Another Life (16 page)

And then we’re slowly going up . . . and up . . . and it’s fine, actually fun to be so high up, until it gets fast and faster and I start thinking about nuts unscrewing (not those
sort of nuts, although now you mention it. . . ) and machinery failing, and bodies flying through the air . . . not bodies . . . limbs . . . arms and legs torn off and flying through the air . . .
and headlines screaming, ‘Fair Disaster!’ and ‘Carnage!’ I screw my eyes shut, although I’m sure my eyeballs have slipped from their sockets and are bouncing on the
ground like slimy tennis balls. . . It’s slowing . . . it’s stopping. . . I’m still alive.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ says Ty. He’s laughing. Maniac. ‘That was OK. Shall we do it again?’

He’s got to be joking. ‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘Meg will be missing us. You can if you want. Have some tokens.’

He has two more goes. I have to mooch around, chatting to Meg, eating candyfloss morosely while he spins and flies and whoops.

Oh well. At least I’ve cheered him up.

Eventually he staggers off. ‘Brilliant,’ he says. He’s breathing fast. ‘Jesus. I wish I could do that all night.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just so safe,’ he says, ‘and like you’re flying and no one can get you.’

What kind of person feels safe on a Freak Out? He’s twitching again, scanning the crowd.

‘What next?’

Neither of us fancy the ghost train. The roundabout is for babies. We try dart-throwing and duck-hooking, and Ty wins a fluffy troll for Alyssa. He seems quite relaxed. He’s even laughing
at my jokes.

And then we see the dodgems. I love dodgems.

‘Want a go?’ I ask him, but he shakes his head. Ah. Stupid me. Not the best thing when you’ve had a car crash. ‘Hold Meg,’ I say.

I’m spinning around, pretending I’m in a Ferrari, making kiddish Formula One noises in my head –
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
– when I spot Ty. He’s not
looking too happy. He’s sweating, twitching, eyes wide and alarmed.

I expertly pull my car over to his side. ‘You OK?’ I yell, over the blaring music.

Some guy slams his car into mine. He laughs, as I rock and shake. I forget Ty as I wheel the car around and pursue him.

It’s only when the car glides to a halt that I put my hand to my face and realise there’s a trickle of blood coming from my nose. It does that sometimes, nothing to worry about. Pity
I don’t have a tissue. I pinch my nostrils tight, look around for Ty.

And he’s staring at me, white-faced and shocked, like I’m a ghost or something.

‘Ty!’ I say, but he’s running. Meg’s running with him. I run after them, but it’s uphill and moving makes my nosebleed worse.

I think I spot his white shirt by the candyfloss stall, but when I grab his arm it’s some other guy, and I step back. ‘Sorry. . .’

And I spot Ty, running past the ghost train, past the helter-skelter, past the Freak Out.

I follow him. ‘Ty . . . Ty . . . it’s OK . . . stop. . .’

We’ve reached the edge of the fair. I can’t tell this is the street where we came in or not – same old bookies, same old halal kebabs. I manage to grab his arm.

‘Go away!’ he shouts. ‘Leave me alone!’ He pushes me away, and I’m so surprised that I fall to the ground.

‘Ty, you nutter,’ I say, but he’s backing away from me, turning. And he’s running along the dusty street – away from me, away from the hospital, as far as I can
work out. Meg leaps and barks, but she stays with me.

We run after him, I try my best. But my nose is still bleeding and Ty’s so fast – such a good runner – and his legs are longer and his stride’s so wide and he twists
round a corner and then another, and then I’m standing in a road with no sign of him, an alleyway to my right and a shopping precinct to the left.

He could be anywhere.

I have no idea where I am, and I’m not sure how to get back to the hospital. My iPhone won’t pick up GPS. I’m lost.

What can I do? I say, ‘Search!’ to Meg, but she just waves her tail and looks at me with trusting eyes.

I call my dad, but it goes straight to voicemail.

‘I’m lost,’ I say. ‘And Ty’s run off. It wasn’t my fault, honest, Dad.’

Then I start walking back, trying to work out which betting shop shows me the way back. I have a horrible feeling in my guts that I let Ty down.

But I have no idea how I did it.

I
’ve been lost for what feels like hours, when I see him. He’s walking towards me. I blink, and then realise. We’re near the
hospital. We went past those flats. He just retraced his steps.

I’ve been wandering around for ages, anxious and panicking, covered in blood, looking like a fool, looking like a loser, wondering how I would explain to my dad what had happened, feeling
humiliated and inexperienced and not streetwise or cool or clever at all.

And it was all his fault. And now he’s sauntering towards me like he’s not got a care in the world.

I was scared, I admit it. And now I’m angry. Disloyal Meg rushes up to him, licks his hand, jumping up with excitement.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘I’m sorry. I just lost it there for a bit.’

‘I’m fine,’ I snarl. ‘Don’t worry about me. Oh, hang on, you don’t, do you? You never worry about anyone apart from yourself.’

He doesn’t say anything. He takes a step back.

‘Claire, for example. You never worry about her, do you? Ever think what it’s like for her, waiting to hear from you, not knowing what’s going on?’

‘I – I asked
you
—’

‘Got me to do your dirty work? Yeah, and I did it. But I don’t know what to tell her. Because I really don’t know you very well, do I?’

He’s silent again. His mouth opens and closes. If I wanted to hit him – and I do, to show him that he can’t just dump me – then now would be a good time. I’ve been
learning about timing, about watching, waiting, until your opponent weakens, leaves himself vulnerable. This is the time. He’s open to attack. But I don’t really need to use my
fists.

‘And Claire doesn’t really know you all that well either, does she?’

‘She knows I’d tell her anything – but anyway, Claire, Claire, she’s—’

‘Oh really?’ I can’t stop myself. ‘Tell her everything? Oh really?’

‘Yeah, I—’

‘Tell her about your drug-dealing?’

He’s silent. His big eyes stare at me.

‘I met a guy, he told me you were his supplier.’

‘You . . . who. . .?’

That wasn’t a denial.

‘I think more than that,’ I say. ‘I think you were the boss of your friend Arron. You were getting him to do your dirty work.’

He laughs. He actually laughs. I clench my fist, eye his jaw.

‘What are you talking about?’ he says.

‘I think you got him to mug that boy Rio,’ I say. ‘You’ve got away with murder, haven’t you, got away with murder and pinned the blame on your friend? Nice work,
blud.’

‘
Blud
?’ he says. His voice is back in the boxing club. His voice betrays him. He pretends to be my friend, my cousin, part of my family, but actually he’s as wild and
unpredictable as one of them. Chavs. Scum. Gangsters.

‘I know a lot more than you think I do. And I’m going to tell Claire. I’m going to tell her that you were dealing drugs and stabbing people and . . . and . . . she’ll
never want to see you again. . .’

He shrugs. I can’t believe it. There’s Claire breaking her heart over him, and he doesn’t give a shit.

‘Claire,’ I say, ‘is a very nice girl.’

‘I know,’ he says.

‘She deserves better than someone like you.’

‘I know.’

‘You ought to let her go free, let her stop feeling loyal to someone who’s not good enough for her, who only gets into trouble, who everyone thinks is going to be in and out of jail
for the rest of his life, probably.’

‘Who . . . who said that?’

‘Grandpa,’ I say, and I have a really nasty feeling of triumph.

Wham! His fist comes out of nowhere, an explosion of pain, a burst of blood. I stagger backwards, hand to my face – my nose is broken, I swear – and my dad – my dad! –
grabs my arm.

‘What are you doing? What’s going on?’ he yells at Ty. ‘Archie . . . Jesus . . . are you all right?’ He digs a handkerchief out of his pocket, applies it to my nose
–
ow
! – and pinches hard. ‘Keep pinching,’ he says.

Ty’s just standing there, breathing hard, not moving.

Then my dad punches him so hard that he falls on the pavement.

‘You little toerag,’ he says. ‘You leave my son alone. I didn’t want him to have anything to do with you. You stick to your own kind, do you hear me? Don’t mix him
up in your troubles. Don’t take it out on him.’

Ty’s sprawled on the ground. Meg’s barking like crazy.

Dad grabs him, yanks him up.

‘Don’t make out you’re the victim here. You’re just a thug, and I’m not having you bully my son. I don’t want you having anything to do with him.’

‘He wasn’t bullying me,’ I say, furious, but my words are muffled by the handkerchief and I don’t dare drop it, because I can still feel blood trickling from my nose.

Dad looks me up and down. ‘You’ve got no idea about the world Ty’s grown up in. We know, don’t we, Ty? Archie’s like a little lamb, compared to you. Well, I’m
not having him dragged into your life. Piss off and leave us alone.’

Ty’s eye is red and swollen. He ignores my dad. ‘He hit you like that?’ he asks me.

‘Umm, no,’ I say.

‘I’m sorry I hit you,’ says Dad, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I was defending my son.’

‘Oh right.’

‘Patrick’s asking for you. I don’t think we need to mention this to him, do we?’ He holds his hand out to Ty, who ignores it.

‘Can you lend me some money?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ says Dad.

‘Can you give me some money?’

Dad doesn’t say anything

Ty says it again. ‘Can you give me some money? Maybe a hundred quid?’

‘I can lend you fifty pounds,’ I say, because I can’t bear how they’re looking at each other.

‘I want his money,’ says Ty. ‘What’ve you got for me?’

Dad’s furious – you can tell by the way his mouth is clamped together – but he pulls out his wallet and extracts a wodge of notes, counts them slowly.

‘Two hundred pounds. Enough for you?’

I’m amazed.

Ty takes the money, folds it, sticks it in his back pocket.

‘Thanks a lot,’ he says.

‘We understand each other?’ asks Dad, and Ty nods.

‘Then you’d better go and find your grandparents, and I’ll take Meg home with us. We can bring her over in a few days.’

Ty turns towards the hospital. Meg whines at my side.

And I remember how scared Ty was – of what, though? – at the fair, and how much he loves Claire (if there’s one thing I know that’s true about Ty, it’s that) and
how he’s Grandpa’s favourite, and how I haven’t really got any proof for anything I’ve said to him, it’s just that. . .

‘No . . . Dad . . . wait – Ty, I didn’t mean. . .’

But Ty’s walking away. And my dad says, ‘You’re better off without him, Archie.’

‘You hit him! You shouldn’t have done that! He’s younger than you!’

‘Bigger,’ says Dad, ‘and stronger. And he’d just slammed you in the face.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, though it really, really hurts. It hurts more than anything in my life before. It hurts so much that I want to sob out loud.

‘Why did you hit him? Why? I was OK! I was dealing with it.’

‘I hit him because you didn’t,’ says Dad, ‘and because sometimes that’s what you have to do. You have to stand up to the bullies, the bad people. You can’t
let them get away with it.’

‘Yes but—’

‘Obviously hitting isn’t the best way,’ he says, ‘but sometimes it’s the only language they understand.’

‘Well, how about the money? You were buying him off, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, well, that’s another language they understand as well.’

‘I could’ve hit him if I wanted to,’ I protest, and he laughs, and says, ‘Yes, Archie, but I don’t think you’d have made much impact. Ty’s had another
sort of life – so did I – and thank God, you’ve not had that sort of life, and I hope you never will.’

I almost tell him about the boxing club, but my nose is still hurting and I know he’d ban me from ever going there again, and I can’t be bothered arguing and lying to get my own way,
when I can probably go on doing what I want, anyway.

So I say, ‘Next time, leave me alone. I can fight my own battles. You shouldn’t have done that.’

He pats my shoulder. ‘Hopefully you won’t have any more battles to fight.’

I
wake in the dark night, choking, coughing, wet with sweat. It’s hot as hell, my nose and lungs are full of thick smoke. There’s a
strange, soft, crackling noise . . . it’s fire! We’re on fire! The house is on fire!

I leap out of bed, heart pounding, hit the floor, where the smoke’s not so thick. And I’m crawling along, heading for the door, mind in a whirl. I have to save them! I have to get
them out!

Flames leap up around me, the heat is blistering. I burst into the room where Mum and Alyssa are sleeping. For a moment my heart stops – can I find them in the smoke? How can they survive
this? I run to Alyssa’s cot – she’s so still, too still. I grab her, hug her warm body to mine. She wails, but I ignore her.

‘Mum! Mum!’ I yell. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ I’m coughing. I’m choking. The smoke is everywhere, stinging my eyes, drying my mouth. ‘Wake up!’

She stirs. ‘What—’ she starts. ‘Follow me!’ I shout, and I lead the way through the flames, trying to run with Alyssa heavy in my arms. I give her a little shake.
‘Wake up! Stay awake!’ I scream.

And Alyssa cries. She cries and cries and the noise is all I can hear and it goes through my head like a siren, like an alarm, so I can’t think, so I can’t run and the flames are
getting higher and higher and licking at my pyjamas.

‘Ty! Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing to her?’

It’s my mum’s voice. She’s out of bed at last, shaking my arm.

‘We have to escape!’ I hiss, grabbing her elbow. It’s hard to hold Alyssa with one arm, so I tighten my grip. She screams even louder.