Almost True (37 page)

And she sits opposite me and says, ‘What that family is going through, I cannot imagine. I thank God every day that you are alive. We're all sinners, Ty, but that doesn't mean we can't try and do the right thing. I'm sure it's going to be all right today, Ty. I'm sure they'll realise you're a good boy.'

Then Alyssa starts to cry and Gran rushes out to grab her before my mum wakes up. So I don't have to talk to her about what's going to happen today. And I pick up my cup and go back into my bedroom, where I've made a desk for myself where the telly used to be and pinned up a big GCSE coursework timetable on the wall.

I've turned into a geek. I've discovered that you can lose yourself in schoolwork, just like you can in PlayStation or Xbox. It's not as exciting, obviously, and not fun at all, but there's that same comforting feeling of blocking yourself off from the world and – even better – the stuff that's going on in your own head. No one can criticise you for it, the teachers think I'm amazing, Mum and Gran are baffled but delighted.

It's a great way of making sure that no one's very interested in you, which suits me fine right now.
Especially today.

But right now, I'm finding it difficult to immerse myself totally in my English coursework. (We're studying a play –
An Inspector Calls
, which is ironic really, all things considered.) I'm staring into space and biting my fingernails and wondering what's going to have happened by the end of the day. Wondering if I'll feel better or worse.

Then I hear my mum's voice calling me, and I walk into the living room, and I see that my dad's arrived. He's sitting on the sofa, Alyssa in his arms, and he's blowing raspberries at her. He looks really stupid.

‘Hey, Ty,' he says, ‘How's it going?'

‘Have you seen the paper, darling?' asks my mum. I'm glad to see she's nibbling a piece of toast. She's OK now, my mum, completely recovered, but pale and tired all the time and mostly she doesn't look attractive or like a celebrity, but just very thin. Like they say on magazine covers, too skinny. I buy her chocolate sometimes, on the way home from school, but she never seems to want it.

I worry about her a lot. It doesn't help that she's worrying about me.

‘I saw it,' I say. And then, to change the subject, ‘I might have to go to the library. I can't really work properly here. Of course it'd be different if I had my own laptop.' I look meaningfully at my dad, hoping he'll pick up the hint, but he's staring into Alyssa's eyes and
giving her his finger to suck. It's a bit irritating.

‘You probably won't have time,' says my mum. She drops the piece of toast onto her plate, half-eaten. ‘How about a yoghurt, Nicki?' asks Gran. Mum shakes her head. ‘Are you sure the lawyer shouldn't go with you?' she asks my dad.

‘He said not,' says my dad, looking up. ‘He said it'll be quite routine. Just like before, when they arrested you, Ty, except this time we'll find out what they're charging you with. Hopefully nothing at all. Come on. Let's get it over with.'

Here we go. My big date at the cop shop. They're charging me today. My mum couldn't face it, so my dad's coming with me. Gran's a bit put out. She's the one who's done all the counter-signing at the police station when I go to report in. She's not used to my dad muscling in.

‘And then perhaps we can talk about the christening,' she says. Gran and Mum have had a lot of rows about Alyssa's baptism. Mum's all jumpy about it because Alistair's parents have agreed to come. And Gran's not too happy about my dad being a godfather.

‘What's there to talk about?' he asks now, and I can see her forehead begin to crinkle. ‘You just have to say, ‘Yes, whatever,' don't you, when they ask you whether you believe in Jesus and the rest of it. I remember from Ty's christening. You have to denounce Satan.
It's no big deal.'

It's not that I'm religious or anything, but I'm going to decide exactly what I believe and what I don't well before there's any danger of anyone asking me to take part in a christening.

‘Time to go,' says my mum quickly, before Gran can open her mouth, and she gives me a tight hug. I don't look at her face. I don't like it when my mum cries.

So we get into my dad's car – he's got a BMW, we have to walk miles to where he's parked it, because he doesn't seem to have Patrick's skill for finding the right person to guard it – and he takes me to the police station.

We go in, and I say hello to the man on the desk. I've seen him a few times before, he's OK. Quite friendly. Supports Aston Villa. My mouth's dry and I feel a bit dizzy. Normally I'd just sign my name and Gran would sign too, but this time he asks us to wait. So we wait. And I'm trying to think about how to bring up the subject of laptops again, but I'm distracted by wondering if it's fear that's giving me stomach cramps or if I'm going to have to sprint to the bogs.

‘How's Tess?' I ask my dad after a bit, because it seems polite to ask about his life, especially if I'm going to persuade him to fork out a ton of money at PC World.

He screws up his face, taps his index finger against his thumb. ‘Oh. I . . . well . . . we quarrelled. Really badly.
She admitted she'd been through all my stuff, all those papers and photos and things. She had no right.'

‘Oh,' I say, ‘Right. That's umm . . . a shame. . .'
Yes!
If it wasn't for the police business, then I'd be feeling almost happy.

‘I used to need Tess – such a strong person – to keep me . . . to keep me going. But that's not the case any more,' he says.

‘Oh,' I say. ‘Umm. Right.' He looks a bit sad. Lost. Worried.

‘It's good that you're going to be Alyssa's godfather,' I say, to cheer him up.

‘Really?' he says.

‘Yeah, you can take cool pictures of her. Introduce her to celebrities. Buy her stuff like laptops.' He doesn't seem to pick up the hint.

‘I suppose so,' he says. ‘I feel guilty about her. It's because she lost her father that I got back in contact with you. If Alistair hadn't died, if the boy . . . Rio . . . hadn't died, then none of this would have happened. We'd still be strangers to each other. They paid the price for us to be together.'

It's really strange having a conversation like this with someone who's meant to be older and wiser than me. He's not really like a dad at all, it's like talking to Archie or Brian except he's a bit brighter, and he's got a cool
motorcycle and a BMW, and he knows Cheryl Cole.

‘They didn't pay the price,' I say reassuringly. ‘We can't go back in time, and we can't say how things could have been different. Maybe Alistair would've walked under a bus. Maybe Louise would've told me how to get in touch with you. No one can know.'

‘It's all connected,' he says. ‘Cause and effect.'

‘It's not,' I say. ‘We don't have to feel guilty because something good happened to us. Everything isn't really connected.' I sound quite convincing. I almost believe myself.

And then the policeman tells us we can come through now.

It must be really boring being a policeman. On TV it's all car chases and fights and solving murders. But actually, it's loads of paperwork and weak tea in windowless offices and saying the same old boring crap again and again about arresting you and having the right to remain silent and things being used in court against you and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

By the time the custody sergeant gets around to telling me what I'm charged with, I've virtually fallen asleep.

And then he starts banging on about the Offensive Weapons Act of 1953 and I gather that I'm being charged with two counts of carrying a knife. And that's it.

No perverting the course of justice. No stabbing Arron.

There's a big smile on my dad's face as he asks the
sergeant about the other pending charges, and he's told that the CPS decided not to proceed. I'm a bit confused about why that is – I mean, they've got proof of one and a confession to the other – but I'm not going to tell them how to do their job. While he signs the papers and gets the details of when I've got to go to court, I'm trying to take it in. Work out what it means. I don't get very far.

We're free to leave. We get back into the car. My dad turns to me. ‘Great!' he says. He's grinning, thrilled. ‘What a result! I'd better phone Mr Armstrong.'

He calls the lawyer and then my mum. Apparently this is good news. It's better than everyone expected. But how good is it really?

We get back to the flat – I suggest stopping off at PC World on the way, but he says, ‘Look, if you really need a laptop, I'll sort it out on the internet,' which is encouraging but not very definite – and Gran and Mum are all smiles, and happy and no one seems to notice that I'm a bit down. Everyone is too busy telling each other how much worse it could have been and how it's incredibly unlikely that I'll get sent to prison because I'm so young and I've never done anything bad before.

They're conveniently ignoring the fact that we sat and watched the news a few weeks ago and saw the Prime Minister call on lawyers and judges to jail more young people for carrying knives. He talked about
deterrents, about safer streets, about tough measures.

‘Knives are unacceptable,' he said, ‘and we've got to do everything in our power to deter them.' It's hard to argue with. If I'd known that a knife in my pocket meant going to jail, then I probably wouldn't have taken it. Almost definitely.

Gran's ringing Emma in Spain, and my dad's on the phone to Archie's mum, when my mum puts her hand on my arm.

‘Are you all right, Ty?' she asks. ‘You don't seem very pleased. It's good news, darling . . . really, better than we had hoped for.'

I slam my hand down on the table. My gran drops the phone, she's so surprised. My dad says, ‘Sorry, Pen – I'll call you back.'

‘It's not good news,' I say – I shout. ‘How can it be? I could still go to prison – you all know that.'

‘But not for so long,' says my mum soothingly. ‘They've dropped the most serious charges.'

‘Mr Armstrong said that they must have realised they couldn't proceed without a statement from Arron on the assault,' says my dad. ‘He testified that he had no idea that you'd called an ambulance, he thought you were running off together to get help. No mention of your knife.

‘And the email didn't mean as much after you'd been a key prosecution witness. All of them, Jukes, Mikey
and Arron, they're all appealing against their convictions. Prosecuting you would be like opening the prison doors.'

‘Yes, but . . . but . . . I still did those things, didn't I? They're still true. I still have to live with what I did. And nothing's going to take that away, no matter how much you're celebrating.'

‘Ty, sweetheart—' says my mum, but then Alyssa starts crying and she rolls her eyes and says, ‘There she goes again.' I spot Gran and my dad glancing at each other, which they don't do all that often.

So I shrug my shoulders and say, ‘I'm going to do my homework,' and my dad says, ‘I'll get onto the laptop for you, don't worry.'

I go into my bedroom, and instead of sitting at my desk I lie on my bed. I'm going to have to go to court again. Some judge is going to decide what's going to happen to me. I've given up the right to make my own decisions. I never even realised how precious that was.

And then my phone buzzes in my pocket.

It must be Archie, he's the only person who ever rings me. I can't cope with his bounce right now. So I go to turn it off. But his name isn't there.
Arron?
I think, and my heart does a big, painful thud. ‘Hello?' I breathe into the mobile.

‘Joe? Ty?' says a voice, and I can't believe it. I can't believe it's her. It's Claire. Claire is calling me. It's Claire.

‘Claire? How did you get my number? Are you OK? Claire?' I'm trying not to sound too hopeful, but I can feel a stupid big smile cracking my face, and my hand is all sweaty, clutching the phone so hard that it's in danger of sliding out of my grip.

‘From Zoe . . . from Archie. . . Joe, that was you in the paper, wasn't it? That court case . . . there's an interview in my dad's
Mail
. . .'

‘It was . . . it was me.'

‘I thought it was,' she says, and I can't tell from her voice whether she's forgiven me or not. I doubt it. There's too much to forgive.

‘Claire, I'm sorry,' I say, ‘I rang Ellie. I was worried you were cutting again, I thought she could help. It was – it seemed like the right thing to do.'

Claire's voice is soft and high, but there's a strength there which never fails to surprise me. ‘I was angry,' she says, ‘but I'm not any more. You did the right thing. I did need help. Ellie told my parents and they talked to me, and I had to admit what was going on. I had started again. They're making me talk to some specialist counsellor now. She's annoying, but I haven't been cutting any more. Honestly, Joe, you can believe me.'

‘So it is helping? Talking to the counsellor?' Mum's been hinting that maybe I need some counselling too. Gran thinks I should talk to the priest at her church.
So far, I've resisted both.

‘Maybe. It's good to talk to someone who's not involved with my family. I'd prefer to talk to you though. You . . . you're the easiest person to talk to.'

When you've been feeling crap for as long as I have, it's odd when you start feeling better. It's like getting warm after a long, cold walk. I'm all tingly. ‘Thanks, Claire,' I say, soft into the phone.

‘Ellie said that you wouldn't have called if you didn't care,' she adds. ‘You knew I might never talk to you again, but you cared so much that you called anyway.'