wait for some sign of life. After
another ten minutes I call her phone again, and when she doesn’t answer I try the doorbell, the knocker and shouting through the letterbox. I’m about to knock again when a voice –
it sounds like a laryngitic elf – asks if he can help. I turn to see an awkward, red-faced boy, half in and half out of the neighbour’s doorway.
Whenever Ivy is away for more than two days her neighbour’s teenage son, Harold, feeds Ivy’s goldfish, Ernest. I’m guessing this is Harold.
‘Harold, right?’
‘Who are you?’ Harold’s cracked, half-broken voice sends the ‘you’ up, down and back up again.
‘Fisher,’ I say, extending my hand.
Harold (and who calls a child Harold this side of a world war, anyway?) looks at the bags of groceries and bunch of flowers on Ivy’s doorstep. ‘Fisher?’ he repeats, looking at
me suspiciously.
‘William Fisher,’ I say. ‘Ivy’s . . . you know, boyfriend, man . . . friend.’
Harold says nothing.
‘I’m meant to be meeting her,’ I explain. ‘But she’s not answering.’
‘You should come back later,’ he says.
‘We’re meeting somebody in fifteen minutes.’
Harold shrugs, steps back into his house and goes to close the door.
‘Wait!’ I tell him. ‘Wait. You have a key, don’t you? Can you let me in?’
Harold looks at me like I’ve just asked if he has a ski mask and a knife. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he says, leaning away from me.
‘Listen. Harold. Someone is coming to see us in fifteen minutes and Ivy is asleep. If she misses our visitor, Ivy will be massively pissed.’
Harold mimes swigging from a glass. ‘Drunk?’
‘No, not drunk. Pissed off. We have a very important meeting.’
‘Maybe she’s out?’ Harold suggests.
‘Her curtains are closed.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘What? What’s what about?’
‘Your meeting.’
‘Well, it’s not really any of your business, is it, Harold?’
‘Fine,’ he says, going again to close the door.
‘Harold, wait.’
Harold closes the door.
‘Git,’ I say loud enough for the spotty twerp – and half of the neighbours – to hear.
I try Ivy’s phone again, and again it goes straight to voicemail. I’m halfway through a rambling message when Harold reappears, holding a door key.
‘Harold!’ I say, like we’re reunited buddies. ‘Mate, thank you.’ But as I reach for the key, Harold withdraws it.
‘
I’ll
check,’ he says.
‘You’ll what? You bloody won’t, give me the key.’
Harold holds the key behind his back.
‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’
‘What? Who else would I be?’
Harold shrugs. ‘Burglar. Rapist. Murderer.’
‘With a bag of fucking groceries?’
‘No need for that,’ says Harold, and he looks genuinely offended.
‘Harold, listen, sorry, but if Ivy’s in her pyjamas and finds you poking your head around her bedroom doorway she’ll freak out. And neither of us wants that, do we?’
Harold blushes scarlet, the hand holding the key falls to his side and I make a grab for it. He’s a strong little bastard, though, and his arm stays welded to his side like an iron
rod.
‘Just give me the fucking key, Harold.’
‘Get off me,’ he says, his cracked voice jumping at least an octave.
I try to pry the swine’s fingers open, but he’s got the grip of a farmer and his bony fist does not yield one iota.
‘Give it to me, you little b—’
‘What’s going on?’
I spin around to find Ivy standing in the doorway. Her hair is tousled and she’s wearing short shorts, a vest and no bra. I can’t see my own face but I can see Harold’s, and
whoever loses this blushing contest, it’s not for lack of a damned good effort.
‘You were sleeping,’ I say.
‘Key,’ says Harold, holding it up like a talisman.
‘He wouldn’t let me in,’ I say.
‘You snatched,’ Harold says plaintively. ‘I didn’t know who you were.’
‘I told you! I’m her manfriend, I’m Ivy’s .
another ten minutes I call her phone again, and when she doesn’t answer I try the doorbell, the knocker and shouting through the letterbox. I’m about to knock again when a voice –
it sounds like a laryngitic elf – asks if he can help. I turn to see an awkward, red-faced boy, half in and half out of the neighbour’s doorway.
Whenever Ivy is away for more than two days her neighbour’s teenage son, Harold, feeds Ivy’s goldfish, Ernest. I’m guessing this is Harold.
‘Harold, right?’
‘Who are you?’ Harold’s cracked, half-broken voice sends the ‘you’ up, down and back up again.
‘Fisher,’ I say, extending my hand.
Harold (and who calls a child Harold this side of a world war, anyway?) looks at the bags of groceries and bunch of flowers on Ivy’s doorstep. ‘Fisher?’ he repeats, looking at
me suspiciously.
‘William Fisher,’ I say. ‘Ivy’s . . . you know, boyfriend, man . . . friend.’
Harold says nothing.
‘I’m meant to be meeting her,’ I explain. ‘But she’s not answering.’
‘You should come back later,’ he says.
‘We’re meeting somebody in fifteen minutes.’
Harold shrugs, steps back into his house and goes to close the door.
‘Wait!’ I tell him. ‘Wait. You have a key, don’t you? Can you let me in?’
Harold looks at me like I’ve just asked if he has a ski mask and a knife. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he says, leaning away from me.
‘Listen. Harold. Someone is coming to see us in fifteen minutes and Ivy is asleep. If she misses our visitor, Ivy will be massively pissed.’
Harold mimes swigging from a glass. ‘Drunk?’
‘No, not drunk. Pissed off. We have a very important meeting.’
‘Maybe she’s out?’ Harold suggests.
‘Her curtains are closed.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘What? What’s what about?’
‘Your meeting.’
‘Well, it’s not really any of your business, is it, Harold?’
‘Fine,’ he says, going again to close the door.
‘Harold, wait.’
Harold closes the door.
‘Git,’ I say loud enough for the spotty twerp – and half of the neighbours – to hear.
I try Ivy’s phone again, and again it goes straight to voicemail. I’m halfway through a rambling message when Harold reappears, holding a door key.
‘Harold!’ I say, like we’re reunited buddies. ‘Mate, thank you.’ But as I reach for the key, Harold withdraws it.
‘
I’ll
check,’ he says.
‘You’ll what? You bloody won’t, give me the key.’
Harold holds the key behind his back.
‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’
‘What? Who else would I be?’
Harold shrugs. ‘Burglar. Rapist. Murderer.’
‘With a bag of fucking groceries?’
‘No need for that,’ says Harold, and he looks genuinely offended.
‘Harold, listen, sorry, but if Ivy’s in her pyjamas and finds you poking your head around her bedroom doorway she’ll freak out. And neither of us wants that, do we?’
Harold blushes scarlet, the hand holding the key falls to his side and I make a grab for it. He’s a strong little bastard, though, and his arm stays welded to his side like an iron
rod.
‘Just give me the fucking key, Harold.’
‘Get off me,’ he says, his cracked voice jumping at least an octave.
I try to pry the swine’s fingers open, but he’s got the grip of a farmer and his bony fist does not yield one iota.
‘Give it to me, you little b—’
‘What’s going on?’
I spin around to find Ivy standing in the doorway. Her hair is tousled and she’s wearing short shorts, a vest and no bra. I can’t see my own face but I can see Harold’s, and
whoever loses this blushing contest, it’s not for lack of a damned good effort.
‘You were sleeping,’ I say.
‘Key,’ says Harold, holding it up like a talisman.
‘He wouldn’t let me in,’ I say.
‘You snatched,’ Harold says plaintively. ‘I didn’t know who you were.’
‘I told you! I’m her manfriend, I’m Ivy’s .
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