Chapter 1 1 Four Months Ago. I was eleven years old when I saw my future. I was standing near the middle doors of a double-decker bus when a bomb exploded on the upper level, peeling off the roof like a giant had taken a tin opener to a can of peaches. One moment I was holding on to a pole, and the next I was flying through the air, seeing sky, then ground, then sky. A leg whipped past me. A stroller. A million shards of glass, each catching the sunlight. I crashed to the pavement as debris and body parts fell around me.
Looking up through the dust, I wondered what I''d been doing on a London sightseeing bus, which is what it looked like without a roof. People were hurt. Dying. Dead. I spat grit from between my teeth and tried to remember who had been standing next to me. A tattooed girl with white earbuds under hacked purple hair. A mother with a toddler in a stroller. Two old ladies were in the side seat, arguing about the price of movie tickets.
A guy with a hipster beard was carrying a guitar case decorated with stickers from around the world. Normally I would have been at school at 9:47 in the morning, but I had a doctor''s appointment with an ear, nose, and throat specialist who was going to tell me why I suffered from so many sinus infections. Apparently I have narrow nasal passages, which is probably genetic, but I haven''t worked out who to blame. As I lay on the street, a man''s face appeared, hovering over me. He was talking but he made no sound. I read his lips. "Are you bleeding?" I looked at my school uniform. My blue-and-white-checked blouse was covered in blood.
I didn''t know if it was mine. "How many fingers am I holding up?" "Three." He moved away. Around me, shop-front windows had been shattered, covering the sidewalk and roadway with diamonds of glass. A pigeon lay nearby, blown out of the sky, or maybe it died of fright. Dust had settled, coating everything in a fine layer of gray soot. Later, when I saw myself in the mirror, I had white streaks under my eyes, the tracks of my tears. As I sat in the gutter, I watched a young policewoman moving among the injured.
Reassuring them. Comforting them. She put her arms around a child who had lost his mother. The same officer reached me and smiled. She had a round face and brilliantly white teeth and her hair was bundled up under her cap. My ears had stopped ringing. Words spilled out of her mouth. "What''s your name, poppet?" "Philomena.
" "And your last name?" "McCarthy." "Are you by yourself, Philomena?" "I have a doctor''s appointment. I''m going to be late." "He won''t mind." The police officer gave me a bottle of water so I could wash dirt from my mouth. "I''ll be back soon," she said, and she continued moving among the wounded. She was like one of those characters you see in disaster movies who you know is going to be the hero from the moment they appear on-screen. Everything about her was calm and self-assured, sending a message that we would survive this.
The city would survive. All was not lost. Standing in front of the mirror, sixteen years later, I remember that officer and wish I had asked for her name. I often think about bumping into her again and thanking her for what she did. "I became a police officer because of you," I''d say. "You were my childhood hero." I laugh at the thought and stare at my reflection. Then I pull a face which is supposed to reduce my chance of wrinkles but makes me look like I''m busting for the loo.
My mother swears by these exercises and recommends them to all her clients at the beauty salon, most of them older women who are desperately clinging to their looks, while their husbands get to age gracefully or disgracefully, going to seed, without a care. Leaning closer to the mirror, I consider my face, which looks heart-shaped when I bundle my hair up into a topknot. I have gray eyes, a straight-edged nose, and an overly large bottom lip, which Henry likes to bite when we kiss. My eyebrows are like sisters rather than distant cousins because I refuse to let my mother near them with her tweezers and pencils. I am working early today, with a shift starting at seven. Henry is still in bed. He looks like a little boy when he sleeps, his dark hair tousled and wild, and one arm draped across his eyes because he doesn''t like to be woken by the bathroom light. Henry could sleep for England.
He could have slept through the blitz. And he doesn''t mind when I come in late and put my cold feet on his warm ones. That must be love. I glance at my phone. It''s not even six and already I have four voicemail messages, all of them from my stepmother, Constance. I don''t normally refer to Constance as my stepmother because we''re so close in age, which embarrasses me more than her, and my father not at all. What a cliché he turned out to be--running off with his secretary. I play the first message.
"Philomena, sweetie, did you get the invitation? You haven''t replied. The party is two weeks on Sunday. Are you coming? Please say yes. It would mean so much to Edward. You know he''s very proud of you. and wishes." She doesn''t finish the statement. "He''s turning sixty and he wants you with him.
You''re still his favorite, you know, despite everything--" "Despite everything," I scoff, skipping to the next message. "Philomena, darling, please come. Everybody will be there. Bring Henry, of course. Is that his name? Or is it Harry? I''m terrible with names. Forgive me. Oh, let me check. I''ve written it down.
somewhere. yes, here. Henry. Bring Henry. No presents. Two weeks on Sunday at four." Constance has a posh, braying voice that makes every utterance sound like "yah, rah, hah, nah, yah." She is the granddaughter of a duke or a lord who gambled away the family fortune a generation ago and "doesn''t have a pot to piss in," according to my uncles, who call her "the duchess" behind her back.
Henry stirs. His head appears. "What time it is?" "Nearly six." He raises the bedclothes and peers beneath. "I have a present for you." "Too late." "Please come back to bed." "You missed your chance.
" He groans and covers his head. "I love you too." I laugh. Outside, a dog begins furiously yapping. Our neighbor Mrs. Ainsley has a Jack Russell called Blaine that barks at every creak and cough and passing car. We''ve complained, but Mrs. Ainsley changes the subject, pointing out some act of vandalism or petty crime in the street which is more evidence that society is unraveling and we''re not safe in our beds.
It''s an eighteen-minute walk from Marney Road to Clapham Common tube station, along the northern edge of the common, past sporting fields and the skate park. I am wearing my "half blues," with my hair pinned up in a bun. We''re not allowed to wear our full uniform when traveling to and from work. Periodically, a politician will suggest the policy be changed, arguing that police officers should be more visible as a deterrent to crime. Cops on the beat. Boots on the ground. I can picture my morning commute if I were in uniform. Random strangers would complain to me about schoolkids putting their feet on the seats or playing music too loudly.
I''d hear how their neighbor doesn''t recycle properly or has a dog that keeps crapping in their front garden. If trouble did break out, how would I call for backup without a radio? And if I made an arrest, where would I take the offender? Would I get overtime? Would anyone thank me? I catch a Northern line train to Borough, which is six stops, and walk two minutes to Southwark Police Station, stopping to buy coffee at the Starbucks across the road. The skinny barista is called Paolo and he keeps up a constant patter as he presses, steams, froths, and pours. He offers the ladies "extra cream" or a "sticky bun," making it sound like a sexual proposition. His brother works the sandwich press and occasionally adds to the banter. While I wait for my order, I think about my father and his sixtieth birthday party. I haven''t spoken to him in six years and haven''t been in the same room with him for nine. I can remember that last meeting.
Jamie Pike, the coolest boy I knew, was fumbling in my knickers in our front room. One moment he had his hand down my pants, acting like he''d lost a pound coin, and the next he was flying backwards and slamming into an antique sideboard, where a William and Kate wedding plate toppled from a stand and shattered on the floor next to him. My father marched him out of the house and spoke so sternly to Jamie that he never so much as looked at me again. A few years ago I bumped into him at a cinema in Leicester Square and he literally ran away. He might still be running, or hiding under his bed, or checking his doors are locked. My father has that sort of reputation. He is steeped in myths and stories, many of them violent, hopefully embellished, but all of them spoken in whispers in dark corners because nobody wants to discover if they''re true. Jamie Pike isn''t the reason that I''m estranged from my father.
My parents'' divorce set us on separate paths. I chose to live with my mother, and Daddy chose not to care, or care enough to fight for me. Yes, he sends me birthday presents and Christmas gifts and makes overtures, but I expect more from someone who broke my heart. I want him to grovel. I want him to suffer. When.