Free Mountains of the Moon by I. J. Kay Page A

Balanced upside down on the one bowed arm, he is perfectly still. I can feel the stress, the tension, in my diaphragm, in my eardrums, in one particular heart valve.
Breathe.
The sycamore tree is shedding its helicopter seeds. He’s still upside down. He doesn’t know how lucky he is. Gwen has been watching the apartment for nearly two months but she doesn’t do alternate Tuesdays, probably has to sign on in Wales or something. Heath is still upside down.
    “Come in, number 6,” I call.
    He’s such an arsehole, somersaults off the end of the lorry and lands on his feet. I hadn’t seen that Sharon is with him, she appears with little Jennifer on her hip. Tarka, Heath’s Alsatian dog, is barking bonkers in the road. I see the boy, Gavin, slip behind them into the pub, with a little bastard backward look. I know he’s only nine years old but I wish they’d serve him a pint of Guinness and keep him in there. Heath goes in to get him.
    I can hear them coming up the stairs and suddenly wish I was on the ninety-ninth floor. I open the door. The dog stands up like a bear to greet me.
    “Tarka! Get down!” Heath yells. I skid through the hall, no traction on the slippery floor. The dog slams me against the lounge wall. I’d like to yell myself but it’s got its tongue down my throat. Heath hauls it off me. Usually Heath is white as Basildon Bond but the upside-down stunt on the lorry has left him pink and puffing. Hasn’t been training. All of their hot breath steams into my freezing lounge.
    “I had to go to Windsor to pick up this container,” he says. “Legoland was great.”
    “We thought we’d call in and see you for a change,” Sharon says. “Don’t touch that, Gavin. Gavin! Put it down!”
    “I want the toilet, Mummy, the toilet, Mummy, the toilet, Mummy,” Jennifer says.
    “Gavin!” Sharon yells. “Mind the mirror!”
    “What do you think of my new beauty?” Heath says.
    He means the Scania, I gather.
    “Well, it’s a big apartment,” Sharon says. “It’ll be nice when you’ve done it. Gavin! I won’t tell you again! Sit down on the sofa and don’t you dare move.”
    “There isn’t a sofa,” Gavin says.
    “He’s got a point,” Heath says.
    “Sit down under the—tree,” Sharon yells.
    “Tarka!”
    Tarka has gone in the bathroom, sounds like he’s on to something behind the bath panel. He’s clawing at it.
    “Gavin! I won’t tell you again.”
    “Nice cup of black unsweetened tea?” I say.
    “I’m all right thanks,” Sharon says.
    “I’ve got some coffee in my cab. Shaz, go and get the coffee from the cab.”
    “Yeah, but babes, we’re not staying that long.”
    “How was Legoland?” I ask.
    Heath doesn’t hear me because Gavin is trying to climb on his head. The emptiness of my apartment seems to recommend a bout of contact sport. Sharon joins in, throwing punches and her pigtails. The dog skids in, taking the paint off the floor with its claws and joins in.
    “Bloody hell, babes,” Sharon says. “That really hurt.”
    “You think that hurt, try this.”
    “Babes!” She clutches her dead arm.
    It gets too painful for the dog, it skanks back to the bath panel.
    “I could go and get the coffee,” I suggest.
    “Now that is a stonking idea,” Heath says.
    I take the Scania keys downstairs. My bare feet melt a sifting of frost on the pavement. The lock is smooth. I climb up in the new Scania andsit at the wheel. I sit and sit. The phone box starts ringing; the taxi man gets out of his car to answer it, and then takes off up the hill. Tim reckons it won’t be long until everyone’s got a mobile phone. Heath’s black holdall is on the bunk bed behind the seats. Same stuff in the bag: white karate outfit; the black belts; his other jeans; green designer suit with zip pockets; worn-out
Lord of the Rings
. The gold-colored plastic canister is still in the bag. I shake it and listen, light bone fragments of Heath’s dad rattle on the surface of the heavy ash.