Lifesaving for Beginners

ten tomorrow.’
    Adrian says, ‘Oh shit,’ which probably means he’s forgotten to buy me a birthday present, which is the really bad thing about having your birthday on the same day as Christmas Day.
    I look at Adrian. ‘But I don’t have an Xbox.’ Mind Games sounds legend.
    ‘He got you an Xbox too.’
    Ant says, ‘It’s not fair. Dad never tries to buy our love with good pressies anymore.’
    Adrian says, ‘Yeah. Remember the quad bikes?’
    ‘That was some summer.’
    ‘You’re not supposed to tell me what present Dad got me.’ An Xbox! And an Xbox game! For me! And even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help wondering if he got me the goggles too.
    Later, Ant comes up from the cellar with cobwebs in his hair and says, ‘I’ve found the good stuff.’ He’s got a bottle in each hand and one tucked under each armpit. They’re covered in dust. He puts them on the table.
    Faith picks one up. ‘We can’t drink this. It’s nearly eighty years old.’
    Ant looks at the label. ‘Probably past its “best before”. We’ll be doing the old man a favour.’
    Adrian pops the cork and I get the glasses. Four of them. Faith says I’m too young to have wine but she pours cranberry juice in my glass, which looks pretty much like wine and tastes way nicer.
    Ant says, ‘A toast.’
    Faith says, ‘Let’s just get it drunk before Dad gets back.’
    Adrian says, ‘Let’s drink a toast to Mam.’
    And they look at me and I pick up my glass and we all clink and say, ‘To Mam!’ like it’s her birthday or something.
    My eyes don’t sting. I feel a bit happy, I think. Maybe it’s because Ant made the chilli and Celia’s baby might come soon and I’m getting an Xbox and we don’t have to eat the turkey tomorrow. Mam made the best chestnut stuffing in the world at Christmas time.

 
    Minnie’s decoy plan turns out to be pretty formulaic. She could have lifted it from any number of mainstream films; Ocean’s Eleven or Mission Impossible .
    She arrives at my parents’ house the following morning in a taxi since her car is still barricaded into the car park of my apartment block. We saw it on the telly. She’s dressed for business in a military-style black leather coat with enormous golden buttons, black tights, high black leather boots, and a black peaked cap.
    She leaves in my trench coat and trilby, a pair of my ankle boots and an enormous pair of dark glasses. The hat is vital because of its ‘dual functionality’, according to Minnie. It looks like a hat a reclusive writer-type would wear and you can tuck your hair under it. She completes the ‘disguise’ with one of Dad’s golf umbrellas. I say, ‘What do you need the umbrella for?’
    Minnie says, ‘To beat them with if any of the fuckers get too close.’
    I don’t have to look out of the window to see what happens. I watch it on the telly. When Minnie steps onto the driveway, they descend like a pack of wolves on a lamb. Except that Minnie Driver is no lamb. She holds the umbrella like a sword and pokes anyone within poking distance. One man carrying one of those fluffy things that look like a feather duster gets it in the stomach. He drops the duster and doubles over. You can’t hear him but I’d say he’s roaring with the pain. That umbrella has a particularly long, pointy bit at the end and she went in deep with it. Another journalist – a woman – gets a straightforward whack on the head with the rolled-up middle bit. She staggers against the belly of an incredibly fat man and sort of bounces back on her feet. She turns to smile a grateful smile at the fat man and he emits a stoic nod, as if this is not the first time his belly has been involved in such chivalry.
    After that, the crowd parts obediently, and Minnie strolls to Dad’s car, gets in and scorches out of the driveway. No one’s ever scorched away in Dad’s car before and I can tell he’s a little worried. I say, ‘Minnie’s a good driver,’ and he nods and I look at the screen again and I can’t help smiling. There is something a little magnificent about Minnie Driver.
    One of the reporters is saying that it’s like a scene from a Declan Darker novel, which is nonsense. None of my characters have ever used an umbrella, other than to stave off the rain. There is a scramble for cars and vans and trucks as they prepare to give chase.
    Mum lends me her walking stick, and I tuck my hair inside one of Ed’s woolly hats. It itches terribly. I pick up the