying grimly.

  ‘You did what?’ Dad seems flummoxed. ‘Anne, I know you want to keep it away from Frank, but isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  I have visions of Mum staggering into the church hall, holding Frank’s computer, and I have to clamp my mouth tightly closed to stop laughing. Is she going to take Frank’s computer everywhere now? Like a pet?

  ‘You don’t understand!’ spits Mum. ‘I took it for Arjun to have a look at.’

  ‘Arjun?’ Dad looks more baffled than ever.

  ‘Arjun is in my Pilates class. He’s a computer software developer and he works from home. I said, “Arjun, can you tell from this computer how often my son has been playing games during the last week?”’

  ‘Right.’ Dad eyes her warily. ‘And could Arjun tel
l?’

  ‘Oh, he could tell,’ says Mum in ominous tones. ‘He could tell all right.’

  There’s silence. I can see Dad instinctively backing away, but he can’t escape before the tidal wave of sound hits him.

  ‘Every night! EVERY NIGHT! He starts at two a.m. and he logs off at six. Can you believe it?’

  ‘You’re joking.’ Dad seems genuinely shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Ask Arjun.’ Mum proffers her phone. ‘Ask him! He does freelance work for Google. He knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Right. No, it’s fine. I don’t need to talk to Arjun.’ Dad sinks onto the stairs. ‘Jesus. Every night?’

  ‘He creeps around. Lies to us. He’s addicted! I knew it. I knew it.’

  ‘OK. Well, that’s it, he’s banned for life.’

  ‘Life.’ Mum nods.

  ‘Till he’s an adult.’

  ‘At least,’ Mum says. ‘At least. You know, Alison at my book group doesn’t even have TV in the house. She says screens are the cigarettes of our age. They’re toxic, and we’re only going to realize the damage they’re doing when it’s too late.’

  ‘Right.’ Dad looks uneasy. ‘I’m not sure we need to go that far, do we?’

  ‘Well, maybe we should!’ Mum cries, sounding stressed. ‘You know, Chris, maybe we’ve got this all wrong! Maybe we should go back to basics. Card games. Family walks. Discussions.’

  ‘Er . . . OK.’

  ‘I mean, books! What happened to books? That’s what we should be doing! Reading the Booker shortlist! Not watching all this toxic, mindless television and playing brain-sapping video games. I mean, what are we doing, Chris? What are we doing?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Dad is nodding fervently. ‘No, I totally agree. Totally agree.’ There’s a slight pause before he says, ‘What about Downton?’

  ‘Oh, well, Downton.’ Mum looks wrong-footed. ‘That’s different. That’s . . . you know. History.’

  ‘And The Killing?’

  My parents are addicted to The Killing. They gorge themselves on, like, four episodes at a time, and then say, ‘One more? Just one more?’

  ‘I’m talking about the children,’ says Mum at last. ‘I’m talking about the future generation. They should be reading books.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Dad exhales in relief. ‘Because whatever else I do in my life, I’m finishing The Killing.’

  ‘Are you kidding? We have to finish The Killing,’ Mum agrees. ‘We could watch one tonight.’

  ‘We could watch two.’

  ‘After we’ve spoken to Frank.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Dad rubs his head. ‘I need a drink.’

  The house is quiet for a while after that. It’s the calm before the kick-off. Felix comes home from a playdate where they made pizza, and unveils the most revolting tomatoey-cheesy mess and makes Mum heat it up in the oven. Then he refuses to eat it.

  Then he refuses to eat anything else, because he wants to eat the pizza he made, even though he won’t eat it. I know. The logic of a four-year-old is beyond weird.

  ‘I want to eat MY pizza!’ he keeps wailing, whereupon Mum says, ‘Well, eat it, then! Here it is.’

  ‘Nooo!’ He gazes at it tearfully. ‘Nooo! Not that one! Not THAT one!’

  Eventually he swipes it off the table altogether, and seeing it collapsed on the floor is too much for him. He descends into hysterical sobbing and Mum says darkly, ‘They probably gave him Fruit Shoots,’ and hauls him off for a bath. (Half an hour later he’s all fluffy and clean and smiling and eating sandwiches. Baths are like Valium for four-year-olds.)

  Then I’m put on make-sure-Felix-eats-his-crusts duty, so I’m stuck at the kitchen table. I kind of thought I might get to Frank first and warn him. But it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, because Mum’s like a sentry on speed. She goes into the hall every five minutes and opens the front door, and once she actually goes into the street, scanning the horizon all around, as if Frank might fool her by coming from some different direction. She’s pretty revved up for seeing him. She keeps addressing the hall mirror with phrases like ‘It’s the deceit as much as anything else,’ and ‘Yes, this is tough love. It is tough love, young man.’

  Young man.

  Meanwhile I’ve kept my head well down, although I’m dying to ask Frank whether he’s really been getting up at two a.m., and whether Linus was playing with him. I’m just secretly eating a couple of Felix’s crusts for him, to speed things up, when I hear a yell from Mum. She’s out in the front drive squinting along the road.

  ‘Chris! Chris! He’s coming!’ She comes striding into the house, her head swivelling around on full alert. ‘Where’s your father? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Dunno. Haven’t seen him.’

  OK, Mum’s totally wired. I wonder whether I should tell her about breathing in for four counts and out for seven, but I think she’d bite my head off.

  ‘Chris!’ She stalks out of the kitchen.

  I creep forwards so I have a view of the hall. I should really get my video camera, only it’s upstairs, and I don’t want to venture across the battlefield. Dad appears at his study door, holding his BlackBerry to his ear, pulling an agonized face at Mum.

  ‘Yes, the figures were unexpected,’ he’s saying. ‘But if you look at page six . . . Sorry,’ he mouths at Mum. ‘Two minutes.’

  ‘Great!’ she snaps as Dad disappears again. ‘So much for a united front.’ She peers out of the hall window. ‘OK. Here he comes. Here we go.’

  She positions herself in the hall, her hand placed on her hip, glary eyes focused right on the door. After a tense ten seconds the door opens and I catch my breath. Frank saunters in, just the same as usual, and looks at Mum without much interest. I can see her draw herself up and take a deep breath.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ she says in steely tones, which make me shiver, even though I’m not the one in trouble. But Frank has his earphones in, so I’m guessing he didn’t pick up on the steely tones.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, and makes to go past, but Mum pokes him on the shoulder.

  ‘Frank!’ she says, and gestures to his ears. ‘Out!’

  Rolling his eyes, Frank takes out his earphones and looks at her. ‘What?’

  ‘So,’ says Mum, in yet more steely tones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘So.’

  I can see her aim is to make him quake in fear with just that one syllable, but it hasn’t really worked. He just looks impatient.

  ‘So? What do you mean? So what?’

  ‘We’ve been expecting you, Frank. Dad and I.’ She takes a step forward, her eyes like lasers. ‘We’ve been waiting for you for quite a while.’

  OMG. She’s totally channelling a Bond villain, I realize. I bet she wishes she had a white cat to stroke.

  ‘What’s my computer doing there?’ Frank suddenly notices it, perched on the hall table with its flex coiled around the plug.

  ‘Good question,’ says Mum pleasantly. ‘Would you like to tell us about your computer activity over the last week or so?’

  Frank’s shoulders sag, like, Not this again.

  ‘I was playing LOC,’ he says in a monotone. ‘You caught me.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  Frank lets his school bag slither to the ground. ‘I dunno. I’ve got a headache. I need some paracetamol.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ Mum suddenly loses it. ‘Would that be because you haven’t had any sleep this week?’

  ‘What?’ Frank gives her his special, blank, I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about look, which, actually, is really annoying.

  ‘Don’t play ignorant with me! Don’t you dare play ignorant!’ Mum is breathing really hard by now. ‘My friend Arjun looked at your machine today. And what an interesting story.’

  ‘Who’s Arjun?’ Frank scowls.

  ‘A computer expert,’ says Mum triumphantly. ‘He told me all about you. You’ve left quite the trail, young man. We know everything.’

  I see a flicker of
alarm pass across Frank’s face. ‘Did he read my emails?’

  ‘No. He didn’t read your emails.’ Mum looks momentarily distracted. ‘What’s in your emails?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Frank hastily, and glowers at her. ‘Jesus. I can’t believe you hacked into my computer.’

  ‘Well, I can’t believe you’ve been lying to us! You’ve been up at two a.m. every night this week! Do you deny it?’

  Frank shrugs with a sullen expression.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘If Arjun says it, it must be true.’

  ‘So it is true! Frank, do you understand how serious this is? Do you? DO YOU?’ she suddenly yells.

  ‘Well, do you understand how seriously I take LOC?’ he yells back. ‘What if I become a professional gamer? What will you say then?’

  ‘Not this again.’ Mum closes her eyes and massages her forehead. ‘Who were you playing with? Do I know them? Do I need to call their parents?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ says Frank sarcastically, ‘since they live in Korea.’

  ‘Korea?’ This seems the last straw for Mum. ‘Right. That’s it, Frank. You are banned. Banned, banned, banned. For ever. No computers. No screens. No nothing.’

  ‘OK,’ says Frank limply.

  ‘Do you understand?’ She stares at him, hard. ‘You’re banned.’

  ‘I get it. I’m banned.’

  There’s a silence. Mum seems dissatisfied. She’s peering at Frank as though she wanted to hear something else.

  ‘You’re banned,’ she tries again. ‘For good.’

  ‘I know,’ says Frank with elaborate patience. ‘You told me.’

  ‘You’re not reacting. Why aren’t you reacting?’

  ‘I am reacting, Mum. I’m banned. Whatever.’

  ‘I’m locking this computer right away.’

  ‘I get it.’

  There’s another weird, tense silence. Mum is studying Frank closely, as though searching for the answer. Then suddenly her whole face seems to ping, and she draws breath.

  ‘Oh my God. You don’t take this seriously, do you? You think you’ll get round it. What, you’re already planning how you’ll creep around the house at night and find your computer?’