Everything went quiet and I was suddenly very far away and looking at Norman through a telescope.
I said, “How do you know that?” (because really, what were the odds on Norman knowing anything about it?) and he said, “I know that because your dad used to visit her here.”
Norman’s got this way of talking where he hardly moves his mouth and his voice is very deep and very quiet. He has a big old dappled moustache that bobs around so his hardly-moving mouth and his very quiet words sometimes don’t make themselves heard. I rewound to double check and I listened again and heard, “Your dad used to visit her here.”
I was torn between believing him and just bursting out laughing.
How could Violet Park and my dad have anything to do with each other at all?
As far as I knew, the only places those two were even remotely connected were Pansy’s mantelpiece and my own brain.
But there was something about the way Norman looked at me as if he hadn’t been inside himself looking out for a long time, like he knew exactly what he was saying for once and he was willing me to notice.
So I said, “Why did Pete visit Violet?”
It was Jed that answered. Jed, my bloody five-and-a-half-year-old brother, who suddenly might know things I didn’t about the dad he’d never met. He said, “He was making a book about her.” He was still holding Norman’s hand and looking up at him while he said it.
And then there was a pause while we both looked at Norman, and then Norman said, “Who? Who was writing a book?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Grandad?” I said.
Norman shrugged his shoulders and started walking again, and he said, “Before what? What are you talking about, Lucas?”
And that was it.
When we got to the park I left them playing with the dog for five minutes and called Bob on my mobile. I didn’t bother with small talk, I just said: “Do you know anything about Violet Park?”
Bob was dead quiet for a minute and then he said, “A bit. Why?”
“Did my dad know her?” I said.
Bob half laughed and half sighed down the phone. I could tell from his breathing he was keeping something in. “Who told you that?”
“Norman,” I said, “so it could be made up senile stuff or it could be true. I’ve no way of telling.”
“It’s true,” he said, after a bit of a gap. “Yeah, your dad knew Violet Park quite well.”
I lay down in the long grass with the phone still against my ear and I looked at the sky (mottled cloud, one bird, one plane) and I concentrated on breathing.
Bob said, “What else did Norman tell you?”
“Not much,” I said. “He clouded over.”
Bob said, “Do you want to come round?” and I nodded because I forgot he couldn’t see me.
“I have to walk the dog first,” I said.
I watched the two of them for a while, my grandad and my little brother. I stayed in the long grass and watched them from a distance.
I’ve said before that they liked hanging out together, but it wasn’t until now that I realised what a double act they’d always been. I’d got a glimpse of their world for the first time, awash with secrets. And though I’ve said before that I suspected Norman knew more than he let on, I never thought I was right.
They’d looked guilty, the two of them, standing right outside Violet’s house. There’s no other word for the way they’d looked.
And now I understand why they stick together. I’ve thought about it a lot.
When he is around Jed, Norman still gets to be the commanding old man that he would have been if all those little strokes hadn’t been chipping away at him year after year.
And Jed has a lifeline to his stranger of a dad after all.
I had no idea how hard it would be to filter information from a man with dementia through the mind of a five-year-old boy. Norman and Jed’s combined version of anything is so garbled it’s a mangled wreck of the real event. It’s like putting a brick through a sieve, twice.
Jed probably knew I was going to corner him and ask him a load of questions he didn’t want to answer. He managed to avoid me for a few hours by being at a friend’s house, then very busy reading with Mum, then engrossed in a video he’s seen maybe thirteen times and that I’ve definitely heard him say was boring and for babies.
It was a change because mostly at home he hangs out with me a lot, so I almost missed him.
Finally though, he gave in, and I got to interrogate him.
I said we were playing Good Cop Bad Cop. He’s seen The Bill before on telly so he knew what to expect. He gave me his police hat and he was in plastic handcuffs. I taped it.
Me: This is officer Lucas Swain, Monday 3rd of October, 18:04 hours, questioning the suspect, Jeddathon the Howler, otherwise known as Black Jed. The tape is running. Black Jed, tell me what you know about Norman Swain alias Mad Norm?
Jed: He’s my grandad.
Me: Two master criminals in the family. What has Mad Norm taught you about the business?
Jed: (whispering) Don’t call him mad, Lucas.
Me: (whispering) Sorry.
Me: So, what’s he taught you?
Jed: About what?
Me: Let’s start with his son, Pete Swain, the invisible man.
Jed: Dad wasn’t Grandad’s real son. Did you know that?
Me: He told you that? I didn’t think Norman knew. I thought he’d forgotten.
Jed: Sometimes he remembers.
Me: And he told you. Does he mind?
Jed: No. He says he was a good dad …He played with dad a lot.
Me: He plays with you a lot too, even though he’s not our real grandad.
Jed: Yes he is. Shut up, Lucas.
Me: Do you want to see your lawyer?
Jed: Are you still buying me sweets after?
Me: Yes. Does Norman know where Dad is now?
Jed:
