Another Life (9 page)

‘We’re OK, then?’ he says, looking delighted.

‘Err . . . yeah.’

‘And your friend?’

What friend? Does he mean Paige? Sophie?

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, vague as possible, and make my escape. What a nutter! What’s he on?

I’m out of the student lounge, standing in the corridor consulting my map of the college when he catches up with me. He puts his head close to mine. I jerk away, startled.

His voice is little more than a whisper. ‘I was just wondering. Do you still have your contacts?’

‘Contacts?’

‘Can you get me some stuff?’

‘Stuff?’

‘You know. Like you used to. You and your friend.’

I’ve had enough. ‘Look, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not him. My name is Archie Stone and I can’t help you.’

He steps away. ‘Oh right. Sorry.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Sorry,’ he says again.

On the way to Maths, I bump into Paige again. Nice girl. Her dad works in the music business and she can get free tickets to gigs. She tells me more about the party, and I ask if I can bring
some friends.

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘Nah, just some friends.’

‘Good,’ she says and winks. This girl likes me. Excellent.

We arrange to meet for a coffee after Maths. It’s good, really, that I’m building a social life that doesn’t involve people from Northamptonshire. It’s so far away, and
so different from London – another world, really. And it’d be so awkward to break up with Zoe (even though I hardly ever talk to her) and then start anything with Claire – even if
she was interested. Not to mention the Ty dimension.

My mum’s delighted that I’m making lots of new friends. Apparently she was a bit socially-challenged as a teenager, way back in the olden days, and nothing makes her happier than my
awesome popularity.

‘Have a lovely time,’ she trills, as I set out for Paige’s party on Saturday night, looking fine in my new Superdry shirt.

Paige lives in a big house and it’s a major party. There must be fifty kids milling around. Some are drinking, some are dancing, the air is heavy with smoke, the floor scattered with empty
cider and beer cans. There’s no sign of her parents, but she’s got bouncers on the door.

Paige waves at me from across the room, but she doesn’t come over or anything and Georgia and Sophie are nowhere to be seen. I asked Lily and Oscar to come, but they were already
double-booked. I can feel my confidence shrivelling. I’ve wanted this life for ages, but now I’m wondering if I’m really ready for it.

I grab myself a drink – coke with some vodka to spice it up – and lean against the wall, surveying the scene, trying to look cool, trying not to look like a sad loser.

‘Hey.’

Jesus. It’s Kenny Weirdo again. I drain my glass.

‘Hi.’

‘This is a bit different for you, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘You what?’ On the one hand he’s mad. On the other, it’s better to be talking to someone than looking lonely and awkward.

‘A bit different from what you’re used to.’

OK, he must mean boarding school. But that’s none of his business. Does he think that I don’t fit in or something?

‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask.

He backs off slightly. ‘Nothing, mate. Sorry.’

He actually seems a bit scared of me. Excellent. I finish my drink, reach for a can of cider. The music’s louder. He’s mouthing something, but I can’t hear what it is.

‘What?’

‘You got any. . .’ His words are lost. Paige is pushing though the crowd towards me, I notice.

I shrug, roll my eyes, tap my ear. He leans in closer.

Go away. Paige is nearly here.

‘Got any gear?’ he says.

‘Sorry,’ I say, and move towards her smiling face.

He looks disappointed. ‘Can you get me some? Like you used to.’

Like I used to?

‘I’ll pay. Good money.’

‘Errr . . . I don’t think so,’ I say.

‘Hi Archie!’ says Paige. She’s wearing a dress that just barely skims her buttocks. I’m trying not to stare.

‘Never mind, mate, another time,’ says Kenny Pritchard and he disappears into the crowd.

My mind is buzzing with vodka and cider and Paige. We’re dancing and laughing and this party is suddenly the best I’ve ever been to. Paige is great. We even have a bit of a snog in
the back garden, and the feel of her warm body pressing against me means I hardly notice that it’s freezing cold.

It’s not until 2 am, when I’m waiting for the night bus that his words come back to me.

‘Like you used to.’

‘Get me some gear.’

Someone used to supply him with drugs – someone who looked a lot like me, someone at his last school.

I’m actually standing outside a school. It’s a real old London school, forbidding building, grey schoolyard, black railings. The noticeboard tells me its name. St Saviour’s, it
says. Catholic. Secondary. Boys.

Ty went to St Saviour’s – all the way across London, east to west, every day to come to this school. So did his friend Arron. Ty’s dad came here, sixteen years ago – all
the way from Highgate in north London. It’s that kind of school, apparently. Parents really like it. Tradition. High standards. Catholic values. My mum and dad were arguing about whether I
should go there. That’s when I came up with my mad plan to go to Hogwarts, I mean boarding school.

Anyway, I’m willing to bet that Kenny Pritchard came here.

And Kenny thought that I looked like someone he’d been at school with. The only person I look like is Ty.

And that means that my cousin Ty was Kenny Pritchard’s dealer.

W
hat a mistake. I am stupid, stupid, stupid. All I thought about was winning a race, and Claire – seeing Claire and winning.

I should have realised there’d be hundreds of people and I’d be flanked by Mr Jones and a security guard at all times, which makes people stare – a lot.

I can’t see Claire anywhere, and even if I did, how would we get to speak to each other with these guys at my side?

Anyone in the crowd could have a gun or a knife or anything. Any one of them could be on their mobile, reporting in, telling someone where I am, what name I’m running under. . .

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say to Mr Jones as we walk towards the registration table.

‘Come on, Luke, we’re here now. Don’t want to

make the trip for nothing, do we?’

‘Do people . . . does anyone know?’

I can see people glancing at the uniformed heavy at my side. What do they think? I’m pretty sure they’re not assuming he’s a bodyguard.

‘Well, of course the organisers had to be told. But I’m sure they’ll show every discretion, as long as you behave yourself. Nothing stupid, mind.’

‘I can’t do it,’ I say.

It’s just occurred to me that if it’s easy for Claire to get here, that goes for anyone at my old school. And as it’s an academy with a sports specialism then there’s
going to be a squad here, possibly Mr Henderson, my favourite teacher ever, last seen (by me) covered in vomit (mine). A load of people who think my name is Joe, not Luke.

What if I win? They’ll complain to the organisers, tell them I’m competing under a false identity. And then . . . and then. . .

Mr Jones is not smiling.

‘I’ve put my head on the block for you, Luke Smith,’ he says. ‘Don’t make me look stupid now. I want to go back and tell the governor and all of them that
you’ve won your race. Glory of the old school and all that.’

He’s raving mad – thinks he’s teaching at some posh private school, not a sodding prison. I open my mouth to argue, but he carries on.

‘Ever think about what it’s like to be me, spending my time trying to help kids who’ve thrown their chances away? It’s a bloody thankless task, that’s what it is.
Most of them are too lazy to get off their arses. But you . . . you’re different. You’ve got what it takes. I’m going to have my little bit of credit for helping you and
you’re going to be a good example for others to follow. You and me, we’re creating a precedent here. It’s not fair to pull out now.’

I couldn’t care less about him, and I almost tell him so. But we’re at the registration table.

And, you know what, it’s not fair. Why shouldn’t I compete? My life is shit, and it couldn’t be shittier and I’m probably going to die young. I’m going to take this
chance. I may not get another one.

Plus, if I compete, then Claire will see me. That’s if she’s even here.

I wrote to her. I had to be careful what I wrote, because I’m sure they spy on our letters, but I told her I was running and I told her I might be racing, and I said that maybe there might
be some races near her and that’d be odd, wouldn’t it?

On the back, in tiny letters, I wrote today’s date and a capital ‘N’. You’d have to look really carefully to see it. It’s kind of scrunched up in a corner and it
might look like a heart or it might just look like a scribble. Maybe the letter checkers would miss it, I thought. They wouldn’t realise I was setting up a meeting.

Maybe Claire missed it too.

I didn’t put love or I’m missing you or anything like that, because I was worried that someone in the prison would read it and work out that Claire was important to me and call up
the gangsters and. . .

Maybe they did already. They’d tell me, wouldn’t they, if Claire was dead?

I haven’t been sleeping well or eating much. I hope I can actually run a race.

Mr Jones registers me, gets a number to pin on my shirt, talks me through the day’s timetable. Then he leaves me with Steve, the security guy, while he talks to the organisers.
Steve’s huge and bald and his neck and arms are mottled with tattoos. I used to work as a cleaner in a tattoo parlour – that’s how I saw Mikey getting his done – and in my
professional opinion, Steve’s tattoos were done by a blind man in the dark. I’d ask him, but he was moaning on to Mr Jones about how it wasn’t his job to give toerags like me a
day out, so I don’t think he’s going to be friendly.

Then I have to warm up, stretch, check out the opposition. They’re a different calibre from the boys at the running club. These are more focussed, stronger, intent on winning. I
can’t see anyone I recognise, which is a relief.

They look at me with unfriendly eyes. I stare right back. You don’t just beat your opponent on the track. You beat them with your belief that you can’t fail to crush them. Believe it
in your heart, and it’ll seep into theirs.

The qualifier is a breeze. I leave them all behind.

‘You didn’t even break sweat,’ says Mr Jones, as I saunter back. ‘Well done. Well done. How did it feel?’

‘Good,’ I say, and I’m even smiling, I’m even feeling happy, when I see her.

Claire.

She’s wearing a dark pink beret, and she’s wrapped up in a grey fluffy scarf and the tip of her nose has gone a bit pink. She’s all by herself in the stands. She’s
staring around, looking for someone.

Looking for me.

There’s a warm, happy feeling in my stomach, spreading through my body. My toes tingle, my teeth ache. All I want to do is smile and smile and smile.

How am I going to speak to her? How can I give Mr Jones the slip? Is there any way I can get her to the start point . . . or the finish? I can’t imagine we’ll get any time together,
but just to touch her hand. . .

I pull myself together. I can’t start blubbing like a baby here and now – not with tattoo Steve watching my every move.

Mr Jones is trying to get my attention. I come to, dazed like I’ve been hit on the head.

‘Fantastic performance,’ he’s saying. ‘I tell you, you’ve got a real talent. I’m amazed no one’s ever spotted it before.’

‘They have,’ I say, annoyed on Mr Henderson’s behalf, but he goes on.

‘When you get out, I’m going to give you a list of good clubs and coaches.’

‘Hmm, yeah,’ I say. Claire’s turning her head, looking this way. . .

‘This is a perfect way to escape your life of crime.’

‘Yeah. . .’ Mr Jones’s voice is loud and I’m praying no one will hear.

‘Let’s get you some lunch now, don’t want you getting cramp for the final.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘This way.’

And I have to walk away from her because apparently prisoners don’t get lunch in a café with normal people. Prisoners have sandwiches back in the van with the security guard
watching – sandwiches which might have been made by Mikey. I chew around the crust, discard the rest.

‘Nervous?’ asks Mr Jones. ‘Don’t be.’

‘I’m not,’ I lie, and he says, ‘Come on, then.’

Claire’s gone. My stomach clenches in disappointment. But at least I know what I’m looking for now. And she’ll be looking for me. I scan the crowd for her pink beret. I imagine
her, anxious, searching, worrying she’ll miss me. . .

‘Twenty minutes,’ he says. ‘Come and start warming up.’

That’s when I see her again – her pink beret, her grey scarf, black jacket, skinny jeans and boots.

Her big blue eyes, her pink lips, her heart-shaped face.

She’s not looking for me at all. She’s not even going to watch my race. She’s talking and laughing and walking towards the café. I know the guy she’s with.
He’s called Max. He used to be a good friend of mine.

He’s kind of short, Max, but he’s taller than Claire, and they look just right together, his arm around her shoulders. Claire and I always look wrong. I’m too tall, she’s
too small.

He’s stolen my girl. He’s stolen my Claire. I want to kill him.

I stumble. My headache’s back – worse than it’s ever been. Big bass drums thunder inside my skull. White-hot needles stab my eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ says Mr Jones. ‘You’ve gone very pale. Do you need some water?’

I shake my head. He offers me a glucose tablet and I take it, feeling it melt in my mouth, feeling the sweetness trickle down my throat. I wash it down with a gulp of water.

Claire came here to show me that she’s moved on. That’s OK (it’s not). It’s actually good (it’s not). Max is a nice guy (traitor), and he’s always fighting
for the right stuff and I’m almost sure that no one’s trying to kill him – apart from me, and I’m not sure I really would do it.