Almost True (21 page)

I stare out of the window. The Gherkin is like a massive blade ripping into the sky. Canary Wharf is a rocket about to explode. I flick the lighter against my skin, on off, on off, just letting it hurt a little. I wonder if flesh smells like meat when it burns. I wonder what hair smells like. . .

The leather bag is right by my feet. I pick it up and empty it. The start of my bonfire. Photos, envelopes stuffed with letters and even some baby clothes and toys. Who'd keep such a load of rubbish? They deserve to be burned.

I crouch over the pile, lighter in hand. And then stop. What am I doing? Who starts a fire in a locked room? A suicidal nutter, that's who. I have to stop this right now.

I throw the lighter hard to the other end of the room.

And then I sit, exhausted and sweaty, picking up stuff from the pile and putting it down again.

The photos are in neat little folders. I pull them out and mix them up. I glance at one or two at random. There's my mum, with a huge smile on her face, showing off some trophy she's won. She's in running kit, so it must
have been for a race. She does look kind of fit, I suppose, although it's totally wrong to think that about your own mum. Long brown legs. Women shouldn't be allowed to have babies until they're about forty. I drop the photo pretty fast.

There's one of my dad. I laugh when I look at it, because he's so different. He's got the St Saviour's school uniform on – they must've made the sixth form wear it in those days. He's got the St Saviour's army haircut.

And he's got a baby in his arms, which stops me laughing right away.

The baby is all wrapped up in a blanket, so all you can see is its nose. But there's a massive grin on my dad's face. He looks happy. He looks proud. He doesn't look like I'd expect a Year Thirteen dad to look, which is pissed off and frightened and worried that the baby was going to throw up or shit all over you.

There are more photos. My mum holding me. I'm wearing denim dungarees – never a good look – and I'm as bald and ugly as that guy on
Little Britain
. She looks different – more curvy, busting out of her too-tight T-shirt. I do not approve.

The next photo is more recent. A big glossy print. Bizarrely, it's me and Arron. We're in our St Saviour's blazers. It looks like we're walking out of the school gates, on our way to the tube. Arron's walking ahead,
I'm following. We're laughing, we look like real true friends. Who the hell took this picture? How did my dad get it?

I pull a letter out of one of the stuffed envelopes. Thick cream writing paper. Spiky writing. Black ink – not a biro. My eyes are swimming in and out of focus. I read a few sentences – ‘
He's been so quiet and withdrawn, so emotionless. It's much healthier for him to get upset when he hears your voice. . . He should be absolutely fine.'
But I can't concentrate. Worry nibbles the back of my mind, fear. . . I need to think for a minute.

My dad went all over the place asking people about me. He went to the boxing club, where I know that Jukes's guys go. What did he tell them? What did he ask?

I'm trying to remember if he called Nathan or Nathan called him. I'm thinking about why that matters. And then I hear a click and the door opens.

‘You locked me in!' I yell at him. ‘You locked me in! You can't do that!'

‘I didn't go far,' he says.

He's balancing a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate with two slices of cake. I want to smash it out of his hands, crush the cake into his face, smear it on the glossy photos.

I don't because my mouth is watering.

‘Your one has the teaspoon – it was two sugars, wasn't
it?' he says, like nothing's happened. I grab a slice of cake – chocolate, mmm – and stuff it into my mouth. ‘Happy birthday,' he says. ‘I haven't been able to say that to you since you were one.'

It's my birthday? I'm fifteen? ‘You can't lock me in. . . I'm not your prisoner,' I mumble through the cake. I reach out for the second piece. He nods, ‘Go ahead. Enjoy.'

He must've gone out to buy me a birthday cake. That's kind of nice of him. I wish Claire was here so we could have our birthdays together. I wish I could've kissed her . . . stayed with her. Maybe I'll never see her again.

My dad sits down on the floor next to me.

‘I had to lock you in,' he says. ‘The one thing I know about you is that you run away. You've done it twice in the last week.'

Oh. Huh. I still think it's frigging inhumane. What if I'd needed to pee?

‘I spoke to my dad and again to Nicki,' he says, ‘two people I never speak to in normal circumstances. They both deny telling you that I hit her. They were both surprised . . . wondered why you would think that.'

‘Patrick
said
you put her in hospital,' I say, mouth full of cake.

‘He also says he told you it was something you needed to talk to Nicki and me about. One of the few
times I've completely agreed with him.'

‘Oh yeah, well, I get a lot of chances to do that, don't I?' I'm going for a bitter and dignified tone, but the effect is slightly dented by the chocolate icing all over my hands. I lick it off.

‘So listen to me. Believe me. I never hit Nicki.'

He could be lying. But somehow I don't think he is. I want this to be true. The cake is good. I'm feeling much better.

‘Anyway,' he says, ‘Did you look at the pictures and letters and things? Did it give you more of an idea?'

‘Yeah. . .' I'm a bit puzzled by how he's managed to defuse my fury with a smile and some cake. And I don't know what to call him, which is kind of annoying when there's something urgent I need to say. What was it?

He picks up a photo. It's another one from when I was really tiny, a little bundle in a blue blanket. He's holding me and his arm's round my mum and again he's got a goofy grin on his face. It's like the opposite of all those sex education ads when they tell you how your life will be ruined forever if you don't use a condom. They look really happy.

‘I'm not sure where to begin,' he says. ‘I never ever talk about this time of my life. It's too painful. Only my sisters know about it really, and Louise of course.'

‘You've been in touch with Louise?'

‘Not very often,' he says, ‘But she did let me know now and again how you were getting on.'

My auntie Louise has obviously been a triple agent dealing in secret facts about me. I don't think my mum will ever speak to her again. They never got on that brilliantly in the first place.

‘Look, Da . . . Danny. . .' I say, nervously.

‘Have you ever been in love?' he asks. ‘This girl . . . Katie, is it? Do you really love her?'

Katie? He can't even get Claire's name right. Anyway. None of his business. ‘I need to talk to you,' I say. ‘Can we do the rest of this stuff later?'

‘It's important that you know the truth,' he says.

‘Yes I know, but. . .'

‘I knew Nicki for ages, just as Louise's little sister,' he says. ‘She was an annoying kid – noisy, pushy. Then their dad died and we went to the funeral. She'd really grown up since I'd last seen her. She was amazing . . . beautiful. We started seeing each other after that. We didn't tell anyone, because she didn't want people to know we'd met at her dad's funeral.'

They got off together at my grandad's funeral? Unbelievable. I am beginning to see why my gran's forehead goes noughts and crosses whenever my dad is mentioned. Which isn't often.

‘I just fell completely and absolutely in love,' he says. ‘I've never felt anything like it since. She was wonderful – so determined. She was going to be a champion athlete, going to do brilliantly at school, be a top lawyer, maybe even prime minister. Nicki could do anything. She was so special. . . I was drifting along, no idea what I was doing with my life. I was going to study law like my dad and my sister because I couldn't think of anything else. . . I couldn't bear the idea of losing her. I wanted to make sure I would never lose her. So I suggested that we have a baby.'

He did
what
? Jesus. But I mustn't let myself get distracted. ‘Look, this is all great, but I need to ask you something.'

‘Of course, anything,' he says.

‘It's just, when you came and found me . . . did you ring Nathan? Or did he ring you?'

He looks surprised. ‘I left a note for him yesterday. Right after you went missing, I headed straight for London. Then he rang me when you turned up, and I got down there as quickly as I could.'

‘So you gave him your mobile number?'

‘Well, yes. . .'

‘And the others? The other people you went to see? The boxing club? Did you give them your number as well?'

‘Yes, but don't worry about that. I've found you now.'

‘No, it's just that' – I grab his arm – ‘Dad, we're in danger, we need to get out of here. They'll realise you've found me and they'll come looking for me, and they've got your number and they can get your address . . . this address. . .'

He gently puts his other arm around me. ‘Ty, I was talking to Nathan before we realised you were out on the balcony. He said you were overreacting . . . paranoid. . . It's totally understandable, given everything that has happened to you.'

‘No, really . . . really it's true. The police told us that mobiles are completely insecure. They can trace your details, I know they can.' I'm shaking his arm, trying to make him listen. ‘We need to leave here. You need to warn your girlfriends. I don't think it's safe. . .'

‘Ty, no one was following us. I'm sure of it. Nathan seemed trustworthy. It's fine. Relax. You're safe.'

I sigh. I want to believe him. I know that I get it wrong again and again. I want to sit here and eat more cake and get to know him a bit better.

But I can't.

‘They wouldn't need to follow. They'll just turn up. That boxing club, it's full of Jukes's men. When Alistair was shot. . .' My voice trails off.
I'm shaking. ‘My mum phoned him. And the next day he was dead.'

‘OK,' says my dad slowly. ‘I don't want you to be scared. We'll go to a friend's house. I just need to call Tess and Lucy, explain to them. Maybe they can stay with friends for a few days.'

I nod gratefully. ‘Thanks . . . ummm . . . Dad.'

We start scooping up the photos and letters and putting them back in the bag. He pulls out his mobile, ready to call the
ménage a trois.

And then we both freeze.

We can hear the creaking noise of someone walking around the flat downstairs. And then the crash of breaking glass.

We creep down the stairs slowly. We reach the bathroom door. Then my dad points back up the stairs again. He mimes locking the door. I shake my head. I'm not sitting behind a locked door while he gets shot. What if they've brought a petrol bomb?

A door creaks downstairs. We can hear steps . . . someone moving around. I'm holding my breath . . . shaking. . .

He pats my hand and whispers, ‘Don't worry . . . I've got a black belt in tae kwan do.' He doesn't realise . . . he has no idea. . .

And then we hear a voice – a female voice – saying loud and clear, ‘Oh bloody hell, Danny, you thief!'

My dad laughs. ‘Tess!' he calls out, ‘Jesus, you scared us to death.'

I am a complete idiot. I always get everything wrong. I'm looking very hard at the black and white framed photos on the wall as Tess – I think she was the on-off, off at the moment, works in television one – comes up the stairs.

‘I didn't know you were here, you thieving bastard,' she shouts – but she doesn't sound really angry. ‘Who's “us”? You haven't got that tart Angie here, have you? – Oh!'

She's caught sight of me. ‘Well! This is something different!' she says.

‘We always talk to each other like this,' my dad says to me, adding, ‘She's just joking about Angie. Angie is my assistant, as you know very well, Tess.'

‘That's not what it looked like to me that time,' says Tess, who has the sort of blonde hair that looks nearly white, pulled back in a ponytail. She's dressed in a tight black blouse and a short grey skirt and she's wearing really trendy glasses, bright red lipstick and incredible high heels. Even my mum never wears heels like that. She's a bit scary. I can't imagine why she would look twice at my dad.

‘Yes, well, never mind about that, it was her birthday,' he says, giving her the sort of look which means
shut up
. ‘I want to introduce you to someone. This is my . . . my son. Tyler, meet Tess.'

I put on a smile, but Tess doesn't even try to be polite.

‘Oh. My.
God,'
she says. ‘You are kidding, aren't you? You did just say
son
?' She looks me up and down and laughs. ‘You had a son when you were twelve? Sodding typical. Christ, Danny. This is hilarious. Why is he called Tyler Tyler?'

It seems pretty rude to talk about someone in front of them, particularly when you've never met them before. ‘I'm not,' I say, and I push past her and stomp down to the kitchen. The chocolate cake is on the table, and there's a smashed wine glass on the floor in a puddle of red wine. I ignore it and I help myself to some more cake. My birthday cake. I feel a bit sick.

I can hear my dad and Tess talking at the top of the stairs. There's a lot of muttering going on. ‘Well, what did you expect me to say when you drop that sort of news on me?' she says. ‘How come you never mentioned him before? Never even hinted? Has he just turned up on the doorstep? Are you certain he's yours?'

Mumble, mumble. Then she says, ‘And Lucy's going to kill you. You do know she made that cake for her mum's birthday?'

I look at the cake. Half of it is gone. I put my hand on the other half and slowly squish it down. Icing oozes through my fingers, and bits of cake fly off the plate.
I give the remains a few gentle karate chops. Then I wipe my hand on my shirt.