Another Life (2 page)

He’s got this thing called post-traumatic stress disorder, which basically means that exciting but potentially scary things like wars and murders send you round the twist. When we googled
it, there was a list of millions of symptoms and Ty had nearly all of them.

Ty didn’t go to war but he did see a murder, and one of the people who did the murdering came from this big criminal family and they decided to shut Ty up so he couldn’t tell what
he’d seen.

That was a year and a half ago and they’ve been trying to shut him up ever since. Even though they’re mostly all in prison now, he’s still in hiding, just in case.

Anyway, that’s not his biggest problem today. Today’s all about what the judge thinks is a suitable punishment for two counts of carrying an offensive weapon.

Grandpa picked me up this morning, which was really nice of him because it was a bit of a detour. I recruited his help when Dad was unbelievably resistant to me going to the court.
Grandpa’s normally a bit grumpy, and he totally wasn’t impressed by the Freedom Matchbox stunt, but he phoned up my mum and told her he’d take me.

‘Do him good, Penelope, to see how justice works,’ he told her, ‘find that actions have consequences. Archie can be moral support for Tyler as well.’

Dad didn’t give up the fight – he thinks Ty’s a bad influence, and I’m not sure he’s that keen on Grandpa, either. But Mum pursed her lips and said, ‘Look,
Ty’s a member of the family.’ And Dad humphed a bit, muttering, ‘Oh well, there’s no arguing with The Family,’ making us sound like the Mafia.

I think he’s a bit jealous, because there are loads of us Tylers and when we sort of discovered Ty last year, that made another one. Dad’s only got Nana Bertha and she’s in
sheltered accommodation in Essex and he sees her about once a year. He says he can just take small doses of her toxic personality, although she always fusses over me and gives me After Eights.

Mum and Dad have been arguing a lot, anyway, about me and the matchbox, and what school I might be going to. Both my parents are professional arguers, and they practise a lot at home.

Anyway, it’s only after we get to the court building and everyone’s standing around outside, smoking and/or making awkward polite conversation, that Grandpa tells me that I’m
not going to be allowed to go in to see what happens.

‘But that’s totally
unfair
!’ I protest.

Ty’s leaning against the courtroom wall, looking a bit pale and nibbling his thumbnail. He still manages a half smile.

‘I’m happy to swap. Why not? Go ahead, Arch, you do it instead of me.’

I pretend to consider the offer.

‘I’m sure I’d be able to persuade the judge to let you off. I’ll just treat him to some classic one-liners—’

‘No, I think I’d better go in myself,’ he says quickly. ‘You’d probably get me a life sentence.’

I laugh, and Ty’s gran shoots me an evil glare.

‘This isn’t a joke,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t give a good impression, does it, you two larking around. Stand up straight, Tyler, for goodness sake.’

I can’t really see what difference it’s going to make, but Ty stops leaning on the wall and tightens the knot of his tie. He’s unnaturally smart in dark trousers, a white shirt
and a blue nylon tie – school uniform, I should think. His eyes look even bigger than normal, gleaming, pale khaki against his tan. His nails are bitten so far down that they’re
virtually bleeding stumps.

What’s unfortunate is that he’s been working out all summer, and his bulging upper-body muscles kind of show despite the smart clothes. I’m jealous as hell, of course, and feel
really puny and soft in comparison, but anyone can see that this isn’t a good look when you’re on trial for violent offences.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just two counts of carrying a knife. You’ll probably just have to do community service, like cleaning graffiti or picking up
litter.’

I’m trying to sound like I know everything there is to know about the legal system, but actually I’m just spouting what Grandpa said in the car. He’s distracting Ty’s
gran by asking her how her other daughters are doing. They’ve both skipped the country, and who can blame them, because since Ty told the police about the murder he witnessed, the whole
family has been numero uno target of some massive mob of gangsters.

Ty’s parents are chatting to some a guy who’s his lawyer, and they seem to be having an argument. This isn’t totally surprising. Ty’s mum is the most explosive woman in
the world, and his dad is kind of unpredictable.

‘That is totally
unfair
.’

I jump, because for one minute I think that there’s some weird psychic time warp going on, but then I realise that it’s my uncle Danny speaking.

‘How come they only let one parent go in? And why does it have to be you?’

‘Obviously it’s going to be me,’ says Ty’s mum, and he just shuts right up. Anyone would. Although she looks completely gorgeous, and soft and gentle as well,
there’s something about Nicki (that’s what Ty calls her, so I do too) that means you just don’t argue with her unless it’s totally necessary, e.g. if a gunman is about to
shoot her and she hasn’t noticed and is refusing to move.

That’s the kind of scenario I think up sometimes, and how I’d have to leap on her to get her out of the way, and how grateful she’d be when she realised what danger I’d
saved her from and. . .

I know it’s wrong to perv after my aunt. But a) she’s not a blood relation and b) she’s not really like an aunt at all, because I never knew Nicki and Ty at all before last
year. There was some huge family row years ago and they never got in contact with us. I only got to know them because Ty had to stay with our grandparents after some boyfriend of his mum’s
got shot by the people hunting after Ty.

He’s had a really exciting life compared to me, stuck in a stupid boarding school.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say to Ty, and he rolls his eyes and says, ‘Yeah, right, Archie, I believe you.’

‘It will. I’ll send special telepathic messages to the judge and get him to let you off completely. After all, it’s only the two offences, and the one in the park doesn’t
really count, does it, because your friend Arron didn’t make a complaint about you.’

‘Yeah, but I admitted that one.’

‘And then the other one doesn’t really count either, does it, because you just took the knife after you were mugged on that bus?’

‘I don’t know if they believe that.’ His breathing’s a bit jittery. ‘The CCTV wasn’t working on the bus. They say there’s no proof. And when the police
tried to search me, I ran away and they don’t like that either.’

He’s not only always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ty also makes some pretty crap decisions.

‘Oh well. It’s not much, is it?’

‘No, but there’s a third one now.’

‘A third one?’

‘Ashley – she was my girlfriend. She went to the police and told them I had a knife.’

‘What a cow!’

He shakes his head and I’m going to ask him more – who’s this Ashley, anyway? – when they call his name, his witness protection name. I don’t even realise until
he’s turning away to follow his mum and his lawyer.

‘Good luck!’ I call after him, and he glances back over his shoulder and does that half-smile again.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Danny, tugging at his tie. I’ve never seen him look so smart. I’m betting the suit is Armani, and the violet tie is awesome. Usually he’s all
ripped jeans and leather jacket, wild hair and stubble, but today he’s smooth, sleek and tidy.

I never really knew him when I was growing up because he was too busy being a rock star (great music too, better than Muse or Linkin Park, I swear) and taking drugs, avoiding his family and just
generally being the coolest dude ever.

Ty didn’t even know him, and Ty’s his son.

He’s stopped being a rock star now and stopped taking drugs. He’s a photographer to the stars, and one of my ambitions is to work for him and entertain his clients with my
banter.

We go into the court building and sit in a row – Danny and Ty’s gran and Grandpa and me. Ty’s gran is trying to entertain his little baby sister Alyssa by waving toys at her,
but you can see the baby’s not interested and just wants to slobber and cry. In the end, Ty’s gran sticks her in the buggy and takes her for a walk to try and get her to sleep.

Grandpa and Danny just sit there in silence, until Danny bursts out with, ‘It really isn’t fair! She just blocks me out as much as she can! And the system lets her get away with
it.’

‘It’s difficult for you, I understand,’ says Grandpa.

‘I’m trying to be there for him. I’m doing my best. I even cancelled a shoot with Cheryl Cole to be here today. . .’

Grandpa’s silent. I bet he’s wondering who Cheryl Cole is. Then he heaves a big sigh and says, ‘Patience is the most important part of parenthood; that’s what I’ve
learnt over the last forty-odd years.’

This is all a bit heavy, and it doesn’t seem to have cheered up Danny at all, so I interrupt.

‘What are we going to do to celebrate when it’s over?’

‘Maybe a curry,’ Danny says vaguely, but Grandpa snaps, ‘I think we’ll need to get Ty out of London as quickly as possible. It’s not exactly the safest place for
him,’ and quite soon afterwards Danny goes outside to have a cigarette.

How long can it take to decide what to do with someone for carrying a knife? This is mad. In some places (the Australian outback, for example, or bits of America) it’s totally normal to
have a knife on you, just in case you need to skin a rabbit or something. I’ve seen it on films. Why should London be any different? There are loads of squirrels and foxes and pigeons.
Actually, in America it’s your right to arm yourself all the time. If I were American I’d probably carry a pistol, just in case. Why is England so stupid?

‘They’re taking ages. What are they doing?’

‘They’ll be considering the factors that the judge has to take into account when sentencing,’ says Grandpa. ‘I should think there will be a report by a social worker.
Heaven knows, there are plenty of mitigating factors. He was only fourteen, for a start. I’m sure we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘Oh right.’

Then we just sit there and pretend not to be worrying together. It’s really boring.

Danny comes back and so does Ty’s gran and they start talking about the baby (thank God she is asleep) and how funny and clever and amazing she is, just because she’s learned to clap
her hands or something equally basic.

I can’t believe that all the excitement is happening behind closed doors, when I’m stuck out here. Plus I can’t help feeling that if I were there, I could somehow help Ty. . .
I’m not sure how, but I feel like I’ve failed him, abandoned him, let him down. . .

A door opens. Nicki comes striding out of the courtroom, followed by the lawyer. Her face is pink. Her mouth is slightly open. Danny leaps to his feet.

‘What happened? Where’s Ty?’

Her mouth opens and closes, like a goldfish. No sound comes out.

‘I’m sorry,’ says the lawyer.

‘What . . . you mean—’

Danny’s looking frantically about him. ‘They can’t have, not for that – not right away—’

‘Nicki!’ says Ty’s gran. ‘Tell us! What happened?’

Nicki’s mouth is moving, but the words still don’t come. Then she makes a noise like she’s going to be sick and covers her mouth with both hands. The words are muffled as they
flood out.

‘They said . . . she said, the judge . . . she said he was very young . . . and he hadn’t been in trouble before. And he hadn’t . . . he was a good boy. Tell them, Mum, he was
always a good boy. . . But then, then she . . . she said three times was a lot . . . like a habit . . . and she said . . . too many kids were carrying knives. . .’

‘How long?’ said Grandpa, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so grim. That’s when I realise what everyone else seems to know.

‘Twelve weeks,’ says Nicki. ‘I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’

‘H
ow was he?’ asks Grandpa, and Nicki gulps a bit and says, ‘Just blank. He was in shock – never even looked at
me.’

The lawyer coughs, and Nicki and Danny go off with him down the corridor. Their conversation starts in whispers, but it doesn’t take long for the volume to go up. He makes his escape quite
quickly.

‘He’s going to lodge an appeal against the sentence,’ says Danny, striding back to us. ‘Jesus. Talk about useless.’

‘When can we see him, Nicki, did you ask?’ says Ty’s gran. Nicki is white-faced, dry-eyed.

‘I told him,’ she said, and her voice is almost a growl. ‘I told him never to get into trouble. “I won’t come and see you in prison,” I said. I told
him.’

‘It’ll only be six weeks,’ says Grandpa, ‘assuming he behaves himself.’

‘Six weeks,’ wails Ty’s gran, ‘it’s a disaster, a disaster.’

Nicki snaps, ‘Stop crying, Mum, it’s not going to help anyone. It’s OK. It’s only six weeks. At least we’ll know he’s safe.’

And then everyone realises all at once that a Young Offender Institution is a really unsafe place for Ty to be.

Danny and I run after the lawyer. We catch up with him on the street. Danny grabs his arm.

‘Ty – he’s got enemies, kids in custody. What if they put him in with some of them? What’s going to happen then?’

‘They know his background,’ says the lawyer, in a smooth, get-your-hands-off-me kind of voice. ‘They know they need to be careful about his security.’

‘They’d better,’ says Danny.

They won’t
, I think. I know Ty’s opinion of police protection, and it’s not high.

We go and sit in a greasy spoon, opposite the court, just like the end of
The Apprentice
. I could point this out, but I’m not sure if they even watch it and they all seem too gloomy
to be cheered up by being compared to a bunch of losers.

They order tea and coffee. I get egg and beans on toast, chips, a diet coke and an iced bun. Nicki wrinkles her nose when my food arrives. Danny says to her, ‘What about a sandwich or
something?’ She shakes her head. I douse my chips in vinegar, ketchup and a splash of mayo.