Almost True (15 page)

‘Whoa . . . hello mate. Good to see you.' We're both speaking at once.

He bounds into the room and we high five, and he sits on the window seat and I sprawl on the bed. I open up one of the packets of lukewarm vinegary chips that Archie's left there and offer him some. I'm starving.

Brian says, ‘I couldn't believe it when I heard you were here. Zoe told me which room you were in.'

‘I thought you were all having a pizza.'

‘I sneaked out. They're all fussing over Claire and no one's paying attention to the rest of us. Some of them have gone to the arcade, no one's going to notice that I'm not there. Emily said she'd cover for me.'

He kind of glows when he says her name.

‘You done well, my son,' I tell him.

Brian's grown about four inches since I last saw him, and lost some of his little-boy chubbiness, and he's discovered hair gel and some sort of magic zit cream, not totally unsuccessfully. I'd still have thought Emily was out of his league.

‘It was thanks to you, really,' he says, ‘Everyone wanted to talk about you and Ashley and Claire and everything when you disappeared, and Emily was quite close to Ashley then, and of course, me and the boys,
we were standing up for you.'

‘Ummm . . . thanks. . .'

‘Yeah. Well. We got quite a lot of cred for doing it. Girls noticed us a lot more. And one day Emily cornered me and said she'd had a lot of doubts about Ashley because she knew she'd been being a bitch to Claire and generally, and she – Emily – was feeling bad about it, and we had a long talk about the whole thing and next . . . well . . . we've been going out ever since. We went to the end of year party together.'

‘Oh. Cool.' We've finished the chips and because there's no bin I toss the paper out of the window. I know Brian's hoping I'll ask how far he's got but I'm way too jealous to follow through.

Not jealous about Emily, obviously. Jealous, because he has a life.

‘Max was hoping it'd work out for him and Becca too, but he's too short.'

‘Poor old Max, the virgin midget,' I say, and we laugh cruelly.

‘Anyway . . . how are you? What happened? Did you really go back to London?'

He's looking at me strangely, his eyes flicking from my face to my hair which is still a bit wet. I don't know what to say. I'm completely fed up with lying all the time, especially to someone like Brian who – I now realise –
is not only one of the best mates I've ever had, but also someone I've really missed. Without even thinking about him.

I feel a bit choked up and very grateful that I've had enough experience with girls to know that this is definitely not a gay moment.

‘Brian. . .' I start, but before I can finish the sentence he says, ‘There's something really strange about your eyes . . . have you got contacts or something? And what's going on with your hair?'

As I try and think of an answer to that one – bugger, my roots must be showing – the door opens and Archie's back. He's carrying a large plastic bag which clinks with alcohol.

‘Hey,' he says, ‘I see the party's started.' He locks the door behind him, and gets a spray out of his bag. Air freshener. He sprays it all around the tiny room until it smells like a hairdresser's. One that does pensioners' specials. Brian and I are falling about laughing.

‘Urgh . . . Archie . . . what're you doing, man?'

‘I didn't know you'd got a
maid
. . .'

‘Yeah, this is Archie, my personal val
et
. . .'

Archie looks slightly annoyed, but he says, ‘I wouldn't have to do this if it wasn't for you—' and I quickly interrupt, ‘No, seriously Brian, this is my cousin Archie, a brilliant addition to my family.'

Actually, right at the moment, Archie has moved right up my personal chart of family favourites and is sitting second only to Gran. This is mainly because everyone else is on our trail and if there's one thing that can bring them all together, it'll be that they all want to kill me.

Archie pulls some bottles out of his bag and lines them up on the window seat. Another two litres of coke. A big bottle of vodka. A smaller one of Bacardi. Two six-packs of Stella. Some paper cups. Crisps. Peanuts.

‘Jesus, Archie, where d'you get all that?'

‘I paid a guy to go into the off-licence and get it for me. Do you want a drink?'

I can't decide. Brian takes a can of beer and Archie mixes himself a vodka and coke, which is really a girls' drink but they must have different rules at private schools. Then he mixes one for me and I take a gulp, and there's something about the sweet fiery taste that I like. It warms me.

‘Umm . . . so who's coming to this party?' I ask and Brian says, ‘
Everyone.
Joe, you're hosting
the
party of the season.'

‘Oh my God, Archie, what have you done?'

‘It's OK,' says Archie, ‘Zoe said she'd make sure the teachers didn't know about it. They'll all be off down the pub anyway.'

That might have been true when he and Zoe were talking in Starbucks. I doubt it'll be the case now.

‘Archie, are you trying to get us found or what?' I ask.

‘Look,' he says, ‘You were a completely miserable git less than twelve hours ago and now I'm throwing a party for you and all your mates. I think a bit of thanks would be appropriate.'

‘Oh.' I'm a bit nervous he's going to accuse me of crying again when I was actually only coughing. I pour myself another drink. ‘Umm. Thanks, Archie. I do appreciate it. I'm just wondering how we're going to get away with it?'

But then there's a knock at the door and Jamie and Max are piling in, closely followed by Emily . . . and Zoe . . . and Carl, who whops me on the back and says, ‘Thanks for running out halfway through the lost property gig.'

‘Oh, sorry. I couldn't help it. We had to leave in a hurry.'

‘You left me the real stinkers.'

‘I know. I'm sorry.' I am truly sorry, but it also strikes me that this is quite funny and I start laughing. He looks at me a bit strangely and grabs a Stella.

‘So . . . what happened?'

I make a kind of all-purpose apologetic noise and
say, ‘My mum . . . y'know. . .' and I get away with it. And then they're all around me, slapping me on the back, helping themselves to drinks and telling me all the gossip from school – the teachers that have left, who's going out with who, how Carl's football team's doing. It's great. I feel almost normal. Everyone's so funny and so nice and Jamie's telling me jokes and I'm cracking up.

But then Carl squints at me. ‘You look a bit rough. What's going on with your hair? Did you get highlights, you poofter?'

Obviously it'd be the easiest thing in the world to laugh and run my hand through my hair and say, ‘Yeah . . . trying to change my image, bit of an abortion eh?' I can handle this. I can dodge the question. Carl's so thick he won't be able to come back.

I just can't be arsed any more with lying all the time. It's making me lose my grip on what's actually true.

So I say, ‘Nah. It's dyed black and it needs to be redone. Roots.'

Carl splutters into his Stella and Brian stops nuzzling Emily's neck and gives me a startled look. I take the opportunity to grab the bottle of vodka and have a chug. The coke is giving me gas.

‘And . . . er . . . what about your eyes?' asks Brian nervously. ‘Have they changed colour? Weren't they brown?'

I think fleetingly of teasing him, ‘I never realised you spent so much time gazing into my eyes, Bri boy. . .' That'd shut him up. That'd stop the personal questions.

But I can't get it together to tease him, poor old Bri. ‘I'm not wearing my contacts any more. They made my eyes look brown.'

Silence falls in the tiny room. Everyone's looking at me. It's quite funny how they look, like they really want to know what's what but no one wants to ask. I start laughing. ‘C'mon . . . lighten up,' I say. ‘Whassup with the music, Arch?' And Archie fiddles with his iPod speakers and Girls Aloud are singing and no one's looking at me any more.

Except Zoe. She sits down next to me. ‘You all right?' she asks.

What's she on about?

‘Where's Claire? I ask her. I put her arm round her – nothing funny, just mates. ‘Where's Claire, Zo? Where's Claire? I need . . . I need to talk to her about something.' I'm going all fuzzy round the edges and I'm not sure what it is I need to talk about. But I'm sure I'll remember when I see Claire.

Zoe sniffs, ‘There's no way on earth they'll let her see you,' she says. ‘And you're not in a great state for talking, let's face it, Joe.'

Zoe's a nice girl. It's good to be sitting with her,
warm and close like this. I put my head on her shoulder. ‘I really need to talk to her,' I say. ‘Please Zo . . . help me.'

She sighs and pushes me away. ‘You're a mess, Joe,' she says. ‘Look, try and get yourself to that café across the road and I'll see what I can do, OK. And don't drink any more of that vodka.' She removes my arm from around her and gets out her mobile.

Someone's standing in front of me. I narrow my eyes, try and focus. It's Brian. And Emily. I raise my hand. ‘Yo, Brian.'

Brian's looking all serious, the tosser. ‘Joe, what the fuck is going on? Why did you disappear? What do you mean, you dye your hair? What's going on with Claire?'

I'm a bit confused. Each question – every word of every question – seems to have such a huge story behind it . . . so much to explain. . . I keep on trying to say something and my teeth snap shut onto my tongue. I open and close my mouth like a goldfish. Eventually I say lamely, ‘Thass
loadsa
questions, mate.'

Brian leans forward. ‘We put our necks on the line for you. Me and Jamie and Max . . . and Carl . . . we stood up for you, we told everyone you were OK. Zoe here, she ran around telling everyone they were lying when all the stories were spreading round that Claire was pregnant etc, etc.'

I hate to think what ‘etc, etc' could mean.

‘So I think we're due some answers,' he finishes.

‘Yeah it's jus' . . . it's jus' a bit complicated. An' dangerous.'

‘OK,' says Brian. ‘Try us, Joe'

‘Umm . . . my name's not really Joe.' I say, and then I start laughing at the startled look on his face. He just looks so funny. My stomach hurts I'm laughing so much.

‘Don't mess around,' growls Carl, right by Brian's side.

I'm astounded. ‘I'm not . . . I'm not, it's
true
. I'm . . . someone wants to kill me. They tried to shoot me. They did kill someone. My life's a big mess and I really miss all of you and being at Parkview.'

I'm not laughing any more. My voice is small and shaky and no one's talking. In the background Cheryl Cole's being a Love Machine. It's my mum's favourite karaoke song. I can't remember when I last heard her singing it.

Brian says, ‘Come off it. D'you expect us to believe that?'

‘Um. Yes?' They think I'm raving. And then Archie says, ‘It's true, actually,' and I can't really stand their faces any more. I only want Claire.

Then there's a knock at the door and a flood of kids from Parkview squeeze in. Some of them I remember well, others I never even spoke to. They're
drinking vodka, opening cans of beer, smoking. I wish I was one of them. But I'm not.

In the crush of people it's impossible for Brian to go on with his cross-examination. ‘Joe – we'll . . . we'll talk later, OK?' he says uncertainly, and then he and Emily and Carl drift off. Archie's arm circles Zoe's waist. His face is flushed, he's on his third vodka and coke and he's moving in on Zoe's ear, presumably because he thinks that it'll lead him to her lips. I nudge him. ‘Archie . . . I need some money. . .'

He glances away from Zoe for a split second and mutters, ‘Look in my bag. Under the bed.'

I fish out his rucksack and crouch over it, so no one else can see inside. There's a huge roll of cash knocking around. I peel off fifty quid in tenners, and there's still a lot left. After a moment's thought, I take another fifty. I can always give it back later.

Archie's phone is there too. My hand closes around it, and I shove it in my back pocket. I'm only going to be gone for an hour or so. It might be crucially important, you never know.

It's not technically stealing because I scoot back over to him and mutter, ‘Archie, I've taken some cash and borrowed your mobile, OK?' It's not my fault if he's too busy nibbling Zoe's earlobe to clock what I'm saying.

He looks dazed and happy. He looks like I used to
look once upon a time, when I was Joe, when I was cool and confident and didn't really understand that if people want to kill you they might actually succeed.

If they'd shot the right person, then I'd be stuck in a coffin, dead and buried. Like a contestant on
I'm a Celebrity –
except you can't just shout to Ant and Dec to get out, you're there forever in the dark with rats and spiders and worms. How soon do bodies start rotting? What does Alistair look like now?

I can't cope with this. I can't cope with any of it. I need help. Someone sensible, who'll tell me how to cope with my mum and dad, someone who'll give me some direction . . . some guidance. Patrick. I need Patrick. How can I call him?

I lift myself off the bed, and push through to the door. No one really notices. I reach the corridor, and lean against the wall. I'm hot and dizzy and everything's gone a bit swimmy.

Then I hear Mr Henderson's voice booming as he comes down the corridor. ‘They're all together somewhere,' he's saying. ‘It's just a question of finding which room.'

I take a deep breath. Patrick's not here. But Mr Henderson is a really sensible guy. He's with Mr Hunt – damn – but maybe he'll talk to me on his own. I just need a quick chat. Maybe . . . I just have
to find the words. I just have to ask.