The Invisible Ones (22 page)

“What do you mean ‘not right’ . . . Is that why . . . Christo?”

“We don’t know. Maybe that’s one of the things we’ll find out from this doctor fellow.”

“So . . . she didn’t go off with someone else?”

“I don’t know. She may have. We God-honestly don’t know. JJ, when people don’t tell you things, it may not be to hide things—it may be we don’t know ourselves. Only God knows everything. And listen . . .” He leans as far forward as he can go in his chair, and sticks his finger in my face. “Don’t go bothering Ivo about this. He’s got enough to worry about. I want you to promise me. Promise!”

“Yeah. All right. I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Swear on your mother’s—”

“Yes!”

Not very helpful. This is a fairly short example. You can talk to Great-uncle for hours and hours and come away with absolutely nothing. It’s an amazing talent of his. Practically a superpower.

27.

Ray

Persuading Ivo was easier than expected. I drove down and found him talking to his cousin Sandra. They are chalk and cheese: where Ivo is dark and sullen, Sandra is blond, slightly plump, and friendly. I warm to her. It was probably down to her that they agreed to Christo’s consultation. Ivo said they would have to think about it, but it was only a day later that Sandra rang the office to say they would love it if my friend would see Christo. That was the word she used: “love.”

A week later: I offer to collect Ivo and Christo from the site and drive them up to London, but Ivo insists on taking his van. I worry about them being late for the appointment—or not turning up at all—but when I arrive at the café where we arranged to meet, around the corner from the clinic, I find Ivo and Christo ensconced in a corner, several cigarette butts in the ashtray. Christo smiles at me when I walk in. I smile back.

Ivo is visibly nervous, pulling hard on another cigarette, his eyes constantly darting to mine, then sliding away.

“What’s he going to do, this doctor?”

“I imagine he’ll just ask questions, to start with. Maybe do some blood
tests. This is just a preliminary meeting, and he might refer Christo to someone else if he thinks they’ll be more suitable.”

“Someone else? Like who?”

“I don’t know. Another specialist. It depends on what he finds.”

Ivo nods determinedly but seems to be quelling his nerves only with an effort. Christo, sitting on the seat and leaning against him, doesn’t seem either nervous or unhappy—but it’s hard to tell.

“Gavin’s a good man. Very straight. He really does want to help. And he’s a top guy in children’s medicine; we’re really fortunate.”

Ivo looks down at his cigarette, clenched almost flat between narrow fingers. A slight tremor there. His mouth moves as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a chat.”

“He’s going to want to know stuff?”

“Well, stuff about the disease, yes. He’ll need to get a picture of what’s happened in the family, I imagine.”

As usual, he doesn’t look me in the eyes.

“And . . . it’s not going to cost us anything?”

“No, absolutely not. Don’t worry about that.”

I smile in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, although Ivo doesn’t look at me, so doesn’t see.

Ivo carries Christo to the clinic. Once we’re through the heavy glass doors to the lobby, which swish closed behind us with a sucking sound, all outside noise is cut off as if with a scalpel. Footsteps are muffled by a thick, dense carpet. It even muffles voices. The hush that—in London—only money can buy. I go up to the receptionist—a perfectly made-up middle-aged woman with a shining helmet of hair—and explain who we are. Ivo stands in the middle of the carpet, looking uneasy and out of place.

I find myself wishing he’d made a bit of an effort with his appearance— instead of which, his greasy cap is pulled down over his eyes, and he wears the same buttoned-up waistcoat and maroon handkerchief . . . In fact, I have yet to see him without them. While we wait, in a room full of cream-colored armchairs and beige carpet—even I glance down to see
if I’ve left footprints—I try to engage Ivo in conversation. But he either is too nervous or is incapable of small talk. He responds with grunts or mumbled monosyllables, fussing with Christo’s hair, combing it with yellowed fingers. He smells of cigarettes and fear. His fingernails are bitten to the quick, cuticles rimed with black. Despite my frustration, I feel a stirring of sympathy for this difficult young man. He’s had a lot to put up with in his short life. Something my dad used to say comes to mind: that the Gypsies are genuinely hard done by, but, by God, they don’t half make it hard for people to sympathize.

The receptionist tells us that Gavin is free. I offer to come in with them.

“No. It’s all right . . . thanks.”

I read a
National Geographic
article about a doomed attempt on Annapurna. The silence in the waiting room is so absolute, it makes me wonder if the world has been wiped out in a stealthy nuclear attack. A clock ticks. After half an hour the receptionist puts her head around the door. She looks put out.

“Is your friend here?”

“No. Why?”

She gives a tight little smile.

“We don’t seem to be able to find him.”

“He’s probably having a cigarette outside.”

“We’ve looked. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the vicinity.”

I stare at her.

“And the boy?”

“Oh, his son’s still here, in with Dr. Sullivan. Perhaps you could . . . ?”

I hunt for Ivo on the block, around the corners, then on the neighboring blocks, the nearest place you can buy cigarettes, in the café where we met . . . I can’t imagine where else he might have gone. Or why. When I come back to the clinic, the receptionist, and then Gavin, have searched the entire building, including the cellar.

There’s absolutely no sign of him.

28.

JJ

Mum has always been really cagey on the subject of my dad. She said since he went off and left her before I was even born, good riddance to bad rubbish. Which is basically what she says again, this time, over dinner.

“I just want to know who he is,” I say. “I don’t even know his name. You know . . . I have the right to know where I got half my DNA.”

“The right?”

She glares at me over our plates of stew. Then she sighs.

“I know he’s your father, sweetheart. But he broke my heart. I don’t want him to break yours as well.”

I can tell she’s considering giving in, so I say nothing.

“You’d have to find him first, before he could break your heart. And I wouldn’t know where to start, to tell you the truth.”

“I’m not saying I want to find him,” I mumble. It’s an alarming thought. Knowing about someone is one thing. Seeing them in real life is quite another. “If you had a photograph or something . . .”

“Well, that’s easy. I don’t have any photographs, so I can’t show you one. You don’t look like him; you’re a Janko through and through.”

My heart skips a beat. What does she mean by this?

“Just tell me his name, Mum. Please.”

She sighs again, and stares at her plate for ages. My heart is thumping. My mouth is dry. I wonder if it’s too late to back out. What if she says something terrible, and once I know it, I can’t ever unknow it?

“I suppose we had to have this conversation at some point. But you know . . . I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Why would knowing his name hurt me? Is he in prison or something?”

“No, no, of course not! Well, as far as I know . . . You know, if you’re adopted, they give you the information when you’re eighteen.”

“But I’m not adopted, am I.”

“JJ, he was a . . . well . . . You deserve better. You deserve the best father in the world, sweetheart, but I can’t give you that.”

“I’m not saying I want to find him, Mum. Just his name. I’m fourteen. I have a right to know that.”

Mum looks at me without speaking for a good thirty seconds. I time it by the yellow clock.

“All right, JJ . . . His name was Carl. Carl Atkins. I met him at a disco. We went out for a few weeks. He was a
gorjio
, a plasterer’s mate. I hadn’t had a boyfriend, so I didn’t know anything about anything.” She studies her plate, as though it might tell her what she should have known at the time. She looks at it for a long time without saying anything else.

“Did you . . . love him?”

She smiles sadly.

“I thought he was the bee’s knees.”

“Did he . . . Did he think you were the bee’s knees?”

She almost laughs, as though I’ve said something funny.

“Well . . . he said he did. Said he was going to marry me.”

She shrugs, in a way that’s painful to watch. As if what’s on her shoulders is unbearably heavy.

“I was a fool.”

“Why?”

Another sigh.

“Old story: young girl, innocent. Flash geezer, bit older, gets her into trouble . . . Then she finds out he’s already married.”

She gives a horrible fake smile.

“He was married?”

“Yeah.”

“How could he?”

“Oh, sweetie . . . Men can.”

“But how . . . I mean, where was his wife?”

“Back home. ’Cause he was on a job, no one knew him. Knew anything about him.”

My father is an arsehole. This is something I have to come to terms with. What if I am like him? I feel sick, I can’t eat anymore.

“And you didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know! Good heavens, JJ. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him if I’d known!”

“Couldn’t you tell?”

“No. You can’t ‘tell.’ ”

“So then . . . what did you like about him?”

I try to tell myself I don’t care what he was like, as he obviously didn’t care two hoots about me, or Mum, either, but I’m seized with the need to know, a horrible, whiny need I can’t control.

“Well . . . he was funny. Made people laugh. And generous. He’d always pay for a round. He earned decent wages, and he wasn’t mean with them. He had dark curly hair, and he wore gold earrings. Had blue eyes. Had a rose tattooed on his arm. I used to joke that he wanted to be a Gypsy. He was handsome . . . Maybe you do take after him in that way . . .”

She leans forward and takes my hand. I take my hand away, cross my arms so she can’t get at me.

“I thought I didn’t look like him. I thought I was a Janko through and through.”

“You are. But there’s something . . .”

She studies my face, trying to smile, but it looks like it’s harder and harder work. She leans forward again, puts her hand on my arm.

“Pet, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. It was bound to upset you.
Better forget about him. You have your family here. We all love you. You’re too good for him!”

I hug my arms to myself. I’m trying not to be angry, I really am.

“Did he ever . . . see me?”

It’s not what I mean to ask, but it’s what I say. She hesitates.

“No. It happens, JJ. It’s horrible, but some people are like that, and the best thing is to . . . walk away from them, try and forget about it. You should be glad you don’t know a man like that. Now, that’s enough, all right? I’ve told you what you asked. I’ve got washing up to do.”

She gets up, scrapes the food off the plates into a bag, takes them over to the kitchen, and starts clattering around. I am left sitting at the table, feeling dirtier than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Fathers, even if they’re absent from birth—even if they’re dead, for Chrissakes—are supposed to leave something behind for their kids. A locket with a picture in it, or a rare book. A box that contains a special, wonderful secret. In stories, that’s what they do.

But in real life, you get nothing. I knew this, of course. This isn’t some fairy tale. I wasn’t expecting to discover I was a prince, or be given a million pounds. I don’t know what makes me so furious all of a sudden.

Because I think she’s lying.

And I am furious. Boiling. Something unleashes inside me; a dam breaks; like I’m a volcano about to explode, red-hot lava rises behind my eyes, building up to an eruption.

“You could have kept up with him. For my sake. You must have known I’d want to know about him sooner or later.”

Mum’s got her back to me, clashing plates and things in the washing-up bowl, so I don’t know exactly how she reacts. She speaks without looking around.

“I had my dignity. I wasn’t going to go chasing around after him, when he was married.”

“You had me! His son! If you’d cared about me you could have done it. At least . . . found out where he was. Like Mr. Lovell. That’s what he does. He finds people. Even when they don’t want to be found!”

I’m shouting. Mum drops the saucepan she’s holding into the bowl with a slap that sends soapy water slopping onto the floor.

“Well, he hasn’t found Rose, has he?”

There’s a thick silence. She’s reveling in her triumph, I can tell. She turns around now.

“JJ, if you want to hire a private detective when you’re eighteen to find this man, that’s up to you. I’m sorry things happened the way they did. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a good father. I’m sorry things aren’t different . . .”

“You mean you’re sorry you had me!”

“No, of course not . . . JJ, that’s enough!”

Looking at Mum, I feel as though I’m looking at someone I don’t know. I don’t recognize the woman with frizzy blond hair and reddened hands—an ugly, frightening stranger who’s standing in my trailer.

I speak very coolly.

“You talk about dignity. What were you doing with Uncle Ivo the other night, when I came back? I saw you.”

Stranger-Mum seems to shrink back against the counter. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. And then a harsh red flush flares over her cheeks; she looks so guilty, and so ashamed, that I don’t need to hear anything else.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I give a sort of nervous, stupid laugh. I’ve no idea what it means, other than that, right now, I hate her. I hate her, and I despise myself.

“Take that disgusting smirk off your face. You don’t know anything.” “Don’t I?”

“No.”