“THEY’VE GOT THIS bridge in Turkey,” I harpoon a sausage and juice dribbles from the prong holes, “with Europe on one side and Asia on the other. I’m going there. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. And I love Switzerland. Well, I love the idea of Switzerland, though the closest I’ve ever been is eating a bar of Toblerone …”
“You’ll adore it.” Heidi swallows her toast and dabs her lips with a tissue. “La Fontaine Saint-Agnиs is one of my favorite places on Earth, nestled up near Mont Blanc. My mother’s second husband had a lodge there so we’d go skiing most Christmases. Switzerland’s pricey, that’s the only thing.”
“Then I’ll drink snow and eat Ritz biscuits. And thanks again for breakfast, Ian. These sausages are incredible.”
He shrugs modestly. “I’m from three generations of Lincolnshire butchers, so I ought to know my stuff. Will your Grand Tour be a solo expedition, Tracy, or will you take a traveling companion?”
“The poor lass’s love life is none of your business,” Heidi tells him, “Captain Snoop. Ignore him, Tracy.”
“It’s okay,” I say, swallowing. “Actually I don’t have a boyfriend right now. I—I—I did up till recently, but …” My throat sort of closes.
“Any brothers and sisters?” As Heidi changes the subject I can tell she’s kicked Ian under the table.
“One sister, Sharon, and my brother Jacko.” I slurp some tea and leave Brendan out of it. “But they’re both a few years younger so, yeah, it’ll be a solo expedition. How ’bout you two? Any holidays planned?”
“Well, between the Party conference and helping the miners,” says Heidi, “we’ll try to get to Bordeaux in August. Visit my mother.”
“Can’t wait,” Ian mimes being hanged, “I don’tthink. I’ve used my wicked wiles to seduce Heidi into an evil cult of lefty loonies, you see.”
“The joke is that Ian’s parents are sure I’ve done the same to him,” says Heidi. “We should have an anti-wedding and split up.” She dabs her lips. “Is Corcoran an Irish name, Tracy?”
I nod and fork a tomato. “Mum’s from West Cork.”
“Whatever the rights and wrongs of the Troubles,” Ian reaches for the ketchup, “every post-1920 revolution owes a debt to the Irish. The English reckon they handed Ireland over out of magnanimity, but no; the Irish wonit back, by inventing modern guerrilla warfare.”
“My aunt Roisнn,” I reply, “says the English never remember and the Irish never forget.”
Ian’s still slapping the bottom of the ketchup bottle, but nothing’s coming out. “I despair of humanity. We can put a man on the moon but can’t invent a way of getting tomato sauce out of a bottle without—” A huge dollop glollops out, smothering his bacon.
I’M DOING THE washing-up. Ian and Heidi were all “No no no, you’re our guest,” but I insisted. Secretly I’m hoping they’ll offer to give me a lift over to Black Elm Farm later, or maybe invite me again next Sunday, if I don’t go back to Gravesend. Heidi might share her hair dye with me. I rinse the glasses first and wipe them with a dry cloth, like we do at the pub so you don’t get streaks. Suds drip off the marble chopping board, and I let it drain next to a lethal carving knife. A song called “As I Went Out One Morning” by Bob Dylan’s on the cassette player; Ian told me to choose anything so I chose this John Wesley Hardingtape. The mouth organ would normally put me off, but this song’s great; his voice is like the wind swerving through a weird day. “Cool choice,” says Heidi, passing through the kitchen barefoot. “I haven’t heard this for eons.” Inside I glow. She goes outside with a book called Inside the Whaleby George Orwell; we did his Animal Farmin English, so maybe I can impress her later. Heidi leaves the patio door open so the smell of grass drifts in. Then Ian comes in and puts a Pyrex jug of milk into the microwave. I’ve never seen one close up. Turn the dial, push a button, and forty seconds later, ping, the milk’s steaming. I tell Ian, “That’s like Star Trek.”
“The Future,” says Ian, in a film-trailer voice. “Coming soon, to a Present near you.” He puts the jug on a tray with three mugs and posh coffee made in a plunger-thing. “When you’re done, join us outside for cafй au lait.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what one of them is.
Ian takes the tray out to the patio. I check the time: ten-thirty. Mam’ll be going to church now, maybe with Jacko, who sort of goes to keep her company. Dad’ll take Newky along the river for a run in the Ebbsfleet direction, towards London. Or are they walking up to Peacock Street now? Here am I, doing fine, carrying on with the washing-up, and Dylan moves on to a song called “I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine.” It’s a ploddier, howl-at-the-moon sort of song, but finally I get why everyone raves ’bout Dylan. Through the window, down the long garden, foxgloves and red-hot pokers sway a bit. The lawns and flower beds are pretty as a picture on a tin of shortbread, and earlier I asked Ian and Heidi if they’re gardeners as well as postgrads. Heidi says a man from Faversham comes a few hours a fortnight “To breathe order into chaos.” That didn’t sound very socialist to me either, but I kept my mouth shut ’cause I don’t want to come over smart-arsy.
THE WASHING-UP WATER glurps down the plug-hole, a teaspoon clatters in the sink, and Bob Dylan has a cardiac arrest halfway through “All Along the Watchtower.” Oh, no! The tape’s being eaten: When I press eject, a tangle of brown spaghetti spills out. I’m a dab hand at fixing tapes with a little rectangle of Sellotape, though, so I go onto the patio to ask Ian and Heidi where they keep it. They’re both lying on these wooden lounger things, behind a wall of Ali Baba pots with herbs. Heidi’s book’s dropped to the ground, with her thumb still sandwiched in it; she’s out for the count. Ian’s snoozing, too, his head tilted to one side and his sunglasses skewed. The tray of coffee things is on a low wall. They must’ve been exhausted. Cautiously I call Heidi’s name but she doesn’t stir. Bees graze the herby hedge, sheep baaa, a tractor drones away. That low bump half a mile away is the Isle of Sheppey, and that sticky-up thing’s the bridge. Then I notice three, four, more busy black dots zigzagging up Heidi’s arm.
I take a proper look ’cause they can’t be ants …
They are. “Heidi! You’ve got ants crawling up you!”
But she doesn’t react. I sort of brush the ants off her, but I smear a couple by mistake. What’s wrong with them? “Heidi!” I shake her arm harder, and she slides over onto the side arm of the lounger, like a comedy drunk, but this isn’t funny. Her head slumps over and her sunglasses slide off and then I see her eyes—they’re all iris and no black bit in the middle. I sort of leap back with a scared gaaa!noise and almost fall over. Ian hasn’t stirred so, frantic now, I call his name—and see a furry fly crawling along his plump lips. My hand’s unsteady as I lift the baseball cap off his face. The fly buzzes off. His eyes are the same as Heidi’s—like he’s just died of some new plague—and I drop the hat and that same shaky gasp judders out of me. A bird in the pink roses threads sharp and shiny notes together, and my mind’s throbbing and woozy and only half here, but it serves up one explanation regardless: Heidi and Ian have food poisoning from breakfast. Food poisoning from breakfast. But after only twenty minutes? Possibly, but I don’t have the same symptoms. We all ate the same stuff. Next I think, Heart attack, but that’s not much of a theory. Drug overdose?Then I think, Stop thinking, Sykes—call for an ambulancenow …
… the phone’s on a stand thing in the lounge, through the kitchen. Dash through, dial 999, and wait for the operator. Answer, hurry hurry hurry, now now now!The line’s silent. Then I notice a man in the mirror, watching from the armchair in the corner. The gears of what’s real slip. I turn round and there he is, in the archway between the kitchen and lounge. I know him. The piranha eyes, the curly black locks, the busted nose—the man from my daymare in the underpass, in the kite-shaped room. His chest’s heaving like he’s run uphill. He barks at me, “Which one are you?”