Almost True (17 page)

I inch towards the window, and then I realise that he's got two mates with him. They're sitting in behind us, no one else is anywhere near, and they're all looking at me. I don't like the way they're looking.

Sweaty nudges me. ‘Where're you going, man?'

I ignore him. I stare at the dark window. All I can see is my reflection. My dark hood. My big eyes. I don't know what I look like to him, but to me I look scared.

His mate leans over the seat and sticks his face right up next to mine. His breath smells of beer and curry. I flinch away. ‘Answer the question, pretty boy,' he growls.

‘Umm . . . dunno. . .' I say.

‘Wanna get there safe and sound?' says Sweaty.

‘Umm . . . yeah.'

Something jabs my side. I look down. There's a flick knife in his hand and it's pressing against my ribs. Right now it's unflicked, but in a second he could slice through my clothes and skin. We both stare at the knife like it's nothing to do with either of us. I can feel myself getting all hot – I must be blushing – it's like he's
touched me wrong.

‘What've you got for me?' he says. Just like Arron did to Rio in the park. That's what you say when you want to take someone's phone or iPod off them. It's not because you want whatever it is. It's to show who's got the power. And right now, I have none.

‘Umm. . .' I feel around in my pocket and pull out Archie's phone. He pockets it and his mate laughs and says, ‘What else?'

The only other thing is the money. I scrunch forward and pull the roll of notes out of my back pocket and hand it over. He takes it from me – our hands touch – his skin brushes mine and I pull away fast. Maybe the movement scares him, because the knife clatters onto the ground and out of nowhere he smashes his fist right into my face.

I fall back against the window and bash my head against the glass and the pain's crushing my head from back to front. I can hear them laughing, then thudding down the stairs, and the bus stops and starts again.

I'm lying on the seat, tasting blood and clutching my eye and wondering if he's knocked it clean out of its socket. And gradually the bright lights of the bus seep through and I can see again. I sit up and retch a bit. I'm shivering, but this time I don't think it's to do with the cold because it's steaming hot on the bus. An old lady climbs up to the top deck, takes one look at me and
goes straight into reverse gear back down the steps.

The bus turns sharp left and the knife spins under my seat. I reach down and stuff it into my back pocket. Because if anyone else says ‘What've you got for me?' I've got nothing to give them at all.

And then we reach the end of the line and I get off. And I know where I am and I even know why. I've come home.

My face is throbbing and blood is stiffening on my chin. My head is aching and I'm dying to pee. I'm jumpy as hell – I know that if I get spotted by the wrong people then that's it. I'll be dead on arrival. But there's still something really good about walking down the street where we used to live.

I get to our old front door and flatten my nose against the shop window. I'm like a ghost of myself.

Last time I was here, the air was thick with the smells of smoke and petrol, the crackle of burning magazines, the sizzle of melting confectionary. The glass was smashed to diamonds and the street was lit with a flickering, yellowy glow.

Now it's dark and still, and you wouldn't know it had ever happened. Mr Patel has even made a kind
of window display showing his wide selection of pot noodles. And if I try very hard I can pretend that I'm about to climb the steps to our flat. Back to when I had a home. Back to when I had a life.

And then there's a sharp tap on my shoulder
. Christ
. I spin around, my hand flying to my back pocket – but I freeze when a voice says, ‘What're you doing out at this time, lad?'

My hand stops in mid-air. Police. You never used to see a policeman walking on our road at night – way too dangerous – but maybe things have changed.

There are two of them. One old, one young. They look me up and down, and the younger one says, ‘Don't I know you?'

‘No . . . sir. . .' I think maybe he was at the police station when I gave my first statement.

‘What's happened to you, son?' says the older guy. ‘You look like you've taken a bit of a beating.'

‘I'm OK.'

‘Want me to call an ambulance? Call your folks?'

‘No, thanks. I'm just going home.'

‘Where's home?'

Good question. I wish I could just say ‘here' and disappear. I wonder if anyone new lives in our flat now. The thought makes me feel sick. I wave my hand vaguely and say, ‘Stamford Hill way.'

‘OK,' says the younger one. ‘That's quite a way away. So what're you doing here right now?'

I shrug. ‘On my way home.'

‘What were you doing, looking into this shop?' he asks.

‘Umm. Nothing.'

‘This shop has had a bit of trouble lately,' he says, ‘There was a fire here a few months ago. Know anything about that?'

‘Umm. No.' I don't sound very convincing, even to myself.

‘We're going to have to search you, you're acting suspiciously,' he says, and starts gabbling a load of stuff about the powers given to him by some act of Parliament, and what his name is and what police station he comes from – like I
care
– and all the time I can feel the heavy knife tugging at my jeans.

‘OK, son,' says the older guy, ‘It won't take long.' And he comes towards me, arms out, but I dodge past him – ‘Oi – stop!' he yells – and I'm sprinting along the high street, past the kebab shop, past the tattoo parlour, with both of them chasing me, but I can run faster, I can run faster than anyone and I'm down an alleyway and over a wall and into the park and they're not there any more.

And my ankle is killing me, and I'm coughing
my guts up, but they've gone and they never found the knife and once the coughing stops everything will be OK again.

I've been in this park about a million times, so I know it really well, but the last time I was here was the time that Rio got killed. And I never thought I'd come back ever, especially at 3 am when it's so dark and cold and if there are ghosts anywhere, they'll be here.

Gradually my eyes adjust to the moonlight. I'm right back at the place where it happened. Where Rio died and everything changed. There's a few bunches of dead flowers tied to a tree. ‘Our beloved son and brother' reads one note. ‘RIP fallen souljah' says another. This is where I've been running from and this is where I've been running to. But it's not a good place to be.

Then I hear it. An eerie howl, a weeping sound, like someone's crying for Rio and Arron and all of us – and it's not me, because my hand's right by my mouth, I can taste the salt of my skin – and I'm shivering all over and I fall to my knees. There's no going back – the police will be looking for me. I'm terrified of the next place I'm heading. But this is unbearable.

The knife sits heavy in my pocket, weighing me down, pulling me backwards. I can't bear knowing it's there. I'm too scared to go on without it – but then I think of blood splashing out of Arron's arm, and I know that
I have to get rid of it.

I want to throw it in the bushes, but I stop myself just in time. This is a children's playground – what if some little kid finds it and works out how to undo the catch? In the end, I put it in the bin that's meant for dog shit. Surely that ought to be safe.

And then, as I turn away, I see something staring straight at me. Two dark eyes, shining from a shadow, a long furry nose. . . I gasp, and my heart kind of jumps –
Meg!
How's she found me here? Patrick?

Words bang in my head . . .
hallucination
. . .
you nutter . . . you fuckwit
. . . but then the staring eyes blink and I know what it is. A fox, a beautiful wild fox, one of my favourite London things. When you see them it's like magic, straight out of a story book.

Just for a moment we gaze at each other – he must have howled, wailing to the moon – and I hold out my hand. It'd be great to have a fox as – no, not as a pet – a friend. Something to run with. Something a bit more reliable than most people. I stand up very slowly and step towards him, my hand outstretched.

And then he runs and I run and I find the bit of wall I need and I clamber over the fence and I'm running to the stairway and climbing the steps and bashing at the door. Arron's door. Even though I know Arron can't be there.

I'm praying for Arron's mum, but Nathan's eyes are glaring into the dark and he's trying to slam the door shut. But I've got my shoulder in and after a few silent seconds he recognises me, and in that moment of surprise I push into the hallway and collapse onto the floor.

Nathan's cussing his head off in a furious whisper. ‘Christ . . . fu'ing Jesus Christ man, what the fu' you doin' here? Tryin' to get yoursel' killed? Are you mental or what?'

He's shaking and sweating and he's got a weird look on his face – if I didn't know better, I'd say he was scared. He's crouched over me, and little bits of spit shower my face.

I force out the words, ‘I need your help. Nathan. Please.'

‘Shut up,' he says, ‘Keep quiet. In here.' And he pulls me up and drags me into their lounge, where I trip over a naked Barbie and step onto her pink car, crash into the coffee table and sprawl on to the sofa.

Nathan kicks the Barbie across the room. It's usually as clean and tidy in here as the hospital where their mum works, and I must have looked a bit surprised because he growls, ‘Mum's away. She's taken Jasmine to visit Arron at the Young Offender Institution. It's best if they stay overnight.'

Jasmine is their littlest sister. She's only five. I get a sudden picture of her sucking her thumb, hair tied up with a pink bobble, smiling, all confused in a room full of sobbing mums and silent boys.

‘Oh,' I say. I'd hoped Arron's mum would be there, to sort out my face and stop Nathan killing me. Now anything could happen.

The sofa feels really lumpy, and I reach underneath the cushions and pull out Mermaid Barbie. Once upon a time, Arron's little sisters were always nagging me to play with them and when I was feeling kind, I would . . . if the football we were watching was boring or something. No wonder Arron used to laugh and call me a girl.

I turn the doll over and over in my hands, hating her silly smile and false boobs. That's the problem with people who've known you a long time. They remember how soft
you were before you learned to be cool. That's why I liked being Joe. He was never stupid. He was never young. He certainly never played with Barbies.

Nathan's staring at me. ‘Come here,' he says. I shrink away and he grabs me by the shoulder and drags me over to the sink – their kitchen and lounge are all one room. He's taller than me – only just, though – and he's got huge muscles. There's no point even trying to fight.

He turns on the cold tap. Shit. He's going to fill up the sink and drown me . . . or torture me . . . and then there's the cooker, he could burn me . . . or just chuck me over the edge of the balcony. . .

But then he wrings out a tea towel in the water and says, ‘Clean yourself up, man, you look like crap.' He starts rooting around in a cupboard until he finds a first aid box, and he fishes out some antiseptic cream and a plaster.

I dab at my face, but it stings too much, and I stumble back to the sofa, holding the wet cloth carefully over my eye. Nathan gets a can of coke out of the fridge and hands it to me. He sits down in the armchair. All we need is Arron, and the telly on for Football Focus, and it'd be just like old times. I take a little sip of the coke, and it's good to wash away the taste of death in my mouth.

And then he says, ‘So, li'l Ty, you done some growing up, boy.'

‘Yeah.'

‘You've got yoursel' a kinda interesting look there.' ‘Umm. Yeah.'

‘How's your mum?' He scratches his head and looks at the ceiling when he says this, but I'm used to everyone's big brothers and dads . . . anyone male really, teachers, shopkeepers, whatever . . . fancying my mum.

‘She's OK. Pregnant.'

‘Pregnant? Jesus. Who's the lucky guy?'

‘Her boyfriend. He's dead.'

‘Shit. Bummer. That's bad.' He's staring at the ceiling again.

‘How's Arron?' I ask nervously.

‘He's OK,' he says. ‘He's OK. Considering. Hoping the trial will be soon. They tell you anything, the cops?'

‘No.'

He's looking at me straight on now, eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I told you to keep your mouth shut. You shoulda listened, eh?'

I take a gulp of coke.

‘Yes . . . no . . . but the police would've found me anyway. They knew I was Arron's friend, and loads of people saw me when I stopped the bus.'

‘You never realised you needed to keep your mouth shut about Jukes? You never knew who his old man is? Arron never told you?'

‘No.' I look back at stupid, innocent, ignorant Ty and I'm not surprised at the sneer I see on Nathan's face. He's shaking his head. ‘My gran said I should just tell the truth. For the family of that boy.'

‘Oh yeah. Dat boy. Dat innocent boy.'

‘Yeah.' We don't seem to be getting very far. ‘Nathan . . . you gotta help me, man. These people who want to kill me, you know them, don't you? You could ask them . . . ask them not to. . . I can't live like this, Nathan, you gotta help me, man, I can't do it no more . . . I'll do anything.'

It's like he hasn't heard me. He's staring at the ceiling again. I hear myself babbling like a scared little baby and then he says, ‘How's your gran, Ty? Is she OK?'