Page 24 of Charlie Sunshine
“Isn’t Harry driving him?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s got something on in the morning. He’s meeting us at the hotel. I’ll look forward to that,” I say sourly. “Myweekend won’t be complete if I don’t spend it with a complete dickhead.”
“He’s such a tosspot,” she mutters. “How on earth did you end up going to Jamie’s birthday bash when Charlie’s already taking Harry? Do you have anything in common with that bunch of Hooray Henrys?”
“God forbid.” I shudder. “I’d rather have something in common with Dennis Nilsen.”
“So why are you going? Fancy a candyfloss?”
“Yes, to go with my kiss-me-quick hat.”
She laughs. “I know why you’re going.”
I shake my head. “Do tell, oh soothsaying woman of London.”
Bethany smirks. “You’re going to look after Charlie.”
I automatically look around, but he must still be doing story time. Or trying to make a quick getaway out of the back of the library. “For God’s sake, don’t let him hear that. He’ll go mad.”
She bites her lip. “But that is the reason?”
“Of course it is. I’m not letting him fuck off to Brighton when he’s not right in himself. Harry’s no use. If Charlie hasn’t tattooed the problem on his buttocks, then Harry won’t see it. And how on earth will any of those other idiots look after him? They don’t have the time between stuffing coke up their nostrils and giving acute vacuousness a run for its money.”
She shudders. “I’m glad you’re going to be with him,” she mutters and then smiles. “What was Harry’s reaction to you going?”
“I was fortunately spared that, and Charlie certainly won’t tell me, but I’m hoping he wasn’t happy,” I say with a vicious sort of satisfaction. “The weekend will probably follow the usual pattern. First he’ll hang all over Charlie, acting as if he’ll fall over if Charlie’s arse isn’t holding him up. This will be followed by the second phase, where he will act as if Charlie hasn’t got a workable brain cell in his head.” I shrug. “I’ll attempt to ignore it all because if I say anything, it’ll lead to the last part of the weekend which is Charlie and me arguing.”
“You never row with Charlie,” she says in astonishment.
“We do over Harry. Charlie’s too nice to notice when shitheads are in operation. I can’t bloody stand Harry.”
“Well, of course you can’t.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean? You’ve got a funny note in your voice.”
“Really? Must be getting a cold,” she says innocently.
I’m thinking up a way to question her, when someone calls from the back of the library. “Is that you, Mikhail?”
I smile at the sound of my full name and turn to find a little old man who’s a regular in the library. “It is, Mr Turner. How are you?”
He shakes my hand. “Fine, fine. Wonder if you’d have a look at some forms with me?”
“Of course I will.” I follow him to a table at the back of the library, waving goodbye to Bethany.
We sit for a while going through the paperwork for a disability payment while he chatters about his grandchildren and Christmas plans. I’d once helped him with these forms while I was waiting for Charlie to finish work, and now it seems to be my permanent job. I don’t mind. He helped Charlie a couple of years ago when Charlie had a seizure while he was locking up the library. When I pulled into the car park, I’d found Charlie on the floor, but Mr Turner had stayed with him. He’d covered him with his own coat and was sitting holding Charlie’s hand. For that, I will help him with any paperwork for the rest of his life.
The strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” sound from the children’s area, followed by exuberant squeals and laughter. Charlie appears at the entrance, and Bethany hurries over to hand a basket to him. Mr Turner and I watch as the children and parents come out, pulling on their coats, the children dipping their hands into the basket and pulling out little presents. Their faces are flushed and happy.
A few minutes later, Marlena appears and makes her way over to us. In her heels, she must be six foot three, and little bells ring from somewhere on her dress. Mr Turner and I rise to our feet, as one is advised to do when greeting a queen. She waves us to our seats and settles down next to us, reaching into her large bag and pulling out a Tupperware box.
“Oh my God,” I say indignantly. “Those are Charlie’s mince pies. How did I not get some to take to work?”
“You’re not nearly as important as me, darling,” she purrs.
I laugh. “That’s true.”
“But seeing as it’s Christmas and I am imbued with the festive spirit, I shall let you have one.” She checks the box. “But only a small one.”
