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Authors: Keren David

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BOOK: Almost True
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It's quite a shock when he shakes me awake and says, ‘We're here now, Ty. Time to wake up,' and I remember that home is a high-rise in Birmingham, not a cottage in Provence.

I'm shivering as we take the lift upstairs and I'm really looking forward to Gran making me supper and a
cup of tea. I'm starving. But when we get to our front door it's all dark and quiet. There's no answer when we ring the doorbell.

I start thumping at the door. ‘Where are they? What's going on?' I say, trying not to even think what I'm thinking. But why would someone attack when it's too late . . . when I've already given evidence?

Unless it's not this trial they're worried about any more, but the next one. Jukes's trial.
Jesus.
Where
are
they?

‘Calm down,' says Patrick. ‘I'm sure there's an explanation. Where's your key? Your mobile?'

But I haven't got my key. It's in my jeans pocket, on my bedroom floor. And I forgot to charge my mobile. And I keep on thumping the door, shouting their names, thinking of all the things people have told me – the Whites and their mates are all in prison now, there's no real danger of witness intimidation, there's no point because the police were on the scene so quickly and saw Jukes with the knife in his hand – and I know they're lying, they're all lying, oh God, they're lying. . .

Then the old woman from next door comes out and says, ‘For God's sake, stop the noise, will you? You won't find them there, they went off in an ambulance about three hours ago.'

It's true. I was right. I think I'm going to faint.

‘Were . . . were they alive?' I ask, and she looks at me pityingly and says, ‘As far as I know.'

‘Was there blood? Had they been attacked? Were the police here?' My words are coming out in little jumpy bursts. She looks a bit confused, and says, ‘They'll have taken her to maternity, won't they?'

‘Aha,' says Patrick. ‘Come on, Ty,' and we run back to the lift while I try and remember which hospital my mum was due to have the baby in. My mind is completely blank. In the end, Patrick punches some keys on his sat nav and shows me a list of hospitals and I pick out one that sounds familiar. And off we go.

It's only when we're walking into the maternity unit that it hits me.
Christ.
This baby is real. This is massive. Nothing will ever be the same again. And I've hardly thought about it.

Patrick goes and talks to a woman at a desk. It doesn't help that I can't remember what name we're using in Birmingham. I stand there, jabbering, ‘It might be Andrews . . . or Ferguson . . . or maybe Webster. . .' because Mum was talking about using Alistair's surname for the baby. The woman looks at me like I'm completely stupid. I'm sweating.

She points out a waiting room. There are a few people in there already, some ladies in hijabs, a big tattooed bloke pacing up and down. It's going to be difficult to have
a conversation in here. I hover around the door, trying to get a word with Patrick.

‘Come and sit down,' he says. ‘She's going to find out what's happening. Shouldn't take long.'

‘No . . . it's just . . . Patrick—'

One of the hijab ladies is looking at me. ‘What is it?' asks Patrick.

‘It's just . . . look, maybe I shouldn't be here. Maybe if I just came home with you? We could find out later.'

Patrick puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘What are you worrying about?'

‘It's just . . . I'll probably get in the way. When they've got a baby to look after.' And it'll cry all day and all night and who can blame it? Then there's the nappies and the vomit. . . How can anyone think it's a good idea to have a baby? You might as well adopt a skunk.

Patrick's looking quite sympathetic, so I add, ‘Maybe I should – maybe I should come and live with you?'

‘They're going to need your help,' he says, and I'm not sure if he's saying it because he doesn't want me. ‘And besides, you're due to start school next week, aren't you? You've missed quite enough of your GCSE courses.'

This doesn't exactly cheer me up. My mum took me into school a few weeks ago to meet the head of year ten, and although he seemed perfectly nice, and it was kind of cool to pick my GCSEs (French, Spanish, PE and Media
Studies, which are all good; unfortunately English, Maths, Religion and Double Science are compulsory) the school was big and loud, which made me feel small and quiet. He gave me some coursework to make a start on at home, and I'm due in for the first time on Monday. I've been trying to forget all about it.

I heave a sigh. And then the woman comes back and asks Patrick to come and talk to her in the corridor. I can hear her say something about the baby . . . a baby . . . and I can't hear any more because the volume suddenly turns up on the blood rushing though my ear drums, so it sounds like the sea, and my heart is crashing and booming in my chest. The hijab ladies are looking at me, and shaking their heads and one of them pats my hand and says, ‘Don't worry, it'll be fine. Your lady-friend will be fine,' which is so totally embarrassing that I rush out of the room, banging straight into Patrick as he comes back in.

He takes my arm, and we walk along the corridor together, out of the maternity unit and into the cold night air. I'm shivering again. ‘Ty,' he says, ‘Nicki – she's not very well. Her blood pressure went up – dangerously so – and they had to do an emergency Caesarean. She's sleeping now. It's probably a good thing we didn't know what was going on.'

I sway against him, and he grabs my arm and pulls
me over to a bench. I sit there, leaning into his tweed jacket, taking big gulps of air. And then I remember. ‘The baby?' I ask.

‘The baby's fine. She's in Special Care, but just as a precaution. We can go and meet her now. Julie's with her. Are you OK? Let's go.'

Patrick leads me up some stairs, and into a ward – a ward full of babies in little transparent cots. They seem really small to be all on their own, out in the world with no families. There's a nurse bustling around, but that's not the same. For some reason they make me think of Arron banged up in his cell. I don't want to think about Arron. I don't want to think about cells.

Only one baby, right at the end of the row, has a mum with it. The mum is . . . urgh . . . she's breast-feeding it. Disgusting. I hope my mum hasn't got any ideas about that. I hope my mum . . . oh God . . . I can't even think about her.

Patrick steers me round a corner to a bit where there are just four babies. ‘Here she is,' he says, and there's my gran. And I rush to hug her, and then I stop.

She can't hug me. She's holding a tiny bundle wrapped up in a white blanket, and there's a little pink face and a tuft of black hair. I step back, feeling a bit stupid. Why can't she leave it in its cot like all the other babies?

‘Congratulations, Julie,' says Patrick, ‘This brings
back a few memories.' I remember how my gran lied and stole me away from them, and it's like there's electricity in the air, crackling and snapping and waiting to explode. But my gran just gives him a tight little smile and says, ‘I'll say one thing for Nicki, she does give me beautiful grandchildren.'

Then her face creases up and she shoves the bundle into my arms and collapses into a chair, almost howling because she's crying so much. Great shivers are going through her body. I'm frozen. I don't think I've ever seen my gran cry.

Patrick pulls out a clean white handkerchief and gives it to her. He puts his arm around her. ‘There, there,' he says. ‘She'll be fine. Your Nicki is a real fighter, Julie, she'll be OK. Hush now, we don't want to wake them all up.'

‘I thought she was going to die,' says Gran. I'm all cold inside. But then she adds, ‘I had no choice,' and Patrick says, ‘We realised, we didn't blame you,' and I get that they're talking about the past.

I sneak a look at the bundle in my arms. The baby's eyes are open. Alistair's eyes, staring into mine. Alistair's spiky hair. It's Alistair's face looking up at me from the white blanket, and I really don't think I'm going to be able to live with that every day.

I look desperately at Patrick. I'm silently begging him
to take the bundle from me, let me escape . . . run away . . . never see this baby again. He catches my eye, frowns. Then he says – and it's a command – ‘Stick out your tongue.'

‘Wha . . . what?'

‘Stick out your tongue. And then give her a few minutes.'

I stick out my tongue. Alistair's eyes drill into me. Gran's sobs are dying down; she's looking at me in surprise.

And then the baby's mouth begins to twitch. The tiniest wrinkle creases her forehead. And the tip of her little pink tongue appears between her lips.

It's amazing! Unbelievable! She's so tiny, just a little blob really, and she can't do anything, but she can look at me and
copy
me. Wow! My sister is really clever. And I blink, and I can see that she doesn't really look like Alistair after all, but she's got Mum's blue-grey eyes and Gran's dimply cheeks.

‘Has she got a name?' asks Patrick, and Gran gives a big shuddering sniff and says. ‘Alyssa. A-L-Y-S-S-A. Don't ask me. Not even a saint's name. But she's calling her Maria as a middle name, after my mother, which is some comfort, I suppose. Give her back to me now, Ty. How are you, my darling boy? Have you had anything to eat?'

‘Nope,' I say. I don't really want to let go of Alyssa
yet. I sniff her dark hair. She smells of smoke and iron. It's very strange and not what I expected, and I hand her back to Gran, who cuddles her close and says, ‘Well, my little darling, what do you think of your big brother?' A little bit of sick dribbles out of Alyssa's mouth.

‘How's Nicki?' asks Patrick, and Gran's eyes tear up again, but she says that the doctors think she'll be OK and everything is stable and she's expected to come round in a few hours.

‘Maybe Ty should go back with you for a few days,' she says. ‘I don't want him to be all alone in that flat, and I have to stay here. I'm going to call Emma, get her to come back for a few weeks, but until then. . .'

‘We'll sort Tyler out, don't you worry,' says Patrick, ‘but I don't think either of us are up to a long drive at this time of night. Maybe you could give me some keys and I'll stay over in the flat with him tonight. Then we can visit Nicki in the morning.'

Gran's going to cry again, I can tell, and I can't really take that, so I bend over her and give her a kiss and say goodbye to Alyssa. And Alyssa looks up and into my eyes again and I feel a kind of whoosh of amazement that anyone can be so small but so aware. My sister. My sister Alyssa.

‘My mum's going to be OK, isn't she?' I ask Patrick as we walk out of the hospital, and he says, ‘I'm sure
she is. It sounds as though they acted just in time.'

My mum is going to be all right. She has to be. I'm not even going to think that she might die.

I'm just focussing on Alyssa. Her life is just starting and she's lost her dad already. She can never find him, like I've found mine. He's gone forever.

So she's going to need a really good big brother. No one's going to hurt her, nothing bad's going to happen to her, she's always going to have me to look after her.

I've not always done a great job at growing up so far. But now I'm a brother, I'm going to have to step up my game.

CHAPTER 44
Connected

Arron's eyes are full of hate. ‘It's your fault this has happened to me,' they're saying. ‘You betrayed me.'

I slide the
Daily Mail
back across the table to Gran. I don't want to read it. It's enough to know that Arron and Jukes and Mikey were all found guilty of murder. The judge made a special order so that Arron could be named in the press reports, because the case was so serious. His photo is on page eleven of the
Mail
.

They're all locked away in a Young Offender Institution. Arron won't come out for years and years and years. Will he come looking for me then?

Gran's rustling the pages. ‘There was more evidence against them than we realised,' she says. ‘There's a lot here about the gang they were in. Who'd have thought Arron would get mixed up with something like that?
Terrible. And they were caught on a CCTV camera going into the park. No wonder the jury believed you. They knew the difference between a nice honest boy and a group of thugs.'

‘Yeah, right,' I say.

‘Look, there's an interview with the boy's parents. Rio's parents. They say they've got a lot to thank you for.'

‘I'll look later, Gran.' I say. ‘I've got a lot of homework to do.'

She puts the paper back in front of me, kisses me on the forehead. ‘You read it now. You should feel proud of yourself. You don't have to spend all your time doing homework, darling. You've been working since 5 am. I saw the light in your room when I did Alyssa's bottle. I'm going to make you a cup of tea.'

So she puts the kettle on and I gaze at the paper. At the picture of Rio's family. Words jump off the page.
Heart of Gold
.
Gang Culture
.
Broken Britain
.

Rio's mum said he was a good boy really. He loved his music. ‘He'd just got in with a bad crowd.'

And then comes the bit that Gran's biro has starred. ‘We owe everything to the boy who told the truth about what happened that day. If it wasn't for him, our poor dead son would have been branded a criminal.'

I push it away. Gran gives me my steaming tea.
I stir it, watching the bubbles form as the sugar dissolves. The tea whirls round and round in the cup. ‘It's not true, Gran, what they say in the paper,' I say. ‘He did have a knife, Rio. He wasn't just an innocent victim.'

BOOK: Almost True
11.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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