39
YOU DON’T ASK YOUR mum or your dad about the people. You tell yourself they’re insignificant. You tell yourself they don’t matter at all. After all, even if they did end up thinking you’re an alien, then what could they do about it? It’s not like they could phone NASA and put you on the first rocket back to the middle of Nowhere Land, Planet Unknown. It’s not like they could trap you in a cage and exhibit you at the zoo. Could they?
After a few months have passed, you get the feeling they’re not coming back. You feel this in your gut. Without knowing why, you’re pretty sure you’re rid of these guys forever.
And then you lose your library card.
You don’t know when or where or how you lose it – three things that might help you locate it again. It might have slipped out of your wallet on the bus, as you were searching for the correct change to give the driver. But it also might have fallen down the back of the sofa at Bobby’s house, as you were slumping in front of the telly with him. Or it might have simply spontaneously disintegrated one day from overuse. You don’t know. You just know that, once, a few days prior, you used your library card, but now you don’t know where it is. This is a shame because you wanted to go to the library today. In fact, you were just preparing to leave for the library. And if you want to take books out – which you do, you always do – then you need your card.
You spend a whole hour looking for it in your room. You strip your bed, turn over your laundry basket, empty every drawer you have. Then you look behind the radiators, in the bottom of shoes, down the back of the sofa cushions. No luck.
So you start retracing your steps – make the journey into town. You are a creature of habit. You always take the bus, sit in the same seat, on the same route, and walk down the same parts of the same pavements. Eyes to the ground, you scan for your card. It is nowhere.
You walk into the library itself.
‘Maggie, have you seen my library card?’ you ask, interrupting her conversation with a new member of staff. ‘Has it been handed in?’
Maggie looks up, evidently startled by your sudden appearance. Once she has collected her thoughts, she raises her index finger. ‘Bear with,’ she says, opening the lost-property drawer, politer than she needs to be. ‘It’s not here, sweetheart. You’ve lost it, then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We can order you a new one, no problem. It’ll be sent to your home address. You haven’t moved house, have you?’
‘But I wanted to take books out today.’
Maggie purses her lips. ‘Well, you can’t today. You could get your mum to take some out for you? Has she got her card?’
You shake your head. ‘She’s at my auntie’s. She’s not back till tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry, petal. Why don’t you read what you want just in here for today and tomorrow you can go ask your mum and then take books out like normal?’
‘How long will it take for the new card to be delivered?’
Maggie shrugs. ‘Depends on the post.’
You know Maggie is being nice, but you don’t like her response. You feel like she doesn’t get it. You feel like she doesn’t understand that you don’t want to get the books out tomorrow. You want to get them out today. You always want to take books out today. You leave the library without bidding her farewell – in a manner that might be called storming out.
On the bus back home, the man behind you has a phone that keeps on ringing. It’s annoying. The beep beep beep of the ring is annoying. Minutes pass and it’s still ringing. You don’t know if he hasn’t heard it. Maybe he can’t hear so well. Maybe he simply enjoys taunting the general public.
‘Will you answer that?’ you say, whipping your head around to face the man behind you.
The man behind you frowns. ‘No,’ he says.
‘Maybe just switch it off, then.’
He makes a face.
‘What?’ you ask.
‘You’re very rude.’
‘Your phone is very rude.’
‘For goodness’ sake.’
Your bad temper continues when you get home. The house is empty. You pace its length, breadth, height, and width. You feel like you will live in this house forever. You feel like crying, and so you do – emptying your internal reservoirs as you empty some storage boxes that you come across. Your sense of proportion has gone out of whack. You know this. You know it’s just a library card. But you also know you wanted your library card two hours ago and it’s still not here.
You tip out a folder. Some old schoolwork. This French exam got an A. This maths exam got a B. You shuffle through your wallet again. Loyalty card. Points card. Gift card. Cash withdrawal card. Business card.
Business card.
It’s not what you were looking for, but the business card grabs your attention all the same. It’s the only one you’ve ever been given, the only one you’ve ever seen. On it is the name of a doctor, as well as contact information for this doctor. This doctor is not a medical doctor. This doctor is just someone with a doctorate. You regard the information carefully, then lie on your bed for a while – everything you’ve ever owned in a state of disarray.
Later that day, you go down to the computer room and fire up the machine. You wonder how to start the email. You write some sentences. After reading them, you realise they’re awful. You delete them, then write some similar sentences. At the end of the message, you attach an essay. Your hands shake slightly as you hit send.
Two days later, you get a reply.
‘We’ve got a school trip next Friday,’ you say to your mum, who is reading How to Bake – lingering over the chapter on quiche.
‘Ooo,’ she says, ‘that’s nice. Do you need me to sign anything?’
‘No, Dad already did.’
‘Where you going?’
‘London.’
‘Ah, OK. Will you have your phone with you?’
‘I don’t have a phone.’
‘Huh. Well, maybe we should get you one. Whereabouts in London?’
‘The Imperial War Museum,’ you say, having researched an answer to this question earlier.
‘Yikes,’ your mum says, shaking her head, apparently not a fan of imperial wars. ‘Well, I hope you have a good time.’