Stuck on Me (12 page)

I have to know. ‘Did he ever mention me? His family? I have two sisters, you know.’

Reg concentrates hard. ‘He sometimes talked about his girls but I can’t remember what he said. Just that he was fond of you. He had some photos that he put above his bed. All pretty
girls, his daughters. A couple of you just like him too.’

‘He did?’ This makes me feel slightly better. So Dad does love us after all. He hasn’t forgotten that we exist. But I’m definitely the only one who looks anything like
him. Isn’t it strange what other people see?

‘I told him about my kids too. All grown up now. Up in Manchester still, I suppose.’

He sounds sad and I’m not sure if I should ask about them. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

‘All water under the bridge now.’

‘Was my dad OK? Was he well?’

‘As well as can be expected. Bit of a drink problem, like most of us.’

I nod. ‘You don’t know where he went when he left, do you? An address? A number?’

Reg shakes his head. ‘We weren’t close,’ he says, ‘and when people move on they don’t tend to stay in touch.’

‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed.

‘But we did used to talk about his music – we even jammed together a couple of times. He told me about a couple of bands he’d played with – The Four Horsemen, and, er,
The River Runners. They’re quite well known on the circuit. I think they might still be gigging. Why don’t you look them up?’

‘Cool, thanks. The River Runners? Yes, I will do.’ It’s another lead. Probably just another dead end, but worth a try.

He pauses and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Then I remember. God, this is awkward. ‘Um, can I give you some money for, er, dinner or something, to say thank you?’

‘You’re very kind.’ He looks down at the floor, embarrassed. ‘Actually, what I’d really like are some strings. For my old acoustic.’

I glance at Dot, quizzically. She reaches over to a display unit on the counter and, without a word, passes me a set of strings, mouthing, ‘We can sort it out later.’ The label reads
Martin Light Gauge Strings
. I smile and hand them to Reg. He stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘See you around,’ he says. ‘Good luck finding your dad.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘Take care of yourself.’ I know it’s mean but I hope I don’t bump into him again. That would be too weird.

I don’t go straight home after I say goodbye to Dot, although I should. Instead, I take a walk through Camden, noticing the things I usually try to avoid: the parts of Camden that the
tourists don’t come to see and that the expensive estate agents cover up in their glowing reviews. On the corner of the High Street, where it meets Camden Road, there’s a group of
drunks who meet up to hang around and swig from their bottles. The police move them on, but they’re always back again a few days later. I wonder if my dad ever drank with these people. I pass
the skinny woman who begs for money by pretending she needs cash for a Travelcard and, a few metres further on, the sweet, jolly man who tells you a joke in return for a pound, like a street
stand-up comedian. Has my dad ever stopped people in the street and asked for cash?

At Britannia Junction, I cross the road and head up Parkway, turning into Arlington Road to see where Dad once lived. Arlington House has been refurbished recently, but it’s been a
men’s homeless hostel for ever. It’s on a leafy street, next to a row of very expensive Victorian Houses. That’s the weird thing about Camden: wherever you look, you’ll find
rich people living right next door to the poorest. It’s always been this way. Maybe that’s why it attracts so many writers and musicians.

I stand outside for a while, hoping, wishing that Dad will emerge from the front door, so I can give him a hug and take him for a coffee. I know it’s stupid. He doesn’t live here any
more and, anyway, I’m not eight; he probably wouldn’t even recognise me. God, I might not recognise him. Then, when I start to feel chilly, I turn around and walk slowly home.

’m worried about you, Sky,’ says Mum. ‘Are you depressed?’ She’s come into my
bedroom and sat down on my bed, uninvited. It’s my own fault: I’ve been home for an hour and I haven’t spoken to her at all. I came straight to my room, intending to start
searching for The River Runners on the internet, but I felt sleepy and curled up on my bed instead.

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re spending a lot of time on your own at the moment and when you are around you’re really quiet. You’re not eating much either. Is there something I can help
with?’

Mum has always prided herself on how open her family is, how we’re all like friends, not like mother and daughters. She doesn’t want us to have any secrets. That was easy when I was
a kid, when the only secrets I had were knowing that my tooth was wobbly or that I’d taken the last slice of cake. Now I’m older, I don’t want to be mates with my mum. It’s
not
normal
. There are some things I don’t want her to know. And there are some things I just can’t tell her.

I shrug. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

‘You’d tell me if there was anything up, wouldn’t you?’

‘Course I would.’ I grin my broadest grin. I hope she’ll give up now and leave me in peace.

She doesn’t. ‘Is it Rich? I’ve noticed he hasn’t been round lately.’

Rich. Now there’s something I
really
don’t want to talk about. I’m not even sure how I feel about it myself. Mum’s right: he hasn’t been around. I
haven’t been to his either, or hung out with him after school or at breaktimes. Since our horrible dinner night we’ve messaged a few times – short, cursory chats about school
– but not much more. I’m sure he’s avoiding me. I’m not even sure if he’s my boyfriend any more.

‘Everything’s cool with Rich. We’re both just busy with other stuff. Anyway, you’re the one who was always saying it was getting too serious. So you should be glad
I’m not seeing so much of him.’

‘But I know you love him, Sky. And I don’t want you to be unhappy. I remember what it feels like.’

I shrug again. ‘Yeah, I know.’

She gets up and I hope she’s decided to leave the room. Instead, she sits down right next to me and places her hands on my shoulders. ‘How about a nice massage? Get those knots out.
I’ll go and fetch the essential oils from my room if you like.’

I shake her hands away. ‘No thanks.’

She looks hurt. ‘OK. If you won’t talk to me, will you talk to Ocean?’

‘I don’t need to. Anyway, I’ve got Vix and Rosie.’

‘Sometimes it’s good to talk to someone who’s a little older. Just to get a different perspective.’

‘Ocean wouldn’t understand. She’s just like you. She’s on your side.’

She flinches. ‘I’m not on anyone’s side.’ Looking thoughtful for a moment, she goes on, ‘Sky, is this is about your dad again?’

‘Partly.’ I don’t want her to know that I’ve been actively looking for him. I certainly can’t tell her about Reg. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew Dad had
been homeless. She might even be glad.

‘Actually, there is something you can help with.’ I pause, for dramatic effect. ‘I’ve found a doctor who’ll give me a nose job.’

She seems genuinely shocked, which is exactly what I intended. ‘What? When? Where?’

‘Harley Street,’ I tell her.

‘You went to Harley Street and saw a plastic surgeon? How?’

‘On the number 27 bus. It was easy.’

‘This isn’t something to joke about, Sky.’

‘No, I know that. My nose is no laughing matter.’

She stares at my nose and sighs. ‘Remember in India, those children we saw who had leprosy, the ones with cleft palates that hadn’t been fixed? They had real disfigurements, Sky.
They needed plastic surgery. You’re just being vain.’

‘Yeah, well, we don’t live in India. We live in Camden Town. London. England. And I’m going to get my nose fixed. So if you really want to help me you can give me four grand to
pay for it.’

She laughs – a strange, growly laugh. ‘You know full well I don’t have that sort of money. And, even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you so that you can deform your
lovely face.’

‘Fine. Then there’s nothing you can help with, is there? So will you please just leave me alone now?’ I know I sound mean. I can’t help it. I guess I’m angry with
her too.

She doesn’t move. Maybe she’s trying to think of something to say. Finally, she gets up and stands by the side of the bed, sadness in her eyes.

‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve taken your nose stud out,’ she says, in a quiet voice. ‘I thought it was just for school, but you never wear it at all any
more.’ She fingers her own stud, twisting it around so that catches the light from my bedside lamp. I shrug and she turns away.

‘I never wanted it in the first place,’ I say under my breath, as she leaves my room. ‘It suits you much better.’

he River Runners don’t write any of their own music; they just do covers of old blues classics. And,
despite searching for them on the web for the past hour, that is pretty much all I can tell you about them. There are a no pictures or profiles, and they don’t have a Facebook page or even a
MySpace account. I didn’t think it was possible to be so invisible, not in the twenty-first century. Like The Four Horsemen, the only mentions I can find are in old listings pages, in
announcements of evenings long since past and long since forgotten. Looking for Dad is beginning to feel like chasing after a wisp of smoke. Whenever I think I’m getting close, he vanishes
again. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be found.

‘Keep on going, Rosie,’ I say, exasperated. We’re at her house this time, using her computer. I’ve had a try, and so has Vix. Now it’s her turn.
‘There’s got to be something else about them. There’s just got to be.’

She groans. ‘I’m doing my best here, Sky. There’s just pages and pages of gigs. They don’t say anything useful.’

‘I know! There’s never details of the line up, no reviews and no contact emails! How the hell do they get booked? Or paid?’

Rosie sighs. ‘There must be a booker or an agent or something. All I can see are things like,
July fifteen, eight p.m., support: The River Runners, Blues classics with an Irish
twist,
whatever that means.’

‘It’s the type of stuff Dad used to play on his CDs when I was a kid,’ I explain. ‘Eric Clapton and people like that, I think. Which is hopeful, because I’m sure it
must be the right band, at least. We just don’t know if Dad’s with them any more. Or how to contact them to ask.’