Lifesaving for Beginners

Ages ago.’
    He looks at me and then he says, ‘It’s all right,’ and when he says it, the features of his face relax and he looks like himself again and, for a moment, I think maybe it will be all right.
    Then he says, ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ and there is nothing to do but step back from the car and watch him pull away. He beeps the horn so that he catches Ed’s attention and waves at him.
    Ed waves back.

 
    The phone booth smells bad. Like one of Damo’s farts after he’s been eating pickled-onion flavour crisps. He’s mad about pickled onions.
    ‘Milo? Milo? Is that you? Oh thank God. I thought you were . . . I didn’t know what . . . Are you all right? . . . WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?’
    I can’t answer right away because Faith is crying really loudly. Even if I tell her, she won’t be able to hear me. I hate it when she cries. She usually does it quietly, in her room, so she thinks I can’t hear her.
    I say, ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Don’t you DARE say you’re sorry. If anything had happened to you, I’d . . . I don’t know what I’d do. Aren’t things bad enough already without you pulling a crazy stunt like this?’
    I say, ‘I’m sorry,’ before I remember that I’m not supposed to say that. But I can’t think of anything else to say. I think it’s because I haven’t had much sleep.
    ‘Jesus Christ, Milo.’ She stops for a moment and I can hear her taking a puff of her cigarette, which is actually good because she might calm down a bit.
    Her voice is quieter the next time she says something but I don’t know if it’s because of the cigarette or maybe she’s a bit hoarse after all the shouting. She says, ‘Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.’
    ‘I don’t want you to go to Ireland on your own.’
    ‘What are you talking about? We’ve been through this. I have to go on my own. You know that.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because . . . because . . . look, this is beside the point. Where the hell are you?’
    ‘You could take me with you. I won’t be any bother.’
    ‘Stop it, Milo. You’re not coming and that’s that. Now tell me where you are so Dad and I can come and get you.’
    ‘I promise I won’t be hungry all the time. I won’t eat anything. I won’t even go into your birth mother’s house. I’ll wait in the front garden. I promise.’
    ‘Jesus, Milo.’
    ‘And if you want to stay in Ireland with her, I’ll fly back on my own. I’m old enough, I reckon. You probably just have to sign a form or something.’
    ‘Milo, what are you—’
    ‘I could go and live with Ant and Adrian in London. I don’t want to live with Dad and Celia because they’ll be busy with the baby and Scotland is about a hundred miles away and I’ll miss my lifesaving exams and I won’t get into the intermediate class.’
    ‘Nobody is going anywhere, OK?’
    ‘But she might turn out to be really nice? The lady in Dublin. You’d want to go and live with her then, wouldn’t you?’
    ‘No. I wouldn’t. I’m staying with you.’
    ‘But you might change your mind.’
    ‘I WON’T.’
    I have to hold the receiver far away when she shouts like that. When I put it back against my ear, there’s silence. Then she says, ‘Milo . . . look, it’s complicated. You’re only nine. It’s hard for you to understand. I haven’t explained it very well. I’m sorry.’
    ‘I’ll be ten soon.’
    ‘Milo?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I’m not going to tell you.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m not telling you unless you say I can come to Ireland with you.’
    I can’t hear what she says then because of the announcement. Something about a flight to Buenos Aires that’s leaving from Gate 32. The gate is closing in five minutes.
    Faith says, ‘Oh my God. You’re at the airport. Are you at the airport?’
    ‘No.’ I cup my hands round the receiver so she won’t hear anything else.
    ‘Christ, how did you get to the airport?’
    I’ve already decided that I’m never going to tell her about the taximan. When we’re on the plane, I’ll tell her about getting the first bus this morning from the bottom of our road into the main bus station. Then the airport express, which costs more than the normal bus but the poster said it was way quicker. It’s weird being on a bus on your own. There’s no one to ask if you’re there yet.
    ‘Is it Gatwick? Are you in Gatwick?’
    I say, ‘I’ll tell you, Faith. But you have to tell me first.’
    Silence then. I think