Page 64 of The One Plus One
Finally, just as the woman was sweeping up close enough to their table to send a silent message, the door opened, a little bell rang and Mr Nicholls walked in with Nicky. Nicky had his hands in his pocket and his hair over his eyes but there was a little smirk on his face.
Mum stood up and looked from one to the other. You could tell she really, really wanted to say something but she didn’t know what.
‘Did you try the chocolate cake?’ Mr Nicholls said. His face was all bland, like a game-show host’s.
‘No.’
‘Shame. It was really good. Thank you! Your cake is the best!’ he called to the woman, who went all smiley and twinkly even though she hadn’t looked at Mum like that. Then Mr Nicholls and Nicky went straight back out again, striding across the road like they’d been mates all their lives, leaving Tanzie and Mum to gather up their things and hurry out after them.
15.
Nicky
There was this article in the newspaper once, about a hairless baboon. Her skin wasn’t black all over, like you’d expect, but kind of mottled, pink and black. Her eyes were black-rimmed, like she had this really cool eyeliner on, and she had one long pink nipple and one black one, like a sort of simian, booby David Bowie.
But she was all on her own. It turns out baboons don’t like difference. And literally not one baboon was prepared to hang out with her. So she was photographed picture after picture, just out looking for food, all bare and vulnerable, without a single baboon mate. Because even though all the other baboons, like, knew she was still a baboon, their dislike of difference was stronger than any genetic urge they had to stick with her.
Nicky thought this one thing quite often: that there was nothing sadder than a lonely hairless baboon.
Obviously Mr Nicholls was about to give him a lecture on the dangers of social networking or say that he had to report it all to his teachers or the police or something. But he didn’t. He opened his car door, pulled out his laptop from the boot, plugged the power lead into aconnector near his gearstick, and then plugged in a dongle so that they had broadband.
‘Right,’ he said, as Nicky eased himself into the passenger seat. ‘Tell me everything you know about this little charmer. Brothers, sisters, dates of birth, pets, address – whatever you’ve got.’
‘What?’
‘We need to work out his password. Come on – you must know something.’
They were sitting in the car park. Around them, people loaded shopping into their cars, strolled around in search of a nice pub or tea room. There was no graffiti here, no discarded shopping trolleys. This was the kind of place where they walked actual miles to return a shopping trolley. Nicky would have bet money they had one of those Best Kept Village signs too. A grey-haired woman loading her car beside them caught his eye and smiled. She actually smiled. Or maybe she smiled at Norman, whose big head was hanging over Nicky’s shoulder.
‘Nicky?’
‘Yeah. I’m thinking.’ He tried to clear his head. He reeled off everything he knew about Fisher. He went through his address, his sister’s name, his mum’s name. He actually knew his birthday as it was only three weeks previously and his dad had bought him one of those quad bikes and he’d smashed it up within a week.
Mr Nicholls kept tapping away. ‘Nope. Nope. Come on. There must be something else. What music does helike? What team does he support? Oh, look – he’s got a hotmail address. Great – we can put that in.’
Nicky told him everything he knew. Nothing worked. And then he had a sudden thought. ‘Tulisa. He’s got a thing about Tulisa. The singer.’
Mr Nicholls tapped away at his keyboard, then shook his head.
‘Try Tulisa’s Arse,’ Nicky said.
Mr Nicholls typed. ‘Nope.’
‘IShaggedTulisa. All one word.’
‘Nope.’
‘Tulisa Fisher.’
‘Mmm. Nope. Nice try, though.’
They sat there, thinking.
‘You could just try his name,’ said Nicky.
Mr Nicholls shook his head. ‘Nobody’s stupid enough to use their name as their password.’
Nicky looked at him. Mr Nicholls typed a few letters then stared at the screen. ‘Well what do you know?’ he said, and leant back in his seat. ‘You’re a natural.’
