Almost True (14 page)

‘It may be too late,' says Mr Hunt, ‘Did anyone call?' There's a general shuffling, and I gather that no one has been fast enough to summon the cops. Hah. They are all pathetically slow. Good thing I wasn't really an evil mugger.

Then I realise that actually everyone here is – was – more or less friendly with me when I was Joe. They must have been tipped off by Zoe that I was in town. Even Carl was probably just playing a role – rather too convincingly, in my opinion.

‘Right,' says Mr Hunt. ‘Claire, I will have to ring your
parents to inform them about this. Joe . . . I don't know what you're doing here, but I suggest that you get lost as soon as possible. I never want to see you again, and you are not to bother Claire, is that clear? Now we'd better go and meet the others at Pizza Hut. They'll be wondering where we are.'

‘But, Mr Hunt,' says Max, ‘we haven't seen Joe for ages. Can't he come with? I mean, there's loads of people at the pizza place who'd like to see him . . . Brian, for example, and Mr Henderson. . .'

Typical Max – a completely pointless intervention. I remember his attempt to petition the head teacher after I was suspended for smashing Carl's nose, and I flash him a grin. I would really like to see Brian, and Mr Henderson, my former PE teacher, was always a decent guy. But only a total idiot would think that Mr Hunt's going to let me share a deep-pan-four-cheesespecial with Claire.

‘Shut
up,
Max,' says Mr Hunt, and Max shuts up. Zoe nudges him and shoots me a meaningful glance. But I'm too shattered to understand it.

Claire's dried her tears and she's looking at me with such a sad face that I have to turn away. I know what her expression means. She can't see any way forward for us.

It means she's decided I'm a lying, violent thug.

It means she'll never be able to trust me, to love me, to forgive me.

It means. . .

‘Come on, now,' says Mr Hunt, and they're walking away from me. Claire's looking back, but being pulled along by her friends. Carl releases me and says, ‘Sorry, mate. Had to be 100 per cent sure it was you. What were you doing to her, anyway? It looked a bit heavy.'

‘Carl, tell her that I need to talk to her . . . tell her . . . tell her I love her. . .'

He gawps at me, and I know I've chosen the most useless messenger possible. But this may be my last chance to speak to Claire and, like my gran would say, beggars can't be choosers. Lying here on the ground, wet and filthy, with 50p in my pocket, no phone, no idea where this hostel is or what it's called, begging seems to be the only option.

I can't seem to get up. My body's ceased to function. I lie on the pavement and wonder what would happen if I just stayed here. Who would find me? What would happen to me? I might as well just find out. I'm not sure I really care. A pathetic tear escapes from one eye. I blink hard to stop any more. I'm not worth crying over.

Then I hear someone running towards me. Light steps. A girl? Claire? I prop myself up on my elbows.
Claire?
No . . . it's Zoe. She sees the disappointment on my
face and hisses, ‘It's that door there, you wally, number twenty-three. Archie's waiting for you. Room twelve. I'll talk to Claire. See you later.' And she sprints back to the rapidly disappearing group of my former classmates. Mr Hunt is interrogating Claire. He doesn't seem to notice that Zoe's gone back to talk to me.

I lie there a bit longer. What I'd really like is for someone to come and help me up, take me inside, look after me. I close my eyes and wonder if it's possible to sleep like this. Then something nudges my skull. I look up.

A policeman. His shiny boot, right by my head. It smells of leather and polish. I stink of sweat and shit.

He's not looking very caring. ‘Too much to drink?' he demands.

I struggle up onto my elbows again and shake my head.
I'm lost. . .
I think,
I'm lost. . .
But there's no point saying it. He can't help me. My life is way too complicated.

‘Move on, then,' he says. ‘I don't need louts littering the street.'

‘OK,' I say, and make a superhuman effort to scramble to my feet. I look around and see the door marked twenty-three. The hostel. I move towards it, and he walks away. And there's a rush of hot air as I push open the door.

Room twelve, Zoe said. . . There's a woman sitting at a desk in the hall and as I walk past I see her nose wrinkle. ‘Where're you going?' she asks, and I say, ‘I'm with the group from Parkview,' and she says, ‘Oh, OK, you know where you're going,' and gestures up a steep flight of stairs. It takes me ages to trudge all the way up – I have to stop for a coughing fit halfway – and by the time I get to the dimly-lit corridor I'm dizzy and clammy, my ankle throbbing. No one would ever believe that I'm supposed to be a promising athlete. I'm kind of grateful that I didn't get to meet Mr Henderson. I really hope I can avoid him in the morning.

I bash on the door marked twelve and Archie opens it slowly. ‘About bloody time!' he says, ‘Where were you?' and then, ‘What is that
smell
?'

The room is tiny and cell-like; two metal-framed single beds, dark grey carpet, hospital-white sheets, glaring bright overhead light. The only things that don't look like they belong in a prison or a hospital are the cream linen curtains that frame the window, and the wooden seat that's been built against it, painted light grey. There's a sink in the corner and a strip of mirror, but nothing else – no shower or toilet, no television, no kettle. I've stayed in a few hotels in the last year, none exactly five star, but they were palaces compared to this.

It's warm though, and clean – or at least it was until
I arrived.

The window is wide open and there's a cigarette burning on the sill which Archie picks up, leaning back and inhaling deeply. Most of the smoke blows out of the window, but a whiff remains and it reminds me of my mum.

I take a long, juddering breath and remember life at home, before any of this happened. I'd be stressing over some Maths homework and she'd come dancing in, plant a kiss on my forehead and demonstrate the song she was planning to sing at karaoke that night. She'd put her arm around me, and show me where I was going wrong with the Maths and give me money to get my supper from the kebab shop.

Just for a minute I miss her so much that I think about getting Archie to call Patrick and ask him to send me back to her. I could live in a Birmingham high-rise. What's the problem? Then I imagine her response to my disappearing act – ‘
You selfish little bastard. Do you know how much pain you've caused me? You could've killed Alistair's baby. . .' –
and I know there's no going back.

I peel off my hoodie before I flop onto the bed. Archie's looking at it in horror. ‘Urgh . . . don't even bring that in here . . . what happened to it?'

‘I fell in some dog shit,' I say slowly. I'm completely revolted at the thought of the germs that are smeared
over my clothes. I'm wondering if any of it got into my hair . . . on my skin. . . I start stripping, dragging my clothes off frantically until I'm down to my boxers. Then I fill the sink with steaming hot water and pick up the tiny tablet of white soap and scrub and scrub at my arms and face until I glance at myself in the mirror and see they are glowing red and pink.

I refill the sink with clean water and plunge my head underwater, shaking it back and forth and rubbing soap into my hair to try and rid myself of the dirt, the crawling germs.

The hand towel is rough and small, but I rub myself dry with it until my skin burns and tingles. Archie yawns and says, ‘I'm starving . . . I've been waiting for you for ages. I'm going to go and buy us some chips.'

‘OK,' I say, and when he's gone I search in my bag and find a brand new hoodie, a spotless white T-shirt and some jeans. I'm clean. I'm dressed. I go and sit on the window seat so I can smell the last of his cigarette smoke and pretend I'm back home in London.

There's a cold breeze coming in, and I put my hand up to pull the window shut. Down on the pavement below I can see two men talking. And – if I push the window open wider – I can hear snatches of what they're saying.

‘ . . . can't believe you just left him lying here. . .' says one, ‘ . . . totally irresponsible. . .'

‘Come off it, Geoff,' says the other, ‘What was I meant to do? You were all at Pizza Hut and my responsibility was to our current pupils.'

Mr Hunt. Blimey. It's Mr Hunt and Mr Henderson and they've come back from the pizza place. To look for me?

‘I don't feel at all easy about this,' says Mr Henderson, ‘What on earth was he doing here? What state was he in?'

‘I told you,' replies Mr Hunt, who sounds like he'd be much happier getting stuck into a pepperoni feast with a stuffed crust. ‘Typically aggressive and cheeky with it. I thought he was a mugger. Twice the size of that poor girl, God knows what he was doing to her. . .'

‘She says he just wanted to talk to her, it was a misunderstanding,' says Mr Henderson.

Mr Hunt snorts. ‘Look Geoff, we've wasted enough time here. A former pupil with an appalling reputation was harassing one of our most vulnerable girls. If anything happens to him, that's all we have to say. Our backs are covered.'

There's a silence. I assume they've gone away. But then Mr Henderson sighs and says, ‘Well, Colin, I hope you're right. But I wouldn't say that Claire was necessarily the most vulnerable child involved. Did you know that Ellie Langley's trainer who got shot was Joe's
mother's boyfriend? I dread to think what's going on in that boy's life.'

And then I hear their footsteps walking away.

I slump down onto the floor, hug my knees to my chest and think about what I've just heard. Mr Henderson . . . he knows . . . he sort of knows. He thinks I'm vulnerable. He's worried about me. It's really strange – I'm embarrassed, angry and pleased, all at once.

The smell of dog shit is even stronger than before. I start thinking about the germs buzzing and breeding and I feel a sick and shuddery. I have to destroy them. It's too bad about the clothes.

I use the towel to pick up everything that might have been tainted with Alsatian turd. I stick it all in the metal waste paper bin in the corner of the room. Then I reach over to Archie's bed and pick up his lighter. I lean down and flick it at the hoodie. It takes a little time but soon it's ablaze and spreading to the T-shirt.

Staring at the flames, I'm remembering the fire in Mr Patel's shop, the explosion that was meant to exterminate us, the roaring and crackling as fire melted the chocolates and gobbled newspapers and magazines. I smell the chemical smoke that crept out of the sofa that time my mum had too much to drink and fell asleep with a ciggie in her hand.

I'm back by the fireplace in Patrick's study, when
I wanted to stick my hand into the flames. I watch, fascinated as the jeans start to catch and the orange and blue glow jumps towards the top of the metal basket.

Gran used to go on about hellfire sometimes, about the way that damned souls would burn forever, suffering eternal torments. My mum and aunties would laugh at her and tell her she was talking superstitious nonsense. Mum used to pretend to cover my ears and say, ‘Ty, don't listen. I don't want you hauling around a load of Catholic guilt.' Even the teachers at school said that hell didn't really mean pitchforks and brimstone and flames. ‘Hell is complete separation from God,' Father Matthew told us, ‘the loneliest feeling imaginable.' But I always found it easier to imagine Gran's fiery damnation.

There's a little bit of my mind which knows this is a really stupid idea. But I feel calmer now, knowing all the germs are being cremated. And my fingers are getting closer and closer to the fire.

Something's splashing over my hand. The flames hiss and die as Archie chucks a full litre bottle of coke into the bin. I snatch my hand away. My skin is just a bit pink. The bucket sizzles and steams, crackling with foam.

‘What are you doing, you dickhead?' he demands. ‘This place stinks even more than it did before. How're we going to entertain in here?'

‘Umm . . . what d'you mean?' I'm talking about the entertaining, but he misunderstands me. Typical.

‘I mean you. Trying to burn the place down. Bloody hell. They never talked about arson on those post-traumatic stress websites.'

‘Long-term behavioural problems?' I suggest.

Archie grabs the bin of smouldering kit. ‘I'm going to go and get rid of this outside. Let's get some air in here.'
He opens the window wider and says, ‘Can I trust you not to chuck yourself out before I come back, you nutter?'

I try and think of something to say that will get me the respect that I deserve from this kid, this boy, but I can only manage a weak, ‘Yes, Archie. Sorry.'

‘Good. Get a grip. Pull yourself together.'

He's right, I know, I am falling apart. But pulling yourself together is hard when you never felt very together in the first place. I was always worrying about what other people wanted me to be – my mum, my gran, my friend Arron. Thinking about what they wanted took all my time. And they all wanted me to be different things. So I was.

I've only truly felt completely together when I was running and when I was with Claire. When I could care for her. And now I can't run because of my ankle and my cough, and the new Claire doesn't need me and she doesn't trust me and she
kicked
me – I touch the bruise, tender on my shin – and maybe I'm never going to be able to pull myself together at all.

Then I remember Ellie and how she coped when her back was broken and she was stuck in a wheelchair forever. I am such a baby. Christ.

There's a knock at the door. It must be Archie, back again. I get up, and open it and immediately I feel a million times better. It's not Archie. It's my friend Brian.
And I
can
pull myself together – it's just that I pull myself together as Joe.