Another Life (20 page)

‘Actually, I wanted some advice about women.’

It works. He laughs. He laughs a lot more than he needs to, in my opinion.

I tell him about Paige (he waves his hand dismissively. ‘Forget her. She’ll be off with another guy, next party she goes to’).

I tell him about Zoe (‘I like sporty girls. You should make it up with her’).

I tell him about Lily (‘Way too much trouble. You need to cut her out of your life 100 per cent. Life’s too short for crazy girls – that’s actually the most important
piece of advice you’ll ever be given, Archie, so don’t forget it. Crazy girls seem great, but they do your head in’).

I’m feeling bolder. So I mention Claire. I don’t say who she is, of course. I twist the facts. I pretend Oscar’s got a girlfriend and we’ve got loads in common and I
really like her. And I think she really likes me too.

‘And what does Oscar think?’ he asks. ‘Does he know how you feel?’

‘No . . . obviously . . . but he asked me to spend time with her . . . well, talk to her, anyway. . .’

‘Why’s he doing that? Is he trying to offload her?’

‘Um. . . I don’t think so. . .’

‘It’s easy. You have to work out which one means more to you, the friend or the girl.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Is he a pothead, your mate?’

‘No.’ I think of Ty’s spaced expression at the fair. ‘I’m not sure. Sort of.’

‘He won’t be that bothered, then,’ he says. He sounds sad. ‘He probably won’t notice if you take her off him. Good for you. Is she nice?’

‘She’s great,’ I say. It’s really nice to be able to talk about Claire. ‘She’s really into drama and music and she reads good books and stuff.’

‘Sounds like trouble to me,’ he says. ‘Arty girls are often mad pixies. Are you sure she isn’t one?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Completely. Errr, what actually is a mad pixie?’

‘Quirky,’ he says gloomily. ‘You get them in films a lot – funky hair, vintage clothes, they like odd music and old books and classic films, dance around screwing with
people’s hearts. You need to recognise them when you see them. Dangerous.’

‘Oh! I’ve never heard of them before.’

‘I wish someone had warned me,’ he says. ‘They never teach you the good stuff at school. Angie, for example. She’s a total mad pixie. I just had to sack her –
can’t keep off the drugs.’

‘Was . . . is Nicki a mad pixie?’

‘Actually, no,’ he says, with a big grin. ‘Nicki was the ultimate sporty girl when I met her – confident and strong and cocky and funny. She was a champion runner, she
was top of her class. So amazing. And she came from this different world, which meant she was tough and strong and street, in a way that I just wasn’t.’

‘Oh. God. I know a girl a bit like that. She likes me too.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘How long have you been back in London?’

‘A few months.’

‘Archie, you’re a babe magnet,’ he drawls.

I try to look modest.

‘That’s why you remind me of myself,’ he says, and throws back his head and laughs.

And then the door buzzes again.

‘Who’s that?’ he says. ‘I’ve got nothing booked.’

He walks over to the door, presses the intercom.

‘Yes?’ he says, ‘Who’s there?’

Silence. He tries again. There’s a burst of static, the noise of traffic rumbling down the road.

And then, ‘It’s me. It’s Ty. Let me in, please. . .’

I
‘ve always thought Ty was a lot fitter than me, but I revise that opinion when he reaches the top of the stairs and he’s shaking and
gulping for breath and virtually collapsing into the door.

‘What the hell?’ says Danny. He leaps towards Ty, almost carries him over to the sofa. ‘Get him some water, Archie,’ he orders.

Ty’s hand is shaking as he drinks, and he spills as much as he swallows. It feels a bit much to stand over him, so I retreat to one of the window seats. Down below I can see people going
in and out of Starbucks, people whose only problem is deciding whether to have a skinny latte or a soya Frappuccino. It’s another world, and usually I’m in it.

‘What’s going on? What are you doing here? What’s happened?’ says Danny, sounding incredibly calm and gentle. He actually reminds me of my mum for a minute, her best
‘talk-to-me’ voice.

Ty can’t speak. That’s obvious. ‘Mum—’ he gasps.

‘What? What’s happened to Nicki?’ Danny’s lost his cool. He grabs Ty’s shoulders. ‘What’s happened? Is she OK?’

‘She’s . . . she’s OK now, but. . .’

‘What? What?’

In my opinion, shaking someone is not the best way to get them to talk.

‘Let go of him!’ I shout and Danny loosens his grip on Ty’s shoulders. He resumes calm, kind and gentle mode.

‘What’s going on, Ty? Tell me.’

‘We were at the station and there was a man following us—’

‘What station? Where? Why?’

‘Euston. To go to Aberdeen. I didn’t want to go, but Mum . . . it was safer for her and Alyssa and I thought I could go and then leave. . .’

‘Ah,’ says Danny. ‘Aberdeen. OK, she did mention it to me. It’s just – OK, I can see why she did it—’

‘There was a man! He was following us!’

‘Ty, my dad called me last week and he told me you’ve been. . .’

‘He was following us!’

Danny sighs. I can see that Ty can see that he doesn’t believe in the man.

‘So what happened?’

‘So we got onto the train and then I said, “Mum, there’s a man following us, and I’m going to get off again.” And she didn’t want me to, but I did it, anyway.
I did it really obviously, so the man would see, and he got off as well.’

‘He got off as well? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure! Do you think I’d have left them all alone on a train if there was a man . . . a man who was following them?’

‘What if there were two men?’ I ask, and Ty’s face goes a strange greeny colour and he says, ‘There weren’t two men. There was one man. He got off the
train.’

‘Yes, but what if—’ I start, and Danny says, ‘Shut up, Archie. What happened then, Ty?’

‘He followed me right out of the station and then I started running and I ran and ran, and I couldn’t think where to go, but I knew you were here, so I thought maybe . . . maybe. .
.’

‘And was he still following you? Did he follow you here?’

‘I don’t think so.’ He looks around, as though the man’s going to materialise in a corner. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Will they know where Nicki’s going,’ I ask, helpfully, ‘if they saw her getting on a train to Aberdeen?’

‘They won’t know she’s going all the way there,’ says Danny, ‘and I imagine she has to change at – where, Ty? Edinburgh?’

‘Yeah, I think. . .’

‘Ty, I need to call her. I’ll tell her you’re OK. And maybe I’ll suggest that she takes a different route to Aberdeen.’

I can see that he’s just humouring Ty, and Ty can see that too.

‘Will you really?’ he says, and Danny nods.

‘OK, I’ll go downstairs where I get a better signal.’ He glances at the coffee machine – it’s empty. ‘Fancy a coffee from Starbucks?’

We order Frappuccinos. We listen to him go down the stairs. We watch him cross the road and get his phone out.

‘How did you know this particular man was following you?’ I’m thinking there must have been loads of people getting on the train.

Ty rolls his eyes. ‘I recognised him.’

‘You recognised him?’

‘He runs a boxing club I used to go to. Ray. He’s married to Tommy White’s sister. She’s called Sylvia, she helps in the club. He’s in it, they’re all in it.
. .’

‘Ray? Ray was following you?’

Ty looks at me, eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know Ray?’

‘I don’t. I just mean, you went to a boxing club run by a gangster?’

‘I didn’t know that. I was nine years old. Even when I was fourteen, I was too stupid to realise. There’s lots of guys there that aren’t involved in anything. But Ray and
Tommy, they’re into everything. And Tommy’s son Jukes, he ran a gang, ran it for his dad, so his dad could get the drugs onto the street. Kids younger than you running around, mugging
people on his orders, dealing drugs on street corners and at schools, at clubs, you name it. . .’

‘Oh.’

Ty’s rocking back and forward. ‘Where is he? Maybe he can’t get through. Maybe you were right, Archie. Maybe there was someone else on the train and they’ve shot them
already. . .’

‘They’re probably just going through a tunnel.’

‘Arron, my friend, he joined their gang,’ says Ty. ‘He was selling to rich kids like you. You ever bought weed, Archie, from someone like Arron?’

‘No,’ I say, but I wonder who Oscar buys from.

‘Rich kids like you keep the gangsters rich. People like Arron, they think they’re going to get rich too, but they end up in prison instead – in prison or dead.’

‘They make loads of money out it it,’ I say, ‘people like your friend Arron. He just got greedy.’

Ty takes a deep breath, glares right at me.

‘Archie, you have no frigging idea.’

Downstairs we hear the noise of the door slamming.

‘Danny,’ says Ty. ‘Do you think he rang her? What am I going to do if he didn’t?’

‘It’ll be OK,’ I say. ‘He’s more sensible than he looks.’

I glance out of the window again. There’s a guy coming out of Starbucks who looks familiar, in a speck-like fashion. He’s got messy black hair. He’s got long thin legs.
He’s carrying three cups in a holder . . . he’s . . . he’s Danny, that’s who he is.

So who the hell’s coming up the stairs?

‘Ty . . .Ty. . .’ I gesture him over to the window. We watch Danny cross the road. We hear the steps on the stairs.

‘It’s probably just his assist—’ I start, but Ty’s running to the stairs at the back of the studio.

‘Quick. . .’ he hisses. ‘Come on. . .’

‘But . . . but Danny. . .’ I say, but I follow him. The steps are creaking closer.

The door is bolted and a bit stiff, but not locked. We’re on a roof terrace, a little green space on the flat grey roof. We’re breathing in the London fumes, high, high above the
traffic.

‘Woo,’ I say. ‘I never knew your dad liked gardening.’

It’s a joke, really, because it’s all a bit brown and bare – fair enough, I suppose, it is winter – but there are loads and loads of pots and some funky lime green bean
bags. I’m all ready to flop down on one but Ty shakes his head and says, ‘We gotta get help. What about Danny? Can you ring him?’

I feel for my phone. No signal.

‘Jesus,’ says Ty. ‘Come on.’ He climbs over the iron fence that surrounds the little terrace. We’re on the flat roof, nothing between us and a three storey drop.
It’s not exactly narrow, but even so. . .

I don’t look down.

We clamber over a sloping roof, dodge around a chimney, find ourselves on a long, thin bit of roof. It’s OK because there are walls at the edges of this bit, but I make the mistake of
looking down as we walk across.

‘Can’t you go faster?’ says Ty, as I fight to stay upright.

‘I . . . no . . .Ty. . .’

From not so far away, we hear a crack, a popping noise. It could be a motorcycle backfiring far below us. It could be . . . it could be. . .

‘Jesus!’ yells Ty. ‘Run! He’s shooting at us!’

I don’t dare look back. I don’t dare look to the side. I fix my eyes on his back and I make my feet run. If I fall . . . if I trip. . .

Bang! It was louder this time. The roof is wider, flatter, greyer. Ty speeds up.

‘Come on!’ he hisses. ‘We have to . . . we need to. . .’

I lift my eyes. Oh God. There’s a gap in the buildings ahead – a narrow gap, sure, hardly a gap at all, the sort of gap you’d skip over on the ground, you wouldn’t notice
it, it wouldn’t feel like any risk at all, but five floors up, we’re five floors up and. . .

Ty jumps over the gap. I slither to a halt.

‘For God’s sake!’ he screams at me. ‘Jump, you moron! It’s nothing!’

‘I can’t!’

He reaches out his arm. I grab it.

‘You can . . . come on. . .’

Slowly, carefully, hating him, despising myself, hearing my heart thump, thump inside me, I step over the gap.

It’s all silent.

‘Come on,’ he says, and we climb over another little wall – more roof ahead.

‘Ty!’ I say. ‘The noise! It’s stopped!’ but he shakes his head.

‘We need to get further . . . need to get away. . .’

‘But your dad. . .’ I’m imagining Danny coming up the stairs, coffees in hand, pushing open the door and then? What did he find? What happened to him?

He shakes his head. ‘Too late,’ he says. ‘Too late.’

He starts to run. It’s OK on this bit of the roof. It’s wide, and flat and the wall’s behind us . . . and I’m running with him, running forward . . . and then. . .

Oh Jesus.

A much wider gap.

I turn back. ‘We can’t. . .’

But he shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing. We can do it.’ He looks wildly over one shoulder. ‘We have to run . . . run Archie. . .’

I can’t run this fast.

We’re nearly there. He’s way ahead of me now, faster and faster.

‘I can’t do it,’ I gasp, ‘I can’t! Stop! Ty! Stop!’

He doesn’t listen. He’s there. He flings himself forward, He’s flying through the air.

I can’t look. I swerve sideways, slam into a wall that I didn’t know was there.

And the wall gives way, and I’m falling. . .

I
‘m falling . . . splat onto some concrete stairs, rolling over and over, fingers grabbing at the slippery walls, moving so fast that I
can’t stop myself, can’t slow down, limbs crashing against the stairs, head bashing against the walls, until I reach the bottom, smash, crash, bash onto the floor.

I can’t help it. I yell out loud. Who’d have thought it would be so painful, falling down a flight of stairs? James Bond does it all the time and he just gets up and starts running
around and shooting people. I feel like I’ve been paralysed.

I move my foot carefully. It’s a miracle! I must be bruised all over, but nothing seems to be broken. I scramble to my feet, rubbing my elbows, checking for bruises. There’s a
massive scrape along my left shin and a trickle of blood down my right knee. My hands are pink and raw with friction burns, but all in all, I got off quite easy. In fact, with a bit of practice, I
bet I could do a James Bond finish. I’m OK. I’m really OK.