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She laughed. One of those congested laughs people do when they’re crying. I don’t know why I asked if she were with a cat. Well, I do: I’m an idiot.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing. There was a sigh like ripped paper. The sobbing stopped. Usual service had resumed. ‘I was just feeling a little overwhelmed. How are you doing?’
I closed my eyes, imagining I knew how to talk to women.
‘Chilling,’ I said and immediately regretted it. ‘Not chilling. It’s been a weird few days.’
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it. Look. I don’t want to unload but … do you mind if I unload?’
For a brief, brilliant moment, I thought she was about to lay into Harry.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Unload away.’
‘So Dad, fresh from the no-insurance revelation, has just announced we’ve got until the end of August to find, like, six weeks’ rent as a deposit.’
‘That’s lame,’ I said, disappointed this wasn’t about Harry and not entirely sure what she meant.
‘That’s, like, thousands of pounds and we’ve literally got nothing. And if we don’t pay, we get evicted.’
‘I’m sure something’ll work out,’ I said. ‘Your dad knows people.’ The grunting sound coming out of my phone indicated Beth wasn’t as confident. ‘And, anyway, what if I got you the money?’
Beth laughed.
‘You? How?’
I thought back to the incident in the post office.
‘Winning the lottery?’
‘That’s sweet, Dylan, but are you even old enough to buy a ticket?’
‘No, but they don’t know that and we could go on holiday to, like, Hawaii and pay people to do our GCSEs and did you know the capital of Hawaii is Honolulu?’
‘Honolulu?’ said Beth.
‘It’s fun to say.’
‘Honolulu,’ said Beth again.
‘Honolulu,’ I replied.
There was a bass rumble down the line, a thumping sound.
‘It’s Mum,’ said Beth. ‘I’ve got to go.’
The line disconnected and I lay staring at the ceiling for a while before creeping back downstairs.
Dad had been waiting.
‘There’s this film I recorded …’ he said the very second I walked into the room.
I collapsed into the sofa and as I did so a huge smash broke through the house. Had I broken the chair? No. The sound had come from above. I almost expected Mum to crash through the ceiling, but she didn’t. The noise was metallic, like a car hitting another car. Rita and Mum were soon standing in the front room’s doorway, faces pulled in alarm. Mum held Rita’s hand.
Even though it was late afternoon, Rita was in her pyjamas (decorated with cartoon dogs). Mum wore jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. She often claimed to be going off for a run, but other than the ‘activewear’, there was no evidence that she ever did. Evidence like leaving the house, for instance.
‘What was that?’ she asked. ‘That noise?’
‘It sounded like something hit the roof,’ said Rita. ‘Like maybe a drone.’
My heart froze at the thought of FBI agents streaming from the attic. They’d found the note. I was done for. This was it – the scene of my arrest. I should have liked to wear something smarter than an old Palace training top. And what if I were put into a cell with a load of Brighton fans?
‘Probably just the aerial,’ said Dad. ‘Sounded like the aerial. It’s looked like it was going to fall for months. Don’t worry. It’s the aerial.’
My heart continued to beat. If I had to imagine what an aerial falling off a roof sounded like, it would have been the exact sound I’d just heard. And the FBI agents would have stormed the front room by now. And, anyway, what would the FBI be doing in Orpington?
Rita pointed at the TV.
‘The picture’s still there,’ she said.
‘Kay?’ said Mum. ‘Are you not going to do anything?
Dad, rising and sighing, told Rita that we got our TV from a cable.
I nodded. Idiot.
‘Oh,’ said Rita.
As Dad looked for his trainers and Rita disappeared upstairs, Mum told me to help my father.
‘You wouldn’t want him falling off,’ she said.
Although it was wet outside, it wasn’t raining. It meant Dad could go ahead with climbing up on to the roof to investigate and I’d have to expend energy helping him.
(#ulink_eb6d12d9-0a79-5f31-b651-300f546f0199)
Use Technology to Your Advantage (#ulink_eb6d12d9-0a79-5f31-b651-300f546f0199)
Ours is a small terraced house, built for workers at a brewery long since bust. The roof sits steeply, like an upside-down V, and almost fringes the upstairs windows. The aerial had toppled, but hadn’t fallen to the ground. It lay across the roof slates held by its white cable.
Dad grabbed a wire cutter from his van. The rear doors creaked.
‘Stop gawping and help me with the ladder,’ he said, untying it from the van’s roof rack.
The ladder, when extended, reached half a metre below the aerial.
‘Hold it tight,’ said Dad. ‘Concentrate. You don’t want your father’s death on your conscience. You’d turn to drink and foul language.’
He climbed the ladder. It trembled as he rose. The rubber grips on the feet held the grey tarmac and I didn’t have to try hard to keep it from slipping. Dad reached the top rung and lowered his chest and stomach to the roof. It was a strange image, as if he’d fallen asleep on top of the house. I wanted to take a picture.
Positioned alongside the aerial, he stretched to cut its cable and set it free.
‘I’m just going to let it fall, so mind yourself,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you getting squashed. There’d be a terrible mess to clean up.’
He stretched to get at the white cord.
‘Oops,’ he said.
The ladder strained with metallic groans. Dad swore.
And, very slowly but with unceasing inevitability, he lost his balance.
He managed to fall head first, knocking the aerial to one side and slipping quickly on his belly down the damp tiles. I jumped from the ladder and briefly stood with my arms out underneath the gutter, as he slid down the slate, at the point where he might land.
He screamed swearwords as his arms, head, chest and legs slipped into empty air.
I braced myself to be struck by Dad’s heavy body. He jolted to a stop. The turn-up of his right jean had caught on a nail. His body swung inwards and smacked against my sister’s bedroom window. The glass wobbled but didn’t break and Dad hung face down from the guttering.
He swore once more.
Rita appeared at her window, screamed and pulled the curtains together.
Standing under my father’s reddening face, a gap of about three metres separating his head from mine, I asked if he were okay.
‘Does it look like I’m okay? Get your mother!’ he hissed. ‘Quickly, Dylan!’
But Mum was already outside, standing next to Rita and holding Rita’s hand.
‘What should we do?’ she asked.
Dad dropped a centimetre as his denim ripped.
Spit rained as he replied.
‘Move the ladder, for Christ’s sake!’
I moved the ladder. Its legs scraped along the ground.
Upside down, he told me to grip its base.
He managed to get his hands on the sides of the ladder. As he did, the denim tore free and he swung one hundred and eighty degrees. The ladder shifted slightly, but heroically I held it from falling. Dad’s legs swept past the top of my head and his feet found a rung. They struck the ladder with a metallic clang.
He was safe.
I stepped out of the way as he climbed down. His face was as red as an Arsenal shirt.
‘You okay?’ asked Mum. ‘You were swearing ever so much … the neighbours …’
He patted my back.
‘Good job, son,’ he said. ‘What a team. Sorry about the swearing.’
‘The aerial’s still just hanging there,’ said Rita.
Dad ignored her.
We went back to the sofa. Dad brought through a beer from the kitchen. A length of denim trailed from his right leg like a snake had its fangs caught in his ankle. He offered me a beer, but I turned it down. It’s best your parents don’t think you drink.
‘Close shave, Dylan,’ he said. ‘Close shave. Should get these bad boys framed.’ (He meant his jeans.) ‘Put them on the wall like footballers do their shirts. I could’ve died out there. Funny how life turns on insignificant details. Like the type of trousers you’re wearing. There’s a film in that. The Right Trousers.’
He pulled open his beer can. Foam rose and he took the can to his mouth quickly, his eyes rolling.
‘Let’s watch something,’ he said, when he’d finished gulping. ‘Take our minds off things.’
As he’d just escaped death, I couldn’t say no.
Office Space was funny. In a not-laughing-out-loud, grown-up comedy way. The main character, Peter, gets hypnotised to cope with work stress. But the hypnotist dies of a heart attack before breaking Peter’s trance. As a consequence of his altered state, Peter doesn’t care about anything and goes through his days only doing stuff that makes him happy. (A bit like Rita.) He gets promoted at work. He gets a sexy girlfriend (young Jennifer Aniston). I guess there’s a life lesson there, but, anyway, although it’s never made entirely clear, the main character and his friends essentially work for a bank. And what do you do when you work for a bank? You conspire to rob the bank.
‘Are there loads of films about robbing banks?’ I dare to ask Dad.
‘It’s a whole genre,’ he says, without turning from the screen. ‘The heist. It’s human nature to want something without having to work for it. Like you and your GCSEs.’
As the end credits rolled Dad asked if I fancied another film. The night was yet young. Rita was out drinking. Mum was exercising. We could easily fit another movie in.
I grunted something noncommittal thinking, Fine as long as it was nothing with Emma Stone.
As he scrolled through the options, I thought about Office Space. Or, more particularly, Peter’s plan for stealing money. Even though the film was set in 1999, before Chelsea or Man City won stuff, Peter didn’t use a gun or a note. He used computer code, programmed to take tiny amounts from all the financial transactions managed by the company’s servers. The money taken at each calculation would be too small to be noticed. However, because of the huge amount of transactions, the amount of ‘stolen’ cash would soon grow. This was a film and fictional thieves can’t get away with breaking the law, so it turns out the code is faulty. Loads of money is taken over a single weekend and the three robbers are screwed, but—
Dad asked if I preferred the Coen brothers or Wes Anderson. But what if a code like the one in Office Space actually existed? What if it could be bought online, on the dark Web, for example? Wouldn’t that be an easy and effective way of robbing a bank? Isn’t everything electronic these days? You wouldn’t even need a balaclava or ski mask.
‘Do you think it would work?’
‘What?’
‘A computer code? To rob a bank?’
‘Can’t see why not. If they can download pictures of naked celebs from the naked celebs’ phones, they can install shady code on a cash machine. Probably happens all the time.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Hmm.’
Because he was right.
Mum appeared. She was wearing sports clothes, but was also completely sweat-free. In her right hand was half a glass of white wine.
‘Can I get my boys anything?’ she said. ‘Are you about to watch something? Shove up, let us join. What a day!’
She forced herself down on to the sofa, a sofa designed for two, a sofa on which I was now squashed between Mum and Dad.
Plan: I’d pretend to need a slash but wouldn’t return. In my bedroom, I’d get on the computer and search the dark Web for code to rob banks. Here was a path forward, and it made me feel light-headed like I’d had a glass or two of Mum’s wine.
