Do not set foot in my office. That's Dad's rule. But
the phone'd rung twenty-five
times. Normal people give up after ten or eleven, unless it's a
life or death. Don't they? Dad's got an answering machine like
in The Rockford Files with big reels of tape. But he's
stopped leaving it
switched on recently. Thirty rings, the phone got to. Julia
couldn't hear it up
in her converted attic 'cause "Don't You Want Me?" by Human
thumping out dead loud. Forty rings. Mum couldn't hear
'cause the washing
machine was on berserk cycle and she was hoovering the
living room. Fifty
rings. That's just not normal. S'pose Dad'd been mangled by
a juggernaut on
the M5 and the police only had this office number 'cause all his
got incinerated? We could lose our final chance to see our
charred father in
the terminal ward.
So I went in, thinking of a bride going into Bluebeard's chamber after being told not to. (Bluebeard, mind, was waiting for that to happen.) Dad's office smells of pound notes, papery but metallic too. The blinds were down so it felt like evening, not ten in the morning. There's a serious clock on the wall, exactly the same make as the serious clocks on the walls at school. There's a photo of Dad shaking hands with Craig Salt when Dad got made regional sales director for Greenland. (Greenland the supermarket chain, not Greenland the country.) Dad's IBM computer sits on the steel desk. Thousands of pounds, IBMs cost. The office phone's red like a nuclear hotline and it's got buttons you push, not the dial you get on normal phones. So anyway, I took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and said our number. I can say that without stammering, at least. Usually. But the person on the other end didn't answer.
"Hello?" I said. "Hello?"
They breathed in like they'd cut themselves on paper.
"Can you hear me? I can't hear you."
Very faint, I recognized the Sesame Street music.
"If you can hear me"I remembered a Children's Film Foundation film where this happened"tap the phone, once."
There was no tap, just more Sesame Street.
"You might have the wrong number," I said, wondering.
A baby began wailing and the receiver was slammed down.
When people listen they make a listening noise.
I'd heard it, so they'd heard me.
"May as well be hanged for a sheep as hanged for a handkerchief." Miss Throckmorton taught us that aeons ago. 'Cause I'd sort of had a reason to have come into the forbidden chamber, I peered through Dad's razor-sharp blind, over the glebe, past the cockerel tree, over more fields, up to the Malvern Hills. Pale morning, icy sky, frosted crusts on the hills, but no sign of sticking snow, worse luck. Dad's swivelly chair's a lot like the Millennium Falcon's laser tower. I blasted away at the skyful of Russian MiGs streaming over the Malverns. Soon tens of thousands of people between here and Cardiff owed me their lives. The glebe was littered with mangled fusilages and blackened wings. I'd shoot the Soviet airmen with tranquilizer darts as they pressed their ejector seats. Our marines'll mop them up. I'd refuse all medals. "Thanks, but no thanks," I'd tell Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan when Mum invited them in, "I was just doing my job."
Dad's got this fab pencil sharpener clamped to his desk. It makes pencils sharp enough to puncture body armor. H pencils're sharpest, they're Dad's faves. I prefer 2Bs.
Excerpted from Black Swan Green by David Mitchell Copyright © 2006 by David Mitchell. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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