When I Was Joe (10 page)

‘OK. We will talk to her again. In the meantime, is there anything else you can tell me about Arron's delivery service? And is there anything else weighing on your mind that we haven't yet come up with a question for?'

Very reluctantly I nod my head. ‘It's this,' and I go and get my PE kit bag and pull out my favourite thing. My iPod. The one Arron got me for my birthday.

DI Morris takes it and turns it over in his hands. ‘Yours?' he asks, and I say, ‘Arron gave it to me for
my birthday. It was all ready to use with music and everything. I did wonder . . . he said it was an old one of Nathan's.'

He turns it on and twists the dial to show playlists. There's one I've noticed and worried about there – ‘Rachel's faves' it's called, and I can't imagine Nathan listening to crap like Dido and Alanis Morissette. On the other hand there's lots of rap and hip hop on the iPod as well. ‘You think this is stolen?' asks DI Morris.

‘I don't know . . . maybe Nathan had a girlfriend or something . . . but I'm not sure.'

‘I'm going to take this,' says DI Morris and looks surprised when I grab it from him and say firmly, ‘No. I need it. Very urgently'

‘You need it?'

‘For training. I can't get another one and there's really good music on it, and it's so hard to concentrate without.'

‘You could buy a new one.'

‘But it wouldn't have any music on it, and we don't have a computer here, and I couldn't afford to fill it up anyway. Please don't take it.'

‘I'll leave it with you for the moment. Now. Arron and the drugs.'

It's OK, I think, they know anyway. DC Bettany is writing in his notebook again. ‘All I know is that he
would sometimes give people stuff. You know Mikey? Mr Bling from the park? He might have been involved.'

‘Why did you think that?'

‘Because I once saw Mikey outside our flat and he gave Arron something. I'm not sure what but Arron was pleased and he bought me fish and chips. I thought it might be money.'

I have other reasons as well but he seems pleased enough with that one.

‘Can you tell me some names of people you saw him giving packages to?'

‘Umm . . . most of them were older. I didn't know them, but Kenny Pritchard definitely did give me something for Arron once and there was Cas O'Leary and Adam Comerford and that Polish boy in year ten.'

‘And you never asked him what was going on?'

‘Well . . . not really. . .'

‘What does that mean?'

‘I said once, “Are you getting money for that stuff,” and he said, “Yeah, but not as much as you think.”' I leave out Arron's sneering ‘pretty boy'.

DI Morris sighs. He scratches his head again. He says to DC Bettany, as though I'm not even there, ‘What I don't understand is why two bright boys were getting mixed up with all this. They were at a well-regarded school, a Catholic school, they had good hard-working mothers
who cared about them.'

I don't think it's up to me to explain why Arron might have been doing whatever he was doing when I didn't officially know he was doing anything. And I was very careful not to get mixed up in anything at all.

DC Bettany is watching me: ‘You know, Ty, if you'd blown the whistle on Arron when this all started, then just think what could have been avoided.'

It all gets a bit blurry after that. DI Morris goes off to talk to Mum in the kitchen, and, left alone in the living room, I lay my head down on the cushion. . .

. . .
I'm running and running and the person who's chasing me is going to hurt me, there's a knife in his hand, he's going to hurt me, but he looks just like me. . .

Nicki is calling me, Nicki's going to save me. I wake with a shudder, and grab her hand. ‘Nic . . . someone was chasing me. . .'

‘It's OK, Ty, It was only a dream.' She's sitting by me on the sofa. ‘The police have just gone. They're going to make an addition to your statement and come back with it another day for you to sign. Time for bed – you've got school in the morning.'

Slowly I remember what's just happened. ‘Are we leaving? Are you angry?'

If she walloped me for the knife, what the hell's going to happen over the drugs?

She shakes her head. ‘Let's talk tomorrow. But no, we're not leaving right away. They persuaded me. Said they'll arrange a holiday with the family and help with finding a job. They guilt-tripped me – asked me to think how I'd feel if it'd been you lying there dead in that park. It may not come to anything anyway. The prosecution lawyers have to look at the evidence before they decide whether it can even go to trial.'

All this for a trial that may never happen. ‘I wasn't dealing drugs, honest, but I didn't ask Arron what he was up to.'

‘That Arron,' she says. ‘He's got a lot to answer for. Ty, you're not carrying a knife any more, are you?'

I shake my head, no. I'm not carrying a knife because I've seen what knives can do. But I need one for the same reason. It's a problem that nags at me all the time.

Lying in bed later, I can't get back to sleep. I'm feeling hot and cold, and like I'm going to be sick. I keep on hearing DC Bettany's words in my head. It's all my fault, I can see that now. I didn't do anything then, because Arron wouldn't have been my friend any more. But now I've lost my friend forever, and there's a death on my conscience.

I struggle through the next day, yawning a lot and wishing I could just go home and sleep. Mr Hunt isn't in a forgiving mood so I have double detention, and even training on the track feels like a chore. I go through the motions but Ellie is disappointed. ‘Get some rest this weekend,' she says, ‘and I'll see you on Sunday at the inter-school race.'

Come Saturday morning, I'd be happy just to stay in bed. But Mum is definitely ready to leave the house. She's found her make-up and plucked her eyebrows, which makes her look younger and sharper. She's experimented with her hair – spiked it up and added red highlights from some dodgy spray. It's weird – she's always been blonde as long as I can remember – but it suits her. The word that my Auntie Emma would
use is edgy. I tell her she looks great and she seems pleased.

‘We're going to spend a bit of money on ourselves,' she says. ‘You've grown so much that all your jeans are a bit short on you, and we could get some T-shirts too. I hate to see you in those awful hoodies all the time.'

Doesn't she remember that I'm wearing a hood up as much as possible on police orders? ‘What I really need are good running shoes,' I say, and she agrees that I can get some.

We walk up to the bus stop, and I realise that I am actually taller than her. I can look down on her sprayed highlights. It's only an inch of difference, but it's massive. I was beginning to think I'd never grow and now it's really happened. After all the training of the last few weeks I'm stronger and fitter too. My whole body is different. Being Joe has turbocharged all the changes that they kept on promising in PSHE lessons. He's taller, he's hairier, he's got more muscles. His voice is almost always deep. He's managed to avoid getting spots though. Ty was a boy, but Joe is almost a man. I like it. I like it a lot.

Going through the shopping centre doors, I feel like a hundred eyes are on us. I turn to her hastily. ‘Can I go and research trainers while you check out New Look?' And we arrange to meet outside Top Shop in half an hour.
‘It's all very well in New Look,' she says, ‘but I'm not doing proper shopping without your advice.'

The sports shop has good stuff – it's not one of those fashion shops in disguise – and I get busy checking out the trainers. Then I spy big bully-boy Carl buying football boots with his mum. She's making a huge fuss over getting him exactly the right thing and seems to have plenty of money to do so. I know he'd hate to be spotted, so I wait until his mum's busy with the assistant, wander past and say, ‘Hey, Carl, how you doing?'

Carl snorts like a pig that's run out of swill.

‘Shopping with your girlfriend?' I ask innocently.

Carl grunts angrily. His mum returns, carrying a pair of lurid orange boots which look like someone's vomited all over them, and asks, ‘Oh Carl, sweetie, is this one of your team mates?'

‘No,' growls Carl. She looks puzzled so he has to mumble, ‘ ‘s name's Joe. In my year.'

‘Great boots,' I say helpfully. ‘No one's going to miss you in those, eh, Carl?'

‘That's just what I was saying,' says Carl's mum, and I'm loving the way that Carl glowers.

I've done enough. I have some ammunition to use against him just in case he mocks me with my mum later. I pick the shoes I want, and ask the guy behind the counter to keep them for me, Then, just as I'm leaving, I turn and
mouth, ‘Bye sweetie,' behind his mum's back. I hear her say, ‘Seems like a nice boy.' And Carl splutters with fury.

Walking into the loud, bright jumble that is Top Shop makes me incredibly homesick for my Auntie Emma, who used to combine babysitting with shopping. My earliest memories involve glittering bangles and shiny shoes, playing peek-a-boo with the changing room mirrors and hide-and-seek amongst the clothes rails.

When I was nine, Emma's friends told her it was me or them, and Mum decided I was compromising my masculinity. Arron and I were packed off to Nathan's boxing club where we spent our Saturdays imitating the older boys and jabbing at a punch bag and hoping no one would make us actually fight. But I'm well known in my family as an ace style adviser. It's not a talent I tend to shout about.

I wander along behind Mum, as she picks things up and adds them to her huge pile of things to try on, and I realise I've stepped into the headquarters of the Joe Andrews fan club. I've seen about twenty girls from school, and every single one has waved, giggled or smiled at me. And, as we reach the changing room and the very welcome sofa placed outside for boyfriends, partners and unlucky sons, there she is. Ashley Jenkins. And she's not too happy.

‘I'll come and show you the stuff I like,' says Mum
and she disappears behind the curtains. I sit down next to a big bloke reading
What Car?
and start sifting through the mags thoughtfully provided. But Ashley won't be ignored.

‘Hey Joe,' she pouts, perching on the edge of the sofa's arm. ‘What brings you here? I thought we were going to come shopping together?'

I have to admit she looks a lot better than she does in school uniform. Today she's wearing a tight yellow top and jeans that show off curves that usually look a bit lumpy under her tie and grey jumper. I can see the edge of a lacy black bra under the bright T-shirt. It's quite an attractive combination.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, Ashley, we must arrange it, but it's my mum's birthday soon and I said I'd go shopping with her today.'

Girls must read these things differently from boys. Ashley rubs my arm and purrs, ‘Oh, that's so sweet.' Or maybe she's taking the piss? And Mum chooses this moment to pop out of the changing room, dressed in a short skirt and a revealing red top. She says hopefully, ‘What do you think of this, Ty?'

Bugger. Why'd she have to call me Ty in front of Ashley? And what is she wearing? She's showing way too much cleavage. Mr
What Car?
is licking his lips.

‘It's a bit much,
Mum
,' I say, trying to signal
enormous disapproval with my eyes. ‘The colour's OK.' I hope she'll get the message. She doesn't: ‘Well I love it. Hang on, I'll show you the jeans.'

Ashley is open-mouthed. ‘That's never your mum? She can't be old enough.'

I'm proud of having a mum who is young and pretty, I really am. But, right now, I'm feeling extremely anxious that she's forgetting everything that Maureen the makeover lady said about looking anonymous. ‘She's a whole load older than she looks,' I tell Ashley.

‘Why did she call you . . . what was it?'

‘She's half Turkish,' I lie. ‘It's the Turkish word for son.' If Ashley knows any Turkish at all, then I've made a big mistake. But luckily she doesn't seem to.

‘Can you speak Turkish, then?' says Ashley, and I launch into a long complaint about the evil thieves who short-change you at the cash and carry. She looks a bit stunned, but I think she believes me.

Mum comes out again, this time dressed in tight-cropped jeans and a white top. It suits her new dark hair, but it's also indecent. See-through, in fact. I can see she's feeling happier than she has for weeks, which is nice, but right now I'd prefer to put her in a head-to-toe burka like Imran's mum wore when we were at St Luke's.

‘Mum,' I say firmly, ‘it's OK, but you're beginning to look too much like your friend.'

‘What friend?' she says, admiring her denimed bum in the mirror. ‘D'you know I'm a size eight now?' she adds, a little anxiously.

‘There's no way you look fat,' I say firmly. These magic words are the key to successful clothes shopping with females. David Beckham probably says them to Posh all the time. Having softened her up, I go back on the attack. ‘You know, your friend Nicki. You know . . .
Nicki
. You don't want to look like her. Why don't you find something more like your mate Maureen wears?'

‘Maureen has no taste or style,' says my mum. ‘
Nicki
used to get a lot of compliments.' And she does a little twirl in front of the mirror.

‘Mrs Andrews,' says Ashley, ‘I'm Ashley. I'm in Joe's class at school. I really like those jeans. You look brilliant. Where did you find them?'

Mum laps all this up and starts chatting to Ashley about jeans and brands, and next thing I know they're going into the changing room together. As Ashley disappears, Mum turns around and makes a rude face at me, crossed eyes and everything. Clearly she doesn't appreciate my advice. Clearly she has no idea that she nearly blew our identities away. Just being in Top Shop is like three Bacardi and cokes to her. I bury myself in
Maxim
and hope for the best.