Almost True (11 page)

Harry Potter gets a lot of praise from people like Dumbledore, while I mostly get told off all the time. But that's probably because he's effortlessly brave and makes good decisions, whereas I'm scared all the time and I try and do the right thing but I always seem to screw it up.

‘Do you want to know the cure?' asks Archie, scrolling through a few more pages of the millions of websites about post-traumatic stress disorder.

‘There's a cure?'

‘If you're a grown-up they might give you happy pills. But not for under-eighteens. So it says physical exercise helps, and talking things through with a
counsellor. But you haven't got a counsellor. So you'll have to make do with me.'

Claire
, I think, mournfully.
Claire, Claire. Where are you Claire? Why can't I talk to you?

‘Can I borrow your laptop?' I ask.

‘Yes, if you tell me what's been going on. It's not fair. They all know and obviously you know and no one will tell me. If it's not war then what is it?'

I might as well tell him. ‘I saw someone get killed, and since then people have been trying to kill me and they've almost shot me twice and the last time my mum's boyfriend got killed. Shot in the head. Blood everywhere.'

Archie's mouth is wide open as he tries to work out if I'm winding him up or not. I take the opportunity to seize the laptop. He clings on.

‘You can't just tell me that. You've got to tell the whole story. Or it won't help you . . . you won't be cured. . .'

I start laughing because it's so ludicrous to think that talking to Archie is going to be in the slightest bit helpful. ‘OK. I'll tell you more. But first I want to check my emails and then I might want to borrow your mobile, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘And no telling them downstairs, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘Right.' I log onto my email account. Three messages.
Three messages from Claire. Three messages telling me she loves me? Or three saying I've let her down, she's found me out, she's dumping me?

I click on the first one. Then I realise that Archie's gawping over my shoulder.

‘Go away . . . this is private. . .'

‘Have you got a girlfriend?' he asks. His eyes are wide. I know immediately that Archie hasn't got off the starting blocks with girls.

I shrug. ‘Yeah. She's called Claire.'

‘Cool . . . what's she like? Is she fit? Have you . . . you know. . .'

‘She is completely stunning, blonde hair, blue eyes, great figure, really gorgeous . . . could be a model.' I'm exaggerating wildly, but Archie is never going to meet Claire and she
has
got shining blue eyes and if I was allowed to take her shopping and give her a makeover the rest might be true too. I think about the last time I saw her – all pale and sweet, looking about ten years old, wrapped in her dressing gown, silky mouse-coloured hair falling over her delicate face. I sigh. I miss her so much.

‘And have you . . . you know. . .?'

‘Well, of course, in the past, you know. . .' I pause, making sure he gets the impression that I've shagged hundreds of girls. ‘Too many to mention, really. But this one is different. We're taking things slowly. Savouring
every step of the way.' I lick my lips in quite a crude way. He looks suitably awed.

‘How about you, Archie?' I ask. ‘Any ladies in your life?'

‘If I can just interrupt this fascinating discussion,' says a voice from the doorway. Damn. It's Patrick. How much did he hear? ‘Ty, can you make it down the stairs? There's someone here to see you.'

‘Eh?'

‘Louise—' he says, but I don't wait to hear more. I move as fast as I can on my sore ankle, clattering down the stairs with Archie close behind me. Meg bounces behind us, barking happily, and I burst into the living room. And then stop.

Louise is sitting with my dad on the sofa, both of them looking uncomfortable and cross.

But I'm not looking at them. Standing by the piano, studying the silver-framed photographs, fogged by a cloud of cigarette smoke, is someone else. Someone who glances up as I come through the door and shoots me a look packed with rage and hate.

‘Hello darling,' says my mum.

‘Don't I get a hug?' she asks, but I know she's just saying it because we have an audience. I have no choice but to go over and give her an awkward cuddle. She's still holding her glowing ciggie and ash goes flying all over Helen's cream rug. I'm trying to assess her skinny body for any sign of a little brother or sister. She's got a bit more up top I think, but nothing too horrific.

Then she asks where we can go to talk in private. I'm about to suggest the kitchen when my dad says, ‘Look, Nicki, we all need to sit down together to discuss Ty's future, short and long-term.'

It's pretty brave of him because she looks at him like they're in a war film and she's in the Gestapo and he's a resistance fighter that she's just sentenced to be shot at dawn.

‘I wasn't speaking to you,' she says.

‘Umm . . . Nic, let's go in the kitchen,' I say nervously, tugging at her arm. But Lou says, ‘It's OK Ty, we'll all go into the kitchen and you can talk to Nicki here.' And she gets up, and after a minute so does my dad. I feel like begging them to stay with me, but I manage to keep my mouth shut. Archie follows them, after giving my mum a long stare, and shuts the door, but Meg is curled in front of the fireplace, one eye closed and the other fixed on my mum.

Mum sits on the sofa and I collapse on the floor next to Meg. I somehow need to feel there's someone on my side.

‘So,' she says. She's still in total Gestapo mode. ‘You look quite at home.' Her eyes flicker over my Gap hoodie and brand new Abercrombie and Fitch jeans which Helen went out and got for me yesterday. ‘I can see they've bought you.'

I wait for her to finish the sentence with ‘lots of cool stuff,' or ‘nice clothes to wear,' but then realise that's it. They've bought me. I'm that easily bought. According to my own mother. Ouch. Well. She's not the only one who can be mean.

‘Should you be smoking?' I ask, ‘In your . . . ummm . . . condition.'

‘None of your business,' she says, stubbing her
cigarette out in Helen's favourite potted orchid. She lights up again. I'm wondering if she even
is
pregnant any more. Maybe she's been to the baby-killing clinic. I'm sure she wishes she'd paid it a visit just over fifteen years ago.

‘You don't look
very
fat,' I say – which, as far as my mum's concerned, is a much worse word than anything I shouted in the hospital – and she shudders and says, ‘I should bloody well hope not.'

I want to ask her why she's angry with me. What am I meant to have done? I open my mouth. But what comes out is a furious flood of questions: ‘Why didn't you tell me that you were pregnant? Why was Alistair there anyway? What are you doing here?'

In a sci-fi film, lasers would flash from her eyes and zap me in the chest. In a horror movie she'd morph into a zombie with giant maggots spewing from her mouth. If I were Harry Potter, I'd huddle under my invisibility cloak or turn myself into a spider. ‘I didn't have to tell you anything,' she hisses. ‘I hadn't even told Alistair. That's why he was there. That's why he died.'

I'm a lot braver than I thought I was. ‘Gran knew. Louise knew. But you never told me. And how come you invited Alistair over when you told me I could never see Claire again?'

‘I didn't know if I was going to keep it or not until I'd talked to Alistair. Your gran guessed because she heard me being sick one day when you were at school. She must've told Louise. She always tells her everything.'

‘And are you going to keep it?'

‘I'm sixteen weeks, what do you think?' she says, cryptically. I have absolutely no idea what that means. I give up.

‘Why are you angry with me?'

She huffs and puffs and shrugs her shoulders and says, ‘Don't play the innocent with me.'

‘I'm not! They had to buy me clothes, Nic . . . I didn't have anything. Doug didn't pack properly. . .'

Her hand is shaking as she helps herself to another cigarette. ‘Tell me the truth, Ty. How often have you met them before? How long have you been lying to me?'

‘I never . . . I never met them before. What are you talking about?'

‘Louise' – she spits out the name – ‘she's brought you to see them before, hasn't she? And him. You've been lying to me for years. You're all cosy here in this lovely big house, with your lovely rich grandparents, and I bet you're really looking forward to going off to France with your dad.'

France? What is she talking about?

‘What do you mean?' I say, but she yells, ‘Come off
it, Ty! You'll have to do a bit better than that!' And she reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope and throws it at me. Meg growls and barks, but I shush her, pull her next to me.

‘Tell me you know nothing about that,' says my mum.

‘I don't even know what it is,' I say, opening the envelope. A little book falls out, a purple book. Oh my God. It's a passport. I sneak a glance at the back page. My face. My real name. The photo from Snappy Snaps.

‘For weeks now I've not known where you were.
She
wouldn't tell me . . . said it wasn't safe. . . My own son. . . I've been imagining all sorts . . . so scared. And then I find out that
she's
been in touch with them . . . for years, telling them stuff about me . . . and you . . . and you . . . and he . . . and you'd betray me . . . greedy . . . disloyal . . . and. . .' She lifts her head. ‘I'm not having it. You're my son. You belong to me.'

‘I'm not a
possession
. . . I don't
belong
to anyone.' She's wrong, but in my heart I wish it was true. Louise should have brought me to see my grandparents. Even if it meant lying to my mum. No matter what my dad did, why did I have to lose out? It's not fair. I actually like Patrick and Helen – and even Meg – quite a lot.

I can't tell her any of that because she'd kill me.

So I ask, ‘Where do you live now anyway?' hoping to head her off to neutral ground.

‘They've put us in a flat. Just for now.'

‘What sort of flat? Where?'

‘On an estate. Birmingham. High-rise.' Her voice is getting louder again, ‘You don't have to make a face like that, Ty. We can't all live in big houses. We won't be there forever. And let's not forget why we're there in the first place.'

Oh no, let's not forget that.

‘But you said you'd never live on an estate,'

‘Didn't have the choice, did I?' she says. ‘There's three bedrooms. Lou's sharing with Emma and I'm sharing with mum and you'll have to share with Darren.'

‘Who's Darren?'

‘Police.'

I'm stroking Meg's fur. She licks my hand. I'm not going to live in some high-rise in Birmingham. I'm not going to share a room with a cop called Darren. I'm not going anywhere with Nicki right now, she's gone completely mad.

‘Go and pack up,' she says. ‘We're getting out of here as soon as possible.'

‘But what about Patrick and Helen? They've been really good to me, Nic . . . really good, they didn't have to. . .' My voice stumbles to a halt.

‘I'll tell them. We don't owe them anything. Get your stuff.'

I can't think what else to say. I trail upstairs and pull out my bag. It doesn't take long to stuff my clothes inside. Then I start coughing. I cough and cough, and it's exhausting. When Archie bounds up the stairs, he finds me red-faced and wheezing, sitting doubled up on the bed.

Of course he jumps to the wrong conclusion, the plonker.

‘Hey . . . are you
crying
?' he breathes, sitting on the bed next to me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

‘No . . . of course not.' My breathing's shot to pieces. I take a few gasps of air. ‘Just coughing . . . you know. . .'

‘Christ, there's a big fight going on down there,' he says, looking away while I mop my face with a hankie.

‘Is there?'

‘Your mum came marching in, saying she was taking you home, and now your dad's threatening to get lawyers in. Is she always like that?'

‘She's a bit unpredictable,' I say.

‘Your aunt said she'd been ranting all the way in the car. Two hours, non-stop. She said, “When Nicki's angry there's no reasoning with her.” Is that right?'

I nod. I know my mum's scared of losing me.
Sometimes she shows her love in a strange way. But that means I feel bad about feeling bad, which makes me feel even worse.

‘Your dad's really determined though that you're going to stay with him. What do you want to do? Do you want to go with her?'

I shake my head. ‘She's gone a bit bonkers, she's really angry with me. And they're living in a high-rise and I'd have to share a room with a cop.' I don't even get started on the whole baby thing.

‘What about your dad?'

‘I dunno. . . Archie, this is all doing my head in. I don't know what to do. . . I don't want to be with either of them. . .' I'm panicking. My cough starts up again. Archie slaps me on the back.

‘Look,' he says, ‘Here's the laptop. Check your emails. You never got to read them before.'

I log on and open up the first email from Claire. Archie is buzzing around the room, but I'm intent on the screen in front of me.

The first email says:
It was so strange to talk to you. Sometimes I can hardly believe that we ever really met. You're like someone from a story or a film, a hero who saved me. I wish we could be together.

The second is all about how she's going off on some Geography field trip – fossils – and how she wishes I was
going, and how it's going to be fun, but it'd be better if I was there. I check the date. She'll be there now.