before nightfall.
He throws me a set of keys. ‘It belongs to one of my neighbours. If you get a scratch on it, they won’t be happy.’
‘I’ll look after it,’ I promise. ‘Thank you.’ I really mean it.
He inclines his head. ‘You take care now,’ he says. Then he walks out of the kitchen. ‘I like the dress,’ he calls back. ‘You should wear one more often.’
I sigh in exasperation and glance down at O’Shea’s prone body. ‘He doesn’t like it enough to help me get you out of here,’ I say to him.
Unsurprisingly, the daemon doesn’t answer. I shrug to myself, then bend and push his body up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. At least he’ll be easier to carry now I don’t have to worry about him bleeding out. My knees buckle for a moment but I manage to steady myself and stagger outside. There’s a shiny car waiting in the driveway. I could swear it wasn’t there when I arrived less than five minutes ago. Shaking my head at my grandfather’s ability to get people to do exactly what he wants, I press down on the key and the car beeps loudly, signalling it’s open. I heave O’Shea’s weight onto the back seat, making sure his legs are inside before I slam the door shut. Then I get in and drive away.
***
When I was fourteen years old and particularly precocious, I came home from aceing an arduous mathematics test and spent a considerable amount of time crowing about my accomplishment to my father. It didn’t take him long to grow bored with my egotism and he told me in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t been as difficult or as complex as I supposed.
‘That’s not true,’ I sniffed back at him. ‘It’s one of the hardest tests there is. And one of the hardest subjects.’ I had no way of knowing whether this was true but, to my teenage mind, I had to be right.
‘The hardest test isn’t something you sit in school, Bo,’ he told me gently.
I completely misunderstood what he was driving at. ‘Grandfather says university is for wimps. That even the exams you sit at Oxford are easy and that they’re breeding a nation of incompetents.’ I told you I was precocious. The memory of my snotty tone still makes me wince.
My father sighed heavily and patted me on my shoulder. ‘There are other tests.’
‘Like what?’
I remember the look he gave me: measured and calm, but still assessing how far he could go. Of course I know now that the hardest tests aren’t even tests. They’re how you cope when your life falls apart. When you bite your tongue and let your best friend cry on your shoulder because the loser she’s been dating has dumped her. When the same loser comes on to you too strongly at a party the weekend after. When you’re trying to decide between paying the rent or eating. When one of your parents dies. I think my father knew that I would snort with adolescent derision if he pointed this out to me, so he took a different tack.
‘The Knowledge,’ he said instead. ‘That’s the hardest test.’
‘What’s the Knowledge?’
‘It’s what all taxi drivers have to do before they’re allowed to drive a black cab.’
I probably curled my lip. ‘You mean a driving test.’
‘No. I mean memorising 35,000 London streets so you always know the fastest way to get from point A to point B. It takes a minimum of two years to learn. Most people take five.’
He folded his arms and looked at me pointedly. I think I tossed my hair and wandered off in search of someone who would be more willing to listen to me boast about my accomplishments. But he had stirred my interest and the next day I stayed late after school to look up the Knowledge in the library. Imagine my surprise when I realised he was right.
Deciding then and there that I would become the youngest person to ever pass the Knowledge, regardless of the fact that I had no desire to become a taxi driver and was three years away from being allowed to drive, I took up the challenge. I studied every evening
He throws me a set of keys. ‘It belongs to one of my neighbours. If you get a scratch on it, they won’t be happy.’
‘I’ll look after it,’ I promise. ‘Thank you.’ I really mean it.
He inclines his head. ‘You take care now,’ he says. Then he walks out of the kitchen. ‘I like the dress,’ he calls back. ‘You should wear one more often.’
I sigh in exasperation and glance down at O’Shea’s prone body. ‘He doesn’t like it enough to help me get you out of here,’ I say to him.
Unsurprisingly, the daemon doesn’t answer. I shrug to myself, then bend and push his body up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift. At least he’ll be easier to carry now I don’t have to worry about him bleeding out. My knees buckle for a moment but I manage to steady myself and stagger outside. There’s a shiny car waiting in the driveway. I could swear it wasn’t there when I arrived less than five minutes ago. Shaking my head at my grandfather’s ability to get people to do exactly what he wants, I press down on the key and the car beeps loudly, signalling it’s open. I heave O’Shea’s weight onto the back seat, making sure his legs are inside before I slam the door shut. Then I get in and drive away.
***
When I was fourteen years old and particularly precocious, I came home from aceing an arduous mathematics test and spent a considerable amount of time crowing about my accomplishment to my father. It didn’t take him long to grow bored with my egotism and he told me in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t been as difficult or as complex as I supposed.
‘That’s not true,’ I sniffed back at him. ‘It’s one of the hardest tests there is. And one of the hardest subjects.’ I had no way of knowing whether this was true but, to my teenage mind, I had to be right.
‘The hardest test isn’t something you sit in school, Bo,’ he told me gently.
I completely misunderstood what he was driving at. ‘Grandfather says university is for wimps. That even the exams you sit at Oxford are easy and that they’re breeding a nation of incompetents.’ I told you I was precocious. The memory of my snotty tone still makes me wince.
My father sighed heavily and patted me on my shoulder. ‘There are other tests.’
‘Like what?’
I remember the look he gave me: measured and calm, but still assessing how far he could go. Of course I know now that the hardest tests aren’t even tests. They’re how you cope when your life falls apart. When you bite your tongue and let your best friend cry on your shoulder because the loser she’s been dating has dumped her. When the same loser comes on to you too strongly at a party the weekend after. When you’re trying to decide between paying the rent or eating. When one of your parents dies. I think my father knew that I would snort with adolescent derision if he pointed this out to me, so he took a different tack.
‘The Knowledge,’ he said instead. ‘That’s the hardest test.’
‘What’s the Knowledge?’
‘It’s what all taxi drivers have to do before they’re allowed to drive a black cab.’
I probably curled my lip. ‘You mean a driving test.’
‘No. I mean memorising 35,000 London streets so you always know the fastest way to get from point A to point B. It takes a minimum of two years to learn. Most people take five.’
He folded his arms and looked at me pointedly. I think I tossed my hair and wandered off in search of someone who would be more willing to listen to me boast about my accomplishments. But he had stirred my interest and the next day I stayed late after school to look up the Knowledge in the library. Imagine my surprise when I realised he was right.
Deciding then and there that I would become the youngest person to ever pass the Knowledge, regardless of the fact that I had no desire to become a taxi driver and was three years away from being allowed to drive, I took up the challenge. I studied every evening
Similar Books
