Almost True (31 page)

Maybe it was all those days stretching back to reception class, when I didn't want to make my own decisions, and instead asked Arron what to do. I got into a habit of letting him do my thinking. I never considered that I might do a better job for myself.

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘I shouldn't have listened to my friend.'

‘Really?' says Patrick. ‘All his fault, was it?'

Maybe, I think, it all goes back further than even being friends with Arron. Maybe it's something to do with the things that I can't quite put together. Things that are nothing to do with me. Decisions and events that happened before I was born.

‘No,' I say slowly. The truth is as cold, hard and slippery as the patches of ice crunching under our feet. ‘No. It was my fault. It was the knife. The day I chose to carry a knife. I thought it was for protection, but I didn't think through what I was doing.'

Patrick takes a deep breath and I think he's going to blast off at me. I brace myself for the roar. But then he says, ‘Life is tough now, eh?' and there's a moment when I think I'm going to be able to just nod and say, ‘Yup,' but what comes out is a weak little wobbly voice saying, ‘They tried to kill me,
Grandpère
, they stabbed me. I was bleeding . . . I was bleeding. . .'

And he pats me on the back and says, ‘Frightening stuff,' and then Meg bounces back to us and it's OK again. It's really OK. Just for the moment I'm fine.

Back in the car we talk about Archie's new school and Louise's new job and what GCSE subjects I'm going to pick – Patrick is weirdly prejudiced against Media Studies, although I think I've got a head start because of growing up over a newsagent's.

But my mind keeps going back to Alistair and what he said about my mum, and how that fits in to all the new stuff I've learned and all the old stuff I always knew.

I need some answers. I'm after the truth. But who can tell me the whole story? And how will I know it's true?

Driving to Patrick and Helen's house, I'm looking forward to peace and quiet. No booming bass line, no squabbling neighbours. Space. Time to think. Maybe I'll be allowed to take Meg for walks; she might even come with me for a run. Perhaps Patrick and I can watch films together . . . and there's a lot of good football on. . .

But the driveway is packed with cars – big, expensive four-wheel-drive cars. As we come through the door I hear a buzz of talk coming from the living room. Helen comes out, a huge smile on her face, and I can hear the chat die down. There's a crowd of people in there, waiting for me. I know it. Helen takes one look at me and says firmly, ‘Come on, Ty, let's take your stuff straight upstairs. You can meet everyone later.'

There's no peace and quiet in the attic, though. It's been turned into a campsite, full of blow-up mattresses and multi-coloured sleeping bags. Archie is lying on my iron bed watching
Lord of the Rings
part one, full volume, and two little boys are bouncing up and down next to him. I'm kind of stunned.

‘When Nicki called, I was so excited,' says Helen, ‘I told everyone to stay on to meet you. They were all here for Christmas, anyway. It's my chance to introduce you to the whole family, darling. I'm hoping that Danny will come too. It'll be a real reunion.'

She's almost jumping on the spot, she's so happy. No one would think she was showing off a grandson who's about to go to prison, or welcoming back a druggie son. In fact, no one would even think she'd ever heard of knives or drugs. I like Helen a lot. But there's something about her that makes me nervous.

‘Oh. Umm. Cool,' I say. ‘Hey, Archie.'

‘Hey,' he says, pausing the DVD.

‘This is Ludo and this is Atticus,' says Helen pointing

out the little boys. How on earth can she tell the difference? They both have black hair and blue eyes and exactly the same little nose and freckles. They're about six years old. They're identically hyper and loud. Some idiot has dressed them both in jeans and blue jumpers.

‘Archie's in the big bed,' she says, ‘but you can have
the top bunk, Ty, is that OK?'

‘Yup,'

‘Why don't you unpack, and then come down and

meet everyone?'

‘Umm . . . yeah . . . OK.'

She gives me a quick hug – she smells of mince pies and roses – and a kiss. It's totally weird, like getting a kiss from a teacher.

I sit down on the bottom bunk bed and Ludo and Atticus rush over to me. ‘Hello,' I say. I've already forgotten which one is which.

‘Are you Tyler?' says one.

‘Umm, yeah.'

‘Wow! You go round fighting people!' he says. The

other boy looks solemn and says, ‘Mummy said you had a knife stuck in you.'

‘Umm, yeah,' I say. I'm incredibly nervous about meeting the whole family. How many people can fit in that room?

‘Wow! Can we see where it went in?' says one of the boys.

‘Oh. Umm. I don't know.'

‘Please . . . where the knife went in,'

I don't know what to do. Archie sniggers, and says, ‘Go on, show them.'

‘Oh. Umm, yeah, OK.'

I pull up my hoodie and T-shirt and I show them the scar. It will fade eventually, I've been told, but right now it's still pretty raw. Both boys are completely awed, although one of them looks a bit sick.

‘Sorry,' I say to him

‘I'm OK,' he says, but his freckles stand out against his pale skin. Maybe I shouldn't have showed them.

His brother has gone back to bouncing up and down on the iron bed like it's a trampoline. Archie snaps, ‘Stop it Atticus,' and he stops for an instant and shrieks, ‘Did you fight? Did you have a knife? Do you have a gun? Are you a criminal?'

‘No,' I say. ‘Look, umm, Atticus. Ludo. It's not fun getting stabbed like this. It's much better not to get involved with this kind of thing in the first place.'

I'm quite proud of this piece of mature advice, but the bouncy one just laughs and says, ‘I'd have stabbed them back in the eye and the gut and the bum.' Archie snorts and says, ‘Ooh, listen to you, Ty, you've gone very responsible.'

‘Yeah, right,' I say. ‘How's it going, Arch?'

‘OK,' he says, ‘Good to be on holiday. I've been talking to Zoe every day on Skype. We're going to meet up for New Year, she's coming to London, staying with her aunt.'

‘Oh, cool,' I say, although just the mention of
Zoe's name sends a sharp, Claire-shaped pain through my body.

‘How's school?' I ask, to change the subject.

‘Oh, you know. It's complete crap. Effing monks drilling us all the time.' He doesn't actually say ‘effing', and I see the little boys glance at each other, eyes wide.

‘It's just – you have no idea what it's like being in a boarding school. Nothing but frigging rules and regulations' – he doesn't say ‘frigging' either – ‘and you might as well be in prison.' Then he covers his mouth with his hand. ‘Oops. Sorry.'

At first, I think he's apologising for swearing in front of the kids. Then I realise that's not it.

‘I didn't mean. . . I mean, you might not go down . . . isn't that right?'

Atticus and Ludo's eyes are identically round and fixed on me, and I'm hot with embarrassment and shame. ‘Yeah, right.' I say.

‘Zoe's dad's a policeman, and he says lots of cases don't ever get to court.'

I think about this. I think some more. ‘You
told
Zoe?'

Archie nods. ‘Of course. Because she knows you . . . and I thought. . .' His voice trails away. He's looking at my face. ‘Umm . . . sorry,' he says in a small, un-Archie-like voice.

Zoe knows I might go to jail. She'll tell everyone
at Parkview. That means Brian and Jamie. Carl. Max. Mr Hunt. Mr Henderson.
Claire
.

Claire and Ellie and all their family. They'll know that I might be going to prison.

Yesterday, I thought I'd given up hope that Claire would ever want to speak to me again. But I did have hope, after all. Because if I didn't, then what just died inside me?

My eyes are blurring. My mouth is full of a squeaking, wailing sound that I can only hold back by clamping my lips shut and breathing through my nose. I have to get away. I need to find a private space to hide, so that I can do what I have to do without completely shaming myself in front of hordes of new relatives.

I spin around, crash out of the room, run down the stairs. They don't seem to be following me, but just in case – I need to escape. Fast. Jesus, help me. Help me,
please.

I get as far as the front door. I'm not going to run away . . . just find somewhere private. But then the doorbell rings and I jump away. I run through the empty kitchen and into the laundry room. The peaceful, calm, cosy laundry room. The whirring of the washing machine might just cover any other noise.

I grab a newly-washed towel and press it against my face. I breathe in its Comfort smell, but it's no use. The sobs are coming in great shuddering waves, my eyes are
flooding with hot tears and it's lucky I have the towel to muffle the noise, because otherwise the whole house would hear me wailing like a baby. What the hell can I do? I'm going to have to hide here forever.

It feels like hours, but eventually my body stops shaking. The tears dry up. I wipe my face with the damp towel and hiccup a few times. I must look terrible. I can't go out there, I can't meet anyone. There's a big, scary bubble of panic at the back of my throat.

And then I spot the big pile of ironing just waiting to be done. Surely it'd only be helpful . . . no one would mind . . . just one shirt. Maybe two. To calm me down. I plug the iron in.

I can hear my dad's voice in the hallway. Helen's so happy he's here, you can tell by the way she's burbling. ‘Ty's here,' she's saying. ‘Poor thing, he looks exhausted. He's upstairs with the boys. Maybe you want to find him there, bring him down?'

I can't hear his reply. I spit on the iron, just like Gran taught me, and the saliva sizzles into a ball and disappears with a hiss. Just right. I start with the sleeves. The spray squirts and the iron sighs and it's fresh and smooth and just like new. I run my finger along the cotton. It's perfect. Nothing else in the world is as perfect as this.

Louder voices. Helen's in the kitchen. The tap's on, and I hear the click of the kettle. I tense, praying she
won't find me, but she's talking to someone and clattering around with teacups and plates. I start on the other sleeve.

‘It's so wonderful to meet you at last,' says a woman's voice. I know that voice. Who the hell is it? I miss Helen's reply.

‘Oh, a long time,' says the mystery woman. ‘We've been close friends for years. It's lovely to meet Danny's family at last, fill in all the gaps.'

Tess. It's that Tess.
Ménage a trois
. Ice bitch. That's who it is. What's she doing here?

‘It's really a sign that Danny's put all his problems behind him,' says Tess, ‘Introducing us . . . building up a relationship with Ty again. Poor kid. He's had such a rough time.'

Does she mean me? Or my dad?

‘It's a joy for all of us having Ty back in the family again,' says Helen. I think she'll be pleased I've done the ironing for her. I shake out the first shirt – smooth, fresh, shiny white – and pick up another.

‘How devastating for you,' purrs Tess, ‘when Nicki refused to let any of you see him. How vindictive. I'd have thought she'd have understood . . . been grateful that you wanted custody.'

There's a silence. Then Helen says slowly, ‘So . . . Danny's told you about that? You must be very close.'

I'm frozen. I can hear the blood rushing around my body, the rhythm of my heart, the breath rattling in my lungs.

‘It must have been torture for you,' says Tess. ‘Knowing that little boy was growing up in such an unstable home. You can't blame her, I suppose. She was ill. It was terrible for Danny. . .' I'm straining to hear, but there's a crashing sound which drowns her out and all I catch is the end of the sentence ‘ . . . hospital.'

‘Grandma! Grandma! Where's the tea? I want cake!'

‘Oh,' says Helen. All the happiness has drained from her voice. ‘We're just coming, Atticus darling. Just waiting for the tea to brew. Where's Archie? And Ty?'

‘Ty went downstairs,' says a little boy's voice. ‘Archie's watching
Lord of the Rings
. Archie's very silly, Grandma.'

There's a smell . . . a weird smell . . . not a nice smell. I look down at the shirt. Oh no. No. I've been pressing too long in one place. There's a shit-brown mark on the snowy white shirt. I've scorched it . . . spoiled it . . . ruined it. Tears prick my eyes again. I clutch the edge of the ironing board. I can't – mustn't – start crying again. Not over a shirt. For God's sake.

‘Run up and call him, Ludo,' says Helen. ‘Danny must have found Ty and brought him downstairs. Open the door for me, Atticus. Tess, dear, would you
mind taking off your shoes? I don't like high heels on the parquet.'

And they're gone. And I can breathe again. But almost instantly there are more voices. My dad. Helen.

‘Where the hell is he?' he's saying, ‘Has he run away again? My God . . . he's not safe for a minute. Nicki said he was angry about the PlayStation but I didn't think he'd disappear. Did you tell him I was coming? Where can he be?'

I can't move. Everything's kind of muffled and slow and I really need to pee, but I can't take one step.

‘Danny,' says Helen, ‘This girl . . . this woman . . . your friend. She seems to know everything. Every detail of what happened. She was talking about it so casually. Is she . . . are you. . .?'

‘What did she say?' he asks.