In the Bag (17 page)

He starts walking off round the pit, where the sheet of corrugated iron has been thrown. I follow him. We pick it up and take it to where it was before, to the patch of light-coloured, flattened grass. We put it down and then we get away from the common as quickly as we can.

When we’re back on the main road, cycling home, Ash takes his hood off and looks at me. For a second I think he’s gonna say something, like maybe, ‘
Sorry about lying to you
.’ But he doesn’t. He looks ahead again and keeps on going.

We get to the top of Ash’s road without exchanging a single word. We both stop. We sit on our bikes. A few moments pass without us looking at each other or even speaking. It feels sort of awkward. I look up at Ash. He’s kind of slumped over the handlebars of his bike, looking down at the tarmac. He looks totally pissed off. I feel like I should at least say something to fill the silence, if nothing else.

‘Do you think they’ll notice there’s stuff missing from the bag?’

Ash looks up all of a sudden. ‘What?’

I stare back at him. There’s a weird look on his face and I don’t know what it means. ‘The money,’ I say. ‘We spent some of it. Do you think they’ll notice?’

He keeps looking at me with that weird expression on his face. It’s like he’s accusing me of something. Then he looks away again, at someone’s front garden. He shakes his head. ‘Who cares?’ he says. ‘They don’t know who we are, so they can hardly come and ask for it back, can they? It’s over.’

I suppose he’s right. I hope so. I put my foot on the pedal and my hands on the handlebars and I go home.

Ash

Dad’s car isn’t in the drive any more. Probably just as well. Cos if I saw him right now I’d probably do something stupid – something I’d regret for the rest of my life. I leave my bike out the front and go inside, run straight upstairs to the back bedroom.

The room looks like nothing’s been touched. All the sheets are pristine, like no one’s been here, like Dad didn’t come back with someone. Like I imagined it all. I begin to doubt myself. Maybe I did imagine it.

I turn and leave the room, go back down the stairs, into the kitchen. I heard Dad in here earlier. The draining board’s empty. I open up the dishwasher and pull out the drawers with a dull clunk. Nothing in there except the plates from last night, a couple of mugs and the breakfast stuff from this morning. No sign that anyone’s been home during the day. I shove the drawers back, close the dishwasher. And then I just stand, staring, not really even thinking. Lost. Empty.

After a while I go over to the cupboard, grab a pint glass and fill it with water. Then I head back up the stairs to my room and shut the door behind me. I go over to my iPod and switch it on, turn it up loud.

A bit later I hear the front door shut and Mum putting her keys down on the worktop in the kitchen.

‘
Ashley, I’ve got your tea here,’ she shouts up the stairs.

My mind is made up. I wait a second, try and prepare myself. Not that anything could prepare me for this. And then I go downstairs, taking each step slowly. As I get to the bottom the smell of Chinese takeaway hits my nose. Mum’s in the kitchen, getting plates and bowls and cutlery out, opening takeaway cartons. She looks up and smiles as I walk towards her. I think about coming straight out with it. Telling her now. I open my mouth and try and think what to say. But I can’t do it. Maybe it’s the smile on her face. Maybe I’m just too much of a coward. I don’t know.

‘You OK, Ashley?’ Mum says without looking at me. ‘I got some takeaway in.’

I look at the food so I don’t have to look at Mum. ‘Chinese?’ I say, cos I don’t know what else to say.

‘Yeah. Barbecued ribs, sweet and sour pork, special fried rice, beef in oyster sauce,’ she says, pointing at each of the cartons. ‘Thought we could have a treat. Your dad won’t be back till late as usual, I expect.’

I look up at her for a second, expecting to see a look in her eye, like maybe she knows what I know about Dad. But she’s not even looking at me, she’s just scraping the food into bowls. I walk past her. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yeah,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve been dying for a coffee all afternoon.’

So I grab the kettle and fill it, take it over to the side and plug it in. I fetch two mugs and the jar of coffee and spoon some into each cup. And then I stare out of the back window into the garden. My mind starts to wander, about what happened today. About the bag. About Dad. It’s been some shitty day. And it can only get worse.

‘Penny for them,’ Mum says.

I turn round. ‘Uh?’

‘Your thoughts,’ Mum says. ‘Penny for your thoughts. You were miles away.’

I nod and smile, but it isn’t a real smile. I try and think of something to say. Do I tell her now? I look away from her. ‘Just thinking about exams and stuff,’ I say.

Mum smiles. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘don’t you worry about that. Whatever grades you get, we’ll both be proud of you.’

Which is a lie. I know. Cos Dad has been on my back for weeks about revising and making something of my life. But I smile back at Mum anyway, or at least I try. ‘I know. Thanks.’

Mum goes through to the lounge carrying a tray of Chinese food. I stare out the back door at the garden, wait for the kettle to boil, cursing myself for not saying anything to her. When the kettle boils, I make the coffee and carry the mugs through to the lounge.

‘Thanks, love,’ Mum says.

I put my mug down and help myself to some food. Normally if Mum had brought Chinese home for tea I’d pile my plate high cos I love Chinese food. But right now I don’t feel hungry. I don’t feel like eating at all.

Mum’s put the TV on. There’s some talent show blaring out. I sit and watch as I try to eat. There’s a man on there juggling chairs. It looks impossible. He drops one and then they all come tumbling down to the ground. He gets buzzed out by the judges.

Mum laughs. ‘That wasn’t very good,’ she says. ‘You at least should have rehearsed if you’re gonna go on national telly.’

I nod my head. Although, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit about talent shows. They’re lame.

I scoop a forkful of special fried rice into my mouth as the next act comes on. It’s a father-and-son act. They say they’re gonna tap-dance. Jesus.

‘Oh, I like these,’ Mum says, watching the screen, her fork hovering above her plate.

‘Mum,’ I say.

‘Yes?’ she says. She keeps staring at the screen as the dad and his kid tap-dance.

‘What time’s Dad gonna be home?’

Mum doesn’t answer. I don’t know if she’s even heard me – she’s just staring at the screen and smiling. ‘What?’ she says. ‘Oh, your father? I don’t know. Late, I should think.’

I don’t say anything. I just think. She can’t have a clue what’s going on, what Dad’s really up to, otherwise she wouldn’t say it like that, would she? She’d be angry, bitter. She’d feel like I do.

‘Why’s he always working late?’

Mum sighs. She turns and looks at me. The adverts come on the TV. ‘To keep his business afloat,’ she says. ‘It’s not easy running your own company.’

I sigh. I want to go over to Mum and shake her. I want to shout the truth at her. I don’t want to keep this secret on my own. I want her to know.

‘Sometimes he comes home at eleven at night, though, Mum,’ I say. ‘He can’t be working right through till then, can he?’

Mum takes a sip of her coffee and puts the mug back down on the side table. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, who else is gonna be around at that time?’ I say. ‘What business can he be doing?’

Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s lots he can be doing,’ she says.
‘
Accounts. Phoning clients in America. All sorts.’

I sigh. I can’t believe she’s defending him. I have to tell her. She turns back to the TV as the next act on the dumb talent show starts. ‘Mum,’ I say. My voice comes out uneven.

‘Yes,’ she says. She doesn’t look at me.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

She still doesn’t turn round.

‘Something important.’

Mum turns to look at me. She smiles.

I open my mouth. ‘I . . .’ I stop. I don’t know how to say this. ‘I . . . Dad . . .’

Mum sighs. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Spit it out. I’m missing my programme.’

I look down at the floor. I can’t believe I can’t say this. I never have a problem with words. They always come easy to me, they’re always just there. They usually come out before I’ve even had a chance to think about them.

And then I hear Dad’s car pulling into the driveway.

Mum turns and looks out of the window at the drive. ‘Speak of the devil.’

I get up. There’s no way I can tell her now. I run up the stairs and shut my door just as I hear the front door open and Dad come in.

THURSDAY

Joe

I slept OK last night. I didn’t think I was going to. I felt on edge all evening, even though we got rid of the money. It was like there was too much adrenalin in my body. I was jumpy as hell. I couldn’t stop thinking. I was expecting the guy who wanted the bag to turn up at any minute and come crashing through my door. I kept thinking about the text message. But I guess I tired myself out thinking about it all cos when my head hit the pillow I must’ve gone straight to sleep.

The first thing I do after I’ve woken up is go and switch my computer on and check the news. Cos I have to set my mind at rest, I have to know that no one’s taken the bag to the police or anything like that. I try the local news first. And there’s nothing there about the bag, or the car, or the body. Just the story from yesterday morning. I try a couple of other sites as well – a couple of national newspapers. But there’s no mention of it at all.

I switch my computer off and sigh. I feel better in a way. I mean, at least there isn’t a story saying that the bag’s been handed in and they’re running forensic tests on it or anything. But I still have a weird feeling. I still don’t feel at ease. I feel edgy, nervous. But I’m sure it won’t last. The last couple of days have scared me.

After breakfast, I get my bag and stuff together and go downstairs. Out the front door and up the road. The sun’s out, though it’s not that warm. I’m the first one at the bus stop. I stand at the edge of the pavement and look down, at the gravel that’s come off someone’s drive. I kick it over the edge of the pavement into a drain. Each stone disappears with a tiny
plop
.

Gradually more and more people turn up at the bus stop. No sign of Ash, though. To be honest, I’m not that bothered after yesterday. I’d quite happily not see him today. But just before the bus is due to arrive, he comes walking slowly down the road. His school shirt is untucked and he’s got a big pair of white trainers on. His hair’s all over the place, like mine usually is. He looks at me as he gets near to the stop and nods his head in greeting. He doesn’t smile. He barges a couple of Year Eights out of the way instead of walking around them.

‘You all right, Ash?’ I say.

He nods his head. ‘Yeah,’ he says kind of defensively. ‘Why shouldn’t I be all right?’

It takes me sort of by surprise. What’s he got to be angry about? ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I start, but I don’t bother finishing my sentence. He’s already looking away. Besides, surely he should be the one apologising to me.

The bus pulls up at the stop a few metres from where me and Ash are standing. He barges straight through the queue. ‘Get out the way, munchkins,’ he says. ‘Year Elevens coming through.’

I follow behind him. We’re on first. We go right to the back of the bus and sit down.

‘You got a note for yesterday?’ I say, as all the other kids get on the bus.

He looks at me like I’m being a div, like, ‘
Why on earth would you need a sick note for missing a day of school?
’ He shakes his head.

‘Suit yourself, then,’ I say. ‘I typed one on the computer and forged my mum’s signature.’

Ash just shrugs. ‘Who cares?’ he says. ‘We’re leaving school tomorrow anyway. What can they do?’ He looks out of the window and ignores me the rest of the way to school. Which is fine by me.

Ash

The sooner I leave this place, the better. I’ve had enough of people telling me what I can and can’t do, had enough of wearing a uniform, doing pointless homework and all that bullshit. I’ve had enough of all the other plebs at school as well, hanging around, thinking they’re cool. The end of this week can’t come soon enough, believe me.

The bell has already gone for the start of morning registration. Most people have gone to their tutor rooms. But I’m still in the playground, walking slowly. I’m in no rush. Eventually I go in through the doors, look left and right along the corridor. There’s no one about. All the good little boys and girls are in their classrooms, listening to what their teachers have to say, doing what they’re told, so their mummies and daddies will be proud of them. Suckers.

I look across towards the main school door and size it up. I could just go. The door has an alarm on it. I’ve seen visitors and stuff go through it before, but no one ever pays any attention to the alarm. And even if they did, I’d be gone by the time anyone noticed. They wouldn’t catch up with me. And it’s not like I’m gonna be missing much – what are they gonna teach us in the last two days of school that we don’t already know? If they had anything decent to teach me they would have done it by now.