Almost True (13 page)

‘I have tried to talk to them,' she says, ‘but a lot of evil gossips have been stirring things up.'

I'm not really surprised. When people don't have the facts they start making stuff up. The less they know, the bigger the lies grow.

‘Everyone thinks they know all about us. And all about you. And they don't think very good things.' Her voice is even, but she's looking into the distance and slightly frowning, and I can see that she's had a pretty horrible time.

‘Claire, I'm really, really sorry. . .'

‘It's OK. It's a bit annoying sometimes, but it's certainly changed the way people think of me at school. Nothing I can't cope with. And there are some people, like your friend Brian, who don't believe everything they're told. Anyway, I thought I might as well change my image as well. I seem to have failed at being invisible.'

‘You look great,' I tell her, ‘You always did.' It's good to see the lines on her forehead disappear.

‘So you like it?' she asks.

‘What you look like doesn't matter to me,' I say, and she looks away and I'm so stupid, I'm so
stupid,
I said totally the wrong thing. But I can't think how to put it right without sounding really false.

I don't fancy another Starbucks-type place; I want this time to be special. I want to get it right. And then I see a sign that looks interesting.

‘Look. . .' I nudge her, ‘Let's go in there.'

‘What?' she says, ‘Why?'

‘It'll be warm, and we can get a drink, and no one that we know will be there . . . and it could be fun . . . please, Claire. . .'

She looks at me like I'm a lunatic, but she follows me in and starts giggling as I buy two tickets. The woman on the desk looks a bit uncertain, but takes my money.

‘This has got to be the weirdest date ever,' says Claire, but I say, ‘No, wait and see, it'll be good.'

And then we walk in and every person in the room is staring at us. We're the youngest people there by about a hundred years. Fair enough really, because you don't get many teenagers buying tickets to a tea dance.

A bloke comes over to us. ‘Oy,' he says, ‘Clear off. We don't want any trouble from your sort.'

‘We're not here to cause trouble,' I say and Claire smiles at him and pulls off her jacket and asks politely if there's a coat rack, which is clever because he starts showing her some hooks on the wall and forgets that we're undesirables.

When I knew her before Claire was always hiding, swamped by huge shirts and jumpers, hair messed up over her face. But now her clothes have changed as much as her face. Her pale grey top has long sleeves, but clings to her body. And her body – well, either she's grown a
lot in the chest area, or there's some padding going on, or she's had some of those implant things.

It's like she's in disguise, she's pretending, she's trying to be someone else . . . just like I have to do all the time. Or is this the real Claire, the Claire that was hidden? I don't know. How can I tell?

It's too weird to start falling for this completely new Claire when I still love the old one. I wanted to help her change. And she's done it all by herself. She didn't need me after all.

‘So,' she says, smiling up at me. ‘Are we going to dance?' And I take hold of her hand and slip my arm round her waist and say, ‘Let's have a go.'

I would prefer better music – although Frank Sinatra is a favourite of my gran's, so at least I know these songs – and we do stumble over each other's feet a bit, until she gets the idea that I know what I'm doing and relaxes and lets me lead her. But the twirling and the movement and the looking into her eyes – it's just what I hoped for.

Never mind that we're in a church hall, and there're no sequins or glitter balls, no band, no Bruce Forsyth. Actually it's good that there's no Bruce, he's my least favourite bit of
Strictly Come Dancing
. All I want is to give her something to cancel out the gossips with their dirty minds and lazy mouths. Glamour and romance, that's what I'm aiming for.

And she does get it, because she's smiling and she whispers in my ear, ‘What do you think the judges are going to say?' and I say, ‘Oh, even Craig'll love us,' and I lift her up – she's so light, her hair smells of strawberries – and try a spin, American-Smooth-style, which makes both of us a bit giddy and reminds me that I've got a dodgy ankle and I'm quite glad when the song ends and I can put her down.

It's then that I realise that all the old folk have stopped dancing to watch us, and some of them are clapping. One old lady has her hanky out. ‘Well done,' she calls, ‘It's so lovely to see young people aren't all muggers and vandals.'

We go and get cups of tea and biscuits and sit down at one of the little tables scattered around the dance floor. Claire is laughing at me. ‘I wouldn't have put you down for a
Strictly
fan,' she says.

‘My gran is the biggest
Strictly
fan in the world,' I say. ‘And she does salsa classes, and line dancing, and she did ballroom before she had kids.'

I pause. And then I tell her one of my darkest, deepest secrets. ‘She sent me to ballroom classes when I was six, and I went for two years. But you're not to tell anyone. Especially Carl and Brian.' It doesn't matter if I'm not at their school any more. I'm not having them taking the mick.

‘Maybe you'll be on
Strictly
one day,' she says. ‘They have athletes, don't they? When you've finished winning medals.'

‘Yeah right. First I have to have a life again.' And I bring her up to date on what's happened since I last saw her.

She doesn't want to talk about Alistair. ‘Ellie was so upset,' she says, and she changes the subject quickly. She's most interested in my dad. She's got loads of questions about him, and I can't answer any. I don't know what job he does, or where he lives, or whether he's married or what music he likes.

‘It's like you've decided not to be interested in him,' she says, disappointed, and I say, ‘I have been ill, actually, I was in hospital overnight.'

‘Yes but even so, Joe, it's your dad and you've never met him before.'

‘Hmm.' I say, ‘Did I tell you that my grandad speaks French like he comes from France?' But she's not interested in Patrick, and she says, ‘You need to get to know your dad. Maybe he's good at languages too.'

And then she says, ‘Joe, I have a lot of things to ask you about. That email you sent me . . . you can't do that. You can't dump something like that on me when I don't know when I'm going to see you again.'

‘I'm here now, aren't I?' I say, sulkily. I grasp her hand.
‘Please Claire, can't you just forget about it? It was just a stupid email. It didn't mean anything.'

‘Of course not,' she says indignantly, ‘It means a lot. I need to know what you meant – who have you hurt? Why are you lying?'

‘It's a bit complicated,' I start, and then she looks at her watch. She gasps. ‘Oh God – I should have been at the hostel an hour ago. I'm going to be in such trouble.' She slides her hand in her pocket and takes out her phone. ‘Oh no . . . look . . . seven missed calls. Mr Hunt will be furious. Come on we'd better go.'

‘Mr Hunt?' She can't mean it. She's here on a school trip with Mr Hunt, my old form tutor, the one who hates me, the one who will remember every detail of my two suspensions and hasty exit from her school. He thinks I'm a bully . . . someone who bullies girls for sex. He'll call the police if he sees me within twenty miles of Claire.

‘Can we can talk later? Claire – please—'

She's putting on her jacket, and buttoning it up. She takes her time over it, fingers fumbling and I realise her eyes are full of tears.

‘What . . . what's the matter?' I ask uncertainly. I want to pick her up again, kiss her tears away. But she's rubbing her face and looking away from me.

‘We'll have to talk later,' she says. ‘You need to explain . . . what you meant. And I can't really see
what's going to happen after that, because either you were lying to the police or you were lying to me. Which is it?'

I open my mouth. I want to tell her the whole story, everything I've done, right and wrong.

But she says. ‘Don't even bother trying to answer that.'

It's like she's hit me with a meat cleaver, and exposed my heart for everyone to see, and I'm bleeding to death in the middle of a bunch of jiving pensioners.

And all she does is pull a map out of her pocket and goes and asks an old lady how to get to the hostel. I stumble after her – can't she see what she's done to me? – but her eyes are firmly on the directions she's getting.

Then she's out of the door, almost running while I try and keep up with her, which ought to be easy – I'm usually faster than anyone I know – but, with a screwed up ankle and a wheezy chest, it is infuriatingly difficult.

‘Claire . . . wait . . . please,' I gasp.

‘I can't . . . I've got to get back,' she says, turning a corner.

I catch up with her, and grab her shoulder, ‘Claire . . . this is more important – you can't just say that and rush off. What if we don't get to talk later?'

She pulls away from me. ‘We'll have to . . . I'm sorry. . .'

‘Claire. . .' My whole body is aching with the effort of keeping up with her and my brain is bursting trying to find a solution. But it's like a riddle – how do you convince someone you're honest when you're truthfully telling her you've been lying? And how do you promise her that you're safe to be with, when you're confessing that you've hurt someone? And how do you build trust when you're not even allowed to speak?

And what do I do with the knowledge that Claire can be a bit screwed up . . . that she might not make good decisions? That she even
liked
it when I hurt her that time?

‘Claire . . . Claire. . .' I catch up with her again, and this time I manage to get myself in front of her. And I grab her and wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. Just for a second we're still, and I touch the soft skin of her face and stare into her eyes and plead. ‘You've got to
listen
, you've got to talk
now
. . . you can't just
say
that. Please let me explain.'

She ought to like me holding her . . . shouldn't she? She ought to listen to me . . . but she's pushing and
struggling and trying to break free, and she shouts, ‘No . . . not now. . .' and I scream back, ‘Yes, now. . .'

And then she kicks me hard on the shin – ouch – and I feel hands digging into my shoulders, dragging me backwards and a loud familiar male voice saying, ‘Let go of her! Call the police!'

Oh shit. Mr Hunt. Great timing.

He shoves me sideways and I stagger and fall onto the pavement – I probably could've got away if it hadn't been for the ankle and the cough – and a large lumpy guy jumps onto my back, knocking the breath out of me and pressing my face against the cold wet pavement. My jaw slams against the hard surface and my teeth crunch down on my tongue and I'm gagging on the salty-sweet taste of blood. The pavement stinks of piss and worse. I struggle and cough and retch and he just pushes my head against the stone and grunts, ‘Stay where you are.'

I know that voice. Jesus. It's Carl. The last time we had a fight I ended up breaking his nose. Now he's getting his revenge without even knowing it. I can't get a glimpse of Claire – all I can see is my hair and my hood and a dog turd, inches from my nose. Christ, I hope Carl doesn't see it.

‘Claire . . . are you all right? What did he do to you?' Mr Hunt's trying to sound concerned and caring, but
I can also hear that he's pretty delighted with himself for bravely saving his student from the clutches of an evil hoodie mugger. ‘Emily, Anna, come and look after her.'

Claire's voice is all squeaks and gasps, escaping in little breathy spurts. ‘Mr Hunt . . . it's OK . . . I'm OK. . .' Gasp. Sob. ‘Let him go . . . it's OK . . . it wasn't . . . it wasn't . . . don't call the police. . . It was my fault. . .'

‘What are you talking about, Claire?'

And then a different voice. Zoe's voice. ‘Mr Hunt. I think it's Joe. We . . . ummm . . . we met him earlier in Starbucks.'

I knew Mr Hunt as a weedy, sandy-haired Geography teacher who used to find me intensely irritating, mainly because I called him ‘sir', and he thought I was winding him up. He specialised in quiet sarcasm and multiple detentions. But apparently he can also shout so loud that it hurts my ears, ‘
Bloody
hell! Bloody Joe
Andrews
?' he roars. ‘Have a look, Carl.'

Carl grabs my hood, twists and pulls, almost choking me, and then shifts his weight slightly so he can flip me over onto my back to get a good look at my face. I'm limp as a rag doll about to be disembowelled by a Rottweiler. Luckily, the Rottweiler is well-trained and friendly. ‘Whoa . . . it
is
Joe. Hello mate,' he says, cheerfully. ‘Never thought we'd see you again.'

He releases me unexpectedly, and my head crashes
back onto the pavement – splat! – into the huge pile of dog shit. The smell is excruciating. I'm praying that none has gone on my hair. The only tiny comfort is that a bit flew as far as Mr Hunt's shoe. Girly cries of ‘
Eee . . . uw
. . .' ring out.

‘Hey Carl, watch what you're doing, bro,' I say faintly. ‘Hey Emily, Jamie . . . Max. . . Umm . . . hello, sir.'

‘Joe Andrews. Bloody hell,' says Mr Hunt, like Satan himself has materialised in a puff of smoke. ‘Claire, what's been going on? Did you arrange to meet Joe?'

‘No . . . yes . . . I got a message saying he was in Starbucks,' Claire sniffs. ‘Mr Hunt, he didn't do anything. He just wanted to talk to me. Please, please don't call the police. . .'