You Only Live Once Read online

  When Neil was helping Paddy fill a bucket with sand I felt like I had enough of his attention to try some gentle questioning.

  ‘Carol still not back at work then?’ I said, as casually as I could manage.

  Neil shook his head, his lips pushed together. He didn’t say anything else for a second and I thought I was going to have to prod further, but then he suddenly said, ‘She’s mad, she’s going to lose her job if she’s not careful.’ He said it quickly, all in one go, like he’d been trying not to say anything but it had just burst out of him.

  ‘Really?’ I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say, but it turned out that Neil didn’t need any more prompting.

  ‘She’s almost stopped turning up at work altogether and on the odd occasion she does, she’s been acting very strangely, by all accounts. Meanwhile Leroy’s probably propping up the bar somewhere or away on the Costa del Sol with whoever. Sandy who works in accounts saw his boat for sale on eBay – so it’s hardly wrecked at the bottom of the sea!’

  ‘Did you tell Carol?’

  Neil shook his head and held his hands up. ‘Oh no, not my place, is it? Let her believe what she wants to believe.’

  ‘Where does she live?’ I said, although I wasn’t at all sure why. It just occurred to me.

  ‘Live?’

  ‘Yeah. Where does she live again?’ Again. As if I knew, I just couldn’t quite recall the details.

  ‘Portslade,’ he said. ‘Near me, actually. Mill Close. I should go and see the old girl, really.’

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Yeah …’ he said again. ‘I should go and see her.’

  A Recruit

  It had been so long since I’d rung Til I wasn’t totally sure she’d answer.

  Luckily she did.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Til had never been big on small talk.

  ‘Well, anyway, do you want to help me with something? Like a mission type thing?’

  ‘A mission.’

  ‘Yeah. An investigation. I’m trying to find something out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can tell you about it when I see you. Meet me at Portslade station at three?’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’ And she was gone.

  Til was sitting on a bench outside the station. When she saw me she stood up and ambled over, her hands in her pockets.

  ‘All right?’ she said with a nod, but not a smile, so I knew we weren’t on completely amiable terms. But she was here, which said a lot. And which was enough for now.

  I nodded.

  ‘What’s the deal then?’

  I had this all worked out. The last thing Til would want to hear was that this had anything to be with my ‘new hippy mates’ so I had a cover story.

  ‘So you know Ollie?’

  ‘Your brother Ollie?’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. I think he’s got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Right. So? Who?’

  ‘That’s the thing. It’s someone weird.’

  ‘Not that girl who wears a snake round her neck in North Laine and always sticks her tongue out when she seems him?’

  ‘Oh. No. Not her. Weirder though, in a way. There’s this kids’ play centre that we take Paddy to sometimes, and there’s this woman who works there. I think it might be her.’

  ‘So? So ask him? Does it matter?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell us. Because it’s … it’s weird.’

  ‘Huh? What is?’

  ‘The woman. She’s like sixty, Til! She’s called Carol and she’s old enough to be his grandmother!’

  Til made a face. ‘Ew. That’s so gross.’

  ‘Exactly. But Ollie won’t tell us the truth, so we’re here, on her road, to ask her ourselves.’

  Til stopped and looked at the houses around us. ‘What? Are you insane?’

  ‘No. What? Why?’

  ‘You can’t just march up to some old woman and ask her if she’s doing your brother.’

  ‘We’re not going to march anywhere. I have a plan.’

  Til looked at me. ‘Why does it matter anyway? He’s a big boy. Let him do what he wants.’

  I sighed. ‘Til, Ollie is not a big anything. He’s a man-child. And she is a grown woman. She’s grooming him! If you had a brother, you’d understand.’

  I threw this line in to let Til know that no matter how illogical the whole scheme seemed, it was fuelled by a mystical fraternal concern that she could never fully appreciate without experiencing herself. It seemed to work, just.

  Til still looked more than a little dubious but she said, ‘So what’s the plan?’

  I reached into my rucksack and pulled out a clipboard with a form clipped to it.

  ‘How do you want to pay your council tax?’ Til read aloud from the top.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a dummy form. I just picked it up. You don’t really use that. It’s just a prop.’

  ‘A prop for what?’

  ‘Market research. You’re carrying out door-to-door market research so you need to ask her a few questions. Market researchers can get away with asking all kinds of rubbish. So say you’re from the TV people or something, about viewing habits, then ask her the basics – age, job and all that. Then you can get to the ‘Single/Married/Other’ bit. So pay special attention to that bit. Then basically improvise from there. Just try to find out as much as you can about her love li—’

  ‘Woah,’ Til said, holding her hand up to stop me mid-flow. ‘Why am I doing all this? What are you doing?’

  ‘Well, I can’t do it, can I? She’s seen me, up at the centre with Paddy.’

  Til sighed. ‘Right, fine. Whatever. Jesus. Why do I do this stuff for you?’

  Market Research

  I’d already established which house was Carol’s, which was a really quite simple case of searching the electoral roll as I already had her name, her husband’s name and her road name. I waited at the end of the road, a good way away from the house, partly to avoid being spotted lurking by Carol, but also so I wouldn’t put Til off her acting.

  After five minutes I started looking towards the house, expecting to see Til heading my way, but there was no sign of her. I couldn’t see the front door itself, so I had to assume she was still going through her questions.

  After fifteen minutes, I started to worry that something was wrong. Initially, just that Til had changed her mind, had got in a strop about being used and had stormed off home without bothering to let me know. Then my worries moved on and started to conjure up more dramatic scenarios. Carol was possibly unhinged – could she have attacked Til? Was Leroy in there? Could he have attacked Til?

  Til had been gone twenty minutes when she finally reappeared from around the corner.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said, looking exhausted. She shook her head. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What? What happened? Did you do the questions?’

  Til shook her head and sat down on the wall. I sat beside her.

  ‘I didn’t even say I was doing market research. I didn’t even start that.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘When she opened the door, she said, “You here about the sale?” and I was going to say no, but then I thought, go with it, you know? Might be a bit more believable than your market research idea – which, no offence, was pretty dodgy. So I went in, not really knowing what kind of sale it was, but getting ready to be interested in whatever she had going, and then I saw straight away, she had everything going.

  ‘Like, all her stuff was priced up. TV, forty-five quid. Sofas, hundred quid each. You could see a lot of it was already gone because some rooms were pretty empty, but like … everything, man. Everything was for sale. Mugs, hanging from the dresser, fifty pence each. Even this mug with her grandkids’ faces on it! Every little thing.

  ‘So anyway, I said something like, “Wow, you’re really having a clear out,” and she nodded the smallest, saddest nod you ever saw and said, “Money’s tight.” And I thought that was it, bu
t then she added, “Since my husband died.” So I was like, oh god, what am I supposed to say to that, so I just said, “Oh I’m sorry,” and I’ve still got your whole private investigation thing in my head, so I’m trying to work out how I can ask her if she’s got a new boyfriend and if he happens to be a man-child called Ollie but then she starts talking again and she says, “The worst part is he went missing in an accident at sea so getting a death certificate is proving next to impossible and no death certificate means no insurance pay-out so as well as finding myself on my own at the age of sixty-three I’ve got these bills and –” And then she sort of stopped like she realised she was going off on one, but to be honest I’d heard enough. I mean, I don’t know if it was a sales strategy or whatever but it worked, man! Look at all this stuff!’

  Til opened her bag and I peered in. Two mugs, a paperweight, a framed embroidery of a cow riding a bike and a DVD called Gentle Summer Workout.

  ‘Anyway, it was properly awkward, obviously, but somehow – god knows I’m a good friend to you – somehow I managed to be like, “And you haven’t met another partner?” and she nearly had a breakdown! Went on about how she could never look at another man again! If she was acting it was good. I can’t see it, Grace. I seriously can’t see her going out with Ollie. That is too, too bizarre.’

  And right there, just then, I suddenly felt it. I felt that this was not fun any more. I was looking at the sad collection of objects that Carol was having to sell – the paperweight, the cow on the bike, the mugs, for god’s sake – lying there in Til’s bag, all for a few pathetic pounds, which would end up in Vicky’s pocket eventually anyway.

  This was not fun any more.

  Carol Gunn, whoever she was, whoever or wherever her husband was, was obviously going through some stuff, to put it mildly. And we were hounding her and messing with her head and taking money that she clearly didn’t have.

  This wasn’t a laugh, was it. This wasn’t living for the moment.

  Conscience

  ‘Oh god,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ Til said.

  ‘No, but really. Like really oh god.’

  Til gave me a questioning look and I looked at her with her bag full of random things she’d bought to try to help Carol Gunn and to try to help me when I’d given her a half-baked implausible mission – and I suddenly realised, I missed her. And I’d lied to her for what? To make some cash so I could keep eating frozen chips from a mixing bowl on the floor of Vicky and Spider’s flat? So I could pretend that Mum and Dad would let me go travelling around Europe with two people I’d only just met? I had a sudden impulse to tell Til everything. To empty myself of it all.

  So I did.

  I told her about our list, of all the things we’d already done, but all the things I still wanted to do. I explained how we’d run out of money, and how we’d set up the Madame Violet Verano business to make some extra.

  Til just looked at me, her expression set to one I was more than familiar with:

  Bemused. Amused. Incredulous but resigned. A look that said ‘you are so weird, Gracie’.

  And then I told her how Carol Gunn fitted into the plan.

  And then her expression changed. Her face no longer said, ‘you are so weird, Gracie’. Her face now said, ‘you disgust me’.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You should have seen her in there, man. A mess.’

  ‘I know.’

  Then Til stood up. She looked at me and she said, ‘Who even are you? I don’t know you any more.’

  This was a line so clichéd, so borrowed from soaps and Hollywood that if anyone else had said it, or if the circumstances had been different, Til would have rolled her eyes and sniggered. But not now. She either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. She was too wound up. Too appalled.

  ‘I’m going home now,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’

  And she went.

  The Truth

  It was a forty-minute walk to the flat from Carol’s house, and by the time I arrived I was clear on what I wanted to say.

  I felt sure they too would realise. They’d be quiet, maybe. Sheepish. Ashamed.

  I’d recounted exactly what had happened in Mill Close. Carol’s grief. Her financial hardship. The fact she was selling off mugs with her grandchildren’s faces on them for fifty pence. I’d told the story well, I thought. I’d even got a bit emotional about it.

  ‘Stupid cow,’ Vicky said. She was laughing but not smiling. She was drunk.

  I blinked, surprised. Vicky had always been cutting. I had known her to say harsh things, but this seemed more than cutting. This seemed cruel.

  ‘I –’ I stopped. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I looked at Spider. I felt sure he at least would support me.

  He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking out the window. He too had a beer can in his hand.

  ‘It’s up to her, I guess,’ he said flatly. ‘Can’t save people if they’re mental.’

  ‘Tell you what, though,’ Vicky said, putting her foot up on the sofa and starting to paint her toenails. ‘This is gold, some of this stuff. You can tell me all about the gear she’s got for sale and I can use that to really get to her. If I can throw in a little detail about her plates with the blue daisies or whatever, that will show her I’m legit. She’ll be all over it.’

  ‘No,’ I said, more loudly than I’d expected. ‘No.’

  ‘You what, mate?’ Vicky looked up at me.

  ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘You sound about six years old, Gracie baby.’

  But I didn’t laugh. ‘I think you should stop now. She’s had enough. I’ve had enough, actually.’

  Vicky yawned, deliberately. ‘You know where the door is, kiddo.’

  ‘I’m going to tell her. If you don’t stop, I’ll tell her who you really are.’

  Spider looked at me then, and he looked at Vicky, but she didn’t look up. She carried on painting her toenails. I thought she wasn’t going to reply at all, but then suddenly she put her foot down on the floor, and carefully put the top back on her nail varnish.

  ‘You know what I think, kiddo,’ she said in a voice that was bright and cheerful but in a way that was so false it was almost menacing. ‘I think this little arrangement has run its course, you know? You’re cute and dumb and it’s been fun, but the thing is, you can’t have it all one way. You’re happy to run around with us all summer, watching our TV, eating our food, but when it comes to the cold, hard reality of where the cash is going to come from, you bottle it.

  ‘And it’s fine, because you know what? That’s just your age showing. That’s just your immaturity. You can’t help it. You’ll grow up, one day, at some point. But right now, Spidey and I have done enough babysitting. You go back home to Mummy and Daddy and back to school and your exams and then you can get some nice cosy job in an office. Do your nine to five, go home to your little semi in the ’burbs and I’m sure you’ll be just fine.’

  I looked at her, tears in my eyes. I hated her. I really felt like I hated her.

  Spider was still looking out the window, acting as if no one had said anything. He took a drag on his cigarette. He looked exhausted, I could see that now. Thin and tired and miserable.

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. I turned and went down the stairs and out of the building. I didn’t even bother to slam the door.

  I hadn’t stormed out. I’d just left.

  It was over.

  As I walked, heading east along Western Road, I took my phone out of my pocket. I had notifications – likes and replies from strangers to some tweet I’d posted about a drunk man on my train – but no messages. Nothing from anyone I actually knew. Nothing from anyone who actually knew me.

  I thought Til might have sent me something. Most likely a reiteration of her disgust, but a small hopeful part of me thought she might have calmed down, and want to talk about it at least.
>
  I thought Mum might have messaged me to ask me to pick up something from the shops or to see if I’d be in for dinner.

  But nothing.

  My family were annoyed with me. My one real friend was annoyed with me. My new friends had turned out to not be friends at all.

  I arrived at the top of Albion Hill. I was nearly home, but I didn’t want to be. I wouldn’t be able to act normal and Mum would be snappy or disappointed and I’d be snappy and sullen back and everything would be even worse.

  Instead, I crossed the road and headed into Queen’s Park. I walked around aimlessly for a while until I realised I was crying. Like properly crying. I sat down, my back against a tree. I only realised then that it was the exact spot I’d met Vicky and Spider.

  Suddenly, everything felt hopeless.

  I couldn’t think of one single thing I wanted to do. I couldn’t even think of something I wanted to do then and there, with the rest of that warm summer evening, let alone what I was going to do with the rest of my life. There was just over a week until I was due back at school, expected to be full of enthusiasm and energy and dedication for the four A levels I’d persuaded them to let me do. The thought made me feel sick.

  ‘Grace? What’s going on?’

  I looked up.

  It was Sarah.

  PART 8

  During which I realise a number of people, myself included, are not that great

  Rescue

  ‘Nothing,’ I said automatically, wiping my face with my sleeve. I was torn between the sudden realisation that there was no one I wanted to see more right at that moment, and being painfully aware how horrific I must have looked.

  ‘Right. OK,’ Sarah said, her head on one side. ‘Um … you sure about that?’