Cecelia Ahern - One Hundred Names

‘That’s my bike,’ she said.

‘That’s my bike.’

The boy cycled up the kerb to the footpath and circled her. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen yet he intimidated her.

‘If it’s yours, how come I have it?’

‘Because you stole it.’

‘I didn’t steal anything.’ He continued circling her.

‘I left it locked on the railings on Friday. Somebody took it.’ As soon as the words started coming out of her mouth they were immediately repeated by the freckled face boy on the basketball. He was speaking over her so that she could barely concentrate on what she was saying.

‘Must have been a shit lock.’

‘True.’

‘True.’

He went down the kerb to the road, stood up on the pedals and braked hard, causing the back wheel to lift. He did a few more moves in the middle of the road.

‘Do you want it back?’

‘Well, of course. Yes.’

She heard, ‘Well, of course. Yes.’

He stopped abruptly and hopped off the bike. He stood a few yards ahead of her, holding the bike upright by the handlebars. ‘All you had to do was ask.’

She looked around, thinking there must be a catch, that a crew were somewhere ready to jump out at her.

She slowly walked towards him, her burger and chips in hand, the light an orange glow from the streetlight. She reached the bike and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. She took the bike by the handlebars and the boy walked away.

‘Thanks,’ she said, hearing the surprise in her voice.

‘Thanks,’ she heard the patronising echo back at her.

All she had to do was ask.

Kitty was about to get on her bicycle when she had an overwhelming desire to do something. ‘Hey!’ she called out.

‘Hey!’ she heard the voice repeat.

‘You up there on the basketball,’ she said, and there was no response, just a little head appearing above the wall. ‘Want to play?’ she asked.

He didn’t repeat her. The head disappeared instead and she heard his steps coming down the flights of stairs. On the basketball courts beside the block of flats, Kitty was brought back to her youth as she and the young boy battled it out in the dark, neither of them saying a word.

When she got home she was so busy concentrating on carrying her bike up the stairs that she got a fright when a figure at the top appeared in her eyeline.

‘Jesus.’ She dropped the bike, thinking it was Colin Maguire’s crew ready to pounce on her. She might have preferred that because facing her was Richie, evil tabloid journalist. She would have slapped him across the face right then had his eye not resembled a rotten plum, half-closed and purple, and his lip was busted. She wasn’t sure what to say. All of her preprepared nasty comments went out of her head.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ he said bitterly. ‘Just give me my jacket and I’ll get out of here.’

Her blood pumped. ‘Excuse me?’

‘My jacket. I came to collect it. The fella downstairs says you have it.’

‘Your jacket,’ she repeated. ‘And what about an apology? Hello, Kitty, I’m sorry? I’m sorry I was a lying scumbag rat dickhead?’ She didn’t bother trying to control her rage – it all just came tumbling out.

‘Ah, come on, don’t get like this.’ He held his hands up. ‘You know how this game is, you know how it works. I was sent to get the story from you and I did my job.’

‘You did your job? Sleeping with me was part of your job?’ She had her hands on her hips now and was so close to his face she could see her spit landing on his skin with each word. He had the audacity to look slightly embarrassed about that.

‘Look that, that wasn’t … I had too much to drink. That shouldn’t have happened.’

She couldn’t believe her ears. So many times she had played this conversation in her head, how it was supposed to go, her being extremely angry but incredibly eloquent in her insults and also having life-changing effects on Richie, he hanging his head low, so sorry, so very disgusted by his behaviour that he could barely express it, yet he did, in equally eloquent language. But here she was, in reality, listening to somebody who could barely apologise and, when pushed, the only thing he was sorry for was sleeping with her. The sex had been the only decent – well, half-decent – thing that had occurred that night. Her rage was so great she felt her body shaking. She just didn’t want to cry, anything but show this insensitive little shit how much he’d hurt her. She tried to think of the most hurtful thing she could possibly say to him, she racked her brains, conscious of the time that was passing her by as she stared at his beaten face and she realised he was talking.

‘But that was still no reason to send your bodyguard after me. That was ridiculous, Kitty. You’re lucky I didn’t press charges or tell anyone who was responsible for this because, believe me, you could be in a whole lot more trouble.’

‘Bodyguard? What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t “send” anyone after you. I would have been far more than happy to do that to your face myself so you can stop accusing me and start thinking of the numerous amount of people you have managed to insult doing your dirty little job.’

He actually smiled and when his lip stretched and fresh blood drew from the cut, he immediately stopped. ‘First of all, my dirty little job, as you say, is exactly the same as the one you have, so we’re in the same boat, Kitty Logan. And secondly, bodyguard or boyfriend, I’m not sure which, but did our night out get you into trouble, Kitty?’ he said smugly. ‘The last time I annoyed Steve Jackson was when I accidentally knocked his pint over you in the college bar so you can be sure I know exactly who it is that came after me and why.’

‘Steve? Steve did this to you?’

‘Are you going to pretend you didn’t know about that like you pretended you didn’t know a whole pile of other things on Thirty Minutes ? I don’t have much more time to waste on this so, my jacket?’

Kitty wanted to punch his other eye but she was so shocked by his behaviour and the revelation that Steve had hit him that she simply unlocked the door, retrieved his jacket from the couch where she’d thrown it and brought it back to him.

‘Never come here again,’ she said firmly as she handed it back.

He gave her an amused look as he slithered down the stairs. ‘Hold on,’ he paused and came back up the stairs. ‘My USB, where is it?’

‘What USB?’

‘It must have been in my pocket. It’s what I’m here for. My novel is on it.’ He suddenly came over all worried little schoolboy as he stood before her, checking the pockets in a panic.

‘Well, I don’t have your USB so perhaps you should ask the dry-cleaners about it. Maybe they put it through the steamer for you.’

He genuinely looked panicked about that. ‘Seriously, have you got it? It’s the only version I have.’

‘Well, you should have backed it up.’ She folded her arms, enjoying watching him suffer.

‘That was my back-up, my computer crashed … shit! Kitty, have you got it?’ he asked desperately. ‘Seriously, have you got it?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, the anger returning. ‘I do not have your stupid novel, nor do I want it. Please do not come one step near me ever again or I’ll call the police,’ and she slammed the door in his face.

She sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, taking in deep breaths, slowly in and out, going over their conversation so many times that she wanted to open the door and challenge him once again, properly this time.

Finally she had a moment of clarity. She walked to the couch where she had thrown Richie’s jacket before leaving to stay in Sally’s house, and she searched around the floor, then the couch, then, when she didn’t find anything, she felt around the cushions. Her hand hit something. She pulled out the cushion and laughed as she was faced with Richie’s USB.