Almost True (23 page)

Arron was going to get taken away by the police, disappear out of my life forever. I would have to cope without him. Alone at school. Alone on the streets.

‘I had to save him. But he wouldn't save himself. And I was so angry about that, so I hit my knife at him. I didn't know . . . didn't realise. . .' I have to choose between holding back the tears or controlling my breathing. I go for the voice, and I can feel water dripping down my nose.

‘How bad was it?' he asks. Christ. He's still so calm. It's like he's asking how much sugar I want in my tea.
I can't believe I've been alone with my dad for less than a day and I've cried in front of him twice. Jesus. I hope this isn't going to become a habit.

‘I don't know. . .' I say, ‘I saw blood, but he was bleeding anyway. Sometimes I remember it and I think the knife hardly scratched him, and sometimes I see it slice into his arm. I just don't know.'

He doesn't say anything. There's a moment where all I can hear is my jagged breath. Then I feel his hand on my shoulder.

‘Ty, why didn't you tell the police about this? Do you think Arron told them? Have they questioned you about it?'

I try and shake his hand off, but he keeps it there. I think about fighting him, making him leave me alone. I can't. There's no fight left in me.

‘What about the police, Ty?'

‘I just didn't tell them about that bit,' I say, ‘I told them about the fight, about Rio . . . that's what they wanted to know about. What happened with me and Arron, that was private.'

‘And Arron?'

‘He told me he'd never say anything. And I think he hasn't. But I don't think that's for my sake. I think it's because he is telling them he had to defend himself against Rio. So it's not really murder. And he did . . . Danny . . .
Dad . . . he did have to defend himself. That's all true.'

‘What a mess,' he says, ‘What a mess.'

‘I know. . .' I say, and add, stupidly, ‘I'm sorry.'

He's moved his hand now, so it hangs over my shoulder, and he hugs me close to him, and I'm not strong enough to pull away. ‘I'm sorry,' he says, ‘I'm so sorry. If I'd been around for you, then maybe things might have been different.'

‘This is not about you! It's not my mum's fault!' I'm furious. ‘I never even carried a knife until about a week before this! You couldn't have brought me up better than her! You're useless . . . you don't know nothing. . .'

‘The fault is mine,' he says, ‘Not hers. I was scared to fight her. I should've pushed more for access.'

Scared of what?

We sit there for a bit, and then he says, ‘You need to find out what damage you did. You need to face up to this Ty. How can you live with this sort of secret?'

‘But I'd go to prison.'

‘Maybe. But there are worse things.'

‘I can't . . . I can't.'

‘I'm not going to tell you what to do,' he says, ‘It's good that you've told me. If you feel strong enough to tell the police, then I will stand by you, no matter what happens. And I will make sure you get good legal advice, and I will be there for you. And
I'm sure that Nicki would say the same.'

Not true. I know what my mum thinks. She's always said that I'd better never get in trouble. ‘You go wrong, and you're on your own,' she'd tell me. ‘I won't be coming to see you in prison.'

‘Come on now,' he says, ‘You need to get to sleep. You can have my bed tonight, and tomorrow we'll leave here. If you want me to take you to your mum, then I will. If you want to go to my parents, then that's fine. We'll work it out. There's always a solution, Ty, nothing's ever as bad as it seems.'

I think I'd believe him if he and my mum had found a way that I could've grown up knowing both of them.

We go down the stairs and he opens the door to his bedroom.

‘I've got something for you,' he says, and as I look around the room – unmade bed, clothes on the floor, musty smell – he opens a drawer and pulls out a small black bag. Inside are a new toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a flannel, a little pot of moisturiser and some aromatherapy oil. What the hell?

‘They give you that bag free when you travel business class with British Airways,' he explains, ‘I've got loads of them.'

Then he finds me an electric shaver, which is really nice of him, even if it's not strictly an urgent necessity.

He searches for some pyjamas – I don't get the impression he wears them much – and in the end gives me some boxers (Calvin Klein) and a T-shirt.

Then we go into the bathroom, and he pulls out a towel and shows me how the shower works. He leaves me alone to clean myself up. It feels so good to step under the steaming water, and I search around among the girly soaps and find some Dove for men, which must be his. I'm kind of chuffed we use the same shower gel.

After I've got dressed, I have a go at shaving, watching myself in the mirror. I look really convincing – it's a shame Archie isn't here. Then I have a little look in the cupboard and find some aftershave – Dolce and Gabbana. I spray on quite a bit – why not? – and I scrub my teeth for at least five minutes. I even floss.

When I go back into the bedroom he's made the bed – nice clean sheets – and picked up the clothes and opened a window.

I curl up gratefully. The bed's really comfortable. Perhaps I could come and live with him.

‘Where will you sleep?' I ask, and he grins, and says, ‘Well, there's a futon upstairs or, you never know, I might just get lucky.' And I feel like an idiot, because obviously he's just waiting for me to go to sleep before he dives into bed with snooty Tess. But I'm too tired to worry.

I drift into darkness, but soon I'm dreaming of blood
and mud and monsters. And then I'm running from a wild forest fire, and everywhere I turn is blocked with crashing trees and falling ash and thick dark smoke. And the flames hiss and crackle louder and louder.

And I'm scared and alone and completely desperate. And then I hear someone scream, and I don't know if it's me or Arron, and I know that I'm dreaming, so I'm trying, trying to wake up.

And I do, and I lie panting and sweating, tangled in my dad's duvet.

But the screaming hasn't stopped.

Everything is dark as I stumble down the stairs. I should look for my dad, I suppose . . . but he's with that Tess . . . and I can't leave this person to scream all alone. It sounds like a woman. It sounds like she's in terrible pain.

There's light coming from under the kitchen door. The screams have stopped now, but I can hear someone crying and a man's voice shouting, ‘Where is he? He's been here . . . tell us . . . where is he?'

I can see through the slight crack where the door's open. Two men are holding a woman's arms, and one's holding a knife to her throat. I've never seen her before, but she's about twenty-four and really pretty with huge eyes and curly hair. She must be Lucy, part three of the
ménage a trois
. Her eyes shine white and scared against
her black skin and her face is wet with tears.

I ought to creep up the stairs again and find my dad. I ought to find a way of calling the police. But they're shaking her and she's screaming again and I can't bear the noise.

I burst into the room. ‘Oh God,' she cries, ‘Who are you?'

‘Let her go,' I yell, ‘It's me you want . . . don't hurt her . . . let her go. . .'

They turn to me. They're both dressed all in black and their faces are covered by balaclavas. They look a bit like the Islamic ladies that used to come into Mr Patel's shop. But the ladies had nice smiley eyes and these guys . . . these guys don't.

They let go of Lucy and she falls to the floor, sobbing and crying. They grab me, pinching and wrenching my arms. ‘Is it him?' barks one to the other, and his mate sticks his head right by my face. I can't see his mouth but I can smell his stinking breath. I'm struggling and kicking, trying to get free.

‘It's him,' he says. ‘It's him all right.' And I nearly die of fright and shock because I know that voice.

It's Jukes. It's the guy whose family have been chasing us since the day that I gave my statement to the police. What the hell is he doing here? Shouldn't he be in prison?

‘You had to snitch,' he says. ‘You couldn't just shut up, forget you was there, could'ya?'

I'm trembling, and I open my mouth to beg him to leave me alone. I'll tell the police I was lying; I'll tell them I stabbed Rio . . . anything . . . anything to stay alive. But those words don't come out. Instead I hear myself shouting, ‘Get off me . . . you murderer. . .' and I bring my knee up fast and hard to his balls, just like my mum practised when she went to Women's Self Defence.

He yells – the kind of noise a gorilla makes in the zoo at feeding time – and thumps me in the stomach. Then someone kicks his arm, so the knife flies across the room, and he's falling backwards. And my dad kicks him in the face really hard, and twists to kick the other guy too. Bang! Right in his teeth. He wasn't kidding about the black belt in tae kwan do.

Jukes lies there groaning on the floor and I know I should pin him down, but somehow I can't move. I don't know why. I'm all weak and hot and my legs are trembling. Tess jumps on Jukes's back, while my dad kicks the other guy again. She's armed with a Jimmy Choo, and when Jukes tries to move, she whacks him on the forehead.

My legs don't work any more. I'm kneeling down, shaking. I'll be OK in a minute. It's just the shock.

There's a banging sound, a bell ringing, shouting
coming from outside. ‘Lucy. . .' gasps my dad, ‘It's the police. Get them . . . tell them. . .' He's lying across Jukes's mate, who's clutching his own jaw and trying to throttle my dad at the same time.

Lucy stumbles to the door. I'm in her way. I try and move, but I can't. She looks at me and starts screaming again. I don't know why. My dad shouts at her, ‘Luce . . . for Christ's sake . . . do it now. . .' and she gulps and squeezes past me. The door bangs behind her.

Jukes is twisting and turning, Tess struggles to stay on top of him. She grabs his balaclava and pulls it off. He's cussing her, spitting, calling her a bitch. She hits her sharp heel straight at his eye, and he falls backwards, hands clapped to his face, screeching. It's the best sound ever.

And then there's banging and pounding up the stairs, and the room is full of policemen. One nearly falls over me and I try and get up, but my legs have lost the plot altogether. I can't even scrunch myself up smaller. I'm just lying on the floor.

Two cops grab Jukes and haul him out of the room. Two more grab his pal. My dad is shouting and yelling now. He's shaking one of the policeman's arms, pointing at me. I can't hear what he's saying. The noise makes no sense. It's all just swirling around my head.

And then a guy kneels down next to me, touching
my body. What the hell's going on? I try and push him away, but my arms aren't working either. ‘It's OK, son,' he says. ‘We're going to get you out of here very soon.'

My dad's at my side shouting at the man. I can hear him now. ‘You've got to help him . . . got to do something . . . please Ty, don't go to sleep, stay with us now. . .'

My dad's T-shirt is sticking to me. It feels wet, and so does one side of the Calvin Kleins. That's strange. I'm trying to focus, but the room is speeding, whirling . . . it's like being at the fair, like being on the Twister. My dad's holding my hand and all I can feel are his cold fingers gripping tight while everything else spins around.

I look down and see red. A thin red line, running down my leg. A scarlet pool on the floor. But if I was bleeding it would hurt, wouldn't it? I'm hallucinating. I must be seeing the blood . . . so much blood . . . when Rio was killed, when I hurt Arron. I'm shaking again. I'm choking. I'm giddy and dizzy and everything is glitter and dust.

‘Hold on, Ty,' says my dad, ‘Hold on, help is here, they're here. . .'

I make a super-human effort to get my mouth working. I turn my head to look at him. I can see his big brown eyes through the sparkling speckles dancing around my head.

‘I want my mum,' I say, and I squeeze his hand. ‘Please get my mum.'

I'm standing with my mum on a dusty road. It's so hot that the air is shimmering. I'm sweating, wishing we could go inside. It's too hot. I need water. A burning wind whips red dust around us. I can hardly see.

There's a rough stone wall and a big black iron gate. My mum rattles it. A man with a clipboard comes out, shutting the gate behind him with a clang that hurts my ears.

‘This is my son,' she says, ‘Tyler Michael Lewis. Is he on your list?'

‘No,' he says. ‘No. He's not on the list. There's no place for him here.'

My mum looks like she's going to go ballistic. ‘
What?'
she spits, ‘Did I send him to Catholic school for
nothing
? What about all that time we spent in church? I thought
you were 100 per cent guaranteed a place . . . he's been christened, you know. And taken First Communion.'

The man checks his paperwork again. Ruffles his beard. Looks to see if I'm on his list as Lewis Tyler. And then shakes his head. ‘I'm terribly sorry,' he says. ‘There's lots of competition, you know. Limited places. We've gone interdenominational. He must have failed one of our tests . . . you'd be surprised what these teenagers get up to.'

What is this place? Is it a new school? How did we get here, anyway? The last thing I remember is my dad's frightened face.

‘Unbelievable,' says my mum. ‘I need to see your boss. I'll go right to the top if necessary. D'you think I'm going to accept the other place? You've got to be joking. . .'