The Family Remains(32)
‘To what? You think he might hurt him?’
‘Well, not hurt him as such. But make him feel uncomfortable. You know, make him feel unsafe.’
Marco’s brain went mental, as though sparks were flying off it, as he tried to assimilate this information. Uncle Henry was kind of strange, but not in the way that his mum was describing. He was weird in a way that was cool and acerbic. He was funny. He made Marco laugh. He got things that other grown-ups didn’t quite get. But all this Phin stuff …
‘We need to find him,’ he says.
‘Yes. I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to do all weekend. I mean, I found all his old devices. But I have no idea how to get on to them.’
‘Give them to me.’
She sighs and gets to her feet, goes into her room and comes back a minute later with two old iPhones, an old Apple Mac, an old iPad and a handful of chargers.
‘I’ve tried everything,’ she says. ‘Every combination of dates and birthdays and house numbers. Can’t get into any of them.’
Marco taps the edge of the dining table with his knuckles, his head spinning with conflicting thoughts. ‘I could get Alf to try.’
‘Alf? What is he, like a hacker?’
‘Yeah. Kind of.’
‘Hm. Henry is pretty tech-savvy, remember. He’s virtually a hacker himself. I doubt very much he’d leave anything that wasn’t completely impenetrable.’
‘Yeah. But he’s old. Alf’s young. Young hackers trump old hackers.’
He glances at his mum and sees her smiling wryly at him. ‘You could try, I guess.’
Marco nods sagely, takes out his phone and messages Alf.
29
I stride across the parking lot towards the man standing next to the huge motorbike.
‘Hi!’ I say, my hand extended forcefully, ‘I’m Joshua Harris. You must be Kris.’
Kris grips my hand inside his and crunches it slightly. I try not to wince.
‘Yes! Kris Doll. Really great to meet you!’
He eyes me up and down and for a moment I think maybe he’s checking me out, but then I remember that he used to go out with sexy Mati from the Magdala so that is highly unlikely, and I realise he is simply making sure I’m sensibly dressed for the back of his bike. He nods approvingly and then brings some paperwork out of a shoulder bag.
‘Okey dokey,’ he says, peeling through the papers with his fingertips. ‘I just have to ask you to sign a few things, if you wouldn’t mind. Just disclaimers. Housekeeping stuff. Ts and Cs. If you want to take the time to read them, please feel free, we’re in no rush.’
He hits me with a super-smile. He is very attractive but could, in my opinion, take more care over his skin; it’s very dry. And his dark shaggy hair is in dire need of deep conditioning and a good cut, but I suppose if he spends all day in a crash helmet, it probably doesn’t feel worth the effort. I age him at around thirty-eight. I take the papers and I sit on a bench and flick through them, sign them Joshua Harris with a flourish, pass them back to him.
He peers at them briefly. ‘Fan-tastic. Super. Right. Let’s get you set up. You ever been on a Gold Wing before?’
‘Nope. No, never.’
‘Any kind of bike?’
‘Well, yes. Once or twice. Been given lifts by friends. But never as a hobby. Or as a thing.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember the names or the makes of the bikes you’ve been on?’
I shake my head apologetically. I have let him down. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He rallies. ‘No problem. That’s OK. Anyway, this is the most comfortable ride you can ever have, believe me. You will never want to ride pillion on anyone else’s bike, ever again. Let’s get you up there.’
He gets me up there and I sit up high, like a little princeling about to be carried aloft on a golden sedan. He talks me through our route for the day, but I’m not listening. I stare at the back of his head as he takes his seat at the front of the bike and puts on his own helmet; then I stare at his shoulders: they are as broad as befits a man who once rowed people across lakes for a living. I am feeling the one degree of separation that exists between me, him and Phin, wondering if I will find the moment to scatter my connection to our mutual friend into the path of our conversation. It needs to be natural. A bizarre coincidence. He cannot feel interrogated. I must not tread too fast.
Kris drives us down the so-called ‘Magnificent Mile’, a fine avenue of skyscrapers abutting the banks of the Chicago River.
‘Where do you live in Britain?’ he turns to shout to me.
‘London,’ I shout back.
‘Cool,’ he says.
‘Have you ever been to the UK?’
‘Yeah. A few years back. I was seeing a British girl.’
‘Whereabouts did you stay?’
‘At her place. She lived in Milton Keynes.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘That’s nice.’
He points things out to me, churches and whatnot, but I can tell he’s not interested, and neither am I. Eventually we descend into a companiable silence, and I watch the moving scenery and inhale the scent of petrol streets and the slightly musty inside of a crash helmet (heaven knows how one cleans the inside of a crash helmet – I try not to ponder it too deeply), and then, as the streetlights flick on and the city peters out into the banks of Lake Michigan, the bike comes to a stop next to a sandy beach and we dismount.