Almost True (16 page)

I let go of the wall. ‘Mr Henderson—' I say. My voice comes out softer than I expected and I try and clear my throat.

He comes right up to me. Puts his hand on my arm. ‘Joe. . . ' he says. ‘Are you OK?'

‘I . . . I—' I can't go on. A sharp, sweet taste hits the back of my throat. I try and catch it, but it's too late. Out of my mouth flies a flood of yellow vomit . . . chips and coffee and vodka and coke . . . urgh . . . all over his shoes and splashing onto his jeans.

‘Christ!' he yells and I cough and splutter, ‘Sorry—' and then I run. I run down the stairs and out of the door and into the biting cold night.

Claire's sitting on her own at the back of the empty café. She's borrowed a top from someone twice her size, and her little face is almost invisible under the droop of the hood. She looks more like the old Claire, scared and sad and small.

I'm just about sure when I sit down opposite her that I've got rid of any sign of vomit – almost all of it went on Mr Henderson, with just a little dollop for Mr Hunt – but I've got a hideous taste in my mouth and I'm not at all confident about my smell. Especially my breath. Vodka and vomit. But what can I do?

‘Do you actually want anything to eat or drink?' says the woman behind the counter, and Claire picks a hot chocolate and I ask for a glass of tap water. The woman glares at me and when it arrives, it's lukewarm. I take
a sip and try and slosh the water round my mouth without Claire noticing.

‘Joe . . . ummm . . . Ty. . .' says Claire, and her eyes fill with tears. I can read her mind. She's going to chuck me.

‘Don't say it,' I beg. ‘Look, it's OK. I'll just go. We don't have to do this. Forget about me, and everything will be fine.'

‘No. . .' She takes out a tissue and blows her nose. My head is throbbing. I stare at her in the bright fluorescent light. ‘I was so wrong,' she says. ‘Can you . . . will you forgive me?'

Eh?

‘Ummm. . .' I have no idea what to say. Then she tilts her head up, and her eyes are closed and her lips kind of pursed and I get the idea really quickly that she wants me to kiss her. But I can't because I don't want to totally repel her. I quickly puff air into my hand while her eyes are shut and the smell is toxic.

So I say, ‘I don't know what you mean,' and Claire looks a bit annoyed and glances at the café woman and says, ‘Let's go somewhere more private.'

We wander round the corner, to the road with the bus station. I look at Starbucks – warm and cosy – but she stalks past and finds a lonely bench, which would be very romantic if it wasn't sleeting and I wasn't
suffering from terminal barf-breath.

So we sit there, kind of awkward, and she's looking up at me hopefully and I'm looking around, pretending that it would never occur to me to kiss her. After a while she whispers, ‘Did I hurt you when I kicked you?'

‘Nah,' I lie.

‘Good,' she says, ‘I shouldn't have done that. I was just panicking about being late.'

‘What about now? Won't they be looking for you?'

She shrugs. ‘I don't care. You and me . . . it's more important than anything else. They can say what they want. No one's going to stop us being together.'

I don't want to break the mood. I don't want to remind her of the bad things. But I can't quite stop myself.

‘But what about the other stuff, Claire? My email?'

‘I don't care. I know you are a good person. I'm sure there was a reason for everything you did.'

That's just it. There was no good reason really for stabbing Arron – how could there be? I'm not completely certain if there was a good reason for carrying a knife in the first place. And the main reason for lying to the police is to save myself from going to a Young Offender Institution, however much I try and tell myself that I'm doing it so Arron doesn't get all the blame.

‘Erm. . .' I start, but she puts her finger on my lips.

‘It's OK . . . when I thought about, you know,
Bella and Edward – well, nothing could stop their love, and it's the most beautiful love story, and she just totally believes in him and that's how I feel about you.'

What
is
she going on about? Do I know these people?

‘Umm. . .?'

‘You know . . .
Twilight
. . . Even though he's killed, like, fifty people and he really wants to kill her, she just loves him so much . . . and he loves her . . . and that's what matters.'

These can't possibly be real people. It must be some film or book or TV series about a serial killer. A girly film about a serial killer. Weird. A year ago, when I lived on Planet Girl and I read almost every magazine in Mr Patel's shop, I might have known what she meant. Anyway, it sounds like Claire's got a bit mixed up.

‘Ummm . . . he wants to kill her? That can't be right.'

‘Oh,' she says, dreamily. ‘He's a vampire. His skin sparkles like diamonds. He's beautiful, just like you.'

Huh. ‘Beautiful' is way too like ‘pretty boy', if you ask me.

‘Oh . . . and in the end? He kills her, right?' I know how these vampire movies go.

‘No . . . but they can't touch too much . . . but that's OK, because it's just because he's a vampire. . .'

She's blushing. She's so sweet.

‘Oh, right, good,' I say.

‘You should read it,' she says, ‘and you'll see what I mean. But you mustn't read the other books because Bella isn't really
worthy
of him. I would never mess around with a werewolf like she does.'

Good.

‘And the fourth book is just really bad. I personally don't even believe the same person wrote it.'

She's mad, but so lovely, and I'm going crazy because I'm desperate to kiss her. I can smell her shampoo and it's really turning me on. Mmmm. It's either strawberry or fruits of the forest. My whole body is aching to touch her . . . hold her . . . but I can't. If she sniffs vomit on my breath, she'll go off me forever. I have to exercise complete self control. It's killing me.

Archie's phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out. He's sent me a text. It says, ‘WTF? U barfed? Fckwt. Wr r u? Yr mum here. on rampage. r u on run? kl. A.'

‘Oh shit. Shit. Claire, she's here. My mum. Shit.'

I'm shaking. I'm not ready to be dragged off to Birmingham. I need some time to think. That's what I never do. Stuff happens and I react and I screw things up. I need to work out what I'm going to do. I wanted Mr Henderson's advice but I'll just have to rely on myself.

‘We'll tell her,' says Claire, ‘we'll tell her and my parents that we have to be allowed to go on seeing each other. They can't stop us. We just have to show them how strongly we feel.'

‘It's not that simple, Claire. My life is really complicated. I have to work things out.' My heart is beating fast and loud, and I'm sure she must be able to hear it.

‘Well, what will happen?' she asks, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I think . . . I need to think,' I say slowly. ‘I'Il come back later. Tell them I'll be there soon.'

She squeezes my hand. ‘I'll stay with you.' Her eyes are shining, and she reaches out and strokes my face. My skin tingles, and a shiver runs through me. I lean towards her . . . but I can't . . . I can't. I seize her hand and squeeze it, but turn my head away.

‘No, Claire, I need to think things through by myself. I'm sorry.'

I walk with her back to the corner of the road where the hostel is. ‘I wont be long,' I say. She looks upset . . . confused. . . I'm lying, but she knows it, I'm sure, so it's not really a lie. It's true in my heart.

Like most things in my life, it's almost true.

I need somewhere where no one's going to find me. Somewhere I can think. Somewhere warm and dry.

I start walking aimlessly along the seafront, and I find myself back at the bus station. I glance longingly at Starbucks – dark and closed – and then I have an idea. If I get a coach to London then I can connect on to anywhere in the country. I'll lose myself somewhere random and get hours of warm, dry thinking time. The last bus to London goes in half an hour. I buy a ticket with a note peeled off Archie's stash – where did he get his money? – and climb aboard.

It's all going round and round in my head – Claire, the police, my mum – like clothes in a tumble dryer, and I'm trying really hard to concentrate and make a plan, sort it all out, but then everything's dark and
someone's shaking me and saying, 'Time to get out, son.' I jolt awake to find we've arrived in London and it's freezing cold and I'm starving and my head is aching. My mouth tastes like it's stuffed with rotting cabbage. It's 1 am and there are no coaches anywhere for at least six hours. Why didn't I realise? Now I'm stranded.

London's strange at night. There's none of the usual noise and rush, so every little noise seems louder, every movement blurry and shocking. It's like a horror film before the killing starts. You know something bad's going to happen; it's just a matter of detail. It's too quiet, too empty – I need to go somewhere.

Then a name comes into my head and I know . . . I know what I must do. I know who to talk to. I don't want to, but I must.

First I pull out Archie's phone. The battery is running down and I probably haven't got much time to use it. I run down his contacts list until I find Patrick and Helen's number. I push the button.

It rings four, five times, and I'm just about to give up. Then Patrick's voice barks in my ear, ‘Who's that? Archie, is that you? Ty?'

I try and speak – I really do – but my mouth is too dry. So I sit at a bus shelter, phone pressed to my ear, rocking myself slowly while I listen to him asking where I am, what's going on, can he come and get me?

He says something in French, something soothing and kind, and I like how it sounds, but I'm too tired to understand. Then he switches back to English. It's OK, he says, no one is angry. No one's going to make me do anything I don't want to do. I just need to come home.

What does he mean,
home
?

‘Tyler,' he says, ‘I think that's you. We're all very worried about you. Can you tell me where you are?'

No. I can't.

‘You're not in trouble,' he says. ‘Nicki and Danny, they know they made a mess of it earlier. Everyone's calmed down now. We've found Archie. We just need to find you and everything will be all right.'

I find a voice, although it doesn't sound much like mine. ‘No, it won't.'

‘As all right as we can make it, I promise. Now, where are you?'

I'm distracted by a noise – a drunk, staggering in circles, gobbing on the pavement and shouting, ‘I told them, I told them.'

‘Where are you?' Patrick asks again. I reply, ‘I don't know,' which is a lie geographically, but true in other ways.

‘Ty, listen,' he says, ‘Find somewhere to go – a café or something – and call me from there. I will come and get you. Wherever it is. Just find somewhere and stay put.'

If only it could be that easy. ‘Patrick, were you a soldier?' I ask.

‘A what?'

‘A soldier. In the war.'

He sounds a bit surprised. ‘I'd have to be about fifteen years older than I am to have fought in the Second World War, Tyler.'

‘Oh, sorry.'

‘But my father did,' he says. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Oh. I dunno.' I was kind of hoping he might know a bit about this shell shock business is the truth, but obviously he doesn't. I'll just have to get to the point.

‘Patrick, did I really live with you? Why?'

‘You mean when you were small?'

‘Yup.'

‘Danny asked us to look after you for a while. He was finding it impossible to care for you because he was studying. It was a difficult time.'

‘But what about my mum?'

Patrick doesn't say anything. I think the phone's gone dead and I check the battery – it's really low – but then I hear his voice. He sounds all croaky, and not like him at all.

‘He put her in hospital, Ty. Has she never told you what happened? You really need to talk to your parents about this.'

So I was right. He did hit her. If Patrick says so, it must be true. I don't need to ask any more. It's freezing cold and I've got other things to do.

‘Ummm . . . look, I'd better go. Thanks.'

‘Ty . . . don't just hang up, for God's sake. Tell me where you are. We'll sort it—'

But then there's nothing. The battery is flat.

I sit there for a bit with the cold, dead phone pressed to my ear. What I should've done is written down some of the numbers in the contacts list while it was still working. Then I could've used a phone box. I didn't think of that. I am stupid. But I don't even know why I was phoning in the first place. Probably just to delay what I have to do now. And now I have to do it.

I walk slowly away from the deserted coach station to look for a bus stop. I know which bus I want. This is one end of the line. I'm going right to the other end.

And here is the bus stop and there are night buses every thirty minutes and by the time one turns up my teeth are chattering with the cold. And then I realise I don't have an Oyster card, so I have to pay with a ten pound note, which annoys the bus driver. I don't belong in London any more. I'm a stranger. I'm homeless. I climb up to the top deck where there won't be so many people.

And we're driving through empty, dark streets,
and the bus fills up and empties again and I'm pleased with the way I'm coping, not jittering like I did before, quite calm . . . even sleepy . . . when a guy comes and sits next to me. He's taller than me and he's in a hoodie as well and he smells all sweaty.