Another Life (10 page)

He’s much better for Claire than I am (true. It’s true).

‘Time,’ says Mr Jones, and I follow him. My legs are a bit shaky. I’m not sure if I can actually do this.

He’s looking at me. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No . . . just a bit . . . I feel a bit. . .’

‘The best athletes can focus themselves to overcome any pain,’ he says. ‘The will to win is the most important thing. They learn to endure anything, until they reach their
goal.’

‘I can do that,’ I say, and he says, ‘I know you can. Go and do it.’

It’s tempting to give up – forget running, forget living. What’s my life going to be without Claire?

But there’s a race to win, and somehow that still matters to me. I’ve lost everything else, but I can still have this.

So I line up with the other finalists. I give them the look which will transmit defeat to their hearts. I bounce on the balls of my feet. I turn my body into a running machine, built for speed,
unable to feel pain, or fear, or anything apart from the hunger to reach the end.

We’ll all die
, I tell myself,
a horrible death – ripped to shreds by dogs, flung into an acid bath – all except the winner. I have to be the winner.

And I am. And the pain in my legs and my lungs and my abdominal muscles tears me apart, but it chases away the clattering noise in my head.

People are shouting and clapping and it’s all aimed at me. I am the centre of the crowd. Everyone is looking at me, seeing me, trying to talk to me.

And maybe the glucose wears off or something, because I’m sweating and shivering and my legs are too wobbly to hold me, and everything’s gone blurry and I’m kneeling on the
grass, which is wet, and coughing up the crusts from my lunch.

‘Get up,’ says a gruff voice, and I struggle to sit up.

‘You OK?’ says Steve.

‘No,’ I say, and then I see Mr Jones. He’s talking to a group of three or four guys. He’s grinning, gesticulating, saying, ‘I consider myself a real force for
rehabilitation. The Home Secretary should come and visit our gym, see what can be achieved.’

All the people he’s with have notebooks or mini tape recorders. Jesus. He’s giving a press conference.

‘Luke’s our star, but we’ve got other boys doing as well,’ he’s saying. ‘Come over here, Luke. You can tell the reporters how much help you’ve had from
being in a YOI.’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Just a picture,’ says one of the journalists, and he pulls out a camera and starts snapping.

‘No!’ I say, but no one listens to me.

‘You’ve just broken the UK record time for junior boys in the 1500 metres,’ says one of them. ‘How does it feel?’

I’ve got my arm up hiding my face, but they’re taking my picture anyway

‘You’ve come out of nowhere, now you’re about to take the athletics world by storm,’ says another. ‘Can you tell us how you’ve done it?’

‘What’s it like, training for stardom in a prison?’

‘I can’t say anything . . . go away. . .’ I gasp, but Mr Jones says, ‘It’s OK, Luke. It’s all good publicity. This’ll get you training and maybe even
sponsorship when you get out.’

‘His name’s not Luke,’ says someone on the outside of the crowd that’s gathered, and I look up and catch her eye. Zoe. Claire’s friend, Zoe. She’s a good
runner, I remember, and she trains with Claire’s sister Ellie, and she was always banging on about how male athletes got more fuss and attention than girls, which is bollocks, if you ask
me.

No one seems to hear her, anyway, and they keep on with their questions, until I find my voice.

‘I’m not talking! Go away!’

Other people are pressing in on me, and I’m finding it hard to breath. I try and speak to Zoe, but she’s too far away and it’s too noisy and anyway how do I start a
conversation with someone who’s going to call me Joe?

‘Get me out of here,’ I say to Mr Jones, and he tuts and says, ‘It’s all for your own good,’ but he waves away the reporters and says, ‘We’d better go
back. We’re on a tight schedule.’

Back at the van – record-breaker or not, I still get cuffed and stuck in the cell at the back – I try and keep my voice steady.

‘What were you doing? Why were you talking to them?’

‘Luke,’ he says, ‘you just took half a second off the UK record. Do you know how extraordinary that is? If you can get proper training, proper sponsorship, the world’s
your oyster. You could go the whole way, Luke. Olympic gold. And you’d have me to thank for it.’

I want to hit him. I would, if my arms weren’t cuffed together.

‘I can’t be in a newspaper! I can’t have my photo taken! I’m meant to be in witness protection! I’ve got a false identity. What were you thinking?’

He looks at me, so puzzled, so blank, that I think that’s it’s me who’s got it wrong – just for a second.

Then he says, ‘What do you mean, you’re in witness protection?’

D
anny picks me up at 7 am from my auntie Marina’s house. Mum’s in Frankfurt, Dad’s in Newcastle. I’ve been trying to
persuade them that they can leave me on my own, but they’re not having it.

‘It’s not that we think you’d come to any harm,’ said Dad, ‘but we’re quite fond of our house.’

It’s fair enough, really, because if I was home alone I’d be obliged to have a party, and I’ve been to enough parties in the last few weeks to know that they can go out of
control if you don’t have loads of bouncers.

It’s actually quite fun to have a week off from socialising and spend time with my little cousins Ludo and Atticus who think I’m a total hero, just because I’m loads older than
they are.

They’re not meant to know that Ty’s in prison, but I tell them, anyway. Ludo’s eyes are round and worried, but Atticus thinks it’s great and draws him a card with arrows
on the front (‘Because that’s what they wear on their prison suits’) and ‘Have a nice time! With best wishes from your cousin Atticus Tyler-Bennett!’ inside, in his
best joined-up handwriting.

I ask Danny loads of questions in the car, about what celebrities he’s been taking pictures of, and what it was like playing Glastonbury and stuff, but I only get growly short answers and
after a bit I shut up.

I don’t know why he doesn’t seem to like me. I think we could have a lot in common, if only he’d talk to me. But he doesn’t seem really interested. I’m going to
have to up my game a bit.

There’s a big wire fence around the Young Offender Institution – well, I suppose there would be – and you can’t drive in, you have to park outside and then walk. We all
go in one by one, and they do a pat-down search of my body. I wonder how it felt when Ty came here for the first time. Was it like this?

And then you have to go through loads of signing things and waiting around until they show you into a room full of tables and chairs. There are other people waiting, but we get whisked away from
them, taken to a separate place.

‘Why aren’t we with everyone else?’ I ask, and Danny says, ‘Security. Just in case anyone’s out to get Ty. He’s here under another name – they
can’t risk anyone finding out where he is.’

Ty’s life is like something out of a Mafia film, except that in those films the Mafia guys always get their prey. And obviously that’s not going to happen to Ty. It can’t.

There’s a whole load of waiting around in a room that’s clearly a classroom – tables, chairs, a whiteboard with stuff written on it, pretty basic maths stuff (times tables,
that kind of thing). They must have some really young kids here. It kind of cheers me up that Ty isn’t the youngest. I mean, it can’t be that bad, if they’re teaching people who
must be about nine years old. Maybe he can help out with them sometimes, teach them about running, that kind of thing. I think he’d like that.

And then he’s here. He’s really pale, and a little bit stubbly round the chin – I’m jealous – and he smells a bit off. Stale sweat. Maybe they don’t get
deodorant in here. He’s wearing grey trackies, a bright orange T-shirt and some really naff trainers. I try not to stare, but it’s weird seeing him like this.

I feel a bit self-conscious in my sharp new skinny jeans, my dazzling white T, my Superdry plaid shirt, my aftershave (OK, I don’t actually need to shave much, but at least I smell nice).
I’m pretty cool. It looks like I belong with Danny (labels everywhere, but in a more subtle way) more than his own son.

How would I feel about me if I were Ty? I’d hate me, that’s how I’d feel.

And that’s before I’ve told him about Claire.

‘Hey,’ says Danny. ‘How’s it going? I told you I got them to give us extra visits – compassionate, because of . . . well . . . anyway, Archie’s come along
today.’

Talk about stating the obvious. Ty doesn’t say anything, but his look flickers contempt. I’d been having difficulties imagining him as some drug-dealing criminal mastermind, but
I’m swiftly revising my views.

‘Hey, Ty,’ I say. My voice sounds chirpy and childish.

‘Hey, Archie,’ he growls.

‘How’s it going?’ says Danny.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he says. ‘They didn’t tell the whole staff, only those who need to know. They reckon it’s safer that way. Mr Jones, he didn’t
know.’

‘Who?’

‘In the papers.’ He presses his forehead with his fingers, like he’s trying to widen his skull. ‘The papers. About the race.’

‘What papers? What race?’

Ty just shrugs.

‘Tell me,’ says Danny, just the slightest edge of irritation in his voice.

Ty’s instantly furious. ‘I thought you knew! I thought that’s why you were here! I thought maybe . . . maybe. . .’

‘What?’

He shakes his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘Tell me,’ says Danny, through gritted teeth. ‘We haven’t got long.’

‘Mr Jones, he runs the gym here. And he organised for me to do training at a local club. And he put me into a sports competition at some place just outside Northampton.’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Zoe mentioned she was going to that. It’s really near where she lives, and loads of people go from her school, apparently.’

He’s glaring at me. ‘Yeah, and so I went and I won and some reporters wanted to interview me. . .’

‘You what?’ says Danny.

‘. . . because I broke the record for UK junior boys 1500 metres. And Mr Jones was telling them all about me being in here, and it turned out he never even knew that I wasn’t really
called Luke Smith or about witness protection or anything.’

‘What?’

‘They have a need-to-know policy, and the governor was at some conference when Mr Jones asked permission, it was the assistant governor and she didn’t remember who I was. .
.’

‘So are you in the papers?’

‘. . . and I thought maybe you’d worked something out with them and I could go. . .’

‘Have they shown you the reports?’

‘. . . they might let me out a bit early. . .’

‘Ty, what actually appeared in the paper?’

‘. . . I thought
you’d
know. But you don’t. They don’t actually give us papers in here. I don’t sit around with a sodding cappuccino and a copy of the
Independent
.’

They glower at each other.

‘Jesus, Ty,’ says Danny. ‘You should have known better.’

‘I broke a UK record,’ says Ty, clearly bragging and you can tell – well, I can – that he’s desperate for a fight.

‘Yeah, well, that wasn’t worth risking your life for,’ says Danny.

‘How many records have
you
broken?’

‘That is so not the point.’

‘It is to me.’

‘I’ll talk to the lawyer, see if we can use this to leverage an earlier release date,’

‘Well done,’ says Ty, his voice full of contempt and hate.

I’m really not looking forward to telling him that Claire wants a break. I’ll have to start off by saying something like, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, but your girlfriend, who you adore, who makes your miserable life worth living – she wants to chuck you.’

OK, it’s not going to happen.

‘You’re probably wondering where your mum is . . . why she hasn’t been. . .’

Ty rolls his eyes.

‘Well . . . she’s not really up to it. She’s not great, Ty. She’s very sad about your gran, obviously and she’s having to cope with Alyssa on her own.’

Ty’s hands are balled into fists.

‘I’ve suggested that she goes and stays with Emma for a bit in Spain – to get some sunshine, moral support. What do you think?’

Ty shrugs again. It’s as though he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Danny tries again. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

‘My picture’s been in the paper,’ says Ty. ‘I think it’s slightly essential.’

‘Well . . . have you actually seen your picture in the paper? It was probably just someone from the local rag.’

‘They were taking pictures!’ He’s almost screaming.

‘Calm down,’ says the prison officer.

‘You know that money?’ says Ty.

‘What money?’

‘You said you had money for me – for when I’m eighteen.’

‘I have put aside some money, yes,’ says Danny, very slowly and carefully.

‘Give it to Mum – for Alyssa, tell her. And Spain’s no good. Can’t you send them to America?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Florida. We always wanted to go to Florida. Disney. Alyssa would like it.’

‘I’ll talk to her. . .’

‘Yeah.’ Ty yawns. ‘You talk to her. Tell her that Alyssa needs to be safe. Florida should be OK. Maybe Emma can go too.’

‘Emma’s pretty settled in Spain. She seems to be happy with Carlos.’

‘She shouldn’t trust him,’ says Ty. ‘Get her away from him.’

‘Ty, I don’t think. . .’

Ty waves his hand to shut his dad up.

‘Don’t think. I done all the thinking. I get a lot of time to think in here.’

His voice has changed, I realise. He’s more east London. He’s got that Jamaican rhythm, his words are all vowels, it’s ‘dis’ and ‘dat’ and
‘fink’ and ‘fings’, and ‘wha’eva’. And ‘fu’’ and ‘fu’ing’, every other word.

I sometimes put on that voice as a joke – a joke about chavs and being street, a charm against getting mugged or worse. That’s the voice of the people who scare the rest of us. And
Ty does it so naturally that it’s as if it reveals the real him.