The Boy Who Hit Play Page 7

  ‘Of course,’ Lloyd says and stands, and his fingers muddle together and drop his napkin.

  We walk out into the hallway. The policeman tips his hat to the reception desk man and says something in Norwegian that I don’t understand.

  I stare at the reception man. Hard. I wish I had laser eyes and could burn his hair off. It was him. I know it was him. And even though my eyes can’t set things on fire, I give him a look that says, you’ll be sorry. You’ll be really very sorry.

  I just don’t know how to make him, yet.

  Tick Tick Tick

  I look at my watch as we pull into the police station.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lloyd says biting his nails and spitting them on the floor. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  We go in.

  It’s very clean and white. We write our names in a book on the desk.

  ‘You have photo identification?’ They look at Dad.

  ‘What for?’ Dad looks in his wallet.

  ‘A driving licence, a passport.’ Policeman one says.

  Dad puts his driving licence down on the desk.

  ‘I don’t even have a wallet, I just have this!’ Lloyd shows everyone his travel pouch.

  ‘You have no way of proving your identity?’ Policeman two, the tall one, looks at Lloyd.

  ‘No.’

  ‘This way please.’ We follow them into a smaller white room with a table and four chairs, two on each side. I stand at the back. ‘You can sit outside.’ They point at me.

  ‘No thanks.’ I’m not going anywhere.

  Policeman one says, ‘You did not fill out the hotel’s identification document?’

  I look at Dad. I know.

  ‘It isn’t a crime,’ he says.

  ‘It’s a legal requirement.’

  ‘Not at Airbnbs,’ I say.

  ‘Airbnbs have no legislation for this.’ He taps his fingers on the table. ‘How did you enter the country?’

  ‘The normal way,’ Dad says.

  ‘On a plane,’ I say.

  ‘Our passports were stolen.’ Lloyd puts his head in his hands.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Dad says.

  ‘We do,’ I say.

  ‘It was my fault,’ Lloyd moans.

  ‘You did not get replacement papers?’ Policeman one looks at Dad.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There wasn’t time.’ Dad crosses his arms.

  ‘And you have no way of proving who you are?’ Policeman two leans in on Lloyd.

  Dad throws his arms up. ‘It isn’t illegal!’

  ‘Why are you here?’ They shoot him a look.

  ‘Because of me!’ I stamp my foot on the floor. This is all stupid. This could have been avoided with telling the truth. ‘I was left on a bench as a baby. Under a copy of the Aftenposten. I have it if you want to see it?’ They shake their heads. ‘And we’re here because …’ I watch the clock tick past … ‘Because …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re here to find out why! Plus we have the right to speak to a solicitor – everyone has that don’t they and we have one.’

  Dad and Lloyd look at me.

  ‘We do?’

  ‘Mulki is a human rights lawyer remember.’ I picture the note, I run my mind over the paper. ‘Her number is 477641 652 906. Not that it matters.’

  ‘It does matter,’ Dad says. ‘It’s great.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’ I look at the clock. ‘It’s 10.36,’ I say and my shoulders sag. ‘We just missed our train. It was the only one there was today.’

  It’s gone.

  And the other catching-the-train me zooms off to meet up with the catching-the-plane me and is standing on my birth island tapping his watch. And the real-life me sits in a little white police-station room with a locked door that doesn’t even have a window and slumps on to the table.

  Unfairness

  We ring Mulki.

  Dad does the talking. We stare at him when he comes off the phone.

  ‘So?’

  ‘She says we have to ring the British Embassy to apply for emergency travel documents and get an appointment.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘In Oslo.’

  ‘I’m not going back to Oslo.’ The unfairness bubbles up inside me. ‘They can’t make us.’ I dig my fingernails into my hands. ‘We’re free to go aren’t we? We’ve proved who we are.’

  ‘Yes.’ They nod.

  ‘Was it the hotel man?’ I look at the policeman. ‘Did he ring you?’

  ‘He has legal obligations.’ They raise their shoulders.

  I knew it. I knew it was him.

  ‘We can take you back to the hotel.’ Policeman one points at the door.

  ‘I’d rather walk,’ I say and slam out through it. Dad and Lloyd follow.

  ‘I think you were very inspiring,’ Lloyd says.

  ‘Let’s get some new tickets north,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll sort the passports on the way home.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ Now we can just get there.

  And we walk through the town, past the shops and up the bank to the railway station and Lloyd tries on a pair of pink discounted ski dungarees, but decides against them.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  It’s Bjorn.

  Floyd Partington is an MP. Google it.

  I google Floyd Partington.

  There’s a picture of him with his wife. No kids. Shiny red face.

  Freaky smile.

  Floyd Partington MP.

  I show the phone to Dad. He flinches. ‘You never said, Lloyd.’

  ‘I know …’ Lloyd cradles his ears. ‘I try to forget,’ he says and rushes into the train station.

  Inside it’s hot and lovely, like getting in a bath when you’ve been in the freezer. My cheeks go pink and the heat sucks into my bones.

  ‘Why’d you never say?’ I drag Lloyd off the information rack.

  ‘He has so much power.’ Lloyd frowns. ‘I try to forget.’

  Me and Dad look at each other.

  We all join the queue and Lloyd plays I spy with himself as no one else feels like it.

  ‘Something beginning with B … Big person, correct!’

  When we get to the front the attendant shakes her head. ‘There are no more trains for today,’ she says. We know. ‘It will have to be tomorrow I’m afraid.’

  I look at Dad. ‘I’m not staying in that hotel again.’

  ‘How much please?’ Lloyd gets out his cash wedge and puts a note on the counter and another and another until he only has two left.

  We zip the tickets in Dad’s jacket pocket.

  ‘I don’t think we can afford to stay at the hotel anyway.’ Lloyd looks at the notes.

  Dad looks out the window. ‘We can’t afford to stay anywhere.’

  Shadows

  We walk back to the hotel to pick up our cases and hand the keys over to the man. I want to poke them into his eyes. He’s talking to the guy in the black leather hat. When they see us they smile.

  It makes my stomach go cold.

  I look under the hat. The man’s eyes are blue and hard.

  He shoves his hands into gloves and walks out, his feet clicking on the floor.

  I look at Dad and Lloyd but they’re not even looking.

  The hotel man points at our cases which are already downstairs, behind the desk.

  I don’t like this.

  I don’t like the idea that he’s been in our room with our things. I stare at him.

  ‘Checkout is at ten.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Like you’re really busy,’ I say under my breath. I wish I could bring all the dead and maimed animals alive from the pictures and the walls to charge at him. A massive dustball of see-how-he-likes-it-ness.

  He gives us the key deposit back.

  Lloyd holds it up. ‘Dinner money!’ he says.

  My deep-down wobbly feeling BOOMS.

  I bulge my eyes at Dad.

  We leave and walk back up into
town and into the tourist information centre which is open today, and pretend to look at leaflets.

  The hat man’s face stays in my head.

  I’ve seen him before. Haven’t I?

  Where?

  I’m bad at dates. I’m good at details.

  Things I see I don’t forget.

  I know his face, I know it.

  ‘Just popping out for a moment,’ Lloyd says and runs out the shop and is gone for

  HOURS.

  Me and Dad get through every leaflet and brochure in the rack. There’s nothing we don’t know about the husky day tours and the raftingsenteret (river rafting centre).

  ‘Dad.’ I pick up a skiing leaflet. ‘What are we gonna do without money?’

  ‘We’ll survive.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘I’ve got credit cards.’ He spins the rack.

  We did credit-card interest in maths last year and I know enough about it to know that it is bad. You borrow a tenner and pay back a hundred.

  Kind of.

  We don’t even have the tenner.

  ‘Won’t you get into debt?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He scratches the back of his neck.

  I do. I do when he doesn’t even have a job to pay it off with.

  I look at the packs of people in wetsuits with thumbs up in blue inflatable boats. Kids standing on the back of dog sleds. The huskies roped together with their thick fur and tongues sticking out like the ones we saw. Only in snow.

  Deep, deep snow.

  Dad looks over my shoulder. ‘I wish we could do that.’

  I look at the prices. ‘I know.’

  We sit down on a bench with a reindeer hide on.

  Lloyd comes back in and his eyes are bright and shiny.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘It’s a secret,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t like secrets.’

  ‘You’ll like this one,’ he says and we are released into the street.

  Pod

  ‘Let go eat!’ Lloyd says and we find a cafe and sit in a corner booth and look at the menu with thick plastic pages and order fish burgers and fiske suppe. The waiter nods and comes back with plates up both arms.

  I squeeze ketchup on to my burger and let the juice dribble down my chin. It’s kind of a fishcake but salty and juicy and solid and contains no mash or breadcrumbs at all.

  I would record the sound of:

  sometimes heaven is a hot fish burger

  (a knives-and-forks clanking,

  busy, busy, sort of sound).

  But I am way too hungry. I think about debt. When people get into debt they lose their houses. Don’t they? I saw that on TV. I think about Aunty Ima.

  ‘We could sleep at the station,’ I say. ‘It’s warm and there’s benches and it’ll have to be open ’cos trains come and go all night.’

  ‘It’s not a bad plan.’ Dad dips his chips in some ketchup.

  ‘It’s the only plan.’ I wipe my wrist with my napkin to stop juice going down my sleeve.

  After dinner we sit in a bar with glasses of water and watch football on TV. Everyone in here is crazy for Newcastle United. They score and the bar goes nuts.

  We go back up to the station and try to squish up in the corner and lie down on the slatted benches. I wouldn’t describe it as comfortable. I use my jacket as a blanket and my case as a pillow and try to look like we’re gonna get up and get a train any second. I guess we need to get used to uncomfortable.

  I think about ringing the address.

  One night won’t make a difference.

  ’Cept now it isn’t one, it’s two.

  There’s no way I can do it here.

  I have to be alone.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry this isn’t nice,’ I say.

  ‘It kind of is,’ he says. ‘It’s kind of like camping.’

  ‘In a pod,’ Lloyd says. ‘Like dolphins. Or campers.’

  And we all pretend we’re in a fancy camping pod and I guess I get to sleep at some point ’cos when I wake up Lloyd isn’t there.

  Head Hunter

  The moon lights up the waiting room. It’s totally empty (except for Dad and me).

  I look out the window. The sky is blue-black and twinkly. The cars are still and shiny.

  I look at the bench. Lloyd’s rucksack has gone. His case is still there.

  Lloyd would never leave his apples.

  My heart starts thumping.

  Has Floyd got him?

  How?

  I plug my brain in. It feels spinny, like it needs a recharge.

  If Floyd snatched Lloyd he would have yelled.

  He would have woken us up. Wouldn’t he?

  And people would’ve seen it.

  Someone.

  Somebody would have noticed.

  I can’t breathe in here. The air is too hot. I need to get out.

  I stand up. Slowly.

  Dad doesn’t move.

  I creep over to the door and go outside.

  The street is silent, like someone sucked up all the sound with a vacuum.

  I put my hands under my armpits to keep them warm and watch my breath smoke.

  I should wake Dad. Should I? Shouldn’t I? We should get the police.

  I don’t want to go back there again. Lloyd didn’t have ID, now he’s missing in mysterious circumstances. It’s too complicated.

  I walk over to the railing and look out over the town. It twinkles in the moonlight. Mountains lurch round the sides. Houses huddle in the middle. The sky fades from midnight blue to black. Strange things hide in pretty places sometimes.

  I think about the leather-hat man.

  Getting off the train.

  Staying down our corridor.

  Smiling with the hotel man.

  I think of Floyd Partington MP’s shiny red face.

  If he isn’t Floyd, who is he?

  Was it him?

  I see a dark shape, running, huddled over and strange, coming this way.

  I duck down under the railing and press my back against the wall.

  Crunch

  Crunch

  Crunch.

  The feet stop.

  Someone puts their hand on my shoulder.

  I freeze.

  ‘Found you!’ he says.

  Moon Flashes

  I kick out, hard.

  ‘OW!’ The dark huddle starts hopping.

  I get up. My feet slip in the ice, but I run. I run down the street into the light.

  My feet crunch in the frost and grit.

  I slip and grab a lamp post. ‘Stop!’ The huddle runs after me. ‘Wait!’

  I skid on to my backside and slide down the hill. It’s steep. I slam into the curb. The pain stings my bones.

  I feel a hand on my arm. I look up. The moon flashes on the face in the hood.

  I pull back from the hard blue eyes.

  But they’re not there.

  There’s no hat either.

  ‘Lloyd?’

  The surprise of seeing him makes me laugh and I shove my sleeve into my mouth as making noise out here in the silence seems wrong.

  I push myself up. ‘I thought you were dead, or knocked out, or …’

  ‘No,’ he raises his arms. ‘I’m perfectly alive. I sold Uncle Albert’s emerald earrings for extra funds,’ he says and holds up a new wedge of cash.

  ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘It was a long walk to the private buyer’s house.’ He sits next to me. ‘We got talking and he had a very decent bottle of port.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s quite easy to import, it’s just a little pricey.’

  ‘How did you sell them?’

  He holds up his phone. ‘Like this!’ He shows me the eBay buy-it-now page. ‘I offered free personal delivery,’ he says and rubs his leg where I kicked it.

  ‘Sorry. I thought you were the hat man.’

  ‘Who?’

/>   ‘It doesn’t matter. Will Uncle Albert miss his earrings?’

  ‘This journey is too important, Elvis.’ He looks super serious. ‘Floyd will not win,’ he says. ‘He must not win.’

  ‘You sold the rifle, how else will he win?’

  ‘He wants us to give up.’

  I think about Top 10 Ways To Tell If Someone Is Lying.

  1 – Repeating the question.

  2 – Sweating.

  3 – Smiling.

  4 – Avoiding eye contact.

  Lloyd looks right at me. I believe him.

  I think of us being hunted by Floyd.

  Lloyd’s head being mounted on a wall like the animal heads at the hotel.

  I think about unfairness. I feel a bit bold in the dark. ‘Lloyd.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I feel very awake. Do you feel very awake?’

  He puts his head from side to side and weighs up his awakeness. ‘I’m fifty-five per cent awake,’ he says.

  ‘Good. We need to go to the hotel.’

  ‘Yes, their beds are much more comfortable.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Revenge and Fairness

  We walk to the hotel down the middle of the road because we can and there is nothing around to squash us. And I record the sound of:

  feeling bold in the middle of the night

  (a footsteps-in-gravel, whispering,

  expectant sort of sound).

  ‘What is the plan exactly?’ Lloyd rubs his ears.

  ‘Revenge and fairness.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He nods.

  ‘All those dead animals’ pictures and heads are wrong. And that man made us miss our train. He’s mean. If it wasn’t for him we’d be on my birth island by now.’

  We get to the hotel and squat down beside the billboard sign. There is a yellow light on but the reception is empty.

  I nudge Lloyd. ‘You go in. If he comes out, say you forgot something. If he doesn’t come out, wave at me, OK?’

  ‘Can’t you forget something?’

  ‘No. I stared at him, he’ll remember me. And kids don’t go in hotels in the middle of the night.’