The Brilliant Light of Amber Sunrise (16 page)

I spun around in the bed and pressed my face into the pillows, assuming that if the worst came to the worst I could smother myself to death before the inevitable backlash and court case.

Fortunately it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

“Oh,” Olivia said, quizzically.

“Jesus, I thought you were Mum,” I heard Amber say, though didn't dare move from my pillowed den of shame.

“She's in the kitchen practicing her singing.”

“Good. Don't say anything, Olivia. I mean it.”

“I won't,” she said. “Were you . . .
experimenting
?”

I groaned into the pillow, praying for the sweet release of death.

“Olivia, seriously, just leave it. I'll talk to you later.”

“There are things you should bear in mind,” Olivia said. “I saw a documentary. You have to be careful. . . .”

“OL!” Amber yelled.

“I know, but are you aware of a film called
Juno
?” her sister asked.

At this Amber pulled a pillow from beneath my face, despite my best attempts to hold on for dear life, and threw it against the door.

“GET OUT!” she hissed.

“All right. But we can have that discussion later.”

“Yes,” Amber said, more calmly than before. “Yes, we can. But please, Ol, give us a minute.”

I heard the door click shut, and Amber breathed out a long sigh of relief.

“You can come out,
stud
,” she said eventually, stroking her hand up my back.

“I think I'll probably just stay here for the next few years,” I said through the suffocating down of the pillows.

“If you think that's bad, your mum's just pulled onto the front drive,” she said, leaning over me to look out the window.

I was up and dressed before Mum had even had a chance to lock the car door.

“How was meeting the Fockers?” Chris asked when we got back to the house.

“It was the best day of my life,” I said eventually, picking at some leftover stew straight from the pan.

“Well, something's put a smile on your face.”

I said nothing. I would tell him, eventually. I had no one else to confide in, and even if I did I'd want to tell my brother anyway. But at that stage I still wanted it to be a secret, something that only Amber and I knew, something that was special and ours.

Mum asked if I wanted something proper heated up but I declined. Really I just wanted to be alone. I took myself to bed and sent a text to Amber. For some reason I had been worried that she might no longer be sure about us.

Fortunately it wasn't the case as within minutes Amber had texted me back, saying that she was having a similar early night, in what I assumed would be an attempt to have extra-long dreams about her beloved (me).

I put on the same CD we had listened to in her bedroom and closed my eyes.

That night sleep must have happened like a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo, as when I opened my eyes after what felt like
nothing but a brief nap it was morning. It was already ten by the time I woke and when I went downstairs Mum was already in the kitchen, her files and notes spread out on the table as she hammered away on her laptop like a piano virtuoso trying to bash the keys into her intended tune.

We ate breakfast in silence and I made sure to send Amber a text to let her know I was awake. She did not respond. For hours I cradled my phone like an injured pet, hoping that it would suddenly spark back to life with the familiar pip of a ring tone, or the oddly lifelike purr of its three brief vibrations each time a message came through.

Only there were no signs of life.

I waited all afternoon.

“A watched pot never boils,” Mum said as she fussed around the kitchen preparing tea. I ignored her and tried to will Amber through telepathy to respond. But still nothing.

After dinner (which I barely touched from worry and nausea) the phone rang. Mum answered and eventually came back into the kitchen looking serious.

Amber was back on the unit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For a while she was
on and off the unit on an almost daily basis. “I'm like the damn mascot!” she'd spit when, once more, Colette had rushed her by midnight taxi back to the bed where she seemed to have been transplanted.

The one secret I ever kept from Amber was that on the night, after dinner, when Mum told me she'd been taken back to the unit for the first of many occasions, I was relieved. Relieved that my messages had gone unanswered not through lack of love or—worse—waning interest, but due to her ill health and nothing more sinister.

I still feel a knot in my stomach when I remember how happy that news made me.

It was only when Amber was given time away from the unit that the difficulties in our relationship became apparent.

For one thing we lived miles apart, so either I'd have to take a bus (not really an option) or Mum would have to drop me off and face being held captive by Colette for “bonding.”

That was the easy bit, though. The real difficulty came with coordinating our Good Days so that they might occasionally overlap and we would actually get to see each other.

Some days I'd be physically unable to leave my bed; the pain would press down on me like a wrestler pinning my shoulders to the mattress. Only I was being pinned from inside, and nothing I did could shake its grasp.

On these days the buzz of my cell phone would serve as my conscience, echoing through my room like a chime of regret as I groaned and writhed under the covers.

Then there would be days when I simply didn't want to get up. When the unfairness of everything seemed so vast all I could do was sit and sulk, glowering at the television as Mum came in and brought soup that I wouldn't eat and asked questions that I wouldn't answer.

On these days I would turn off my phone so that I knew all texts would be swallowed into the great abyss, and all attempts at calling would be met with the steely denial of the voicemail message.

The last thing I needed on days like this was to see someone else as bald and miserable as I was.

Then of course there would be days when I'd feel good and well, and the thought of Amber made me rise early like the smell of frying bacon did.

But unfortunately life isn't clockwork, and more often than not these would be the days when she would be bed-
bound, either laid up in agony or furious and miserable, and it would be my turn to fire off unanswered messages.

Sometimes I'd get so frustrated with hearing her out­going message that I was forced to call Chris at work to relay my woes.

“I don't know why she won't just text me back. Even a nasty one, so I know she's been getting them. Maybe my phone's broken. . . . Do you think Mum would get me a BlackBerry?” I'd suggest desperately.

“Your phone's not broken, Frankie.”

“Then why doesn't Amber text back? She could dictate to Colette, who could transcribe the message and press send if it's too much effort. She's really not thinking of my feelings at all.”

“Cut her some slack. She didn't text back for the same reason you didn't. Don't be a dick, Francis, it doesn't suit you. If you're that desperate just use the Internet like everyone else. . . .” Chris would say, laughing. It was usually around this stage I'd hang up on him too. If even he couldn't acknowledge the seriousness of my misery, then it was a path I'd have to tread alone.

One morning, when we were unusually synchronized on our Good Days, Mum had agreed to drop me at the bottom of Amber's street. It suited us both fine that way. For me it meant Mum wouldn't launch into her monologue
about how if she hadn't worked so hard Chris and I would have grown up somewhere like this, and how we would have made her a grandma before she was forty, and how we wouldn't be able so much as to spell “Disneyland. . . .”

For Mum it meant she didn't have to go inside and have a cup of something herbal with Colette while she pretended to care about the plight of tribes in countries whose names sounded suspiciously unfamiliar.

“Are you wrapped up?” Mum asked, tucking my scarf inside my coat.

I said yes and pulled away. It had taken me more than ten minutes to get the scarf to lie the way I had intended. The overall effect was worth the effort. I cut quite a dashing image from the neck down.

“And you've got your cell phone in case you need anything?”

“Yes, I know, you're only ever ten minutes away. . . .”
I said, getting out of the car.

“And make sure you stay at Amber's. Don't go messing around outside.”

“I won't.”

“And if the house is too cold, make Colette put the heat on. Tell her I'll pay her bills for this quarter if I have to. I don't want you catching a chill.”

“Fine.”

“Just be careful, love. Watch how you go,” Mum said as I
slammed the car door shut in case someone heard her. The youths who clustered around Amber's house were somewhat unrelenting. She said she once saw a gang of them throwing rocks at a hedgehog. I wouldn't have stood a chance in the face of such menace, given my paltry immune system.

In truth, though, I had come to enjoy walking the length of the street toward her house. At first it had seemed ugly and scary. A girl had yelled “Uncle Fester” at me, pointing at my bald head, the first time I'd ventured there, and I had been forced to increase my pace to a subtle canter in case the provocation became physical.

But already it was becoming second nature to me. I liked the abandoned playground with its layer of dry leaves and shattered glass. The image had even inspired the first stanza of what was looking to be a reasonably ambitious poem. And I liked the way some of the cars still had
Come on England!
flags stuck to their antennas, an act that seemed both sweet and aggressive at the same time. Also there never seemed to be any adults on the street where she lived, just feral children drinking out of big green bottles and glaring out from under greased fringes, like an amateur production of
Lord of the Flies
.

Mostly I liked the way being here made me feel. When I walked to Amber's house I imagined that I lived there, and that I would spend the whole night penning songs about escaping the gray streets to live a life of bohemian
­glamour. Amber's street always made you feel like you were in a ­Morrissey video. I hate Morrissey. So does Chris. But even we concede that his hairstyle is exemplary and worthy of imitation.

“How long are you back for?” I asked as Amber led me through the kitchen.

In the far corner of the living room a sorry-looking garden shrub had been adorned with fairy lights and tinsel. Colette thought it unkind to cut down trees for Christmas, and plastic was the heroin of the earth, so Amber and Olivia had been left to improvise.

“Don't know. Couple of days maybe. I'm sort of like a rock star in that respect. Almost every morning I wake up in a different postcode.”

“It's only different by two numbers,” I said.

“Still, it's a bit rock and roll.” She drained a carton of orange drink and crushed the empty box in her hands. She offered me a drink but I declined. She had texted me there on urgent business, which I had hoped meant a repetition of last time. Unfortunately it was not to be.

“I know you want to get everyone ace presents this year,” she began. I was crestfallen but put on a brave face nonetheless. In truth I was just happy to see her away from the unit.

“I suppose. I could empty my savings account. But I might need to give a week's notice for a large withdrawal.”

Amber shook her head and moved closer to me.

“I've got a better idea. You're going to love this,” she said, even though something about the look in her eyes told me the opposite was true.

“Is that a new coat?” she asked. I said yes. Mum had given it to me as an early Christmas present. I had described to her in detail the coat I had in mind for winter that year, and all credit to her she had listened for once and purchased accordingly. It was almost exactly the cut I had envisioned, though in all honesty I had been hoping for a slightly more pronounced lapel.

“Perfect,” Amber said, digging her hand deep into one pocket of it, then deeper into the other one, causing all manner of stirrings in the meantime.

“Frankie, you're packing some serious dollar,” she said, pulling out a fifty-pence piece.

“It's from Grandma. She says it's good luck to put money in a new pocket, but I think she's really just looking for ways to avoid Inheritance Tax.”

“Well,
there's that
,” Amber said.

“It might be true,” I said, suddenly defensive of ­Grandma's ritual, and keen not to buck a trend that left me at least a pound better off each year. Amber rolled her eyes.
“Oh, but it makes perfect sense to put crystals on your belly and hope it cures cancer,”
I said. She laughed and so did I.

“Careful, Francis,” she said, putting her hand back
inside my pocket. I looked up at the flickering lightbulb on the ceiling, trying to banish all impure thoughts from my head (of which there were many). “You're even starting to sound like me,” Amber said, tightening her grip as she found what she was looking for. “Don't want people saying I'm a bad influence, now do we?”

From my pocket she pulled out a plastic envelope with two spare buttons inside.

“Bingo!”

“What do you need that for?” I asked, as she pulled out the buttons and handed them to me.

“All in good time, my dearest,” she said, going over to the windowsill beside the table and taking down a box that was red and purple and decorated with all sorts of feathers and beads. If Colette were ever a box, this was the box she would be.

I couldn't see inside at first, but Amber seemed reasonably familiar with its contents.

“Here,” she said, pulling the box to the edge of the table so that I could have a closer look. “Guaranteed profit.”

Inside was a green mess that looked like dried grass cuttings. My first impression was not far from the truth. As the reality of the situation dawned on me I felt my knees weaken beneath me but was determined to save face in front of Amber.

She stuffed the button bag until it was bulging like an expensive pillow, then handed it to me. I coughed and stut
tered as I tried to prevent my entire body from shaking.

“It's weed, Francis,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I know.” As I spoke my voice rose sharply, like I was being nipped in the most delicate of areas. “So . . .”—I tried to sound relaxed—“. . . your mum's okay with this sort of thing?”

“This
is
my mum's sort of thing. Herbal and organic . . . ­double whammy. She's just celebrating the earth's bounty or something.”

“Right,” I said. “So she won't have a Christmas tree but she'll dehydrate and burn a leaf until it's turned to ash?”

Amber shrugged.

“There's logic there somewhere, but either way it is what it is. Hand me that jar from the spice rack,” she said. “The sage.”

I did as instructed and she sprinkled some of the herb into the box.

“What?” she said, as I looked on bemused. “You've never topped up the vodka with water after you took a sip?”

I didn't dare tell her that I was seldom given the chance. Mum was neither glass half-full nor glass half-empty. She tended to order by the bottle.

“How are we going to go about this?” I asked.

“Dunno,” Amber said. “We'll just hang around town. There're bound to be some anxious-looking hipsters trying to catch the eye of a potential supplier.”

The word she was looking for was “dealer.” Someone
who dealed. The sort of thing that people go to jail for. The sort of thing they make films about.

“Cool,” I said.

“You're going to have to take it. My jeans pockets are too small. It'll look obvious,” Amber said, pulling on a long coat that did conveniently seem to be entirely without carrying compartments. I nodded and put the small package into the pocket of my new coat. It felt like a lead weight that was going to drag my whole body down toward the ground, so that everybody would see me walking, shamed and hanging, and simply know I was up to no good. I would be described as a scourge by the local press. I would never get into university. My first book would be memoirs of my time in prison.

The scandal would probably kill Grandma.

As she locked the front door Amber looked down at the ground and took a sharp intake of breath, like she'd just missed a really important penalty.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, leaning against the door, “baby's just kicking.”

“We should go back inside,” I said, at least 70 percent because I was concerned for her welfare. In truth even I wasn't feeling too spectacular.

“No,” she said, taking my hand and straightening up. “I'm fine. I'll be fine.”