Almost True (12 page)

The last one says:
It's horrible how sometimes you're in touch but mostly you're not. It makes me feel like you've forgotten me. I'm beginning to think you've got a new girlfriend. I'm not even sure you ever thought of me in that way at all. Maybe you're more interested in girls like Ashley.

I stare and stare at the screen. Claire has no idea. She doesn't understand how I feel about her. She'll probably go off with someone else on this field trip, someone like Brian . . . or Jordan . . . or even Max. . .

I snap the laptop shut. My head feels clearer. My body's stronger. I know what I'm going to do.

‘Archie,' I say, ‘Have you got any money? Can you lend me some?'

‘You what?' he says, grabbing the computer. ‘You didn't close it down properly, did you? I won't let you use it again.'

‘Money, Archie, I need to borrow some. And you'll need to cover for me for a bit.'

‘Oh my God,' he says.
He's almost bouncing with joy. ‘You're going to run away? Oh my God.'

Christ. Can I trust him? Is he going to go and snitch to Patrick?

‘You mustn't tell them,' I growl. ‘You mustn't say anything to them.'

He's looking at me. I can't tell if he thinks it's a great idea to let me run myself into trouble, or whether he'd rather go for the easy win of telling on me right away. I clench my fists. ‘I mean it, Archie.'

‘Chillax, man,' he says, waving his hand at me. ‘It's a sick idea. But you can't do it on your own. I'm coming with you.'

Sneaking out of the house – Archie shows me a back gate that leads straight to the village – waiting at the bus stop, buying tickets at the station . . . I'm sure the whole time that it's only a matter of minutes before we're nicked. Before Patrick tracks us down, or my mum bursts out of a taxi. . . But now we're sitting on a train, heading for London and no one has found us. I begin to feel confident. I begin to relax.

Then I remember that we're heading for a city which is packed with people who want me dead.

‘So. . .' whispers Archie. ‘Where are we going, exactly?'

I frown at him. I know exactly where we're going and how we're getting there, but I'm not exactly going to broadcast our plans to the entire carriage.
‘That information is on a need-to-know basis,' I tell him.

‘I do need to know,' he says. ‘After all, I'm paying.'

I glance at the woman sitting opposite us. She's plugged into her iPod. I don't think she's listening.

‘Claire,' I hiss. ‘We're going to find her. I know where she is. I'll tell you where we have to go when we get there.'

‘Great,' he says. ‘Brilliant. You're on a mission to shag your girlfriend and I'm going to be doing what exactly?'

‘I never asked you to come,' I point out. ‘Why did you, anyway?'

‘They've got a place for me at Allingham Priory,' he says. ‘I was just working out my own exit strategy. Now, if they catch us, I can blame it all on you . . . say you made me come, threatened me . . . nicked my cash.' He smirks at me. I can't work out if he's joking or not.

‘Look, just come with me as far as you want,' I say. ‘If you lend me money then I'll pay you back one day – I promise. . .'

He rolls his eyes. ‘Ty,' he says, ‘You've got to learn when I'm joking. You take life way too seriously.'

For a moment I'm reminded of Arron. Arron who was as witty as Jonathan Ross or Johnny Vaughan. Arron, who'd make jokes – and some were about me – and I was never sure if I was meant to laugh or not. I wonder if he's
still as funny now he's in a Young Offender Institution.

We've got to recognisable bits of London now – Ally Pally on the hill – and I'm feeling the sweet, sharp, familiar, choking taste of panic. And when the train stops at Finsbury Park – Finsbury Park, for Christ's sake, where I have been about a million times; where, if I were to get out and walk past the bowling alley and down the Blackstock Road, someone, anyone could recognise me in seconds – I think I am going to faint. But I don't. I concentrate on Claire. I'm doing this for her. I'm going to find her.

We take a bus to Victoria. Once we're up top, right at the front, I surprise myself by actually enjoying it all a tiny bit. Oxford Street, Marble Arch, Hyde Park Corner. I'd forgotten how much I love to watch all the different people, trying to work out where they come from, listening to the babble of languages mixing in the air. I'd never realised before that other places in England aren't necessarily like that.

At Victoria, I lead Archie into the ticket office. He'd withdrawn money from a cashpoint at Kings Cross – it's useful that he's got his own cash card – and he peels off the money we need. I'm buzzing with excitement, imagining Claire's face when she sees me. Maybe she'll actually run away with me. If Archie would lend me some cash we could go to Ireland maybe . . .
I could work as a cleaner.

‘I'm starving,' says Archie. ‘Stay here. I'll get food.' He sits me down on a bench, dumps both bags with me and says, ‘I won't be long.'

I wait and wait and there's no sign of him. I begin to get nervous. I hardly know Archie, and I don't like him much. What if he's just abandoned me? What if he never comes back? What if he thinks it's a great joke to leave me here while he goes back to his home in London?

Shit. I'm sure that's what's happened. The dickhead. I don't have a mobile, I don't know anyone's number, I don't know anyone's address. I've got no money. There are people who want to kill me. Archie has the coach tickets. Why did I trust that tosser? Why?

I'm a little bit shaky. My chest is wheezing and my ankle's started aching again. I'm trying to focus on Claire, but all I can think of is Patrick's face when he found that we've gone. He must be furious. He must be so disappointed.

What the hell am I going to do? When I was very little Gran told me about finding a policeman and saying, ‘I'm lost.' Once I've caught that memory all I can hear in my head is my voice when I was five, practising for this moment . . . I'm lost . . . I'm lost . . . except she never realised that I might reach a point in my life where I wouldn't be very keen on approaching the police.

I'm just about to get up and start searching, when Archie comes back.
Jesus.
I'm so relieved I could kiss him. Almost.

‘There was a massive queue,' he says, ‘Come on, we've only got five minutes.' And we sprint across to the stop, and swing onto the coach.

Once we're sitting at the back, I begin thinking about how much time we've got. I assume Archie's mummy and daddy will want to plaster the entire country with photos of their darling little lost boy. Hopefully my mum at least will realise how dangerous that would be for me. Maybe she'll just let me go. Maybe . . . but if my mum thinks one course of action is the right one, then my dad will think the opposite just on principle. I can't see them ever agreeing on anything.

I nudge Archie, who's producing crisps and sandwiches from a plastic bag.

‘Archie, d'you think we should call them? Just to tell them we're OK?'

‘Cheese or tuna?' he asks, ‘No I do not. Are you mad? No, don't answer that. Have the tuna. Salt and vinegar OK for you?'

I nod, and eat the sandwich and watch as London melts into grey suburbs and blurs altogether. Archie's shaking me awake as the coach stops. ‘Come on, Ty,' he says, ‘We're here . . . we need to get off. . .'

It's strange being by the seaside again. The fresh, sharp smell, the shrieking seagulls. For a minute all I can think of is Alistair's shrouded body, the blood on Gran's slippers. But it's OK. This is the south coast. We're miles away from everything that happened that day.

Archie's rubbing his hands together. ‘Starbucks,' he says, ‘Come on. I could do with a hot drink and we can ring your girlfriend, tell her we're here.'

Uh-oh. Shit. I haven't actually got Claire's number, and I don't expect she'll be checking her emails if she's out fossil-hunting all day. We'll never find her. How am I going to tell Archie that I've completely cocked up?

I wait until he's bought me a latte with extra cream before I confess. But he's amazingly cool about it. ‘Youth hostel,' he says. ‘That's where school trips always stay.' And he pulls out his laptop and finds a list of hostels, then starts ringing around asking which one has a party from Parkview School. And amazingly, he hits the right one, and books us a double room.

The sweet coffee is warming me, and I can't keep the smile off my face, thinking about Claire, how pleased she'll be. How much I want to see her . . . touch her. . . Archie stops muttering into his phone and says, ‘Result!' and we high five. He's beaming. I'm actually beginning to like him.

We drink our coffee. He says, ‘It was true, wasn't it, what you told me? I thought you were joking, but it was true. The look on your face on that train. I thought you were going to have a heart attack.'

Bugger. I thought I was being calm, confident and brave. ‘It's all true,' I say.

‘Jesus,' he says, ‘It's like a film. You're like the star of a movie.'

‘Not really,' I say, taking a huge gulp of latte. ‘Where we were living before, it was all just normal.'

‘Is that where you met Claire?' he asks.

‘Umm . . . yeah. . .'

‘She's pretty special, huh?'

‘Yeah.' I say. And then it hits me. My mum knows just how I feel about Claire. As soon as they discovered we'd run away she'll have got onto the phone to Claire's mum. She must know about the field trip. There is no way we can go to the youth hostel.

I leap to my feet, spilling latte all over the table. ‘Shit!' yells Archie, ‘Watch out for the laptop.'

I'm panicking. ‘Archie . . . Christ . . . I'm so stupid. . .'

‘You've only just realised,' he sniggers. ‘Mop it up, you clumsy git.'

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air. I glance over my shoulder, looking for my mum, for Patrick. But it's OK, I think, just two fit girls, one short and blonde,
one tall and dark, scanning the café, looking for their mates.

And then they walk over to us. And the blonde one says, ‘Oh my God . . . it is really you . . . I couldn't believe it when I got your message. . .'

Holy Mary, mother of God.

It's Claire.

When I first knew Claire, she was having a really hard time. Ashley, my first, very bad choice of girlfriend, was being really mean to her. Claire felt and looked like a complete loser. Hair all over her face. Huge baggy clothes. A constant scared-rabbit expression on her face.

It was a complete miracle that I realised she was actually very pretty, and her mousey hair was shiny and soft. And even I felt a bit weird sometimes about fancying her, because generally she looks about ten.

But this Claire is different. This Claire has short spiky blonde hair, smudged grey eye liner and dark mascara. She's wearing skinny jeans and silver hoops in her ears. Her lips shine with gloss. She looks at least fourteen and just like the kind of girl that might be going out with someone as cool as Joe. If I was still Joe. . .

I stand up and manage to find some words.

‘Hey. Umm. Claire.'

She just stands there looking at me. What's she

thinking? She looks gorgeous and obviously I like it, obviously it's great, but she doesn't look like
my
Claire, the Claire I've missed so much. What if she's changed as much inside as she has on the outside? What if she thinks I've totally changed too – and not for the better?

‘Hello Joe,' says Claire's friend. I just about recognise her as Zoe, used to be in 8P, definitely fancied me. ‘You never told us there was another one like you at home.'

Archie gives her what he thinks is a winning smile. ‘I'm Joe's cousin,' he says, smoothly accepting my name change without a blink. ‘Who are you?'

‘Never mind that,' I snap. ‘Archie, what's going on?'

‘Well, as you didn't have Claire's number I left a message for her at the youth hostel reception,' he said. ‘You must have come straight over,' he adds to the girls.

‘Look,' says Claire, ‘we only have one hour and then we have to get back to the youth hostel. And I really need to talk to you.' She's really brisk and almost bossy and again . . . I don't know . . . she's just not very Claire.

‘It's OK,' says Archie, ‘We'll meet you at the hostel. Let me give you some pocket money, young man.'

So I have to suffer the total humiliation of having Archie hand me £20 in front of Claire and Zoe – who's
finding this all very funny. As we head out of the door, I hear him offering to buy her a drink.

I forget all about them once we're out of Starbucks. I'm standing there with Claire, and staring at her face, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I can't believe it. And there's nothing stopping us hugging, but somehow we don't, we just stand there and it's so confusing . . . so strange . . . and she's looking a bit worried, which makes her look more like herself and I want to tell her that's it's OK, there's nothing to worry about, everything will be fine, I'm here to look after her.

But my head is full of worry as well, and that's what comes out.

‘Claire . . . I shouldn't really be here,' I say. ‘My mum'll be on the phone to your parents right now, they'll probably have caught up with us by tonight . . . can you tell them not to say anything?'

‘Have you run away?' she asks. ‘I don't think it's a good idea even to mention your name to my parents, really, else they'll probably turn up too.'

Great. Nothing's changed. The last time I saw them, Claire's mum was calling me ‘streetwise' – meaning ‘scum' – and her dad was pretty keen to hit me. I'd kind of hoped she might have talked them round by now.