Lifesaving for Beginners

for Funky Banana Bread. That’s where she got the idea for the name. I sneak out to the hall and get toilet paper from the downstairs loo and I wipe the kitchen floor and the sole of my shoe with that.
    I haven’t told anyone. Not even Damo. That way, when they ask him, he won’t have to lie and say, ‘I don’t know.’ He can just say, ‘I don’t know,’ and it’ll actually be true.
    Outside, it’s raining. I suppose I should have packed my raincoat. It’s pretty cold too. My anorak probably would have been better than this jacket. I have a torch but I don’t turn it on. I don’t want to run out of batteries.
    Dad’s going to drive Faith to the airport in the morning. He says he’s going to drive me to school and then drive Faith to the airport. That’s why I have to go now. Otherwise, Dad will drive me to school, and I don’t think I’d make it to the airport on time.
    I check my wallet, which is in the pocket of my jeans. It’s actually Mam’s purse; I don’t have a wallet. I might buy one in Ireland. The money is still there. Three fifty-pound notes and three pound coins and two twenty-pence pieces and the penny. It’s all there.
    The bus stop is at the end of our road. There’s no one there. And there’s no sign of the bus coming. I look at the watch Ant gave me for my ninth birthday. It’s not a kid’s watch, like the Spiderman one that George Pullman has. It’s a proper watch, except the hands light up in the dark, which is good because the torch isn’t working. I think the batteries are dead.
    It’s 00.10, which means the bus should be coming in four minutes. But when I look at the timetable at the bus stop, the time of the last bus is 23.55, which was fifteen minutes ago.
    Coach says you should always have a Plan B. I should have remembered that.
    I sit down on the kerb. I think better when I’m sitting down. It’s probably because the blood doesn’t have as far to go to get to my brain.
    The taximan says, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ when I put out my hand and he pulls over.
    I say, ‘The airport, please.’
    He turns off the engine. Leans his head out of the window. Examines me like Miss Williams does before the school inspectors come.
    ‘The airport?’
    ‘Yes, please. The one in London.’
    ‘There’re a few airports in London town, my son. Did you have a particular one in mind?’
    ‘Eh, Gatwick.’
    ‘Which terminal?’
    That’s the problem when you’re talking to adults. They always end up asking you a question you don’t know the answer to.
    The taximan lights up a cigarette. Blows smoke out of the window. It comes out of his nose as well as his mouth. Sully can do that too. And make smoke rings.
    ‘Goin’ someplace nice, is ya? Spain, maybe. Benny-dorm, eh?’
    Damo’s been to Benny-dorm. He said it was too hot and nobody spoke any English.
    I shake my head. I say, ‘I’m going to Ireland.’
    ‘You don’t wanna be doin’ that, mate. Too bloody cold over there. And the beer is black. Suspect, mate.’
    ‘I’m going with my sister. She’s twenty-four. I’m meeting her. At the airport. The one in London.’
    He takes another drag, looks at his watch and, for a moment, I think my Plan B is working, but then he shakes his head and looks at me. ‘It’s a bit late to be going to London, mate. Why don’t I take you home? Your mother’s probably wondering where you’ve got to.’
    I step back from the car and give it one last go. I say, ‘I have to go tonight. I have money.’ I take out Mam’s purse and show him the three fifty-pound notes, the three pound coins, the two twenty-pence pieces, the penny.
    ‘Let’s see that.’ When the taximan smiles, I see his teeth. They’re crooked and yellow. They look like they haven’t been brushed all day. Or yesterday either. I put the money back into the purse. Stuff the purse into my bag. But now the man is struggling with the seatbelt. Trying to get out of the car. It’s not easy, on account of how fat he is. The bottom of the steering wheel sticks into his belly. He takes another drag of his cigarette. Throws it out of the window, even though the butt will take twelve years to decompose. He opens the door. Puts one hand on the roof and uses it to hoist himself out. The streetlamp throws a light across his face. His face is huge and red and sweaty. If he was in a film on the telly, he’d be a baddie, I reckon.
    He says, ‘Come ’ere, my son. Let’s have another look at that money.