Finding Audrey Page 9

  ‘No.’ Frank sounds sulky, which means Yes.

  ‘You’re already planning how you’ll pick the lock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think you can beat us!’ She’s quivering now. ‘You think you can beat us, don’t you? Well, beat this!’

  She grabs the computer, which is pretty bulky, and heads up the stairs, trailing the cord.

  ‘This is going. It’s going! I want it out of our house! I want it in smithereens.’

  ‘Smithereens?’ Frank springs to life.

  ‘You’re banned anyway, so what does it matter?’ Mum shoots back over her shoulder.

  ‘Mum, no,’ says Frank in a panic. ‘Mum, what are you doing?’

  ‘You stay there, young man!’ Mum’s voice is suddenly on a whole different level. She sounds properly scary, like she did when we were little kids, and Frank pauses, his foot on the step. I’ve never seen him look so freaked.

  ‘What’s she going to do?’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘I dunno. But I wouldn’t go upstairs.’

  ‘But what’s she doing?’

  At that moment Felix comes bounding into the hall from the garden, in his dressing gown.

  ‘Guess what?’ he says in tones of joy. ‘Mummy is throwing the computer out of the window!’

  I can’t believe she did it. I can’t believe she actually chucked Frank’s computer out of the window.

  It wasn’t quite as dramatic as it might have been, because she suddenly got all health and safety and shouted to the neighbours to get out of the way, and then said to Dad that he should move the car if he was that worried.

  Meanwhile Frank was lurching between total gibbering panic and trying to be one of those guys in the movies who talk the terrorist out of setting off the bomb.

  ‘Mum, listen,’ he kept saying. ‘Put the computer down. You don’t want to do this, Mum.’

  Which didn’t work. Mostly because she did want to do it.

  The computer didn’t actually smash into smithereens when she threw it. It kind of bounced twice and landed on its side. In fact, it barely looked broken at all, once it was sitting on the lawn. There was just a bit of shattered glass from the screen, which Dad immediately cleared up because of Felix playing outside in bare feet or whatever.

  But I guess it’s messed up enough inside that Frank can’t use it any more. It looked a bit sad, sitting on the grass with his ancient Minecraft stickers all over it.

  Everyone stared at it for a while, and a couple of people took photos, and then they all drifted home. I mean, hand on heart, it was a bit of an anticlimax. But not for Frank. He’s devastated. I tried to say ‘I’m sorry’ as we went inside, and he couldn’t even answer.

  I think he’s in shock. He hasn’t really spoken all evening. Mum is grimly triumphant and I think Dad is just relieved that the car didn’t get trashed.

  And although I really don’t want to get into it, I’m wondering one thing. Does this mean Linus won’t come round any more?

  MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

  INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

  Mum is sitting in the kitchen with a coffee cup, looking straight to camera.

  MUM

  I did the right thing. OK, it was a bit extreme. But sometimes you have to take extreme measures, and everyone’s shocked, but afterwards they say, ‘Wow. That was really adventurous and far-sighted of you.’

  Silence.

  MUM

  I mean, I KNOW I did the right thing. And yes, things are tense at the moment, but they’ll get better. Of course Frank didn’t react well, of course he’s angry – what did I expect?

  Silence.

  MUM

  Well, I didn’t expect it would be as bad as this. To be honest. But we’ll get through it.

  Mum lifts her coffee cup, then puts it down without drinking.

  MUM

  The thing about being a parent, Audrey, is that it’s no picnic. You have to make difficult choices and you have to see them through. So yes, I’m finding Frank a little challenging right at the moment. But you know what? He’ll thank me one day.

  Silence.

  MUM

  Well, he might thank me.

  Silence.

  MUM

  OK, so the thanking is unlikely. But the point is, I’m a mother. Mothers don’t run away when things get tough.

  Camera pans to Mum’s BlackBerry and focuses in on a Google search:

  Spa breaks for single women, no children allowed

  Mum hastily covers it with her hand.

  MUM

  That’s nothing.

  So Frank’s basically not speaking any more. To anyone.

  Actually, I quite like a silent Frank. It’s peaceful around the place. But it’s stressing Mum out. She even spoke to his teacher at school, who was, according to her, ‘Useless! Worse than useless! He said Frank seemed “fine” to him and we should “let him alone”. “Let him alone” – can you believe it?’ (I know this because I was outside Mum’s room while she was sounding off to Dad.)

  Tonight he’s sitting at supper, eating his enchiladas without looking at anyone, staring ahead like a zombie. When Mum or Dad ask him anything, like, ‘Have you got much homework?’ or ‘What happened today at school?’ he just answers with a ‘Phrrrmph’ noise, or rolls his eyes, or ignores them.

  I’m not feeling Ms Chatty either tonight, so it’s not the liveliest dinner table. In fact, we all look up in relief when Felix comes in from the playroom in his tractor pyjamas.

  ‘I didn’t do my homework,’ he says, looking worried. ‘My homework, Mummy.’ He’s holding out some kind of transparent folder with a sheet in it.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Mum.

  ‘Homework?’ says Dad. ‘For a four-year-old?’

  ‘I know.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s nuts.’ She pulls out the sheet, and it’s a big photocopied page entitled Why We Love Each Other. Under the heading, Felix has drawn what I assume is a picture of us. At least, there are five figures. Mum looks pregnant and Dad looks like a gnome. I have a head the size of a pin and twenty very large circular fingers. But, you know, apart from that it’s pretty accurate.

  ‘“Fill in the box with help from your family”,’ Mum reads. ‘For example, “We love each other because we give each other cuddles”.’ She reaches for a pen. ‘OK. What shall I put? Felix, what do you love about our family?’

  ‘Pizza,’ says Felix promptly.

  ‘We can’t put pizza.’

  ‘Pizza!’ wails Felix. ‘I love pizza!’

  ‘I can’t put, “We love each other because of pizza”.’

  ‘I think that’s a pretty good answer,’ says Dad, shrugging.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Frank, grabbing the page, and we all look up in shock. Frank spoke! He takes a black Sharpie from his pocket and reads aloud as he writes: ‘“We love each other because we respect each other’s choices and understand when a person has a hobby that they love, and would never deliberately damage their property—” Oh, wait.’

  ‘Frank, you can’t write that!’ says Mum sharply.

  It’s a bit late to say that, since he’s already written it. In permanent ink.

  ‘Great!’ Mum glares at Frank. ‘So now you’ve ruined your brother’s homework sheet.’

  ‘I’ve spoken the truth.’ Frank glowers back at her. ‘You can’t handle the truth.’

  ‘A Few Good Men,’ says Dad promptly. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’

  ‘YouTube.’ Frank gets to his feet and heads over to the dishwasher.

  ‘Well, marvellous,’ says Mum, looking totally pissed off. ‘Now we can’t send this in. I’ll have to write a note in his link book. “Dear Mrs Lacy, Unfortunately Felix’s homework was . . .” what?’

  ‘Chewed by rats,’ I suggest.

  ‘“Inapplicable to the Turner family as they do not understand the concept of love beyond their own self-serving version”,’ comes Frank’s sonorous voice from the sink.

/>   As he slouches out of the kitchen, Mum and Dad exchange glances.

  ‘That boy needs a hobby,’ mutters Mum. ‘We should never have let him give up the cello.’

  ‘Please, not the cello again,’ says Dad, looking alarmed. ‘I think he’s beyond the cello.’

  ‘I’m not saying the cello!’ snaps Mum. ‘But something. What do teenagers do these days?’

  ‘All sorts of things.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Win Olympic medals, get into Harvard, create internet companies, star in blockbuster films . . .’ As he trails off, he looks a bit depressed.

  ‘He doesn’t need to win a medal,’ says Mum firmly. ‘He just needs an interest. What about the guitar?’ Her face brightens. ‘Can he still play that? Why don’t you two jam together in the garage?’

  ‘We tried that once,’ says Dad, pulling a face. ‘Remember? It wasn’t a success . . . but we can try again!’ he amends quickly, at Mum’s expression. ‘Good idea! We’ll have a bit of a jamming session. Father and son. We’ll play some tracks, get in the beers—I mean, not the beers,’ he adds hastily as Mum opens her mouth. ‘No beers.’

  ‘And he should volunteer,’ says Mum with sudden determination. ‘Yes! That’s what Frank can do. Volunteer.’

  I’m sitting in the kitchen later that evening, fiddling with the playback on my camera, when Frank shuffles in.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ I raise my head, remembering something. ‘Listen, I haven’t interviewed you yet. Can we do it?’

  ‘I don’t want to be interviewed.’

  Frank looks like he hates everyone and everything. His face is pale. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks less healthy than when he was gaming all the time.

  ‘OK.’ I shrug. I reach for a Dorito from the bowl still sitting on the table. We had Tex-Mex for supper tonight, which is the only time Mum buys crisps. It’s, like, if they’re Doritos and scooping up guacamole then they don’t count as junk food. ‘So . . .’ I try to speak casually. ‘I was wondering . . .’

  My voice is letting me down. It doesn’t sound casual, it sounds over-alert. On the other hand, I don’t think Frank is in a noticing mood.

  ‘Is Linus coming over?’ It comes out in a hurry and I sound the opposite of casual, but there you go. I’ve asked.

  Frank turns his head to give me a murderous glare. ‘Why would Linus come over?’

  ‘Well . . . because . . .’ I’m confused. ‘Have you had a fight?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had a fight.’ His eyes are so bleak and full of anger, I flinch. ‘I’ve been dropped from the team.’

  ‘Dropped from the team?’ I stare at him in shock. ‘But it was your team.’

  ‘Well, I can hardly play now, can I?’

  His voice is all muffled and low. I have a horrible feeling he wants to cry. I haven’t seen Frank cry since he was about ten.

  ‘Frank.’ I feel a huge wave of sorrow for him. In fact I think I might cry for him instead. ‘Have you told Mum?’

  ‘Told Mum?’ he lashes out. ‘What, so she can stand there and cheer?’

  ‘She wouldn’t!’ I say. But actually I’m not sure.

  The thing about Mum is, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, no adults do. They’re totally ignorant, but they’re in control. It’s nuts. The parents are in charge of all the stuff like technology in the house and time on screens and hours on social media, but then their computer goes wrong and they’re like a baby, going, ‘What happened to my document?’ ‘I can’t get Facebook.’ ‘How do I load a picture? Double-click what? What does that mean?’

  And we have to sort it out for them.

  So Mum probably would cheer if she heard Frank wasn’t on the team any more. And then in the next breath she’d say, ‘Darling, why don’t you take up a hobby and join a team?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Frank,’ I say, but he doesn’t react. The next minute he’s shuffled out of the kitchen and I’m left alone with the Doritos.

  ‘So things haven’t been good.’ Dr Sarah sounds as unruffled as ever.

  ‘They’re OK. But everyone’s stressy. I’ve been in bed a lot. It’s like I’m so tired all the time.’

  ‘When you’re tired, just rest. Don’t fight it. Your body’s mending itself.’

  ‘I know.’ I sigh, my legs hunched up on the chair. ‘But I don’t want to be tired. I don’t want to be overwhelmed. I want to kick this.’

  The words come out before I’ve thought them and I feel a sudden little jab of adrenalin.

  When I say things to Dr Sarah, it’s as if I’m hearing them for the first time and suddenly they become real. She’s a bit magic, I think. She’s like a fortune teller – only in the present, not the future. Things change in her room. I don’t know how, they just do.

  ‘Good!’ she says. ‘That’s good. But, Audrey, what you don’t seem to realize is, you are kicking it.’

  ‘No I’m not.’ I look at her resentfully. How can she say that?

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’ve been in bed for, like, the last three days.’

  ‘No one said getting better would be a straightforward journey. Remember our graph?’

  She gets up and heads for her whiteboard. She draws two axes and a jagged red line heading up.

  ‘You’ll go up and you’ll go down. But your progress will be in the right direction. It is in the right direction. You’ve come a long way, Audrey. Remember our first meeting?’

  I shrug. Some of our sessions are a bit of a blur, to be honest.

  ‘Well, I do. And believe me, I’m pleased with what I see before me today.’

  ‘Oh.’ I feel a tiny glow of pride, which is pathetic. I mean, I didn’t do anything.

  ‘How’s the film going?’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I nod.

  ‘Have you interviewed anyone from out of the house?’

  ‘Well.’ I hesitate. ‘Not yet. Not exactly.’

  Dr Sarah waits. This is what she does, like a cop waiting to catch out a criminal. And every time I say I won’t crack first, but I always do.

  ‘OK, there’s this boy, Linus,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘Yes, you’ve mentioned him.’ She nods.

  ‘He used to come round to see Frank, and I was going to interview him. Only now he doesn’t come round any more. So I thought . . . I mean . . .’ I trail off, not sure what I do mean.

  ‘Maybe you should ask him,’ says Dr Sarah, like it’s no big deal.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say automatically.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I lapse into silence. She knows why not. It doesn’t need saying.

  ‘Let’s visualize the worst that can happen,’ says Dr Sarah cheerfully. ‘You ask Linus to come over and he says no. How does that make you feel?’

  Trickles of anxiety are running down my back. I don’t like this conversation any more. I should never have mentioned Linus.

  ‘How does that make you feel?’ persists Dr Sarah. ‘Audrey, work with me. Linus has just said, “No, I won’t come over.” What are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m totally embarrassed,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m dying. I’m, like, oh my God. Like, I’m so stupid . . .’ I screw up my face in agony.

  ‘Why stupid?’

  ‘Because – because!’ I look at her almost angrily. Sometimes Dr Sarah is deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Linus won’t come over.’ She gets up and writes it on the board:

  Then she draws an arrow from it and writes Linus’s thoughts in a circle.

  ‘Why should these thoughts’ – she taps the board – ‘make you feel stupid?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I struggle with my own thought process. ‘Because I shouldn’t have asked him.’

  ‘Why not?’ she counters. ‘So he says no. All that means is, he didn’t feel like being interviewed, or he was busy, or he’s intending to say yes another time. Or any number of things. It doesn’t mean anything about you.’

  ‘Of course it does!’ I say before I can stop
myself.

  ‘Of course?’ She instantly picks me up on it. ‘Of course?’

  OK, I fell into that one. Of course is the kind of phrase that makes Dr Sarah’s nose twitch like a shark scenting blood. That and I have to.

  ‘Audrey, do you know what Linus is thinking?’

  ‘No,’ I say reluctantly.

  ‘You don’t sound sure about that. Audrey, can you see into people’s heads?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you gifted with super-powers? Is this something I should know about you?’

  ‘No.’ I hold up my hands. ‘OK. I get it. I was mind-reading.’

  ‘You were mind-reading.’ She nods. ‘You have no idea what Linus is thinking. It could be good, it could be bad. Most likely, it’s nothing at all. He’s a boy. You’d better get used to that.’ Her face crinkles in humour.

  ‘Right.’ I know she’s trying to make me smile, but I’m too confused. ‘So . . . I should ask him?’

  ‘I think you should.’ She picks up the whiteboard cloth and rubs out Linus won’t come over. In its place, she writes:

  ‘OK?’ she says when I’ve had a chance to read it.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. Then ask him. Let’s make that your homework. Asking Linus.’

  The first step is catching Mum in a good mood, when she’s not going to freak out or overreact or anything. I wait till she’s just finished watching an episode of MasterChef, then casually sit on the arm of the sofa and say:

  ‘Mum, I’d like a phone.’

  ‘A phone?’ She sits up, her eyes wide circles, her mouth open. ‘A phone?’

  If I’m the Queen of Overreaction, Mum is the Empress.

  ‘Um, yes. A phone. If that’s OK.’

  ‘Who are you going to call?’ she demands.

  ‘I just . . . I don’t know. People.’ I know I sound scratchy, but she makes me scratchy.

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘People! Do you, like, need all their names?’

  There’s silence, and I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too. My last phone wasn’t exactly a success. I mean, it was a nice phone. It was a Samsung. But it became like this portal. A kind of toxic portal to . . . all of it. It used to make me quiver with fright, just hearing the buzz of a text, let alone reading it. I don’t know what happened to it. Dad got rid of it.