Why did you lie?
‘Because I didn’t want to tell Mum I was upset about Jim Bentley following her.’
You’ve got to tell her.
‘But she’s at work.’
Then go to the bookshop and explain everything to her. She’ll know what to do.
‘It’s Saturday. I’m supposed to be doing chores.’
Chores, bores, snores. The house can wait.
‘She’ll be mad at me for lying.’
She won’t. She loves you. She’s on your side.
‘I don’t want to upset her.’
She’ll be more upset if you don’t tell her and the police come knocking on the door asking awkward questions.
Mathew considered Tortilla’s words. Or thoughts. Or whatever the heck they were. ‘Do you think I should tell her about going along the Bunky Line?’
Definitely.
‘Even though I told her I went to the river?’
She won’t be angry with you just because you were worried about a kid. I’m sure she’d have done the same.
‘I wish I was a tortoise sometimes.’
It’s not all it’s cracked up to be!
‘At least you don’t have to do stuff you don’t want to.’
Tortilla’s head disappeared into its shell. Conversation over.
Mathew wished he had a shell that he could hide away in. It was hard being a person. Too many things to think about. Too many questions to answer. Sometimes he felt sorry for Tortilla because he didn’t have much to do other than wander around the garden and sleep in the shed, but at least he didn’t have to make massive decisions and prove anything to anyone.
He conjured up a mental picture of his mother in the bookshop. Her grey hair cropped short, spectacles perched on the end of her nose looking as if they might fall off any minute. ‘I’m sorry I lied, Mum, but I never went to the river last night. I went to the Bunky Line to search for a little girl who’s gone missing.’
No good. How would he know she’d gone missing last night when he’d only just heard it on the radio?
‘Sorry, Mum, I went to the Bunky Line because I thought Jim Bentley might have taken Jodie to the farmhouse.’
Better. But it still sounded flimsy. He needed someone to help him get his words right before he let them out of his mouth. Someone who knew both him and his mum. Someone who could put some… what was the word… perspective on things.
He went back into the house, dressed in the stab-proof vest, black Nike tee-shirt, and black jeans. He donned his Burberry coat, checked all the electric sockets were switched off, grabbed his umbrella, and headed out the door.
Gareth would know what to do. Gareth always did.
Chapter Six
Mathew walked along Wood Street, umbrella tucked under one arm, sweat dribbling down his face. He’d gone the long way around Saxon’s Green to avoid passing Mr Abbasi’s shop. He never wanted to see that place again. Not even in his dreams.
He was happier now he’d decided to confide in Gareth. Maybe his brother could accompany him to the Book Café to tell his mother what had happened. Give him some moral support. Help him articulate his thoughts without getting them lost in a pickle jar.
Gareth’s flat was in the basement of a large house close to St Peter’s Church. He rang the bell to flat 5C and glanced left and right, expecting the police to pull up at any minute and ask him to accompany them to the station. He’d watched enough TV programmes to know that the police sometimes got suspicious of people like him just because they were different to other folk.
Standing on the pavement outside the three-storey stone building, Mathew felt exposed. Almost as if his head was transparent, and anyone walking by could see all the thoughts running around inside his head like the chickens in Mrs Dawkins’ garden. His mother said people shouldn’t be allowed to keep chickens in residential areas, but Mathew didn’t mind the birds as much as he did Cory Wainwright’s barking dog.
After two minutes waiting for an answer, Mathew rang the bell again. Kept his finger pressed on the buzzer for a count of ten seconds. Gareth might be in the shower. Or the loo. Or eating breakfast.
Or at work.
Damn! He hadn’t thought of that. Lassiter’s Estate Agents was open on Saturdays just like the bookshop. Maybe Gareth was out selling another one of those posh houses that made him enough money to live like a king and drive a top-of-the-range car.
Maybe you should phone him.
But what if he was in the middle of doing the biggest deal of the summer? He might get mad and tell him he was old enough to make his own decisions. Which he was. He’d be twenty-one two days before Christmas.
The intercom crackled into life, and Gareth’s mechanised voice asked who it was.
‘Mathew.’
‘Hello, mate. I’ve just got out of the shower. What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Okay.’ Hesitant. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The blackbird.’
‘What blackbird?’
‘The one that was in the kitchen yesterday.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Mattie. You been taking all your medicine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Two ticks.’
Mathew waited on the step, keeping a close eye out for any police cars that might be patrolling the area. His body felt as if it was about to burst into flames. To make matters worse, the stab vest had rubbed his nipples raw over the past few weeks, despite putting copious amounts of Vaseline on them.
Gareth buzzed him in a few minutes later, and he trudged down the concrete steps to the basement. Standing the umbrella up against the wall, he stepped through the open front door into the narrow hallway.
Gareth didn’t let him bring the umbrella inside; he said it was bad luck. Mathew wasn’t sure if that was right, because he’d looked it up on the internet and it had said it was bad luck to open an umbrella indoors. Which was daft; why would anyone want to do that unless they had a hole in the roof? And then it would be best to fetch a bucket and place it under the leak.
He called out and asked his brother where he was.
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Where’s Snowy?’
‘Don’t worry. He’s locked away in the Gaming Room.’
Thank God. Snowy was Gareth’s cat. He only had three legs, thanks to getting hit by a car. Although his coat was pure white, Snowy had a dark soul and a tendency to attack anyone who wasn’t Gareth.
Relaxing slightly, he headed into the kitchen.
Gareth grinned. ‘Hey, bro! Good to see you. Take a pew.’
He sat at a large glass-and-chrome table. It was shinier than the shoes Mathew wore for special occasions.
‘Why have you got that coat on? It’s at least thirty degrees.’
‘They said on the radio it’s gonna rain.’
‘Today?’
‘Monday.’
‘But it’s Saturday.’
‘I know. But the weather forecast isn’t always right.’
‘I suppose you’ve got the umbrella, too?’
Mathew nodded. The corner of the stab vest poked his tummy as if reminding him of the real reason he wore the coat everywhere.