What Abigail Did Tha Summer

and that leads to where and when, and what were you doing, and are you sure that was the last time you saw her, and was she your girlfriend? That last question makes Simon blush so hard he goes bright pink – I’ve never seen a real person go that colour before.
The Feds are not happy with his answers which consist of, ‘here’, ‘yesterday’, ‘playing’, and ‘definitely because I went home for tea’ and ‘No!’ But this is a canvass, what they call door-to-door, and they can’t get intense with kids without making it formal and that means getting an appropriate adult. They ask our names and addresses – they always ask for them.
I give him the surname of a different Abigail that I know is my age, goes to La Sainte Union and lives off Chetwynd Road. The female Fed nods and writes it down on her clipboard. Simon says his surname is Fletcher and gives an address in Belsize Park. Then, because Simon doesn’t seem to be planning to leave, I grab his hand and lead him away down Parliament Hill.
‘Is that really your surname?’ asks Simon as we leave the Feds behind.
I tell him it isn’t and he wants to know why I lied.
I explain about how when they get back to the cop shop the Feds are going to enter our names and our statements into a big computer program called HOLMES 2, where we will become nominals and stay there forever or until the case is closed. It’s a magical thing, I tell him, but once the Feds have your name they start to attach random facts to it and those facts link up and the next thing you know, nice Mr Fed is knocking on your door and asking to see your mother because of something that happened ages ago and in any case the car was barely damaged at all and you shouldn’t be driving a 4 × 4 around in central London anyway.
I leave out the bit about the Toyota Land Cruiser with the potentially child-killing bull bars and just how a wasps’ nest managed to establish itself in the boot. And it wasn’t like it was my idea in the first place – a ghost told me to do it.
We only go ten metres down the road when Simon pulls me into a gap between two houses which turns out to be an alleyway. He’s very strong and I’m not sure I could break his grip – I’m seriously considering drastic measures when we emerge onto another road and he lets go of my arm.
‘Would you like to come home for tea?’ asks Simon.
‘Where do you live?’
He points to a big semi-detached house further up the road. Belsize Park, where he told the Feds he lived, is way to the south.
‘You lied to the Feds,’ I say.
He shrugs but says nothing, just stands there and waits for me to answer the question.
‘Yeah all right,’ I say. ‘Tea.’
He smiles and he’s got this peng2 smile which lights up his whole face and shows perfect white teeth. You can’t fight a smile like that. You can only hope that its owner has sworn an oath to only use it for good.

2 According to my great-niece – ‘Handsome, good-looking, you know – attractive!’


5
Ginger Beer
Simon stops me before we reach his house.
‘Wait two minutes and ring,’ he says, and takes off around the side of the house where there’s a side passage to the garden, blocked with a green wooden door. Simon trots to the door and, without breaking stride, jumps up, pulls himself up and over.
Since I’m waiting I check out the house, which is five storeys if you count the basement and the attic conversion. It’s built out of tan brick with what Peter calls orthogonal bay windows on the bottom two floors. Looks Victorian to me but I’ve been wrong before.
I’ve gone to birthday parties in houses like this, where everything inside is either expensive or old and the mothers stand around with fake smiles ’cause they’re scared you’re going to steal the furniture or something.
And they always skimp on the take-home cake, too. Which is just wrong. You should always have more cake than you’ll think you need. Last time I had a birthday party, half the cake was left over and we ended up feeding it to the old dears that live on the estate.
Because my mum has to stay at home with Paul all day she knows all the old dears, and their care workers, by name. They liked the cake, which Dad bought in the big Sainsbury’s down Camden.
I check my fake Swatch and see that it’s been two minutes and I walk up the steep steps to the front door. It’s got a brass knocker and posh-looking doorbell – which I push. It rings. A little bit later I can hear shuffling from behind the door, then a grunt and then it opens.
A grown-up is standing in front of me, a Filipino woman in a blue polyester dustcoat who’s so short that she can only stare down her nose at me because the top step I’m standing on is lower than the level of the ground floor.
‘Yes?’ she says.
I ask if Simon is in.
‘Simon?’ she says and frowns.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Simon.’
‘Oh, Simon,’ she says, and suddenly she smiles. ‘You’d better come in.’
She turns and walks to the bottom of the stairs and shouts Simon’s name.
‘There is a girl here to see you!’ she calls.
She has left the door open so I cautiously step inside. The interior is what I expected, wood flooring, an antique coat-and-boot stand, walls painted light brown and with pictures nailed to it at carefully spaced intervals.
The woman calls Simon again and I leave the door open behind me – just in case.
There is a rapid thumping from above – someone is running down the stairs.
‘Coming!’ yells Simon.
He arrives – running down the final flight and jumping the last five steps to land in front