Lifesaving for Beginners

‘It’s just . . . it’s been three weeks and I’ve heard nothing from you and I just wondered . . .’
    Jonathon taps at his keyboard, peers at the monitor, shakes his head. ‘There haven’t been any developments, I’m afraid.’
    Faith doesn’t say anything. Jonathon squirms in his chair, as if he’s trying to hold in a fart. ‘I told you that we’d write to you. If we have any news. You have my word on that.’
    Faith says, ‘How many letters have you sent?’
    Jonathon peers at the computer screen again. He squints his eyes when he does this, as if he should be wearing glasses. ‘The registered one is due to go out this week. That’ll be the third one.’
    Faith stands up, walks to the window, looks down. I hope Rob hasn’t been moved on by a warden.
    ‘What happens if you don’t get any response?’
    Jonathon makes a bridge out of his hands and puts his chin on it. He takes a deep breath before he answers, as if he has a lot of things on his mind.
    He says, ‘There’s only so much we can do, I’m afraid. There are regulations. Very strict guidelines and—’
    ‘Couldn’t you just give me her name and address and I can follow it up myself ?’
    Jonathon shakes his head. ‘That’s against regulations.’
    ‘I don’t see why. This is my information. I’m entitled to it, surely?’
    Jonathon shakes his head again. ‘There are two people involved here. It has to be mutual.’
    ‘What? Like the decision that was made twenty-four years ago? That was hardly mutual.’
    Jonathon rubs his hand down his face. He looks tired. ‘That was different.’
    Faith turns round. Sits on the windowsill. She looks at Jonathon and he picks up the mouse and moves it round on the pad beside the keyboard. She stands up. ‘So you’ll contact me if . . .’
    Jonathon lets go of the mouse and looks at her. He is smiling again. ‘Of course. In fact, you could give me your mobile number and I could—’
    ‘I don’t feel well.’
    Jonathon stops talking. He looks at me. So does Faith.
    Then he stands up. Looks at the couch where I’m sitting. Then looks at Faith. ‘He’s not going to be sick, is he?’
    I say, ‘I feel a bit . . . faint. I might just be hungry. I didn’t have any lunch.’
    ‘You did have lunch.’ Faith looks at Jonathon and says, ‘He did. At school. I made him cheese sandwiches.’
    ‘No, I didn’t. I had to run an errand for Miss Williams at break so I didn’t eat my lunch. And now I feel sick. I think it might be hunger pains.’
    Faith looks at me the way adults look at their kids when they’re going to kill them later. Not right away. ‘Jonathon, sorry, I . . .  I’d better go and get him something to eat.’
    I say, ‘I need something now. Maybe some toast and a hot chocolate?’
    Faith says, ‘Milo!’ Her face is red.
    Jonathon says, ‘No, it’s no problem. The boy does look a little peaky. Maybe I could—’
    Faith says, ‘No, no, it’s all right, I’ll take him out and . . .’
    Jonathon says, ‘There’s bread in the kitchen. I’ll get him a slice. No toaster, I’m afraid. I don’t think there’s any hot chocolate but there should be some milk in the fridge.’ He moves beside Faith, touches her arm. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, OK?’
    When he leaves, Faith hisses at me. ‘For the love of God, Milo, what are you at? You’re making a holy show of me.’
    I close the office door, run behind Jonathon’s desk and grab the mouse. The password prompt appears. I type in ‘jonath001’, which, if you ask me, is the stupidest password you could have, if your name is Jonathon. A hacker is going to tap into that in two minutes flat. And Jonathon doesn’t even cover the keyboard with the mouse pad when he types it in, like I do when anyone’s around. He just enters it as if no one is watching.
    ‘Milo, for fuck’s sake! Stop it.’ Faith is beside me, pulling at my arm. I point at the screen and she bends down to see. There’s Faith’s name and our address. Some stuff about Faith. Her date of birth and a copy of the birth certificate she gave Jonathon the first time we came here. The one with Mam and Dad’s name at the top.
    Faith looks at the door, still closed, and whispers, ‘Click on the correspondence tab.’
    The mouse on the screen turns into an egg timer and the screen goes blank. For a moment, I think the computer has frozen, the way our one at home sometimes does when I’m playing Sims.
    ‘Jesus, hurry up.’ I know Faith is talking