I NEED TO TALK

-x-

One

-x-

The note in Lynda's drawer said this:

Lynda.

8pm tonight – 3 Feathers. ALONE.

I NEED TO TALK. DESPERATE.

David Thornley.

-x-

She had been brushing her teeth, when she'd heard a clatter. It was probably only foxes in the bins, she'd told herself, but she'd climbed from the toilet seat up to the windowsill to have a look anyway. It was partially because she liked seeing foxes scattering the rubbish, but mostly because, even at 10 years old, Lynda Day loved a mystery.

And on this occasion, her curiosity had paid off. Because it wasn't a fox out there in the dark street at ten o'clock at night, but a boy. A boy, in pyjamas and bare feet in the middle of November, picking himself up out of the fallen dustbin. A strange boy, pale and small, looking around himself, disorientated, and hugging himself for warmth. David Thornley.

-x-

'Lynda? Lynda!'

Lynda pushed past her boyfriend to get to her desk. 'Spike, I'm busy.'

'It's only a simple question, Lynda. It'll only take you a second to answer.' Spike hovered at Lynda's desk as she continued to ignore him. He picked up the note again, and waved it in her face. 'For the last time, who the Hell is David Thornley?'

Lynda started to read through some Features pieces.

'What is he – a contact?' continued Spike, unabated, 'a story lead? Old boyfriend? New boyfriend?... Tell me if I'm getting warmer or colder, would ya?'

'Handbags?' Muttered Lynda, glancing at another article. 'Who in their right mind is going to read a 500 word feature about bloody handbags?'

'I'm not being possessive,' added Spike, 'it's just that I'd like to know why my girlfriend is getting notes to see desperate Mystery Men on her own in pubs at night.'

'This is hardly a regular occurrence,' replied Lynda, neither changing her tone nor acknowledging Spike with so much as a glance. 'You should know, you go through my diary often enough. And can you believe this punctuation?'

'So what's so different about our Mr Thornley?' demanded Spike. 'Come on, Lynda, it'll take up far less of both our time if you just tell me.'

Lynda finally looked up from her desk. 'Trust me, Spike. It won't.'

-x-

'Mum?' Lynda padded down the stairs to where her mother was watching TV. 'There's a boy outside.'

Mrs Day tutted. 'Another of those teenagers? Just ignore them, dear, they'll get bored and go somewhere else.'

'No, Mum.' She fiddled with the tassels on the sofa. 'He's littler than I am.'

Mrs Day blinked at her daughter. 'What?'

'He's only in his pyjamas, and he fell in a bin. I think he hit his head, because he's bleeding a bit.'

Lynda's mum got up to peer out of the curtains. 'You're kidding, aren't you? On a night like this?'

'He could be a ghost,' added Lynda, helpfully.

Mrs Day stared out the window. 'Jesus, Lynda. You're right.'

'You mean he really is a ghost?' Lynda watched her mother run to the front door and open it.

'Are you all right, love?'

Lynda could see from her end of the hallway that the boy was standing stock still, staring at her mother blankly. She crept toward the open front door as Mrs Day continued to call out to the boy.

'What are you doing out there dressed like that? Do you live nearby? Where's your Mum and Dad?'

Lynda tried to push past her Mum, but Mrs Day held her back.

'Don't, love,' muttered Mrs Day to her daughter, 'I think there's something wrong with him.'

'He's hit his head,' explained Lynda, but her mother ignored her and called out to the strange boy again.

'Have you taken something?' she asked him, 'has a grownup given you something that's made you feel funny?'

Still the boy stared. Mrs Day took a step back into the house. 'I'm calling the Police.'

'No.'

The boy hadn't commanded, hadn't begged. He had spoken flatly, as though he had been asked if he wanted ketchup on his peas. Lynda slipped under her mother's arm to stand on the doorstep. So he could speak after all. She had hoped that he was a ghost, or at least a wild Wolfboy. But somehow, that blank 'no' had been all the more intriguing.

For a moment, they stared at each other. It was Lynda who spoke first.

'Hello, you.'

'Hello, you,' he parroted.

'Lynda?' Her mother frowned. 'Do you know this boy?'

Lynda didn't know him. Lynda had never seen him before in her life. But Lynda Day loved a mystery, and Lynda Day was the best liar in the world.

'Yes, Mum.' She smiled up at her mother. 'It's only David.'

'David?' Mrs Day blinked at her daughter. 'Who's David? You've never mentioned him before…'

'David Thornley,' interrupted the boy. He gave Mrs Day a small smile. 'I'm in Lynda's art class.'

'And you know how much I hate art class,' added Lynda, triumphantly, 'which is why I never talk about it.'

Mrs Day gazed incredulously from the strange boy to her daughter, and back again. 'So what are you doing outside our house in the middle of the night in your pyjamas then, David?'

The boy barely blinked. 'I sleepwalk. Woke myself up when I fell.'

'He could have concussed himself, Mum,' added Lynda before addressing the boy she had named David. 'Aren't you cold?'

David nodded. 'Can I come in?'

Lynda looked up at her mother.

'Of course you can,' sighed Mrs Day. 'Get warm and I'll call your parents.'

Lynda's mother walked ahead and Lynda held the door open for David.

'What's our school?' he asked from the corner of his mouth as he passed her.

'St Mary's,' she muttered under her breath.

'Year?'

'Six.'

'Your surname?'

'Day.'

David nodded to himself as Lynda shut the door behind them.

'What's your real name?' She whispered to him.

David looked at her as though she'd gone completely mad. 'David Thornley,' he replied.

-x-

'I'm going with you,' announced Spike.

'No you're not.' Lynda got up from her desk and marched across the newsroom, with Spike still in tow.

'You can't stop me, Lynda. I'm an investigative journalist – it's my job to get to the bottom of mysteries.'

'It's not a mystery,' she snapped. 'Not one that needs solving, anyway…' she stalled momentarily in front of an apprehensive looking Julie. 'He's an old friend, all right, Spike? Happy now? Julie, these articles are unacceptable.'

'If he's such an old friend, why haven't I ever heard about him before?'

Julie spoke over the American. 'Well, what do you want me to do about it?'

Lynda chose only to answer her Assistant Editor. 'I'm sick of telling those morons. It's your turn to shout at the Brick Wall.'

'I bet Julie's never heard of him either,' added Spike.

'Who?'

'Lynda's old friend David Thornley.'

Julie wrinkled her nose. 'Who?'

Spike gave Lynda a triumphant little smile. 'In fact, I bet nobody's ever heard about your Old Friend before. How about you, Colin?'

Colin blinked away from the wall he'd been staring at. 'Hmm?'

'Ever heard of a guy called David Thornley? Apparently he and Lynda are thick as thieves.'

Colin shook his head and drew breath to say something before his mobile phone rang, making him leap like a startled cat and scurry into his office to take the call.

'See, Lynda? Now maybe you could be good enough to tell me who your date for tonight really is…'

But Lynda had already gone.

-x-

Mrs Day handed David Thornley a hot cup of tea and tried her best to keep her patience.

'I just don't see how you could have possibly forgotten your home phone number.'

David shrugged. 'Sorry.'

'He has hit his head,' helped Lynda. The gash on David's forehead was fascinating her – it was big and deep, with puffy purple bruising all around it, fading off to green at the edges. She was sure if she squinted hard enough she could see the bone of his skull.

'Yes, I suppose,' sighed Lynda's mother, 'you do still seem a little groggy. Let me get a plaster for that.'

Mrs Day disappeared into the kitchen, and Lynda and David smiled at each other.

'Did you really sleepwalk here?' asked Lynda.

'I like this tea,' replied David.

'Have you really forgotten your phone number?'

David nodded. 'And I've forgotten where I live, too. Now I can't ever go home.'

'Don't you think that's sad?'

'Not really,' said David. 'I think I like your house better.' He looked around the living room. 'Where's your Dad?'

Lynda started playing with the tassel on the sofa again. 'He's not around much these days.'

David looked at her, neither embarrassed nor malicious, simply curious. 'Are your Mum and Dad getting divorced?'

'No!' Replied Lynda, suddenly, then paused. 'He's in the Navy. He's a Captain. What does your Dad do?'

David went very quiet and still, staring at his knees.

'David…?' Lynda tried to look into his downcast eyes.

'Don't remember,' he whispered, eventually.

Mrs Day hurried in with a sticking plaster, and a perturbed expression.

'Funny,' she said, gently sticking the plaster over the cut, 'the Police don't have any record of a David Thornley reported missing. They don't even know of anybody of your description going missing in the area.'

'You called the Police?' David exclaimed, wide eyed.

'They're going to check their records and get back to us,' continued Mrs Day. 'Are you sure you can't remember anything?'

David shook his head.

Lynda's Mum crossed her arms. 'I think I should take you down to the hospital.'

'No.' David shook his head again. 'No, I don't want to go there.'

'They can take better care of you there,' argued Mrs Day.

'Lynda can take care of me!'

'I can, Mum,' added Lynda.

'I don't want to go to the hospital, it's full of sick people.' David gave Mrs Day a pleading, poorly-puppy-dog gaze. 'Can't I stay here? Just for tonight?'

'David…' started Mrs Day.

'Let him stay, Mum,' added Lynda. 'Hospitals smell of Old People. He might remember where he lives in the meantime, and besides, you did say that the police were phoning back later.'

Mrs Day sighed, defeated by the double barrage of Big, Sad Eyes. 'I'll set up the camp bed.'

Lynda's Mum disappeared upstairs, and David grinned into his mug of tea, cupping it with both hands. Lynda watched the boy drink, watched his hands, noticed the little round marks on the back on them. She reached out a finger and touched one of the discoloured blotches. He jerked his hand away.

'What's that on your hands, David?'

David didn't look at her. He concentrated on the rim of his mug. 'I'm… I'm tired now.'

-x-

'I know you're tired, Kenny. Just try to remember, will ya?'

There was a short delay before the muffled, bleary voice at the other end of the phone spoke again. 'It's four in the morning here. Why are you doing this to me?'

'Just settling a little argument.'

Another pause. 'Oh God,' sighed Kenny at last, 'there really is no getting away from you two, is there?'

'You've been her best friend all her life,' continued Spike, oblivious to Kenny's irritation, 'so if anybody will have heard of David Thornley, it would be you.'

'David Thornley?' said Kenny after the pause, 'you mean her imaginary friend?'

'Imaginary?' Spike frowned to himself, confused and a little disappointed.

'Yeah… well, when she was about 10 she spent a few weeks talking about this boy called David Thornley. Some boy I never met who was supposed to have a crush on her, so I assumed she'd made him up. Why?'

Spike went stony faced. 'A crush? That settles it. I'm goin' after her.'

'Spike… even if he does exist, that was nine years ago now…'

'Trust me, Kenny. Once you've had a crush on Lynda Day that's It. You're a gonner. You're never gonna get un-crushed. And she's goin' on a date with him, Godammit…'

There was another pause, and then a small laugh. 'Listen to yourself, Spike. She's got you jealous over a 10 year old boy.'

'I'm not jealous,' scowled Spike, 'I'm just… I disapprove, that's all.'

'Listen Spike, if you want my advice, I'd…'

'Can't talk now, Kenny. I'm kinda busy.' Spike hung up the phone and stormed across the office. 'Frazz.'

Frazz instinctively opened one eye at the sound of his name. 'What?'

'Rise and shine, Frazz.' Spike picked Frazz's jacket up off the floor. 'We're goin' undercover.'

'Not again,' Frazz yawned, 'Where to this time?'

'We're going on a double date,' replied Spike, 'to the Three Feathers.'

-x-

Lynda lay on her back in the dark and listened to David trying to get comfortable in the sleeping bag.

'Have you remembered where your parents live yet, David?'

'No,' replied David. 'Maybe I'll never remember.'

'I don't think you can stay here forever,' she replied.

'I'll go to London,' said David from the darkness, 'it was time for me to leave home anyway.'

'London costs loads,' considered Lynda.

'I'm going to make a million pounds there,' answered David, 'I've got it all planned out. I'll be earning £200 a day as soon as I get there.'

'You can't do that,' yawned Lynda, 'you're only a child.'

'I've seen it on Telly,' said David, 'I'll go up to rich people all upset and tell them I've been mugged, and I need 50p to get the bus back home.'

Lynda frowned in the darkness. 'You're going to trick people out of their money?'

'It's only 50p,' explained David, 'and they'll feel really good about themselves for doing it. I'll be making people happy. And the beauty of it is, it only takes about a minute to do. So, 50p a minute, that's thirty pounds an hour. And in a couple of weeks I'll have enough money to buy a shop, and then I won't have to do it any more.'

'Where will you live?' Lynda was starting to get sleepy now.

'In the shop. I'm going to sell Origami Swans.'

'Can you do Origami, then?'

'No,' said David, 'but I can learn. And I know a place where you can get a thousand sheets of paper for a couple of quid. I'd have no overheads. Think of the profits!'

'You sound like my Dad,' muttered Lynda.

'Do they worry about overheads much in the Navy, then?'

Lynda chewed her lip. 'Money doesn't grow on trees, not even in the middle of the ocean.'

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. David seemed happy enough with Lynda's explanation to go back to the subject of his impending fortune. 'Do you know what I'm going to call the shop?'

'No.'

'I'm going to call it "Linda".'

'"Lynda" has a Y in it.'

'"Y"?'

'Why not?'

David paused, confused. 'You can come up and visit.'

'OK. Can I bring Kenny?'

'No. Maybe you can live in the shop with me, though.'

'I'll sell my book from there. Once I've written it.'

'Well,' yawned David, 'I'll have plenty of paper there for you to write it on.'

Lynda was about to say something else when the door opened, flooding them both with light.

-x-

It was past eight o'clock. Spike took another small sip from his pint and pulled another face. English Beer. Ew. He and Frazz had chosen the darkest corner in the grubby little Old Man Pub, but still he worried about being seen – there was hardly anybody else in the pub, just a handful of grey haired regulars propping up the bar, a miserable looking middle aged couple talking about their mortgage and a squat drunkard in his forties, covered in tattoos, downing beers and whiskeys and muttering angrily to himself. There was no Lynda, and no man save himself and Frazz who was any near the right age to be David Thornley.

Frazz supped at his Scrumpy. 'The second she walks in here, she's going to see us.'

'Well, where is she, then?' Spike drummed his fingers on the table. 'If her friend is so desperate to see her, where are they both?'

'Don't be an idiot,' sighed Frazz, 'face it, she's not coming.'

'I guess she knew from the start I'd follow her.'

'Too bloody right she did,' replied Frazz. 'Know what I think?'

'What?'

'I don't think there even is a David Thornley.'

The drunk swore loudly to himself.

'What?' demanded Spike.

'Nobody's ever seen him,' reasoned Frazz, 'the only person who's ever even heard of him is Kenny and he thinks he's imaginary.'

'Then why…?'

Frazz shrugged. 'Maybe you haven't been paying enough attention to her lately, who knows. I reckon she planted that note where she knew you'd find it. To make you jealous. To keep you on your toes.'

'She wouldn't do that…' muttered Spike to himself, 'Even Lynda's not that manipulative…'

'You sure of that?'

'Fuckin' women,' said the tattooed drunk to nobody in particular.

'You said it, Mate,' agreed Frazz.

The drunkard got up from his table, suddenly. 'Fuckin' Hell. Fuckin' women.'

Frazz leaned in to Spike, discreetly nudging a thumb towards the tattooed man as he staggered furiously towards the door.

'Look at that, Spike. That's you, in 20 years if you carry on like this.'

'S'all fuckin' shit.' The man struggled with the door. 'Sort it out. Sort that little fucking shit out…'

'Take a good, hard look at your future.'

Spike gurned at his beer again. 'It's not a trick, Frazz. It's not.'

The tattooed man finally managed to let himself out into the street, with a loud 'FUCK OFF!'

'It's something else,' he told his disgusting, warm pint. 'I know it is. It's something else.'

-x-

Lynda opened the door to the café. A young man looked up from his cup of tea.

'Hello, David.'

-x-

'What…?'

Both children sat up in their beds in the harsh light. Lynda's Mum lingered in the doorway, but the two Police Officers walked straight towards David. David panicked, desperately trying to get out of his sleeping bag. The policewoman put her hands on his shoulders, gently, but still the boy wriggled.

'You know why we're here, don't you?' asked the Policewoman, softly.

David shook his head. 'I didn't do anything wrong…'

'Nobody said you did,' soothed the Policewoman, 'you just told a little lie to Mrs Day. That's not a crime. It would have just made getting you back home a little bit harder, had Mrs Day not described you so well, that's all.'

'You lied too, Lynda,' Mrs Day told her daughter, quietly. 'You said this boy was a friend of yours.'

'But he is my friend!' argued Lynda.

'He might be your friend now, but he wasn't when I let him in, Lynda. He's not from St Mary's, is he?'

'You had us all very confused,' explained the Policewoman, 'there was a little boy called David Thornley that had been found, but nobody had lost him. And then about ten minutes ago we got a phone call from a very worried Mum and Dad whose son had hit his head on a door sleepwalking and wandered off into the street in a daze…'

'He hit his head on the bin…' attempted Lynda, but nobody was listening to her. All the adults' eyes were on David, and David was only concerned with getting out of the Policewoman's grip.

'…and when we asked them to describe their son, they described a boy we had on our records as David Thornley. Only this boy's name isn't David Thornley, is it?'

'Get off…' muttered David as he struggled, 'leave me alone.'

The Policewoman crouched down to David's level and looked him in the eyes.

'Is it, Colin?'