Burning Crowe Read online

  But the day he brought Julia home everything changed.

  We started going out to restaurants, the three of us. Sometimes just the two of them, but at least half the time it was me as well. Julia was in publishing, so the three of us talked about books and stuff. And we went to the theatre and we went to the ballet. We even did the opera once. It was all right.

  And that was that. Julia brought my dad back into my life. I was part of a proper family again. I hadn't had that for ages.

  I could remember being, like five or six, when Dad and Helen (my natural mum) were still together. We had holidays in Devon and also in Spain. And when it ended, Dad said sometimes people grow apart. I'd nodded and said I understood, but I didn't understand, not really. What does that even mean, 'grow apart'? You know, if Dad was alive and here today I'd ask him, 'How can you say grow apart like you're a pair of begonias or something?' People don't grow apart. Somebody always chooses.

  But when Julia came along I stopped thinking about all that. I had a proper family again and I was grateful. And we were a perfect family too. So, you know, why would I question it?

  Why would I question anything?

  Dad and Julia married fourteen months later. I was thrilled.

  And it was on the day of the wedding that I said, 'Julia, I was wondering, can I call you Mum?' or something like that.

  'Come here, Boo,' she said (which is what she calls me sometimes), and she held me tight for what seemed like ages. 'I love you, Boo,' she said. 'You're my little angel aren't you?'

  And I know that sounds cringe, but it was actually all right.

  I started calling her Mum the next day.

  After they got married Julia gave up work. She did a second degree. She went out and about and she met people for lunch. She took me to school and picked me up and drove me to hockey. We got really close. I told her everything. All the problems, all the little bullyings, all the shames and the embarrassments that kids have to deal with. I even talked about hockey and cycling and girls. She was a great listener. She'd offer advice when I asked for it, and sometimes when I didn't. But she always seemed to know the right thing to do.

  Except like I said, on Saturday, at the funeral, we didn't really talk at all. And on Sunday she was still acting distant. Granddad was staying with us, like because of the funeral and stuff and I'd gone to bed to play video games. Maybe meet up with Noah and Sophie online. So I was laying there on my bed and I heard Granddad and Julia arguing downstairs. Granddad's voice was raised and that was weird. But to be honest I'd had enough of people that day, and all of their petty bullshit. So I put on my headphones and I shut it out.

  But this morning (Tuesday) I was having breakfast in the kitchen, and I was looking on Snap, and this truck pulls up on the gravel out front.

  Julia was at the door, talking to a man.

  She says to me, 'Bart. Can I talk to you?'

  And I say, 'Okay.' I shovel some cereal into my mouth and I follow her into the study. 'There's a truck on the drive,' I say, talking with my mouth full. 'Have you bought something?'

  And she says, 'Bart. I've got something to tell you.'

  And nothing good ever comes after, 'I've got something to tell you.' So I start to think. Has she met somebody? Is she turning vegan? Is it heavier than that? God, maybe she's gay?

  'Boo,' she says. 'Listen. Your Dad and I. What the three of us had these last eight years. They've been good years. Incredible years. Good friends. Good times. And I've learned so much. And I've really grown, as a person too. I can feel it. And you know. Well, Bart, you've grown too. You've become this fine young man, and I want you to know I'm proud of you but-'

  'But?' I say.

  'But, when your dad died, I felt things. New things. I felt how things truly are. And how sometimes things just end. And that - well, new things begin.'

  I say, 'Are you pregnant?'

  She laughs, but it's not a nice laugh. It's sort of hollow. She says, 'God, I hope not!'

  'So?' I say.

  She composes herself and I see her shoulders hunch and she takes this really deep breath, and she says, 'Look, Bart. Your dad dying, it's like a message from time. Time for a new phase, a new beginning, for us both. There's a truck outside because I'm leaving. Not for good, not forever, but for a while - I don't know how long - and you mustn't worry. The house is paid for. There's more than enough money and your Granddad's going to stay and look after you while I'm gone. And of course I'm not saying that you need looking after. You're eighteen. You're a man.' And she takes a step closer to me as if she's going to touch me but she stops and she doesn't. 'Honestly Bart, it won't be forever. I just need. I don't know. I just need something. Maybe it's just time. Maybe something else - something other, I suppose. That's all.'

  And I can barely process what she's saying to me.

  So I say, 'You're just going? Just like that? Where? Where are you going, Mum? When are you coming back?'

  And she says, 'Cambridge. At first. I'm going to stay with Christine.' (and I have no idea who Christine even is!) 'After that, I don't quite know. I haven't decided.'

  And I can't even look at her. I'm turning from side to side, and I want to run away. Lock the doors. Stop her from leaving. I want to smash holes in walls.

  'Are you saying -' I say, and I can't even string my words together. 'Are you saying that you don't want to be my mum anymore?'

  And she does that sad face she does with the eyebrows raised, her there-there sad face that used to be exactly what I needed, but this time it's a mockery of itself and of my whole fucking life to boot.

  And she says, 'No. Of course I'm not saying that. Look, I don't quite know what I'm saying, but something isn't right for me, Bart. And it's something big, something important. And I need to go away and find out what it is.'

  And I say, 'We happy few.'

  And she says, 'What?'

  And I say, 'We happy few. I read it at the funeral, didn't I? 'We happy few', from Dad's favourite Shakespeare. I thought it was the three of us. You. Me. Dad. And when Dad used to say that, 'we happy few', that was what he meant wasn't it?

  And she says, 'Look Bart, I loved your Dad. I love you too. It won't be forever. But can't you see that's what makes it all so difficult? We're not a few anymore. We were, and we needed each other. But it's different now. I need to change. And so do you. I just need to reconnect with the world. To figure out some stuff. You can understand that can't you?'

  And I say, 'No, I can't. I don't understand it.' And I say, 'But you know what I do understand? I understand you. I understand that you've been a self-centred, manipulative, narcissistic, gold-digger. And that's what you are now. You're selfish and you're a narcissist. That's what I understand.'

  The sad face hardened at that.

  She says, 'I think it's best you don't contact me for a while.'

  And I say, 'Well go on then. Fuck off, Mum! Fuck off to Cambridge and don't come back.'

  And then she left, and she didn't come back.

  And she closed the door softly behind her.

  And I wish to God she'd slammed it.

  2

  They ran through the long grass, leaping over walls and bustling down paths at speeds amped just beyond reality. A biplane buzzing overhead, not shooting and not bombing yet.

  At the flinted farmhouse, they burst through the gate and into the fray. Enemy tracers stitching the spaces between them, and soldiers with dayglo tags firing and falling in the courtyard. And Bart waiting by the wall, hoping he couldn't be seen from the first-floor windows. The tag of Connor's avatar disappeared behind the boundary wall. He was up to something. A tank rattling by, diamond-shaped, like the ones they had in The Great War. The tank was tagged Blue and that made it dangerous, Green soldiers falling in its wake. Bart had to move fast. If he waited were he was, the tank would spot him, or some psycho twelve-year-old would bundle around the corner and spray him with machine-gun fire without a second thought.

  Noah said, 'Dude. I'm runnin
g to the barn. Cover me okay?'

  'Sure. Where are you?'

  'Right behind you, dummy.'

  Noah was always asking for cover. Too many films. 'Inglorious Bastards'. 'Fury'. Bart thought the whole idea of cover was flawed. With little to lose and a short time to win, these games were gung-ho craziness. Unlimited shots and unrestricted confrontation.

  But Bart did as he was asked, firing at any Blues around Noah.

  And Noah's avatar reached the wall and turned.

  'Go Bart! Run. I'll try not to shoot you!'

  'Get me killed, and I'll hit you for real.'

  A Blue appeared to Bart's right. He hadn't seen it and his screen flashed red, but his virtual momentum and superhuman constitution pulled him through, the virtual soldiers bumping past each other like dodgems at a fairground.

  'Ouch!' said Noah. 'Missed that one!'

  And when Bart reached the barn he bounced off Noah's avatar and around the side of the building. There was a double door at the back. Easy to enter but tough to defend. The four of them could make it a pretty solid fortress. There could be others already in there though, just waiting for a mug like him to show his face. But with nothing to lose and nothing at stake, you just had to go for it. There was no cause, no right or wrong. Puppies play-fighting in a pen.

  'I've got your back, dude,' said Noah. 'Okay –'

  But Bart had already left, running for the door of the barn. He was firing when he entered. There was no-one inside. A relief and an anti-climax. Then his screen flashed red. The controller vibrated. He spun. A Blue was coming straight at him.

  And then it convulsed, collapsed, dead.

  'So, I think I just saved your ass,' Noah said, flicking his long hair.

  But then Noah's avatar buckled too as a second Blue opened fire. And then that Blue was hit, taken down by rifle fire from the shadows and Bart joining in to finish the job. The two Blues were motionless on the ground waiting for the algorithms to magically sweep them away.

  And a Green walking towards them.

  'I guess I saved both you asses then,' Sophie said. 'Look. There's two ladders to the loft. My guess is there's one, but I think maybe two shooters up there.'

  'All right guys,' Noah said. 'The opening up there looks right out across the courtyard. We get up there and we're made. So if there's Blues up there, we clear them out. Go!'

  Sophie climbed the small ladder in the corner.

  'So I guess that's you and me up here then,' said Noah. 'You first bro.'

  Bart climbed the wide ladder and leaped into the loft. Two Blues. Both were busy firing on Greens in the courtyard. They had left the ladders unguarded. Bart had one free shot. He missed first, but still had time to fire again and score a good hit before the Blue turned to face him. Noah opened fire and took the Blue out for good. Sophie, from the other side of the barn took out the second - but not before Bart had taken another hit.

  One more and he'd be finished.

  Noah and Sophie whooped.

  'Me and Soph will take the guns, bro. You guard the barn.'

  So, with heavy machine guns, Sophie and Noah fired freely, taking out Blues in the courtyard below. And pretty soon the whole yard cleared, other players knowing that to cross it was suicide. So Noah began to fire off pot-shots at windows of other buildings where he thought Blues might be hiding.

  'Where are you Connor?' Noah asked, reveling in the confidence of his position.

  'Nearly with you,' Connor replied. 'Got a little held up.'

  'Grenade that tank, Soph,' Bart said.

  As the Blue tank rattled past, all three of them hurled grenades. The impacts didn't seem to affect the tank at all as it rolled on.

  'It can't have much left, surely?' said Noah.

  'Keep the front covered, you guys. I'm coming in the back,' said Connor.

  Not a lot seemed to be going on now. Most of the foot-soldiers had found cubby-holes in buildings that they didn't want to give up. Biplanes buzzed overhead now, carrying bombs that would start to flush them out into the open.

  'What do you say we go out there?' Bart said. 'Take down that tank or something?'

  'No way, bro,' Noah said. 'Everyone's holed up . We step out there we're dead - and Jeez bro, what are you, like eight percent? You're a dead man walking.'

  'He's right,' said Sophie. 'Don't get impatient Barty Boi. Let's just sit tight for the win.'

  Then gunfire.

  Loud, rapid gunfire.

  Sophie's screen flashed red and then faded, Noah turning just in time to see a Blue with a heavy machine gun taking him out at point blank range, his own screen gone red and fading quickly.

  Then the Blue was standing over Bart. It put the machine gun away and switched to a pistol.

  And Connor said, 'See ya Bart.'

  Bart thought about shooting, but at eight percent there wasn't much point. Connor took his time, raising the pistol until the cross-hairs centred on Bart's forehead.

  He fired a single shot.

  And the screen went red and faded.

  *

  'Dead man walking,' Connor said and he grinned, a wide smile with perfect teeth.

  Noah stood, pushing his long hair back, and for a moment he seemed paralysed. Then he wheeled round and threw his controller at Connor. Threw it really hard. Connor got up to face his friend down.

  'You're a fucking dick!' Noah said, and he left the room and he slammed the door.

  Sophie looked at Connor's screen.

  'Oh - my - God! Are you still playing?'

  'Yeah,' said Connor. 'Erm... I'm not dead.'

  Sophie pulled the power cable from his console.

  'Better?'

  Connor fell backwards. He was grinning, mischievously, but with genuine affection.

  'Come on guys. It's just a game, Soph.'

  Sophie gasped and she crossed her arms and her dark eyebrows dropped and her wide mouth pursed in judgment.

  'It's just a game. Right Bart? Tell her.'

  And Bart said, 'He's right Soph. It's just a game.'

  *

  Later, placing the slice of pepperoni pizza back in the box, Bart said, 'Guys? I've got an announcement.' Two seconds of silence. Then, 'I've got a private detective job.'

  'No! Way!' Sophie pushed her hands into her dark wavy hair, shook her head and did an exaggerated cartoon surprise face. 'No fucking way. No! My little Barty! You can't go! Who am I going to patronise without you?'

  She moved to embraced him but then she stopped dead still, and only her eyelids moved. And then Connor patted him on the back, grabbing his shoulder, shaking.

  And Connor said, 'Well done, mate. You can do this, yeah.'

  Sophie was still staring.

  Noah, who had calmed down since Sophie had applied the pressure and made Connor apologise, looked up, mouth half full of pizza.

  'So, go on bro,' he said. 'Tell us what the case is.'

  'I got to find a lad, like our age, make him go to school.'

  Noah almost choked on his pizza.

  'Yeah. I know, okay,' Bart said. 'Irony. Anyway, I reckoned you lot all thought that I was BS-ing you with all this P.I. stuff. And maybe I'd have thought that too if I was you, but there you go. I got a job! It's a real one! And I'm going to take it. I'm off to Margate tomorrow. So, there you go. What do you guys think? Like truth.'

  For a moment no one spoke.

  Then Noah approached him and placed a hand on Bart's shoulder.

  'Okay bro, I'm gonna be completely honest,' he said, 'I think you're crazy. You're totally mental dude. I mean, you are so smart, you could do literally anything, bro. Private Investigators don't even make that much - and have you ever met one? So, jeez Bart - I mean you know we're proud of you and everything, but -'

  A muscle spasmed in Bart's cheek.

  He said, 'Look Noah, I just want to do something. Like something important, you know, something good. Not make the world right exactly. But I do wanna make it a little bit less wrong. I know you don't understand.
'

  Then Connor stood up. He put his arm around his friend. And his arm was strong and his grip firm.

  'You can do it. I know you can. You can do anything, mate. And we're all totally on your side. No tricks in real life, yeah, no bullshit. Just friends. On your side man.'

  He offered Bart his fist and Bart pumped it. And he did the wink. The wink he knew was charming. The one the girls loved.

  But Sophie was shoveling things into her bag.

  'Soph?' said Bart.

  'What did your Granddad say about this?'

  'Soph?'

  Bart reached out for her but she shook him away.

  'You heard me,' she said. 'What has your Granddad said? You know, about this? What you're doing -'

  Bart stepped back.

  'I - I haven't told him.'

  She snorted and she shook her head, filled her rucksack and pulled the cord tight.

  'My God, can you boys even hear yourselves?' And she spoke with a raised, tremulous voice. 'Private Investigator - You can do this, mate – it's macho bullshit, all of it, and you're all idiots! All of you. Sorry Noah. Not you. You know, I do actually care about you Bart! I really fucking care. A lot. And you're going to throw away your exams, ruin your whole future - and for what? To go on some stupid quest because your mummy doesn't love you? You need to grow up! Everybody's family stinks. Everybody's does!'

  And Sophie Dean left the building. She didn't slam the door and she didn't come back. The boys heard her car start, its little wheels spinning on the gravel drive.

  Connor looked at Bart.

  He said, 'We're going to need a lift home, mate.'

  3

  Barbara didn't give her surname but she photographed his driving licence and his debit-card twice. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five and she had the unstable gaze and herky-jerky movements of the serious drinker.

  'The website said there was wi-fi?'

  'Best not to trust the agents,' she said. 'Everything's in the book.'

  The 'book' was in fact three crumpled sheets of A4, stapled, with a coffee stain in one corner and no mention of wi-fi. But the room was big, and the bed was big and ugly, with a varnished pine headboard and a salmon pink throw, a quilted cover and floral cushions. Topping it all off was an improvised four poster frame, draped in what looked like net curtains. In the corner of the room, a TV, wires sprawling out like the legs of a drunken spider.