I got married. Your dad was on the way, so we had to – that's what happened in those days. But I was too young, just a kid. I wanted to be off soldiering with my mates. So I left. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did. After I left, it was the odd visit, and later on the occasional letter.'
Danny stared out through the window as the bus ploughed through the suburbs of Southend and his grandfather continued with his halting, hesitant confession. 'I got this letter from your dad, first one for a long time. I was in Malaysia, up in the north. He told me that he was getting married and that your grandmother had died of cancer. I was . . . I was sorry about it, of course I was, but . . . it was like another life. There didn't seem any point in coming back for the wedding.'
'But he was your son.'
'Yeah, and he must have hated me.'
Danny turned back from the window and glared at his grandfather. 'Don't expect me to feel sorry for you! You always had a choice in all this; I never did.' He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the old photograph he'd been carrying around for days and handed it to Fergus. 'And he didn't hate you. He always kept that.'
Fergus was still looking at the photograph when he spoke again. 'I didn't even know he had it. I was in Colombia when I got news of the car crash. The funeral had already happened. It was too late to say I wish it could have been different.'
They were silent for a few moments as Fergus stared at the old photograph. He turned it over and saw the numbers written there. 'My last four.' He looked at Danny. 'That's how you knew.'
Danny said nothing as Fergus handed back the photograph.
They got off the bus at a place called Westcliff. To Danny it seemed just an extension of Southend. A bit quieter, more old fashioned. There were a lot of old people out for their early morning stroll along what was exotically named the Boulevard. Most seemed to be wandering aimlessly, stopping every now and then to gaze into the same shop windows they'd probably gazed into a thousand times before.
It was the perfect place to do a runner. Fergus couldn't have stopped Danny, not with his limp and not without stirring one of Westcliff's finest into calling the police.
But Danny didn't run. 'Can I have my mobile?' he asked as they walked slowly away from the bus stop.
'You know you can't,' answered Fergus without looking at him.
'Don't worry,' said Danny. 'I'm not planning on calling Fincham. I have to let Elena know what's happening.'
Fergus stopped walking. 'Who the hell is Elena?'
'She's my friend, at Foxcroft. She helped me find you.'
'Oh, terrific. And who else knows about this?'
'No one. Just Elena. And I trust Elena a lot more than I trust you.'
Fergus reached into a pocket and took out the phone. 'Is this pay as you go?'
'Course it is, I can't afford a contract phone. I'm an orphan, remember?'
'Don't make any calls, just check your messages,' said Fergus, handing Danny the phone. 'If you can find a way of locating phones, I'm sure Fincham can. But we'll be well away from here long before it's any good to him.'
Danny switched on the mobile. He had five new voicemails and three texts. 'They'll all be from Elena.'
'Just check the texts, the voicemails will take too long.'
Danny checked the first text and Fergus read it with him:
Wher r u & y dont u ans fone. Its v 18. Im worried
'Stupid bloody language,' said Fergus as he worked out what the message meant.
The second text read:
Danny!!! Wots going on?? DTR asking questions. Please call!!!
'What's DTR mean?' asked Fergus.
'It stands for Dave the Rave, the bloke who runs Foxcroft. He's all right.'
The final text had been sent at nine o'clock that morning.
Something bad must hve hapened 2 u. If i dnt hear in nxt hour im telling dave wots bin going on. I must so please please call.
Fergus looked at his watch. It was nine forty-two. 'She sounds a bit flaky.'
'Flaky?' said Danny angrily. 'Elena's not flaky, she's worried about
Danny stared out through the window as the bus ploughed through the suburbs of Southend and his grandfather continued with his halting, hesitant confession. 'I got this letter from your dad, first one for a long time. I was in Malaysia, up in the north. He told me that he was getting married and that your grandmother had died of cancer. I was . . . I was sorry about it, of course I was, but . . . it was like another life. There didn't seem any point in coming back for the wedding.'
'But he was your son.'
'Yeah, and he must have hated me.'
Danny turned back from the window and glared at his grandfather. 'Don't expect me to feel sorry for you! You always had a choice in all this; I never did.' He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the old photograph he'd been carrying around for days and handed it to Fergus. 'And he didn't hate you. He always kept that.'
Fergus was still looking at the photograph when he spoke again. 'I didn't even know he had it. I was in Colombia when I got news of the car crash. The funeral had already happened. It was too late to say I wish it could have been different.'
They were silent for a few moments as Fergus stared at the old photograph. He turned it over and saw the numbers written there. 'My last four.' He looked at Danny. 'That's how you knew.'
Danny said nothing as Fergus handed back the photograph.
They got off the bus at a place called Westcliff. To Danny it seemed just an extension of Southend. A bit quieter, more old fashioned. There were a lot of old people out for their early morning stroll along what was exotically named the Boulevard. Most seemed to be wandering aimlessly, stopping every now and then to gaze into the same shop windows they'd probably gazed into a thousand times before.
It was the perfect place to do a runner. Fergus couldn't have stopped Danny, not with his limp and not without stirring one of Westcliff's finest into calling the police.
But Danny didn't run. 'Can I have my mobile?' he asked as they walked slowly away from the bus stop.
'You know you can't,' answered Fergus without looking at him.
'Don't worry,' said Danny. 'I'm not planning on calling Fincham. I have to let Elena know what's happening.'
Fergus stopped walking. 'Who the hell is Elena?'
'She's my friend, at Foxcroft. She helped me find you.'
'Oh, terrific. And who else knows about this?'
'No one. Just Elena. And I trust Elena a lot more than I trust you.'
Fergus reached into a pocket and took out the phone. 'Is this pay as you go?'
'Course it is, I can't afford a contract phone. I'm an orphan, remember?'
'Don't make any calls, just check your messages,' said Fergus, handing Danny the phone. 'If you can find a way of locating phones, I'm sure Fincham can. But we'll be well away from here long before it's any good to him.'
Danny switched on the mobile. He had five new voicemails and three texts. 'They'll all be from Elena.'
'Just check the texts, the voicemails will take too long.'
Danny checked the first text and Fergus read it with him:
Wher r u & y dont u ans fone. Its v 18. Im worried
'Stupid bloody language,' said Fergus as he worked out what the message meant.
The second text read:
Danny!!! Wots going on?? DTR asking questions. Please call!!!
'What's DTR mean?' asked Fergus.
'It stands for Dave the Rave, the bloke who runs Foxcroft. He's all right.'
The final text had been sent at nine o'clock that morning.
Something bad must hve hapened 2 u. If i dnt hear in nxt hour im telling dave wots bin going on. I must so please please call.
Fergus looked at his watch. It was nine forty-two. 'She sounds a bit flaky.'
'Flaky?' said Danny angrily. 'Elena's not flaky, she's worried about
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