Work! I hadn’t even thought about work. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Work.’
I eventually locate Darren the vlogger, a hirsute man in a tie-dy top attacking the fruit machines in the little arcade. He grins in recognition but motions me to stand to one side until he finishes his game. He jabs at chunky flashing buttons for what seems like forever and it’s all I can do not to turn it off at the plug.
‘What can I do you for?’ he says. ‘Enjoying your fame?’
I hope he’s not going to make me beg. ‘I’m really not,’ I say. ‘I need it taken down now. This could have serious repercussions for me at work.’
‘You said it was ok at the time,’ says Darren, but even he doesn’t look convinced.
‘I was drunk as a lord. I’d have said yes to anything.’
‘Fair dos,’ he says. ‘I’ll just have one more game here, see if I can get my stake back.’ He jingles coins in his pocket.
‘Can you do it now?’ I’ve never been any good at giving orders to other men, and I’m braced for the fuck off, but Darren re-pockets his coins.
‘Wait here,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get my tablet. I’ll do it in front of you.’
In the arcade, primary-coloured lights flash at me in the dark, calling my hangover back into being. I step into the lobby before I have some kind of seizure. Darren’s back in three minutes. His eyes are downcast in what looks like shame, but he’s biting back a smile.
‘I can take it down no problem, I’m doing it now.’ With a few deft swipes he’s deleted it from his account. I can tell by his face there’s a ‘but’ coming.
‘What?’ I say.
‘It’s a bit awkward. You went low-level viral. Professor Brian Cox retweeted it. Nineteen thousand hits in the last two hours alone. It’s gone right to the top of the YouTube sidebar.’ Darren’s trying to look apologetic but can’t disguise his glee. I turn on my heel, eyes down; the pattern on the carpet seems to writhe under my feet. Anyone who’s looking for an eclipse chaser will see it. I might as well have given out my co-ordinates. My pulse quickens as the reality of seeing Beth again gets one step closer, and it’s only partly in fear. Maybe I need this showdown. Maybe my drunken subconscious made a decision my sober self hasn’t had the balls to make for fifteen years.
Chapter 25
LAURA
18 May 2000
I meant to confide in Ling about my week in court. The confessional urge wriggled inside me like something alive on the train to her new place in Green Lanes. I changed lines at Leicester Square, and made the journey underground, with no real sense of navigation. North Londoners still complain that South London is a lawless outpost because there’s no Tube network but that was its beauty for me; you could come to know it. London, south of the river, seemed a true city, a sprawling blend of communities linked by buses and overland trains. North London to me then was a patchwork of islanded villages, reached only by Tube and never joined up above ground; circles on a map, separate as stars. Turnpike Lane, for example, I thought, as I counted down the identical Victorian streets to Ling’s new flat. Where the fuck was this place? I couldn’t put it in context. Pre-gentrification, the Harringay Ladder was the kind of place you don’t go unless you’ve got a bloody good reason, the kind of place South Londoners have never even heard of.
Four months later, this would be its attraction.
Ling opened the door to the basement flat while I was still on the uppermost step. Baby Juno was sprawled face down on her shoulder. ‘He’s done it again,’ she said, bursting into snotty tears. ‘He’s fucked off with my cashcard and I haven’t seen him for forty-eight hours. I can’t do this on my own, Laura. I can’t fucking do it. Sorry, come in, come in.’ I stepped gingerly over the threshold into chaos. When people talk about being knee-deep in nappies they mean it rhetorically but Ling was literally wading through piles of babygros, vests, blankets and cloths, the laundered tangled in with the filthy. While I stood wondering where to sit, a clothes horse in the corner of the room collapsed under the weight of tiny clothes and the story on my tongue slid back down my throat. I couldn’t dump my shit on Ling when she was in this state. I think even then I knew that that was it; I could feel the secret setting solid inside me. If revenge is a dish best served cold, confession should be dished up piping hot or not at all.
‘I think I’m dying,’ said Ling. ‘I think I’m actually dying of all this, it’s going to kill me.’ She swept her hand around the room at the mess – it lingered for a second on an empty vodka bottle next to the changing mat – then her fist settled in a gentle full stop on Juno’s little back. Kit and I had known for a while that Mac’s benders were more than a new father letting off steam, but this was the first time I understood that Ling’s not-coping ran deeper than the usual baby blues. They were hurtling towards their crises in parallel with us, just one reason why they still don’t know the whole of it.