Another Life (5 page)

‘Whassup?’ I say, mouth full of crunchy goodness. Is this what mothers do in London? Sit and cry in their brand new customised kitchens?

She sniffs. ‘Archie, darling . . . some bad news. . . Julie . . . she died. . .’

Who the hell is Julie? ‘Oh, sad,’ I say, randomly, slapping two more slices of bread into the toaster.

Mum grabs a tissue and says, ‘I can’t believe it. So young.’

Some young girl called Julie has died. . . Hmmm . . . maybe that was the cleaner’s name?

‘Will they ship her back to Albania?’ I say, trying not to laugh. I can see it’s inappropriate and a bit sick, but somehow the idea of a corpse having to fly back home . . . in
a wheelchair, maybe . . . being X-rayed at security . . . leading a zombie takeover of the cockpit. . .

My mouth is so full of toast that I don’t think she hears me splutter.

‘Poor Ty poor Nicki. . .’ says Mum, sniffling into her tissue.

Oh my God. That’s who Julie is – Ty’s gran. He’s going to be really upset. I feel like someone’s poured a huge bucket of ice-cold water on my head.

‘I thought she was all right . . . in hospital but getting better.’

‘She was, but last night she had another massive heart attack. There was nothing they could do. She was only fifty-four, Archie. She used to look after us, me and my sisters, when we were
little. She was like a big sister, poor Julie. She’s had such a hard time.’

God, Ty’s gran was actually younger than my dad. I hope he’s not going to go splat into a plate of banana any time soon. Luckily he’s superfit and runs the London marathon
every year. He’s been nagging me to come cycling with him, thinks we could do triathlons together. I’ve been waiting to find the right time to tell him that’s not going to happen
– ideally after he’s ruled out boarding schools.

‘Was her heart . . . you know . . . kind of worn out?’

‘She smoked,’ says Mum, switching to lecture mode, ‘and you know that’s really bad for you, Archie.’

She can’t possibly smell any fumes on me from over here by the toaster. Why don’t they keep more bread in this house?

‘Yeah, but that’s lung cancer.’

‘Heart disease too. It blocks the arteries. And of course she’d been under terrible stress. Try the freezer if you want more sliced bread, darling.’

Seems to me the human body is really badly designed if it can’t cope with a few cigarettes and a tiny bit of stress without self-destructing well before its sell-by date. I mean,
Ty’s gran didn’t even look that old. You could totally see where his mum got her looks from.

I’d have almost fancied her if she wasn’t actually a grandmother. You have to draw the line somewhere.

The next time I see Julie she’s looking pretty good, really – apart from being dead, that is – because she’s lying there in her coffin for everyone to
see at the funeral.

I’m transfixed. She’s looking a load healthier than the last time I saw her, and they’ve obviously cleaned off all the banana. She’s got pink lipstick. It’s the
first time I’ve ever seen a real live dead body.

I’m trying, really, really trying, to feel solemn and sad and respectful, like you should at a funeral. I’ve never been to a funeral before. But the problem is that I didn’t
really know Ty’s gran at all, so I don’t actually feel sad, and I’m not a solemn person.

My natural instinct would be to cheer people up with a bit of banter, but just before we came in my dad turned to me and said, ‘None of your nonsense, do me a favour, Archie.’

Mum had been wiping her eyes with a hankie all the way from Fulham – driving here only took thirty minutes because it’s incredibly early in the morning. London without traffic is
strange – it’s like time has been sped up. Normally it’d take about four hours.

I spent most of the journey staring out of the window, gazing at locked-up shops armoured with security shutters. As we got further east, there were more people on the street – Muslim men
in white robes spilling out of a mosque, Orthodox Jewish men, with black hats and beards charging along the pavement, ringlets flying at the side of their faces. They mixed together, like a surreal
game of chess.

In Fulham, where we live, it’s all delis and brasseries, designer shops for babies and Scandinavian interior designers. Here in Hackney it’s halal butchers and Turkish kebabs,
Polski skleps
and a tattoo parlour painted black on the outside.

I had a hundred questions, but a glance at my dad told me that this wasn’t the time. He was too busy swearing at the satnav, ‘No, you silly cow, I am not turning right. That
street’s never been two-way.’

Mum was fussing about how dangerous it was that the funeral was going to be at Ty’s gran’s old church in Hackney. Maybe they shouldn’t have brought me.

‘What if some gunman turns up?’

‘A 6 am massacre at St Michael’s?’ scoffed my dad. ‘Don’t worry, they’ve got all the bad guys under lock and key. And these old school gangsters, they respect
a funeral. Mind you, I think they should’ve done it somewhere else, but there you go. People are sentimental.’

I didn’t know whether to hope a gunman would turn up – I could be a hero, shielding Nicki from the flying bullets – or not. Ideally not, on reflection.

‘She loved that church,’ said my mum, wiping away a tear. ‘And then they’ll bury her next to Mick. She loved him so much, and he died so young . . . oh, poor Julie. .
.’

She was off again.

‘Come on, Pen,’ said Dad. ‘Pull yourself together. You’re not family. Can’t have you wailing louder than the mourners.’

She sniffed, blew her nose, and said, ‘Thanks a lot, David, for your sympathy. I’m crying now so I won’t have to once we get there.’

‘Good to hear it. I hadn’t realised tears were a limited resource.’

‘Well, mine are, actually. I wouldn’t dream of making an exhibition of myself at the funeral. But it’s not just me. My sisters are just as upset.’

‘She was only your nanny,’ he said, turning a corner – without indicating, I noticed. A car beeped at us.

‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand.’

‘No, true, I wasn’t brought up knee-deep in loyal retainers.’

‘No, well, we can’t all grow up in the East End slums and battle our way out single-handed.’

‘No, we can’t,’ said Dad smugly.

Honestly, one downside of not being at boarding school is listening to them arguing all the time. Luckily they both work really long hours and go away a lot.

Then the satnav said, ‘You have reached your destination,’ and my dad sighed and said, ‘Here we go.’ We parked in a side road, a terrace of red-brick houses, not unlike
our road in Fulham, actually, except there was more rubbish in the street, and peeling paint on doors and windows, and there was no noise from builders digging out basements or converting
lofts.

The church is crammed in between a Cypriot bakery and something called a Private Shop. There’s an armed policeman on the doorstep and he quizzes us about who we are and why we’re
here. Mum explains and he lets us in. It’s like trying to get into a top nightclub.

Inside, about twenty people are scattered among the pews, someone’s playing gloomy tunes on the organ, and there are two more armed policemen.

‘An open coffin? Is that normal?’ whispers Dad, looking around as Mum crosses herself, and she nods and says, ‘Julie was always very traditional. That’s how they do it
back in Ireland.’

‘Jesus,’ says Dad, and Mum gives him a killer glare.

There are only about twenty people at the funeral, and more of them are related to me than are part of Ty’s other family. I feel a bit sorry for his gran – her coffin looks lonely.
Her daughters are there, obviously, and Danny, sitting behind them, next to some guy with a tangerine tan, a pink shirt and blinding white teeth.

Nicki looks gorgeous, as per usual, in a tight black suit which hugs her curves –
Lambeth North
– high heels and a shimmery white blouse, through which I can see . . .
Elephant and Castle
. Stop it, Archie. This is a funeral.

Her sister Emma isn’t bad, either – a bit plump, which isn’t a bad thing, with super-straight blonde hair. Then there’s the older one, Louise, who’s a teacher at an
international school somewhere weird. She looks a bit grim. I’ve met her before and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. She gives me a piercing stare, and I can see her
thoughts as though she had a speech bubble over her head.

Not at school?
she’s thinking.
Bet he’s been expelled again
.

There’s no sign of Ty.

‘Is he here?’ asks my mum, and Louise says, ‘They’re keeping him in a side room. They’ll just bring him in for the service. He’s had a bit of time to say
goodbye –’ she jerks her head towards the corpse, ‘– and he’s going to be allowed to help carry the coffin. That’s what Mum would’ve expected.’

‘Isn’t it very risky?’ says my mum, and Dad interrupts and says, ‘The place is crawling with armed police, Pen, I’m sure everything’s under control. Louise,
this must be incredibly difficult for you. When do you go back to Tashkent? Tomorrow? Good thinking.’

They start walking past the coffin, but I stay put.

‘How’s Ty?’ I ask. ‘Can I see him? After, maybe?’

Louise stares at me, a really searching look. Then she says, ‘They’re taking him away as soon as we’re done. This is your only chance. Come with me, quickly. I think he’d
like to see you.’

She clip-clops to the front of the church – every sound echoes in the emptiness – and opens a door.

‘Can we come in?’ she asks. ‘It’s only Archie.’

Ty’s sitting on a kitchen chair at a wooden table, gazing into space. He looks really zombified. He reminds me of Oscar’s brother Marcus when he’s really stoned and away with
the fairies.

I wonder how Ty’s got hold of weed, banged up in prison?

‘Yo, Ty,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about your gran.’

He narrows his eyes, tries to focus. ‘Archie?’

‘Yeah. How are you?’

He shrugs. I wish the guy standing guard – a prison officer, I guess – would go away.

‘Do they have PlayStation? What’s the food like? Have you made friends?’

‘Umm . . . yes they do. You have to earn it, though. Good behaviour.’

‘Have you earned it?’

‘Takes ages. I earned a radio.’

‘Oh, cool. You can listen to
Gardeners’ Question Time
.’

He gives me a half-smile.

‘What’s the food like?’

‘School dinners. All the time. And you can’t just have what you want, when you want it.’

‘Have you made friends there?’

‘Friends?’ He almost laughs. ‘Not really friends. Allies. Comrades. People who’ll watch my back.’

That doesn’t sound too bad. ‘It’s only for a few weeks,’ I say.

‘Yeah. As long as I behave myself.’

‘That’s kind of funny, ‘ I say, ‘because I got out of boarding school by not behaving myself.’

‘You are such a tosser,’ he says, but his eyes aren’t all spacey any more and there’s a glimmer of a smile on his face.

Then the organ tune changes and I get up to go.

‘Archie – can you . . . can you talk to Claire?’ he says.

‘Um, yeah, but what do you want me to say?’

Claire is Ty’s supposed girlfriend, except they never get to see each other, her parents think he’s the devil and his mum’s not all that keen on Claire, either. They’re
kind of obsessed with each other. Zoe – Claire’s really hot friend, who I’m sort of seeing in a casual, long-distance, Skypey way – says it’ll end in tears.

‘Will you just tell her about . . . about everything? I haven’t . . . I can’t. . .’

‘Yeah, sure, leave it to the Archmeister.’

I have not one clue in my head about how that conversation’s going to go, when I’m going to have it, or why he’s picked on me.

Actually, I’ve been avoiding talking to Zoe ever since Ty got sent to the Young Offender Institution because he got a bit upset one time when I only told her he’d been charged.
Zoe’s dad is a policeman, so I thought she’d know a bit about how Ty might get off. But he acted as if I’d broadcast it on the ten o’clock news. Talk about oversensitive.
Now he’s asking me to tell Claire everything. Some people just aren’t consistent.

Then the organ starts playing really loud and the prison officer says, ‘Here we go,’ and I have to find my parents, and five minutes later Ty’s sitting next to his auntie Emma
in the front pew.

Funerals are pretty awful, really. Apparently some people choose good music and stuff (I’d have something upbeat, like Chipmunk’s ‘Until You Were Gone’ and maybe some
guardsmen playing trumpets), but this time it’s all really depressing hymns and prayers and then the priest going on and on about Julie – about how she was a good daughter, and she
worked hard all her life, and she was a devoted wife and a loving mother and a wonderful grandmother and she touched the lives of all who knew her. Yawn.

It makes me think about what people might say at my funeral, which obviously (well, hopefully) won’t be for another sixty years at least. They’ll all be talking about what an amazing
guy I was, and all my wisecracks and how I was a rich and famous television presenter or rock star or actor, maybe. And there’ll be a queue of beautiful women throwing red roses as they file
out of the church, and maybe there’ll be a Union Jack over my coffin, because I’ll have died being a big hero, and it’ll be televised and the entire nation will be wearing black
and leaving flowers outside my mansion.