Another Life (19 page)

‘I . . . no . . . yes. . .’

She laughs. ‘I never saw it before, but you look a bit like him – better-looking, though. I wouldn’t have looked twice at him.’

I can’t help it. I laugh.

‘Do you . . . did you know him well?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not really. He’s a quiet one, isn’t he? You never know what he’s thinking. I don’t trust those quiet ones. No offence, but you never know what
they’re up to.’

‘That’s it. That’s right.’

‘He had a big influence over his friend,’ she says. ‘Ty talked less, but he called the shots, you know.’

‘Really?’ I ask. I don’t want to hear this at all. ‘How do you know?’

She looks surprised. ‘Oh God. You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’

‘I thought you were spying on me, but you weren’t . . . you didn’t know. . .’

‘Know what?’

‘I didn’t know Ty so well, but I did know his friend – his friend that’s serving time for murder. Arron. Arron Mackenzie. He’s the one I knew.’

I can’t speak. She knows Arron. She knows everything. She can tell me the truth about Ty.

‘How well did you know Arron?’ My voice is just a croak.

‘Pretty well,’ she says. ‘Arron Mackenzie was my boyfriend.’

I
 am gobsmacked. But luckily I’m not the sort of person whose gob stays smacked for long.

‘Tell me about him,’ I say. ‘Tell me about Arron. Did you believe he’d kill anyone?’

‘Arron – he’s a laugh, you know? Never took anything seriously. Out to have fun and not do any harm. I can’t believe what happened to him. I can’t believe
he’s in prison.’

‘Are you – have you been to see him?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know if he’d want to see me. We split up. I might go one day. I babysit for his mum sometimes, she said she’d take me any time I want to go.
But he’s bitter, I think, from what she says, angry and upset. I don’t want to upset him more. Poor Arron.’

I stare at the flowers. I chew a bit of cold chip.

‘Shannon, will you take me to see him?’

‘You? Why?’

‘I want to ask him for myself – ask him about Ty, about what actually happened that day and whose fault it was and what Ty’s really like. Arron – he can tell me about Ty.
He can tell me about the murder. He can tell me everything I need to know.’

Why do I need to know it? Why does anyone need to know anything about anyone? I just do, that’s why.

‘Arron might see you,’ says Shannon. ‘His mum told me that he wanted to give Ty a message, but she didn’t know how to contact him. They just disappeared into nowhere. You
know his gran died recently and they had the funeral at five in the morning, so that no one would know about it. Arron’s mum was devastated. She said, “That woman was like a mother to
me, like a grandmother to my boys. And they never even told me that she was being put in the ground. My own church.” She’s quite religious, Arron’s mum, although neither of the
boys are.’

‘What do you mean, neither of the boys? Do you mean Ty?’

‘Nah, Arron’s brother Nathan. You must’ve seen him at the gym. Really tall – big, you know, big muscly arms. He’s got much darker skin than Arron. They don’t
really look like brothers at all. I think they had different dads.’

‘Oh right.’

‘Arron’s one of those guys who looks white but he’s really black. It’s not actually that easy for him.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Arron’s really bright, you know. He and Ty went to that snobby school up west somewhere – Catholic school. Arron knew loads of posh boys, fitted in OK. He’s really
confident – he was, anyway. I can’t believe he’s locked up with a load of scum. I can’t believe he’s been done for murder.’

He’s been done for murder because Ty told a court that he was guilty. I know it, even though she doesn’t say it.

‘I’m really sorry, Shannon,’ I say. ‘I would like to talk to Arron, but only if you think he would, only if you think it might help him.’

‘I’ll ask him,’ she says. ‘I should go and see him, anyway. I can’t get my head around it. Arron was the most free person I ever met. He was going to go to
Australia, Kyle, imagine that. He was going to leave school and go to Australia and work on one of those big cattle farms.’

‘Really?’ I look around the muddy park. I can’t imagine anywhere less like a vast, dusty Australian wilderness.

‘He said he was fed up with living with loads of people and he wanted space and he couldn’t think of a better way of getting it.’ Tears are blurring her eyeliner. ‘And
now he’s locked up for years and I bet that Australia won’t take you if you’ve been convicted of murder.’

I bet she’s right too.

‘Look, ask him, will you? Shannon, do you think it’s OK for me to come back next week?’

She sniffs, blows her nose, rubs her eyes.

‘I’m not telling anyone anything. You keep on coming back, Kyle – I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your real name.’

‘It’s Archie,’ I say. ‘Archie Stone.’

‘Archie Stone, eh?’ she says, thoughtfully. ‘And your dad grew up around here?’

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t lived here for years.’

She laughs. ‘Your secret is safe with me, Archie Stone. I don’t suppose you come from the Cally, neither.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Fulham.’

‘Oh, la-di-da.’ She’s laughing now. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Tell you what, take me clubbing in Fulham one day? That’s where the royals go.’

‘Oh, all right then,’ I say, taken by surprise. ‘I’m not sure I’d get in, though, you have to be eighteen.’

‘You mean you’re not eighteen yet – big, tall boy like you?’

She’s teasing, I know, but actually, I have grown a bit recently, and I can’t help smiling.

‘OK, OK, I’ll take you dancing with the Royal Family. Prince Harry comes round my house all the time. And Camilla walks the corgis past our door.’

‘Oh, yeah, right, I believe you,’ she says, and suddenly we’re laughing, even though the jokes are really not up to my usual standard.

It’s what she’s told me that’s on my mind as I wait for the bus – about Arron and her and Ty. In fact, I’m thinking so hard that I don’t realise that
I’ve got onto the wrong bus until I look out of the window and have a moment of panic because I have no idea at all where I am. So I get off, and onto the next one coming in the other
direction and that’s a bit of a strange route as well and here I am in Clerkenwell, which is full of really amazing clubs – Shannon has no idea – and people who live in converted
factories, huge open spaces where they can hang out and be cool and it’s definitely where I’d like to live when I’m older. And it’s where my Uncle Danny has his studio. And
we’re actually going down the street where the studio is.

It’s a sign, although I’m not sure who it’s from, as God (if there is one, which I don’t think there is) definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Transport for
London – not unless he’s a complete joker. Mind you, that could make sense.

I get off the bus, walk down the street, work out which direction to go. I’ve never actually been to his studio. I’ve hinted enough times, but he’s never seemed that interested
in inviting me over.

But he’s living there now, and he got back from New York yesterday and I’m sure he’d be happy to see me. And I’ll kind of work out what to say when I get there.

There’s no big sign or anything outside the building where the studio is, just a scribbled ‘Tyler’ next to a bell and it seems to be above an art gallery. I press the bell, but
it takes quite a few times before a voice comes out of the intercom.

‘Whoissit?’ it slurs. ‘Whassup?’

‘It’s me, Archie,’

‘Who?’

‘Archie. Your nephew.’

‘Oh. OK.’ There’s a pause – quite a long pause – and then the door buzzes open. A stairwell, stairs, walls – everything painted dark grey The only light comes
from a dim overhead light. I climb and climb. It seems like an hour before I get to a door propped open with a camera bag, and push it open to find myself in a dazzling white space. I blink a few
times. It’s a bit disorientating.

Danny’s sitting on a battered old leather sofa, looking crumpled and unshaven and baggy-eyed.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, but he doesn’t put it as politely as that. ‘I only got back from New York at seven this morning. I’m shattered.’

‘Oh sorry,’ I say, ‘I’ll go away,’ and he shakes his head and says, ‘Nah, it’s OK.’

He’s a bit out of it, if you ask me, a bit spacey. Must be jet lag.

‘Nice place,’ I say. ‘Is this where you bring the celebrities?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Actually, Beyoncé’s here now – just preparing for her nude shot, up on the roof terrace.’

I’m halfway up the stairs leading to the roof when he laughs and says, ‘Never seen anyone move so fast. Only joking.’

Oh. Ha ha. I’d have thought he was a bit old for pathetic jokes like that.

He’s slumped against the sofa. His eyes are half closed. I can smell coffee – there’s a flash Italian coffee machine in the little kitchen that takes up the far wall –
and smoke.

‘Want some coffee?’ he asks.

‘Yes . . . please. . .’

‘Smoke?’

‘Yup.’ My hand’s on the cigarette, when I remember that Mum and Dad are really anti-smoking, in fact, Dad’s a real health freak fascist about it, and I worry for a moment
that Danny’s going to inform on me. He sees my hand waver and he smiles and says, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not a snitch. Does your dad give you a hard time?’

‘Well, you know – about smoking and homework and stuff.’

‘Oh, I know, I know. Works twenty-four/seven, earns pots of money, has to win everything, and can’t understand that not everyone’s like that?’

‘Umm, yes. . .’

‘Makes you feel like you’re not a real man unless you take him on and beat him?’

‘Oh . . . well. . .’

‘I knew it!’ He pours two mugs of steaming coffee. ‘Milk? Sugar? When you were born, I said, “Poor little sod, he’ll be crushed by his alpha dad.’”

‘Oh . . . errr . . . I don’t think I’ve really been crushed. . .’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good. Glad to hear it. So you’re on track for Oxbridge and the law and running marathons every weekend?’

‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that. . . I thought I could go on television . . . or maybe be a foreign correspondent . . . or a famous actor. . .’

He’s laughing. ‘That’s not what your mum thinks. Last time I talked to her she told me that you were settling down nicely at this new school and she thought you might enjoy
Philosophy A level.’

‘Oh, right.’ Actually, I do think I’d enjoy philosophy. It’s all about questions and arguing. I’ve had quite a bit of philosophical experience in my life, plus
it’d impress older women if I could drop names like Nietzsche and Sartre into casual conversation.

He’s smoked his cigarette, and lights himself another. It’s the last in the box, and the ashtray is pretty full. He only got back at 7 am, he must have been sleeping some of the
time, so I reckon he’s been smoking non-stop when awake. Either that, or his studio’s been house-sat by a chain smoker.

He follows my gaze. ‘I really shouldn’t,’ he says, ‘but . . . you know. Life’s kind of rubbish right now.’

The studio we’re in is huge and light and has a vintage jukebox at one end, and a kitchen/bar at the other. It’s all sleek and interior-designed. Celebrities come here all the time.
Plus he’s just got back from New York, which is one of my favourite places on the planet.

He yawns. ‘I need a bit of a kip, really. Did you have any particular reason for coming to see me, or was it just a social call?’

He’s going to chuck me out, I know. I need to come up with something.

‘Oh, I just . . . I wanted to ask you something. I thought you might know.’

‘Oh God.’ He runs his hands through his hair, which is dark and thick and wild and on a good day makes him look a bit like Johnny Depp. Today is not a good day.

‘It’s not drugs, is it?’

‘Drugs?’

‘Pen’s sent you, hasn’t she? She reckoned I should talk to you about drugs, tell you to keep off them. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.’

‘The horse . . . oh . . . right. . .’

He narrows his eyes.

‘Don’t ever start, kid. Not worth it.’

‘Start what?’

‘Start with the drugs.’

‘Oh. Umm.’ I’m unusually tongue-tied.

He’s getting agitated. ‘I’ve spent thousands of pounds in rehab, and whenever there’s a crisis – and my whole sodding life is a crisis right now – all I can
think about is getting off my head.’

‘Oh.’

‘You know it all, don’t you, about the health risks,’ he says. ‘No point telling you about my ex-friend who’s in a wheelchair because he had a coke stroke, or my
other mate who needs to pee every ten minutes because ketamine buggered his bladder. Ruins your social life, something like that.’

‘Oh . . . err. . .’

‘No point telling you about Angie, Angie, my assistant. When I met her, she was selling her body through an escort agency to get the money to buy heroin. And no, that’s not how I met
her.’

‘Oh, well, I. . .’

‘There’s no point, really, because you’ll be just like me and you’ll think none of these things will ever happen to you.’

I don’t say anything, but what I’m thinking is that actually none of these things did ever happen to him.

He reads my mind. ‘Horrible things did happen to me. But I’m your uncle, and you’re friends with my son, and I’m going to preserve a little bit of dignity, if you
don’t mind.’

‘Oh. Um. Sorry.’

‘Anyway, the thing that might persuade you is that drugs make you boring – really, really boring. In the end, all you can think or talk about is what gear you’re doing, and
then, of course, how rehab is going. I’ve lost so many friends. . .’

He might have a point there. Marcus is pretty boring. He’s asleep most of the time.

‘Think about it,’ he says.

‘Oh, right, yes I will,’ I say. ‘Actually, I don’t do drugs at all,’ I add, just in case this is going back to my mum.

He raises an eyebrow. He’s a lot more like my grandpa Patrick than you’d think.

Quick, quick, Archie, change the subject
. I open my mouth and this is what comes out.