The Bex Factor (20 page)

‘I’m kind of sleepy right now.’

She walks into my room and sits down in the armchair. ‘I want to sing, Matthew; not what someone tells me to sing, but something I really love. Have you got your guitar up here?’

They call me ‘the boy with the guitar’, but most of the time I just have to mime until the chorus. ‘It’s under the bed.’

‘And do you think you could play this?’ She hands me a leather-bound book of Celtic folk songs with a dried daffodil marking the place.

‘Sure. Just give me a minute to tune up.’

Elizabeth’s voice sounds even more amazing in such a small space. By the time we get to the second verse of ‘An Eriskay Love Lilt’ I almost forget what I’m worrying
about. Music can do that sometimes – take you to a totally different place. And I’m beginning to feel human again when my phone starts ringing.

‘
When I
’
m lonely, dear white heart, black the night or wild the sea, by love
’
s light my foot finds the old pathway to
. . . Hadn’t you better answer
that, Matthew?’

‘I don’t know I —’

‘Go on,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It might be important.’

My thumb hovers above the green button. I’m not exactly desperate to talk to her right now, but some kind of instinct makes me take the call.

‘Look, don’t hang up,’ says Bex. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

I thought she’d be swearing at me by now. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s your mum,’ she says. ‘When we got home, she kind of . . . collapsed.’

‘What? Where is she?’

‘We’re all at the hospital – the General. I had to come out to the car park to use my phone.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

Nikki takes it surprisingly well when she finds out about Mum. She even arranges for a car to take me straight to the hospital. And I’m still apologising when I get into
the back seat of the plush red Jaguar. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not something I really like talking about.’

‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ says Nikki, climbing in next to me, her eyes twinkling in the darkness. ‘On the way there, you can tell me the whole story.’

Bex

I nearly cried when Dad’s van pulled up in the car park. The cubicle is so crowded that Kyle takes Emily to ‘look for dead bodies’ while we wait for the
doctor to come back from Australia or wherever she’s been, and discharge Sue. Dad paces the cubicle, taking two steps towards the empty bed and two steps back to the heart monitor while
whistling that duet from
Chess
.

Mum’s still in her OneStop uniform. ‘I was dead worried,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You did really well, love,’ says Mum. ‘I’m proud of you.’ She gives me another cuddle and then chews her bottom lip, like she always does when she tells me off.
‘But I warned you it would be difficult, didn’t I, Bex? They shouldn’t really have asked you, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ says Nat, wiping baby sick off her sweatshirt. ‘That was well out of order, that was.’

‘I thought she was going to die,’ I say. ‘You should have seen her, Mum. She looked so . . .’

‘I am
here
you know,’ says Mrs Layton, who’s sitting in her wheelchair bouncing Yasmin on her knee.

‘Sorry, pet,’ says Mum. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘That’s OK,’ says Sue, blowing a raspberry on Yazz’s tummy. ‘It’s true, anyway; we should never have asked Bex to do what she did. To be quite honest, I
didn’t think she’d stay the course. Anyway, I’m fine now. The doctor says it’s definitely not another flare-up – thank God. And you’re right, you should be very
proud of her, she’s a talented girl. Which reminds me, Bex – when you can spare a moment, I’ve got a little proposition to put to you.’

But before my head gets too big for the cubicle, the curtain slides open, and in rushes Matthew.

‘Mum, Mum,’ he says, almost going arse over tit on the heart monitor. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Mrs Layton, making funny faces at Yasmin. ‘We’re just waiting to go home.’

‘I didn’t mean to stress you out,’ says Matthew. ‘I just thought . . .’ And I almost feel sorry for him, until Kyle walks in with Emily and he stops grovelling and
goes mental. ‘What’s
he
doing with my sister?’

‘All right, Geez?’ says Kyle. ‘Just getting your mum a cup of tea from the machine.’

I know she only likes organic Earl Grey with a dash of lemon, but Sue Layton hands Yasmin back to Natalie and takes a pretend sip from the plastic cup. ‘Thanks, Kyle, that was very
thoughtful of you.’

‘You do know who he is, don’t you, Mum?’ says Matthew. ‘It’s that psycho kid I told you about from school. You know, the one the police had to drag down from the
roof?’

‘Because there was a cat up there,’ says Emily. ‘Kyle told me all about it.’

‘He never told me,’ says Dad.

‘And you believed him, I suppose,’ says Matthew.

‘My brother is
not
a liar,’ I say, wanting to wipe that silly smirk off his smug little face. And I’m just about to smack him one when a massive bouquet of flowers
floats into the cubicle and starts talking in a voice that brings back some terrible memories.

‘All right if I come in?’

Nikki Hardbody chucks the bouquet on to the bed. ‘And how’s the patient?’

‘She’s fine,’ I say, wondering what that cow is up to. ‘Now I think you’d better clear off.’

‘And you must be the sainted Bex,’ says Nikki Hardbody. ‘Matthew says you’ve been an absolute treasure.’

‘Really?’

‘He said he couldn’t have done it without your help. That’s why I want you and your . . .
charming
family to be my guests at the final next week – especially that
delightful baby.’

‘Sweet,’ says Kyle, giving Emily a high five.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think I might be —’

Nikki’s face lights up when she sees Sue Layton. ‘And you must be Matt’s amazing mother. He’s told me all about you.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ says Sue.

‘You’d better believe it,’ says Nikki, giving Yasmin a playful pinch on the cheek. ‘That’s why I’ve got something very special planned for the final;
that’s why I want you to be the ‘guest of honour’.

Yasmin howls, like she’s trying to warn us or something.

Sue Layton takes the hint. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

‘But Matt needs you there, don’t you, Matt?’ says Nikki.

Matthew stares at the heart monitor.

‘It’s a bit difficult with the chair,’ says Sue.

Nikki closes in on her prey. ‘Don’t worry we’ll send a car. And besides, it’ll be your chance to put the record straight. After all, Mervyn’s had
his
say,
hasn’t he? Come on, what do you say?’

And I’m like,
Nooooo, don
’
t do it, you dozy cow
.

But Sue Layton is
so
not a mind reader. ‘Well, all right then,’ she says. ‘If you really think Matthew needs me there.’

Matthew

I’ve been up this hill over a thousand times, but never in a limo before. The camera crew are waiting outside the main gate to get a shot of me looking out the window at
the sign with
St Thomas
’
s Community College (Headteacher: Mr D Edmonds MA)
on it.

Elizabeth’s lucky, all she has to do is walk around her village with her dog Archie and sign autographs in the cattle market. Twilight’s gone back to her boarding school in Surrey
and I’m supposed to be playing along with the popular adult myth that your schooldays are the happiest days of your life.

It’s been a hard week. Apart from learning two new songs for the final, and touring the country in
The Tingle Factor
Battle Bus, I’ve been trying to get my head around
Twilight. She was happy to hold hands outside the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry and ride Nemesis with me at Alton Towers, but she wants to wait until ‘all this craziness is
over’ before we take our relationship to the next level. Makes sense, I suppose. We’ll be able to get to know each other away from the media circus, and at least Elizabeth taught me to
play Backgammon so – apart from Mr Packham’s lesson on the correct use of apostrophes – I was never bored on the bus.

Our esteemed head boy, Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams is waiting for me at community reception. He greets me like a long lost friend and pretends to ignore the camera crew. ‘Hello, Matt,
great to have you back at St Thomas’s. They’re all waiting for you.’

Curtis Morgan always said school was a popularity contest that kids like us could never win. So why isn’t he here to see my moment of glory as I walk on to the stage? The banner with
Matt Layton – St Thomas
’
s Finest
looks like the work of Miss Gough and the art department, but you couldn’t fake that deafening roar. Even the Year Eleven boys stamp
their feet and whistle and the girls scream and throw their sweatshirts at me. Most of them didn’t know who I was six weeks ago, and the ones who did wouldn’t exactly have crossed the
street to pass the time of day. The only voice of dissent is Bex’s friend Shezza, who stands in the front row waving a placard saying,
Love rat go home
.

The demon headmaster finally gets them to calm down. He pats me on the back and pretends to ignore the film crew: ‘I’m sure you’d all like to thank Matt for taking time out of
his busy schedule to be with his old friends at St Thomas’s. Our recent, highly successful Ofsted report showed just how far we’ve come in the last five and half terms and I’m
sure Matt’s achievements can only emphasise the mission statement I put in place when I took over as your headteacher: “
Holistic education for organic achievers
”.’ He
points at Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams, who’s operating my backing track on the school DVD player. ‘And now, without further ado, take it away, Matt!’

I’ve sung ‘The Final Countdown’ in every shopping centre in Great Britain so I can concentrate on checking out the audience. I can’t believe she’s not here. I know
Bex was furious about the party, but I kind of thought she’d turn up to support me.

After the applause dies down, I stand behind a desk at the front, flanked by Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams and a couple of prefects, while they all line up with scraps of bog paper and their
exercise books for me to sign. Even Mr Catchpole asks for an autograph (‘for my nephew’) and Miss Hoolyhan drops by to say well done and that she thinks it’s a pity I don’t
get to play my guitar more. (Like I’m going to start explaining the ins and outs of the music business to the conductor of the wind band!)

After twenty minutes my wrist is aching, I can’t believe how many of them think we’re old mates, and I have to get out. ‘I need the loo for a second. Don’t worry, I know
where it is.’

‘All right, calm down you lot,’ shouts Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams. ‘Matt’s going to take a short break. I don’t want anyone pushing in.’

Losing the film crew is a doddle in this place. I follow a familiar route across the courtyard, behind the rubbish bins by the canteen and past the all-weather basketball courts until I come to
my old sanctuary. It’s kind of reassuring that the chess players and that weird girl who’s always reading still hang out at The Millennium Pagoda.

And
there
’
s
someone else I’m pleased to see. Curtis Morgan must have changed his image at least three times since we used to hang out. Just now he’s got this
Emo-lite thing going. If you look really closely you can still see the remains of last weekend’s eye-liner.