Chapter 14
GEORGE
George stood in the Laines, looking into his dad’s favourite noodle bar.
He was ravenous. He knew MM would be really pleased to see him, but he really thought that he should have a food stop before he went to the flat, something to help him to get over the bad stuff that had happened.
The DH always said that there was no problem that couldn’t be solved by chocolate and cuddles.
George disagreed. In his opinion, fresh, hot noodles in a little carton or sushi from one of those ace conveyor belts were the things that would be able to make him happy whatever else was going on.
You couldn’t get sushi anywhere in Clayton-on-the-Bream, apart from those little plastic-wrapped trays of fishy things in the best supermarket, and the noodles only came in a disgusting solid lump in a packet.
Now, if that man Leo was to give his café a Japanese theme, George might be more interested in living there.
He’d heard them talking about his chocolate project.
What a load of rubbish. Chocolate was for kids.
There was no way George was going to live in a bookshop with a café that only sold sweet stuff.
He rummaged in his pocket and found his stash of two-pound coins.
Would that be enough? MM had always paid for his Brighton snacks.
He thought of the small wad of money in his wallet; that skinny boy would probably be enjoying himself with it now.
A sudden thought struck George. What if the boy used his mum’s credit card to buy stuff, on eBay, say?
Oh, well, there was nothing he could do about that, and he was very hungry.
A few minutes later, with a box of noodles in his hand, George walked purposefully towards the sea.
The crowds were starting to annoy him now, jostling and bustling, all on their way to somewhere much more fun.
It was hot too, and George was thirsty. Luckily he still had some of his Vimto left.
He drained the bottle. He would soon be at the flat now to refill it.
Nearly all his had gone and he really needed to see his dad.
Heading for the pier to orientate himself, George suddenly wondered if he should have sneaked a call from his mum’s phone before he left home to say he was on his way, but MM was very bad at messages.
His mobile was ancient, and was never charged up properly.
He had no Internet access in his flat either, even if he could have afforded a laptop.
If people moaned at him for being hard to get hold of, he always said, ‘Chill, man. Bad news travels fast anyway, and if it’s good news, it’s all the better for the wait. ’
George wished his dad didn’t hate phones so much, dads should be able to be contacted in an emergency, like now, for instance.
George was beginning to think that MM didn’t seem all that grown up for someone over thirty.
It would be cool to just ring him now, if he could find some kind person to let him use their mobile for a minute or two to make a call.
Then MM could come out and meet him. They could go to that health bar by the pier and have some iced mango and pomegranate juice, and then they might walk to the end of the pier and watch the people on the big rides, the ones that swung you right out over the sea.
Or even see if the little train was still running up to the Marina and go and look at the boats for a while.
George loved the jingle jangle of the masts.
It reminded him of a holiday at some harbour place in Norfolk that they’d had before DH got all stupid about MM being lazy and ‘unmotivated’, whatever that meant.
As George passed the Sea Life Centre, he started to get nervous.
He had a nasty graze over his eye, and only 50p left in his pocket.
He was just beginning to realise what DH and Grumpy Granny would think of his adventure.
They would probably try to ground him; that had never worked, although it seemed to make them feel better.
George had his own ways of getting out of the house day or night and he had no wish to go and play with anyone else anyway, but it made life difficult if they were cross all the time.
Oh, well, perhaps it would be different this time.
Maybe when Mum realised how much George needed to see his dad, she’d suggest that they all lived together in one house again.
Not with GG, obviously. She had never liked Dad, but somewhere of their own would be fun.
It might even be near the sea. That would be wicked.
Ten minutes later, George recognised the tall block of flats where MM had a room.
They didn’t look as nice as he remembered them.
Some of the windows were even dirtier than his dad’s and there was litter blowing around the steep steps to the basement flat.
It looked very dark in there. Maybe the electricity had been cut off again.
That seemed to happen a lot around here.
George banged on the door. No one answered.
He banged again, and heard a rather pathetic voice shouting, ‘Daaaaaaad.’ It couldn’t have been him, surely?
After a few more minutes’ knocking, George started to cry – loud, embarrassing sobs that shook his narrow shoulders and made his nose run.
At that, a window flew open above his head.
‘What the fuck? Who’s making that godawful noise? Some of us are trying to sleep here…’
George looked up hopefully.
‘I’m looking for my dad. Is he up there?’
A man with a full head of ginger dreadlocks and a dazzling diamond stud in his lower lip was leaning out of the first-floor window. He peered at George, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily.
‘You don’t mean Mozzer, do you? He’s gone away, man. Not seen him all week. Think he’s bummed a lift to a festival up north somewhere. You need any help, mate?’
George tried to be sensible and to stop crying, but this was the worst news ever.
Dad gone? To the North? They’d been doing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in his class just before he left, and George really liked the way his teacher got all the kids to shout, ‘Narnia and the North!’ as they ran out into the playground for break.
He wondered if MM had remembered to take his thick donkey jacket; he’d heard that it was cold in the North.
Certainly it was always cold in Narnia. What did the beaver say?
Something about ‘Always winter but never Christmas’?
Suddenly having an urgent need to find Dad before he froze to death or was turned to stone by the Witch, George picked up his backpack and ran, back up the steps, across the road, and straight into the path of a passing taxi.
There was a screech of brakes, and, for the second time in an hour, George’s head hit the ground.