Chapter 16 #2
A weedy guy with a narrow rodent-like face answers the door. He’s wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt with a splodge of dried ketchup on it and jeans with a hole in the knee.
“Can I—” His voice cuts off abruptly as he catches sight of Oliver. His mouth falls open, gaping unattractively like a starstruck hippo, as the color drains from his face.
“Are you Trevor Adamson?” Oliver is in prime minister mode with his deep, confident voice.
Trevor blinks like he’s trying to clear his vision. “Uh…yes?”
“I’m Oliver Hartwell, the prime minister.” Somehow, Oliver manages to assert even more authority into his voice, giving it the full weight of his job title.
Trevor blinks again. “Um…all right. Uh…hi. Nice to meet you.” His voice is on the high side, with a quaver running through it.
“I would say it’s nice to meet you in return, but unfortunately, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been operating social media accounts harassing the Prince of Wales.”
Gee, if Oliver ever decides to pursue another career, school principal would be a good choice.
Maybe that’s what the prime minister actually is. School principal to the entire nation.
A look of pure terror comes onto Trevor’s face before he rallies. “I haven’t done anything illegal,” he says.
“No, I didn’t say you have. But a common piece of advice is that you shouldn’t say anything to someone online that you wouldn’t say to their face. Do you want to read your Tweets to the Prince of Wales?”
Trevor swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The Prince of Wales isn’t here.”
“I beg to differ.”
Oliver’s head jerks toward me, and I know it’s my moment to step forward.
If Trevor’s shocked to see Oliver on his doorstep, it’s nothing compared to when I move into the pool of light.
He goes even paler and grips the side of his doorway for support.
“Do you want to look the Prince of Wales in the eyes right now and repeat all the vile things you’ve been saying about him?”
Trevor won’t meet my gaze.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” he mutters.
“Fun for whom? Do you think it’s fun for the Prince of Wales?”
“I didn’t know he was reading it.”
“Well, that’s the thing about social media. You never know who is reading it. All the more reason to be polite, I would think.”
Trevor can’t hold Oliver’s gaze, dropping his eyes to a patch of threadbare carpet.
Inexplicably, I feel a rush of pity for him. He’s living in a rundown apartment, and if he’s got time to harass me so thoroughly, he’s probably not working. He definitely doesn’t give the impression of leading an emotionally satisfying life.
“I like your shirt,” I say. “Are you a Black Sabbath fan?”
Oliver and Trevor both look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Yes,” Trevor says eventually, his voice faint. “Yes, I like Black Sabbath.”
“Me too. ‘Peace of Mind’ is my favorite song of theirs. What’s yours?”
“Uh…‘War Pigs.’”
I nod my approval. “That has a sick bassline.”
“Are you guys for real?” There’s an element of pleading in Trevor’s voice as his eyes flick between Oliver and me like he’s really hoping this is all just some hallucination.
I know that feeling. I have it most days.
“Actually, you got us. We’re just actors who look like the prime minister and the Prince of Wales who’ve been hired to track down all the trolls on social media and give you a little piece of free advice,” Oliver says.
“What advice?” The words seem to fall from Trevor’s lips without his consent.
“Go find something positive to do with your life instead of always looking to pull people down. Because karma will always find you in the end, I promise.”
“My mom always said, ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,’” I add helpfully.
A small smile creeps onto Oliver’s face, and he glances at me. “I think we’re finished here.”
I nod. “It was nice to meet you, Trevor.”
Trevor doesn’t reply. He continues to stand there, blinking at us in bewilderment.
Oliver turns on his heel and walks back down the path. I follow him back to the car.
“So that’s the most patriotic man in Britain,” Oliver says once we’re inside the car. “I think we might be in trouble if that’s the case.”
“How did you find out who he was?” I ask.
Oliver smirks at me. “I’m the prime minister. There’s got to be some perks, right?”
I settle back in my seat as the car starts. My limbs still feel slightly shaky. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
Oliver shrugs. “We didn’t do anything wrong. And he might Tweet about it, but who in the world is going to believe him?”
I blow out a breath, ruffling my hair. “No one,” I admit.
Oliver’s watching me closely. “I wanted you to see that the people who abuse you online are just people. Sad people, often, because they need to get their social contact from harassing people they don’t know. Would you pay someone like Trevor much attention if he was heckling you in the street?”
“No. I guess I wouldn’t.”
“I sometimes don’t think the public sees us as real,” Oliver says. “They don’t realize famous people are real people with real emotions. And they say things they would never, ever say to your face.” He’s still staring at me intently like he’s trying to will the words into my brain.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
Oliver did this for me. Oliver Hartwell, the most important man in Britain, took time from his day to try to make me feel better.
“You’re welcome. And I love how you decided to bond with the guy who’s been tormenting you.”
My face heats, but I shrug my shoulders. “He’s still a person, you know?”
Oliver tilts his head, regarding me for a long moment. “You’re one of a kind, Callum,” he says finally.
“I’ve been told that a lot in my life, actually,” I say jokingly. But never with the admiration that’s in Oliver’s voice, if I’m honest.
There’s silence in the car, and it feels like it’s weighted with so much as we stare at each other.
Oliver swallows hard, ripping his gaze away from mine to look out the window.
“This is close to where I grew up,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yes. The council estate where I lived is only a few streets away.”
“Can you show me?” I ask. There’s a tinge of pleading in my voice. I want to know everything about Oliver. I want to see the places that helped shape him into the man he is today.
A frown springs up on his face. “All right.”
Oliver leans forward to give instructions to the driver, and we swing around in the opposite direction.
“That’s the council estate where I grew up,” he says a minute later.
I stare out the window. There’s not much to see in the dim light, just a tall ugly concrete building with rows of uniform windows. The glow from a few scattered streetlamps throws a patchwork of shadows on its tired facade.
Next, we’re turning the corner and driving past what looks like a standard elementary school with high fences around an empty playground.
“And that was my old school,” Oliver says. “I gave a speech there a few years ago, and nothing had really changed. Some of the teachers were even the same.”
“Did your teachers remember you?” I ask.
He snorts. “I was the kid who questioned everything they said and got into more than my fair share of scrapes, so yes, they definitely remembered me.”
The school ground gives way to a park with a small thickening of trees behind the soccer pitch.
“I cut across this park every day to get home,” Oliver tells me.
“When I was in primary school, our teacher organized everyone in our class to plant a tree in the woods on an environmental day. Somehow, I ended up getting the worst seedling of the bunch, this tiny oak tree that was wilting with only one leaf left.” He laughs softly.
“Most of the class didn’t even go back to check on their tree after they planted it, but I was so bloody determined my tree was going to live.
I used to water it every day on the way home. ”
“Did it survive?” I ask.
He nods. “By the time I got to secondary school, it was taller than me.”
“Let’s go check and see if it’s still there,” I say.
The frown is back on Oliver’s face.
“Why not?” he says.
He directs our driver to pull over.
It appears we’re giving our security team a few challenges this evening. I can see their bewilderment as they get out of their cars and Oliver tells them about our planned adventure.
Unexpected stops don’t exactly make security teams sing with happiness.
But after we get the all-clear, Oliver leads the way down a path alongside the soccer pitch, old leaves crackling under our feet.
The hassle is worth it because when we reach the twenty-foot oak tree that dwarfs all the other trees around it, crunching robust acorns under our shoes, Oliver stares up at it, and for a moment, I glimpse that tenacious little boy who was so determined that his seedling would survive against all odds.
“Pretty sure that’s the best metaphor for your life standing right there,” I say softly.
Oliver turns to look at me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.