The Mute and the Liar (5 page)

22
nd
February
2011

T
he
gang
that hang around
the street outside my house have been acting
weird
all
week.
They’ve
gradually
started
to
filter
in
again.
It
started
off
with
just
a
couple
of
them,
and
now
they’re
all
back
at
once,
clumping
together
like
penguins.

I’ve
taken
a
liking
to
watching
them
hang
out
in
the
park
through
my
bedroom
window.
For
the
past
few
days
all
I
have
done
is
sit
on
the
floor
in
front
of
my
radiator,
which
is
below
my
window,
with
a
newspaper
and
my
laptop
in
my
hands
to
look
over
crimes,
scribble
in
this
notebook,
and
occasionally
look out
of
the
window
to
see
what
they’re
up to. My room is
on
the top
floor,
so
they
can’t
see
me looking down at
them.

Sometimes
I
can
only
see
the
tops
of
their
shaved
or
brightly
dyed
heads.
But
other
times,
if
they’re
close
enough
and
talking
loudly
enough,
I
can
even
hear
them.
They
always
seem
to
be
discussing
parties
or
alcohol
or
llamas.
Don’t
ask.

It’s
quite
refreshing
watching
them.
It’s
almost
like
I’m
experiencing
that
wild
life
teenagers
are
supposed
to
have.
Close
enough
to
touch
it, but
safe.

I’ve started
noticing
a
few
things
about
them
I
hadn’t
before.

Firstly, the liquid inside
their
Lucozade
bottles
is
beer.
They
are
so
proud of
themselves
for
thinking
up
that
diabolical
plan.
They
think
they
are
such
geniuses.
They
think
that
ten
drunken
teenagers
each
carrying
their
own
bottle
of
Lucozade
isn’t
even
the tiniest
bit
odd.

Secondly,
it
seems
any
plan,
any
opinion,
no,
any
idea
that
flashes
across
their
minds
has
to
be
approved
of
by
the
two
leaders
of
the
group:
the
Ringleader,
and
the
gothic
girl
with
the
frizzy,
dark
blue
hair
that
was
talking
to
him
the
other
day.

She’s
quite
striking,
actually.
She
has
this
ashen
face
that’s
completely
devoid
of
emotion,
with smouldering
expressionless
eyes
that
could make
her
the
world’s
greatest
poker
player.
It’s
impossible
to
guess
what
she’s
thinking,
or
whether
she
even
thinks
at
all. Her
presence is like death
to
the others. She
floats
by,
unwelcome,
but
inevitable,
shivers
away
their
smiles,
and
yet
they
have no
choice
but
to
endure
her.

Then,
the
moment
she
sees
The
Ringleader,
everything
changes.
In
the
space of
a
crack
of
lightning, her
face sparks
up and the
coals
she has
for
eyes
explode
with
fireworks.
Suddenly
she’s
laughing
and
dancing
and
shaking
every part
of
her
body
in
his face...

It’s
unearthly.

In
a
way,
I
feel
a
little
sorry
for
her.
It
seems
he’s
the
only
thing
that
can
make her
smile.
And
yet
he
barely looks
at
her.

And the last
thing
I’ve
noticed
is
something
I
wish
I
hadn’t.

Every
so
often, they
stop
their
conversation,
and
look
up
at
my
house.

*****

Can I
come
with
you?
Please
please please
please?

There’s
been
a
hit-and-run! Isn’t
this
exciting?
I
love
a
good
hit-and-run.

Sorry
about
the
writing
at
the
beginning
of
this
page.
I
had
to
send
some
messages
to
father
and
I
didn’t
have
any
other
paper
handy.
I’ve
given
up
trying
to
talk
to
him
in
sign
language;
he
just
stares
at
me
with
a
blank,
bewildered
expression
like
I’ve
just
gone
up
to
him
and
started
doing
the
aeroplane safety gestures.

We
got
the
news
after
lunch.
The
moment
I
found out
I
knew
I
had
to
go
to
the
crime
scene.
I
mean,
it’s
a
hit-and-run
for
goodness’
sake!
Dad
takes
me
with
him
sometimes
if
it’s
something
like
this,
taking
place
in
the
middle
of
a
town,
because
he
can
drop
me
off
as
near
as
they’ll
let
me
go,
and
then
I
can
just
go and
do some
shopping
or
walk
around,
and
we
can
meet
up later.

I
tried
sending
him
the
first
message
with
big,
puppy
dog
eyes,
but
he
was
hesitant,
so
I
had
to
write
him
another
page of
‘pleases.’
He gave in.