Another Life (8 page)

‘Don’t worry about me. It’s Ty you need to worry about.’

There’s another choking, gulping, sniffing pause. Mum’s voice is almost supernaturally inviting.

‘Why don’t you get it all off your chest? I’m sure you’ll feel better.’

‘I can’t talk to anyone else,’ he says. ‘All my friends – I mean, most of them haven’t even got children yet, or they have babies, but it’s all so much
simpler, I mean, no one else I know of my age has to deal with all of this . . . has a teenager. . .’

‘I know, I know,’ says Mum. She’s loads more tactful than Dad. He would’ve said, ‘Well you should have thought of that when you had a baby when you were in the
sixth form.’

‘I don’t feel old enough – I sit there in that Young Offender Institution, trying to talk to him, but I hardly know him and I’m thinking, look, I can’t do this.
I’m not grown-up enough. . .’

‘How’s Nicki coping?’ says Mum. ‘She must be grateful to have you there – to have your support.’

‘Terrible,’ he says. ‘Terrible. She won’t even see him. I’m so worried.’

‘Have a tissue.’

‘Thanks.’

Loud nose-blowing noise.

‘I called Emma last night – asked if Nicki and the baby could go and stay with her in Spain. It’s too much for me to deal with. I can’t do it, Pen.’

‘I know, you’re right,’ she says, which doesn’t strike me as wildly supportive.

‘And Ty . . . Ty, he’s. . .’

Mum’s phone rings. Damn. She goes into a long, loud, boring conversation about something at work, and I can hardly hear him sniffing and gulping and glugging more wine into his glass.

When she finally finishes the call, she fusses around finding him some chicken and salad and ciabatta. She never thinks about feeding me, I notice. Good thing Claire and I shared a pizza before
she got the train.

He says, ‘I can’t eat a thing. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Maybe. . .’ she pauses. ‘Maybe you should take someone along with you next time. You said they’re allowing him extra visits because of the circumstances – Julie
and all that. How about taking . . . I know you won’t like it, but—’

‘I am not taking Pa with me, if that’s what you mean.’

I bet it was, but she rallies quickly.

‘No, Danny, how about taking Archie? He and Ty are quite close now. Maybe it’d be good for them to see each other.’

Ah. I’m not sure this is a great idea. I’m not happy at all about the job Claire’s given me. I think I’d better wait until Ty’s out and free.

On the other hand, what if he tries to see her, goes berserk? Would it be my fault? Maybe he’s better off knowing about it when he’s nice and safe in prison, and everyone else is
nice and safe outside.

I’d like to spend time with Danny and persuade him that he needs me as an assistant in the studio to entertain celebrity clients. From the way he’s acting now, he’s not going
to be up to the job.

Danny’s voice is muffled. He must’ve decided to try the ciabatta, after all.

‘He’ll just be a pain.’

‘No he won’t. He’ll cheer Ty up. And Danny, maybe you can talk to him a bit about . . . you know . . . about why drugs aren’t a great idea. I’m worried about him.
We’ve always tried to keep him away from that London party lifestyle, but now he seems to have plunged in at the deep end. And I told you what they found in his room at Allingham
Priory.’

‘Pen, I’m not really the person for health education lectures.’

‘But Danny, you are. Really. You’ve had the experience, you see, and that’s what the kids listen to. Honestly. He’s much more likely to listen to you than to me or
David.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short, Pen. And as for David, I’m sure there are loads of stories he could tell. . .’

‘Yes, but that’s not a great idea, is it? We’ve always kept Archie away from . . . well. . . And I never got involved in anything at all.’

‘Yeah, right, big sister,’ he says and suddenly they’re both actually giggling, and I have no idea why. Mind you, it is laughable, the idea that my mum would ever do anything
even vaguely illegal.

‘How’s . . . what’s her name . . . Tess?’ says Mum, in her best I’m-not-very-interested voice.

‘Oh, we don’t really . . . I’m not so. . .’

‘Good. I thought she was a bit hard-faced.’

‘Oh, thanks Pen, nice of you to say so.’

‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘Nicki?’

‘Just a friend. It’s best that way.’

‘I’m sorry, Danny.’

‘Don’t be.’

Argh! I’ve got cramp! I writhe around silently, but then I crash into a massive cactus, which topples over, spraying me with dirt and spiking my chest. I yelp in agony.

‘Archie?’ says Mum. ‘What are you doing there? What have you done to Bertha?’

‘Who the hell is Bertha?’ asks Danny.

‘It’s my name for the cactus. It reminds me of my mother-in-law – large and prickly. What were you doing in there, anyway?’

‘Oh um, nothing. . .’ I say, painfully disengaging from the vicious plant.

‘Maybe he came in through the cat flap,’ says Danny.

Huh. I’ll do the sarcasm around here . . . or actually, that’s my dad’s speciality.

‘We don’t even have a cat,’ says Mum.

‘I’m starving! When are you going to feed me?’

She flicks a tea towel at me. ‘Now, but you’re naughty to spy on people. Too much time on your hands, that’s your problem.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ I point out, before I remember that actually it is.

‘Well, you’ll be busy from next week. You’re going to start at Butler’s.’ I must have looked blank, because she says, ‘The tutorial college that Lily might go
to. Her mum’s thinking of transferring her. Costs an arm and a leg, but you’ll get through your GCSEs very quickly with intensive teaching in small groups.’

The cramp disappears instantly, I forget Bertha’s prickles. I’m leaping around with excitement.

‘Woo! Thanks Ma! You mean I can stay here? Woo!’ I give her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

‘Sweet,’ says Danny gloomily, helping himself to another glass of wine.

Mum looks really pleased and she’s already forgotten that I was spying on them.

‘You’ll have to work hard,’ she says.

‘I will! I promise!’

‘If Dad and I are both away at the same time then you’ll have to stay with Marina or Elizabeth.’

I like my aunts, but I know what I’d prefer.

‘Umm Danny, couldn’t I stay with you sometimes?’

He looks startled. ‘What? I don’t think so, Archie. I can’t even stay in my flat at the moment – since Ty was attacked there the police think it might be dangerous.
I’m kipping at my studio – it’s not that big.’

‘I’d really like to come and see it, anyway.’

He raises an eyebrow – just like my grandpa does – and says, ‘Maybe. One day.’

‘When Ty’s out, we can come together.’

He sighs. ‘It’s not going to be that easy for Ty.’

‘But I thought everything was OK now. The criminals are all locked up and once he gets out of . . . you know . . . he’ll have a normal life.’

Danny puts his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he says – at least, I think that’s what he says, it’s a bit of a muffled mumble.

‘Are you staying here, Danny?’ asks Mum, and he says no, he’ll get a cab.

I go upstairs and I think about Skyping Zoe. I feel bad. She is meant to be my girlfriend.

But I don’t do it. Instead I think about Claire and what I’m going to tell Ty and how nice it was to talk to Claire, and how I’m going to be in London and free to go where I
want and see who I want to see, and do what I want.

Life is full of possibilities.

How lucky am I?

B
utler’s Tutorial College isn’t like any other school I’ve ever heard of. It’s not like a school at all.

There’s no uniform, no real classrooms, hardly any rules and not that many pupils. I’m doing English GCSE in a group of five, Maths in a group of four, History with just two others.
You can actually talk to the teacher properly during the lessons, ask questions and discuss things and stuff.

There are advantages to having parents who are loaded, besides the obvious electronic goods.

‘We aim to get you through the curriculum in a year,’ says Richard, who’s my supposed ‘base tutor’ – that’s what they call form masters here –
although all that means is that I can go to him with any general questions I’ve got, or problems and stuff. He’s the only person in the place who’s wearing a tie, although even so
he manages to look pretty cool, with his slicked-back dark hair and cool steel-rimmed glasses. ‘It’s hard work, but hopefully you’ll find it interesting.’

I don’t think any teacher has ever cared if I find the work interesting before. This is great.

I’ve done a week at Butler’s and so far, I’d say it’s like heaven on earth, assuming you have to do GCSEs in heaven. It’s going to be a breeze. I’ll even have
loads of free time to do whatever I want.

Today I’ve got English for the first time. My teacher loads me up with booklists –
Romeo and Juliet, Of Mice and Men, An Inspector Calls
. He’s set me a creative writing
assignment – imagine you’re an American soldier in Iraq – which shouldn’t take too long to polish off. Bang, bang, bang, look at all the corpses, look at the sand, why the
hell are we here? Whoosh! I’m dead, sort of thing.

Then it’s the student lounge to wait for thirty minutes before a session with the Maths guy. I tell you, they don’t sweat it here.

I’ve bought a coke from the machine and I’m texting Claire from my iPhone – just seeing if she’s OK – and I’m admiring the female talent on display. The girls
here are gorgeous, sure, but lots of them are kind of older-looking and a bit sneery. There are all sorts here, kids from all over the world. Some have got in on scholarships. So it’s a lot
more mixed than any other school I’ve ever been to. You never know who you’re going to be talking to.

Lily advised me to stay a little bit separate, not talk too much, keep the girls wondering. It’s not my natural way, but it seems to work. In English, a girl called Sophie (blonde, long
legs in skinny jeans) smiled at me and asked my name, and although I can’t see her in the lounge right now, maybe she’ll come and chat later.

Right in front of me are two girls talking about some club they went to last night, and one of them catches my eye and asks if I’ve been there.

‘Nah,’ I say, not liking to admit that I’m way too young to confidently blag my way into clubs. ‘I’ve not been in London much. Only just come back.’

And then a guy sitting opposite me looks up. He’s staring at me. I try and ignore him, and carry on talking to the girls. They’re called Georgia and Paige, they live in Chelsea and
Holland Park, and they left their old school after an epidemic of anorexia.

‘My parents thought this would be a better environment,’ says Georgia. Paige laughs. ‘Little did they know.’

They ask me which groups I’m in, will they see me at lunchtime, am I on Facebook? We whip out our iPhones.

‘I’m having a party, Saturday. Want to come?’ says Paige.

And then they wander off to their Biology class.

He hasn’t stopped staring. Creepy. As soon as they’ve gone, he leans towards me. He’s a tall, spotty guy, long, gangly legs and arms, head slightly too small for his body.
Hollister jeans, Superdry hoodie, black Converses. It’s what passes for a uniform in this place.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hey,’ I reply.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

I don’t recognise him, but that means nothing. Since Lily styled my profile picture on Facebook (a great pose, mid-air on a skateboard, I look supercool) I’ve been getting loads of
friend requests. I’ve gone from an embarrassing 220 friends to a respectable 740. I know the whole of west London (the independent school bit, anyway). I just wouldn’t necessarily
recognise them in the street.

So I say, ‘Oh yeah, hi mate.’

‘From school – you were at my old school,’ he says. I don’t remember him at all. He must’ve been at prep school – maybe in the year above. I shrug.

‘Yeah, from school,’ I say.

‘So – how are you?’ He seems a bit nervous.

‘Uh. Fine.’

‘Did it all . . . you know . . . sort itself out, when you were out of London?’

Maybe he was at boarding school number one and remembers me getting expelled. I scan my memory, but it’s a bit blurred. I’ve been having loads of late nights, plus getting stoned
maybe three times a week. I’m going to have to timetable in a bit more sleep in the mornings.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m here now and it seems great. Just started last week.’

‘It is great here,’ he says. ‘What a contrast, eh? And everyone here’s a bit different. But it’s pricey, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘So that’s why . . . I was a bit surprised. . .’

I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t finish his sentence. It’s all a bit awkward. I take a swig of coke and stand up.

‘Nice to see you again,’ I say. ‘Umm, sorry, I’m not sure I remember your name.’

‘Kenny,’ he says, ‘Kenny Pritchard.’

‘Oh right,’ I say. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if someone called Kenny had friended me on Facebook. It’s not exactly a normal name.

‘Archie,’ I say. ‘Archie Stone.’

His face flickers a look of doubt and then he says, ‘Oh right. I’ve heard about that kind of thing. OK, right. Archie. Archie Stone.’

OK, this Kenny guy is a weirdo. I’m going to have to make an exit. I start putting my stuff in my bag.

‘So . . . we’re all right then, Archie? No hard feelings?’

Is that some kind of euphemism? Is he coming on to me? I’m going to have to ask Oscar about this kind of thing. It must happen to him all the time.

‘Absolutely none at all, whatsoever,’ I say warily.

‘It was my parents . . . my mum, really. She said I should do it,’ he says in a rush.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh. Oh right. OK,
Archie
. Fair enough.’

‘Err . . . I’ve got to go to Maths.’

‘I’m sorry, you know, if I caused you any trouble.’

‘You haven’t caused me any trouble.’ Better humour him. I have no idea what he’s on about.