'All right now?' I asked.
Dan's expression gave me the answer to that one. 'Tell me something, Tobey,' he began quietly. 'What would you have done if you had known the gun had real bullets in it?'
Dan and I looked at each other. How could I possibly answer that question?
'I don't know,' I replied. And that was the truth.
Dan nodded slowly but said nothing.
We headed for the bus stop.
twenty-nine
'Naturally I deeply regret that my granddaughter was shot. I will of course be praying for her,' said Kamal Hadley.
'But will you be visiting her?' asked one of the forest of journalists standing around him.
'I would sincerely hope that this current government keeps its promise and tackles the growing problem of gun and knife crime on our streets. If my granddaughter can get caught up in this, then anyone's child could find themselves in a similar situation. This government lacks the will, the expertise and, quite frankly, the guts to do anything about this situation. The people of this country need to rise up and reclaim the streets from the scum blighting all our live . . .'
'Yes, but will you be visiting Callie Rose in hospital?' The same reporter repeated his question.
'I have nothing further to say at this time.' Kamal smiled apologetically. 'I need to be with my family. Thank you.'
Kamal Hadley slipped back into his house, leaving the journalists outside barking more questions at him. I turned off the TV, my expression set like concrete. What a scumbag. There was no way he was going to set foot in Mercy Community Hospital, but he was so slick he'd implied otherwise. No doubt he saw this as his way of getting back into the political arena, in spite of the fact that it was mainly thanks to him that his party had crashed so humiliatingly in the general election a few months before. Callie had told me all about her grandfather. About the way he threw Sephy out of his house when she was pregnant with Callie. And how he'd slammed the door in Callie's face the one and only time she had tried to see him.
But I must admit, watching Kamal Hadley had been instructive. The way he held himself, the way he met the gaze of everyone who spoke to him like he had nothing to hide, the way he lowered his tone when asked a difficult question to indicate the depth of his sincerity. Callie's granddad was a true master of fake sincerity and subtle manipulation. I could learn a lot, just by watching him.
thirty
'OK, Tobey, why should this establishment hire you?' Mr Thomas, the deputy manager, glanced down at his watch as he waited for my reply.
This establishment . . . Godsake! What was wrong with calling it TFTM like everyone else?
Mr Thomas was a slight man, bald as an egg and shorter than me by at least a head, neck and shoulders. He wasn't exactly skinny, more like wiry. His dark-brown dome glistened like it'd been rubbed with oil or something. And in the space of fifteen minutes, the man must've glanced at me twice – if that.
After what had happened with McAuley and Dan a few days ago, I'd spent every spare moment during the rest of the week on the Internet and at the library. I'd barely been at home – hardly even noticed Mum going to work and back, or Jess heading off to take her exams. I needed information – as much of it as I could get. And from what I could tell from my research (which included frying my brain by reading celebrity and gossip magazines), the best way to get close to the Dowds was via TFTM, one of the top three restaurants in the city.
So on Saturday, I'd headed into town and filled in an application form for a job at TFTM. On the same day, they'd asked me to take what they called 'proficiency' tests, which consisted of English, maths and general knowledge. The tests were multiple choice and each was supposed to take thirty minutes. I finished them in half that time, but I wasn't stupid enough to broadcast the fact. TFTM, or Thanks For The Memories, as those with time on their tongues called it, struck me as the kind of place which wanted its employees to be only just smart enough. Too smart would not be welcomed. That was two days ago. This morning, overcast and early, I'd been invited in for a final interview.
Mr Thomas glanced up to glare at me with impatience. What was his question again? Oh, yeah!
'Well, sir, I'm a fast learner, I'm reliable and I'm a hard worker. And I worked in a restaurant during the summer holidays last year so I do have some experience.'
Which was the truth, just not the whole truth. But he didn't need to know that all I did for that job was clear tables and mop floors.
Mr Thomas flicked through the papers on his desk and didn't even bother to look at me. He must've heard the same reply a thousand times before. Of course he had. This was TFTM, one of the most exclusive restaurants in town. It consisted of a restaurant on the ground floor and a club called The Club (very ingenious – someone put a lot of thought into that one) on the first floor, accessible via a separate entrance and rumoured to have its own secret exit, to ensure that its famous clientele didn't have to deal with hangers-on or the paparazzi. The only way to get to the Club from the restaurant was via the kitchens at the back of the building. What it boiled down to was that no one was getting into the Club without an invitation. TFTM actively promoted the feeling of not needing anyone's patronage, no matter how famous – which of course made it the place to be. Not that anyone had shown me around yet. What I knew, I'd learned from reading local authority planning permission requests and building reports, reviews, celebrity gossip and basically anything and everything I could find about the place.
TFTM definitely needed no one.
I definitely needed TFTM.
I needed a job in this place like I needed to breathe.
Mr Thomas still wasn't looking at me. I needed to do something, say something to get this man to remember my name. I continued, 'Mr Thomas, I'd be perfect for TFTM because I do my homework and I know how to keep my mouth shut.'
Mr Thomas's head snapped up at that, his expression speculative. For the first time since this whole excruciating interview began, I had his full attention. First McAuley, now him. They were all interested in workers who knew how to keep their lips glued together.
'What d'you mean – you do your homework?' asked Mr Thomas.
'I looked up TFTM on the Internet before I came for this interview.'
Mr Thomas sat back in his chair, looking distinctly unimpressed. 'And what was the most remarkable thing you found out about us on the Internet?'
'I knew your restaurant was one of the best – that's why I really want to work here – but I didn't realize that the restaurant had achieved its third Michelin star earlier this year. Only five restaurants in the entire country can boast three Michelin stars.' I cranked up the enthusiasm and the wide-eyed admiration, wondering if I was overdoing it.
Mr Thomas's expression visibly relaxed. 'Oh, I see. You have ambitions in that area yourself?'
I nodded vigorously. 'I'd like to own my own place one day. Oh, nothing as fancy as this, but maybe a little bistro or a bed and breakfast on the coast somewhere. Who knows?'
'Indeed. Who knows?' Mr Thomas couldn't hide his condescending smirk.
'So I reckon a number of years at TFTM will teach me everything I need to know about starting my own . . . establishment. Just give me a chance, Mr Thomas. I won't let you down.'
'Hmm . . .' Mr Thomas glanced down again at my application form and my test results. 'OK, Tobey, you've got the job. When can you start?'
A smile of pure relief split my face – and most of it was genuine. 'Is tomorrow night too soon?'
'Tomorrow will be fine. You will work from Tuesday to Saturday and have Sundays and Mondays off. Your hours will be from six p.m. till one in the morning with two breaks to be negotiated with your supervisor, Michelle. You'll need to wear black trousers and a longs-sleeved white shirt which you'll have to provide yourself. They are to be neat and clean at all times. We will provide you with a bow tie and two waistcoats. You will be responsible for keeping your waistcoats clean. If you lose them, the cost of any replacements will be taken f
rom your salary. Your pay will be minimum wage, but what you make in tips you get to keep. And if you do well, the tips are excellent. Any questions?'
Tons of them. Like where was Ross Resnick, the manager of TFTM? Nothing had been seen of him in over two weeks, or rather only his little finger had put in an appearance. The rest of Ross Resnick had disappeared into what was generally suspected to be a McAuleymanufactured black hole. And how about the Dowds? How did they feel about the disappearance of their manager? After all, it was common knowledge that the Dowds owned TFTM. What were they doing about ensuring Ross Resnick's safe return? Any questions? What a joke.
I shook my head.
'Arrive at five-thirty tomorrow for orientation. Ask for Michelle – she'll tell you everything you need to know.' Mr Thomas stood up, indicating that the interview was over. He stretched out his hand which I shook with zeal. All this for a frickin' job as a waiter. Still, it was worth it. I'd got the job. I was in – and one step closer to my goal.
I started at TFTM on Tuesday night, after assuring Mum that it was only a holiday job and certainly not permanent. By the end of my Saturday shift, I ached in places I didn't know I had places. Ankles, calves, thighs, bum, the soles of my feet, even between my fingers – they were all screaming with fatigue and pain. I spent my evenings whizzing round like I had a rocket up my backside, as did all the serving staff, but some of the punters still complained that the service wasn't fast enough. My mouth more than ached from smiling when some jackass or other threw a casual insult my way, or complained that their food was cold when they were the ones who sat talking and ignoring their food for twenty minutes before picking up their bloody cutlery to eat. Zara, a Nought waitress in her mid-twenties who'd taken me under her wing, had been at TFTM for almost three years. And she swore each day would be her last. But it never was, for one simple reason.
'The money is too good. So I bite my lip and dodge and weave every time some git makes a grab for my arse or my tits,' Zara told me during one of our fifteen-minute breaks. I watched as she took off her shoes and massaged the balls of her feet. And I listened. When I was in the restaurant serving, as well as during the breaks, I did more of that than anything else. I listened.
'Some of the regular punters think that T&A comes free with their dessert,' Zara had continued with disgust. 'That's why we girls call this place Thanks For The Mammaries. On my last day here, an awful lot of customers are going to get the face slapping they deserve.'
Mr Thomas had been right. The tips were excellent. I made about three times more at TFTM each night than I ever did selling phones. Not that that was the reason I was so keen to work there, but it certainly didn't hurt.
There were two sets of changing rooms, male and female, and all levels of staff shared the same changing areas, but the staff who worked in the club upstairs rarely deigned to speak to us lowly serving staff from the restaurant. And I couldn't help noticing that most of the serving staff downstairs were Noughts, whereas most of the Club staff were Crosses.
I pulled off my bow tie and rainbow-coloured waistcoat and was just hanging up the latter in my locker when Michelle the supervisor entered the men's changing rooms unannounced. A couple of guys had to grab for their towels to cover their jewels, but they never said a word. Not one person protested. It was obviously a regular occurrence.
'Angelo, we're short-staffed in the Club tomorrow so you'll be upstairs along with . . .' Michelle had a quick look around. 'Keith, and you as well, Tobey.'
'But I don't work on Sundays,' I said.
'You do now,' said Michelle.
TFTM was closed on Sundays. What was going on?
'We have a private party going on in the club from ten tomorrow till late,' Michelle explained.
'But Sunday is—' I began my protest.
'You'll get triple time, if that's what you're worried about,' Michelle interrupted with irritation. 'Now is there still a problem?'
'Whose party is it?' I asked.
'Rebecca Dowd.'
My stomach tightened, like a hand was squeezing my insides. Rebecca Dowd . . . Wiping all expression off my face, I asked, 'Who's she?'
Michelle's eyes widened. And she wasn't the only one. I was getting significant looks from everyone who'd heard the question.
'Vanessa Dowd's daughter? The sister of Gideon and Owen Dowd? Do those names ring any bells?'
The blank look on my face was obviously convincing. Michelle's expression morphed into one of pity. 'Damn it, Tobey, don't you know anything?'
'I'm here to learn.' I shrugged.
'Just be here at nine-thirty tomorrow night,' Michelle ordered.
'How will I get home?' I asked.
'Not my problem.' Michelle headed out as Angelo shook his head and Keith looked particularly hacked off.
Me? I was ecstatic. A late-night party on Sunday night running into the early hours of Monday morning meant I'd have one hell of a job getting back home. If I couldn't catch a night bus back to Meadowview I was in for a twoand- a-half-hour walk. But I didn't care.
I was going to meet the Dowds.
thirty-one
'Callum, I need your help. Yours too, Mum. If either of you are out there, somewhere, please watch over Callie. Please don't let my daughter slip away. I know it isn't written anywhere that life is supposed to be fair, but please keep Callie safe. And here. Meggie has been through so much. So have I. Taking Callie away from me wouldn't be fair. I know I'm being selfish, but I don't care.
'Callum, bring our daughter back. Her body is still here, but not the rest of her. The doctors are baffled as to why she hasn't woken up yet. One doctor asked me if Callie is a fighter. I put her right on that one. Of course our daughter is a fighter. Callum, you mustn't let her forget that. Remind her of all the things she has waiting for her in this life. Remind her just how much I love her.
'Mum, I miss your humour and your practical advice. I miss you. I talk to Callie every day. I tell her all the news and talk about things gone and things to come. I don't even know if she can hear the things I say, but I say them anyway. But if she can't hear me, I know she'll hear you. Send her back to me, Mum.
'Please.
'Please . . .'
I leaned against the wall, my head bent as Sephy's words trailed away into tears. I'd thought that at this time on a Sunday afternoon, I'd get to see Callie with no interruptions. But her mum had beaten me to it. When I arrived, the nurse at the nurses' station buzzed me onto the ward, then promptly disappeared before the door had shut behind me. Heading towards Callie's room, I'd heard Sephy before I saw her – and before she saw me. Her words were quietly spoken, but the ICU was quieter, just the hum of machines and the regular beep of the monitor coming at me from the middle distance like so much background noise. Maybe I shouldn't have stood outside Callie's room and listened to her mum, but I did. Part of me wanted to head into the room and share how we were both feeling, but that was impossible. Two of the nurses were heading back to their station. Decision time. I closed my eyes briefly.
Until tomorrow, Callie.
Time to leave.
thirty-two
On Sunday evening, all us waiters (no waitresses, just Michelle supervising) were taken into the Club fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived. We were told the schedule for the night and assigned to different parts of the Club.
'Tobey, you'll be circulating around the leisure area with various drinks,' Michelle informed me. 'Anyone who wants a specific order will have to go to the bar. Make sure your tray is never empty. You can take one ten-minute break at midnight and that's it.'
I nodded, only vaguely aware of what she was saying. I was still trying to take in everything. This was my first chance to see the Club – and it was something else. I'd never seen anything like it. Statues in various states of undress adorned the alcoves around the main room and the ceiling was draped with red, orange and yellow silk. There was a huge dance floor lit up with multi-coloured underfloor lighting to the left. Opposite,
on the other side of the room, was the bar and beyond that the small kitchen which served snacks – or, as they called them up here, canapés. Dotted around the dance floor were tables and chairs, with sofas hugging the walls around the rest of the room. It smelled of flowers though I couldn't see a flower in sight. I went to the bar to get my first tray of drinks.
'Man, I hope you're wearing your titanium underwear,' Angelo whispered to me.
'What d'you mean?' I frowned.
'You'll find out,' said Angelo grimly.
The first guests began to arrive and the party officially started. I got Angelo to point out Rebecca for me. She was shorter than I expected, about five feet three or four and not exactly skinny but sure heading that way. She wore her hair in thin locks down to her shoulders and her make-up looked a bit overdone, but what did I know? She was wearing a sleeveless red dress with matching red highheeled sandals and she looked stunning. The dress had a V at the front and the back and the skirt flowed around her thighs every time she moved. Even from across the room, her diamond earrings twinkled, as did the rocks around her neck. Happy eighteenth birthday! I took in every aspect of her appearance, drinking in her face – her catlike dark eyes set slightly too wide apart, her burgundy lips, her high forehead. A tall but stocky Cross guy walked over to Rebecca and put his arm around her shoulders. She smiled up at him in amusement. He smiled down at her with genuine affection, the creases around his eyes deepening. He had to be thirty? Maybe thirty-two.