“Oh that’s just … just a game …” He pinched the top of his nose for a moment, shutting his eyes, and then he was back.
“So, how do you fancy doing some babysitting for me? It’ll just be the odd afternoon here and there when you’re off of school so I can get on with a few jobs, do my shopping and all that. How does that sound?”
I folded my arms.
“I don’t know …”
“It’ll be good money! They’re such easy kids—so easy!” he said, blinking rapidly.
Thump, thump, thump.
“I’m quite busy, to be honest …”
He nodded as if he understood how hectic my life must be, spending most days indoors doing nothing. I really needed to finish washing my hands. The germs were definitely beginning to spread, and Nigel’s meowing was getting louder. He had made his way into the hall and was sitting right behind me.
Thump, thump, thump.
I could hear Casey screaming now. Mr. Charles raised his voice in an attempt to drown them out.
“I guess a whole afternoon could be too much … How about a couple of hours? One, even? I’ll pay double!”
I shook my head.
“You just tell me how much you’d like, eh, Matthew?”
If he could have got his hands around the door, I think he would have tried to shake a yes out of me.
Thump, thump, thump.
“I’m only twelve, Mr. Charles. I don’t think I’m old enough.”
Nigel was by the bottom of the stairs now, brushing his face against the step. A tiny, dark spot appeared on the cream carpet where he’d dribbled. He saw me looking and came straight toward me, the germs dropping from his fur and running in all directions into the carpet. I quickly took a step back and opened the door wide. The cat blinked at the bright sunshine and then trotted outside, darting around Mr. Charles’s legs and down our driveway. I pulled the door closed again. My hand was sweating through my sleeve.
“I’m sure you can babysit at your age.” He laughed. “Why, I was looking after my brother when I was only seven!”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Charles,” I said as he continued to laugh.
Thump, thump, CRASH!
“GRANNNNDAAAAAAD!!!”
Mr. Charles’s laugh stopped instantly, his shoulders slumped forward, and without saying another word he turned slowly back home, dragging the brown broom behind him. I slammed the door and ran up to the bathroom to wash my hands again.
When I got back to the office, the noises from next door had stopped and I could hear a TV blaring. Out on the street everything was quiet, the road steaming in the heat. Nigel was in Mr. Charles’s front garden, carefully tiptoeing onto the lawn, his nose dabbing at the grass as he sniffed. He didn’t hear the old man approaching him from behind carrying a washing-up bowl full of water. Mr. Charles let out a roar and threw the water into the air; it splashed over Nigel in one big wave.
The cat froze in shock, and so did I. I wasn’t a fan of the old vomiting fleabag, but I wouldn’t ever do something like that to him. His fluffy, ginger-and-white fur was now dark brown and stuck to his skin. He looked utterly petrified. Mr. Charles dropped the bowl on the grass and swung his foot at the cat, his body nearly twisting around from the force, but fortunately Nigel had come to his senses and swerved out of the way. He squeezed through the gate, turned right, and scurried up our path. Sitting on our step he meowed feebly, then began to lick at his fur.
I watched Mr. Charles as he picked up the washing-up bowl and took two steps toward the house. He stopped for a moment as if he’d forgotten something. Taking a step back, he tucked the bowl under his arm, looked up at me, and glared.
When I was younger I thought a mirage was something you’d only see if you got lost in the desert. Delirious, you’d drag yourself along the scorching sand, inch by inch, as you desperately search for water. Suddenly you spot something shimmering on the horizon. It’s a pastel-colored ice-cream van! You can almost hear the tinkling music. It beckons you closer and closer with its promise of deliciously cold Popsicles waiting in the deep, dark freezer. Your mouth floods with precious saliva as you try to reach it, but when you’re just inches away it vanishes! All that’s there, in the exact spot where the ice-cream van just stood, is a shriveled-up cactus.
I saw lots of mirages on the road on the way to the doctor. Not ghostly ice-cream vans but dark pools of water puddled along the tarmac. They looked so real I could almost hear the splash as we drove through them. Dad told me once that they were called highway mirages, which sounded about right. He knew a lot of stuff, my dad. Brian’s Brains was always one of the top three teams in the monthly pub quiz. You could ask him anything and he’d immediately have an answer.
“Dad, who was on the throne during the Black Death?”
“Edward III.”
“What is the capital of Latvia?”
“Riga.”
“What is the chemical symbol for copper?”
“Cu.”
“What is wrong with your eldest and only son?”
“He’s crazy.”
Not that he would have said that out loud, but I was pretty sure he thought it. I figured they both did.
Mum had the air-conditioning on. It was directed downward so my feet felt like blocks of ice. I would have twisted the dial around but I didn’t want to touch it.
“Mr. Charles’s grandchildren seem to be settling in okay, don’t they? That must be nice for him, to have a bit of company for a change,” Mum said as we crawled along High Street.
She was trying that conversation thing again.
“I don’t know how he’ll manage for a whole month though, do you? He’s no spring chicken.”
I kept my mouth shut. I certainly wasn’t going to talk to her after the way she’d embarrassed me in front of the whole neighborhood.
She’d sat in the car with the engine running while I remained paralyzed on the doormat. Mr. Jenkins had come back from a run as I stood there, spotting me as he turned into his driveway. He stood there for a moment with his hands on his hips, sweat running down his face as he looked me up and down.
To minimize any possible health risks, I was wearing: a long-sleeved shirt, which I’d buttoned up to the neck; jeans; socks; rubber boots; and two pairs of latex gloves (six pairs remaining). It was about ninety degrees outside. I was pretty hot.
“What are you doing, Corbin?” he said, but he didn’t wait for an answer, just shook his head in disgust and went inside.
I don’t think Mum heard him. She rolled down her window and hollered at me.
“Two words for you, Matthew Corbin. Callum’s angel!”
Her voice bounced off the houses like a pinball. Old Nina’s curtain twitched and her dark shadow peered through the thick nets, trying to see what all the noise was about. Penny and Gordon Sullivan appeared in the front yard of number one and began to walk over. They always pop up if it looks like something interesting is going on.
“Everything all right, Sheila?” Penny called.
They arrived at our driveway each holding a Harrington’s Household Solutions catalog, which I’m sure they’d just grabbed to use as a cover. Penny and Gordon went everywhere together. It was as if they were tied at the waist with a piece of invisible string, and if one ventured too far from the other they’d just ping back together again. In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever, ever seen them apart.
Mum waved at them from the car.
“Yes, all fine here, Penny. Hello, Gordon. Thank you! Just a preteen pushing the boundaries … You know how it is …”
She forced a laugh and the retired couple laughed along with her, but they soon stopped when they got a good look at me.
“We’ll leave you to it then, Sheila,” Penny said, raising her eyebrows at me. She muttered something to her husband and the invisible string twanged as she turned back to the house with Gordon following.
“Come on, Matthew! We’re going to be late!”
“But Mum, you don’t realize what this will do to me … please.”
A loud meow came from behind me in the hallway. Nigel.