My mum arrives back at about 9 pm on Sunday, just as I’m ironing a shirt for school the next day. She’s pale and dazed, blinking like she’s just woken up. I put the iron down and come and hug her. ‘Hi, Nic. How was Gran?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says in a faraway little voice. ‘They took her away from us. And then they put us in some hotel place. . . And then we were there, and now we’re here, except Emma and Lou are somewhere else. I don’t know where.’
I wonder if it was a hotel at all. She’s acting like she’s been in a loony bin. ‘It was because of the shooting,’ I say impatiently. ‘They had to move you in a hurry.’
‘Oh God, yes, the shooting,’ says Nicki, like she’s a TV and someone’s turned her on. ‘You could have been killed. Are you all right? Oh, God, Ty.’
‘Yes, yes, would I be doing the ironing if I’d been shot?’
The screen goes blank. ‘Oh. I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything.’
‘They must have told you that I was OK.’
‘I suppose so.’ She’s doubtful. ‘They talk to Louise mostly and she doesn’t tell me anything.’
Maureen has been listening to this, standing tactfully by the door and she comes over and puts her arm around my mum. ‘Nicki, love, you have a good sleep now and you’ll feel more like yourself in the morning. I was wondering, would you like me to see if I can stay on a few days? Just to help you get back on your feet again, and tell you how Ty’s been doing while you’ve been away.’
Nicki looks like there’s no one there at all. ‘Yes, whatever you want,’ she says. ‘Whatever. . .’ and her voice trails off and she wanders out of the room.
‘Blimey,’ says Maureen, ‘what is she on? I’d better go and help her get ready for bed. She’s so away with the fairies that I don’t think she can even do that. Don’t you worry, Ty, whatever my boss says, I’m not going anywhere in a hurry.’
I just bend my head over the ironing and concentrate very, very hard on getting all the creases out. I iron six shirts, five handkerchiefs, ten T-shirts and two pairs of trousers. I move on to tea towels, underpants and even socks. When there’s nothing left in the house that I could possibly iron, I gather together all the books I’m going to need for the morning. And then I find an episode of The Simpsons on telly and I watch it without laughing once.
Doug and Maureen come and sit either side of me. ‘OK, Ty, I am definitely going to stay,’ says Maureen. ‘Doug thinks your mum may just be a bit out of it because she had a sleeping pill in the car, so you should see a great change in her in the next few days.’
‘She was a bit like this in the hospital,’ I say doubtfully.
‘She’s been under a lot of stress,’ says Doug. ‘She just needs some recovery time.’
Why can’t she just keep calm and carry on like me? It’s not as though she was the one who was shot at, or the one who’s going to have to get up in court and tell her story, or even the main person involved here anyway. Stress . . . it’s just an excuse really. An excuse for being useless.
I get up and collect my pile of ironing to take upstairs.
‘I’m going to bed.’
Maureen follows me up the stairs. ‘I’m going to put half a sleeping pill and a glass of water by the bed, just in case you have nightmares again.’
‘Thanks, Maureen. Thanks for staying.’
She looks at me and says, ‘It’ll get better, Ty. This’ll pass, you know.’
She’s great, Maureen, but she’s also police. And the police told me that Gran would be safe in her flat, and that I should go into the hospital with Dave. So I don’t altogether believe what she has to say.
Mum’s still asleep when I get up in the morning. Maureen makes me some toast and wishes me luck, and I trudge off down the hill. It occurs to me that last time I was properly at school – apart from my date with the head teacher, of course – I was in floods of girly tears, sobbing my heart out in Mr Henderson’s smelly office. What if somehow everyone knows about that? What if there’s some secret CCTV footage that has been sent to everyone’s mobiles? I very nearly turn back a few times before I reach the school gate.
Brian, Jamie and Max pounce on me the minute I walk through the gates. ‘Hey, Joe, good to see you back, mate.’ We do a bit of high-fiving, and Brian asks, ‘So, what’s the story? Did they throw the book at you?’
‘Nah. Carl and I have to work on a joint project together.’
Everyone has different ideas. Jamie thinks we’ll be running cricket club for year seven. Brian reckons we might be sent to some sort of boot camp for delinquent youth.
‘Or maybe you’ll have to scrub out the swimming pool,’ suggests Max.
‘With our toothbrushes?’ I suggest.
The boys go silent, nudge each other and look at me. Ashley’s directly ahead of us in the playground, at the centre of her group. They’re all looking over at us and several have supportive arms round Ashley who is wiping away a tear.
‘We heard the news, mate,’ says Brian. ‘What a bummer. But her parents are very strict, I hear.’
‘It’s always the ones with the strictest parents who are the real goers,’ says Max.
‘Maybe she’ll be up for a secret affair?’ asks Jamie. I shake my head: ‘Nah, time to move on. There’ll be plenty of other opportunities in this school.’
Brian sighs: ‘For you, maybe, but it’s a desert for some of us.’
As the bell goes for registration, I’m vaguely aware that I’m attracting quite a bit of attention. People are looking my way, pointing me out, and there’s a general murmur that seems to be directed towards me. Girls are smiling, some year seven boys start clapping and cheering before being shushed by the playground supervisor. I’m trying to ignore all the attention and just look out for Claire.
She’s quite easy to spot because there’re only about three girls still wearing winter uniform. Her hair is still all over her face. She looks as scared and lonely as ever, like I used to feel at St Saviour’s, although I hope I wasn’t such an obvious loser.
I can’t imagine how I’m ever going to get people to accept that Joe could be friendly with this girl – especially when really fit girls like Lauren and Emily and Zoe from 8P are giving me a lot of glances and winks and secret smiles whenever Ashley’s back is turned. I’m pathetically concerned that Joe’s image shouldn’t be tainted. But is Joe cool enough to give Claire a boost?
I try and catch her eye but she completely blanks me. Maybe she’s not aware of my official status as Ashley’s ex. When we sit down in assembly we’re so close that I could almost reach out and touch her hand. I’m inching towards her, little by little, trying to make a tiny bit of skin to skin contact which no one else need see – but she moves her hand away and puts it in her pocket.
I’m almost snubbed, but, OK, it’s best to be cautious. And then I remember. Ellie’s race, Ellie’s big, important, qualifying race was yesterday. And I didn’t wish her luck and I didn’t ask how it went. I’ve blown it. I’ve totally blown it. This nice supportive family who’ve only been good to me must think I’m a selfish scumbag. Claire is obviously furious on her sister’s behalf. And Ellie will never want to train with me again.
Assembly passes in a blur as I try and think of plausible excuses. As we leave, Claire casually takes her handkerchief out of her pocket and as she does a scrumpled piece of paper falls out. She glances at me, and I reach down and pick it up. I shove it in my pocket but I know what it’s going to say. It’s going to tell me that she wants nothing to do with me, and nor does Ellie.
Geography and Science pass me by. I know it all anyway. I’m trying to think what I can do, how I can make some sort of excuse. I can’t think of anything.
As the bell goes for break I jump up to try and find a quiet place to face the worst and read Claire’s angry words. But the science teacher says, ‘Joe, you’re to go straight to Mr Henderson’s office.’ Carl is already there, looking a lot less mutilated than he did last time I saw him. Mr Henderson keeps us waiting outside for an awkward five minutes, then calls us in. He doesn’t suggest that we sit down, so we don’t.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I appear to have been left picking up the pieces.’
I study my shoes. Carl gazes at the ceiling.
‘The head teacher has some idea about you two learning to work together. Some sort of joint project. Something that will help the school and also use your undoubted talents. He was thinking of . . . he suggested . . . something like helping with the annual five-a-side tournament that we run for local primary schools.’
That could be a laugh. Carl looks enthusiastic too.
‘But that’s not the sort of thing I have in mind at all,’ says Mr Henderson. He opens the door to the corridor and points out a large cupboard. ‘See this? Every piece of lost property we’ve acquired over the last three years is in here.’ He opens the door to show us mounds of mouldering clothing. The stench is overwhelming. ‘Your job is to sort all this out, return every bit of labelled clothing to its owner, then wash the rest so that it can be used by those disorganised creatures who forget their kit.’
Oh, for God’s sake. I can see that Carl’s equally unimpressed. ‘You can do this while the rest of your class are having swimming lessons because I am not having either of you use the pool for the rest of the term. And when it’s finished, you can tidy the equipment cupboard for me.’
That’s it. I wonder if it’s worth mentioning the access card, given that Ellie’s never going to speak to me again.
‘Um, Mr Henderson?’
‘Joe?’
‘I was wondering,’ – I glance nervously at Carl – ‘about my access card.’
‘Ah yes, the famous access card. The start of all this trouble.’
He goes to his desk drawer. ‘Joe, you are having your access card back, but you are specifically barred from the pool. Ellie has said that she will not continue working with you. . .’
Oh no.
‘. . .unless you have the card back. She wants you to enter for some more competitions during the summer – I think she’s going to talk to you about it, and now that she’s all but qualified for the Paralympics next year she needs you to be able to work intensively on your own. I hardly need tell you that if there is any breach of any school rule – and that includes the most minor uniform regulations – then you will have the card taken away.’
‘What about me?’ asks Carl.
‘What about you?’
‘Can’t I have one too?’
‘We’ve been through this, Carl. If I give one to the football team, then there are so many others that I will have to give them to that the whole system will become unworkable.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to give one to the rest of the team. Just to me. And then Joe and I could train together.’
I’m quite impressed by Carl’s cheek in making a case for himself.
‘So the two of you get rewarded for your appalling behaviour, is that it?’
‘No, we get to improve our sports performance. Joe, wouldn’t you like to be on the football team?’
I nod. Actually I’d love to be on the football team. I’ve always wanted to be good at football. It was a real disappointment to me to find when I went to primary school that I was so crap compared to the boys who had dads and brothers to play with, and even though I nagged Nicki to let me join a football club it never really happened. I’m good at the stuff you can practise by yourself – keepie uppies, that sort of thing – and obviously I’m fast, but I go to pieces a bit when I play in a team.
‘Well, we can work together, get you skilled up, on the team.’
Mr Henderson looks extremely unconvinced but says, ‘We’ll try it for a fortnight. If you two genuinely work together then we’ll make it permanent – and we’ll send you out to make peace in the Middle East.’ Carl gawps. ‘It’s a joke, boy. Joe, I’m going to give you a key to the lost property cupboard – guard it with your life.’
We’re just leaving the PE block and I’m wondering whether I can ask Carl if his offer was genuine, when I hear someone calling me. ‘Joe! Come over here a minute!’
It’s Ellie. She’s heading for the running track, clipboard in hand, and Magda, her Polish helper, is standing by her side looking a bit gloomy. Ellie hands the clipboard to Magda and says, ‘Can you just go and tell them that I’ll be five minutes?’
Magda looks blank. ‘I . . . tell?’
Ellie rolls her eyes. ‘The girls’ group – over there. I’ll . . . be . . . five . . . minutes.’
I can just about do this in Polish. ‘Girls must wait a little,’ I say, and Magda flashes me a grateful smile. She walks off in the direction of a clutch of girls who must be the young sportswomen that Ellie mentors. Zoe from 8P is among them and she gives me a wave. She won the girls year eight race at the inter-schools competition, and she actually looks great in shorts. But I’ve got other things on my mind.
‘God, that girl is annoying,’ says Ellie, eyes still on Magda.
‘Ellie, I’m really sorry,’
‘Sorry? It’s not your fault that yet again I have a useless helper. In fact, it’s really helpful that you can speak her language.’
‘I never wished you luck . . . or asked how you did. . .’
She grins: ‘Too busy with your love life, eh? I hope it was because you were too busy training.’
I wonder what she’d say if she knew the truth. ‘I have done my best with the training.’
‘Anyway, I won, which is great, so I forgive you,’ she says airily. ‘Start training again with me tomorrow? We’re celebrating at home tonight. You can come if you want.’
‘Oh, great, thanks, I’d like that.’ Then I remember. ‘But I might not be able to. My mum’s a bit . . . not very well. . .’
‘Oh well, if she’s feeling better then bring her along. Anyone can come. Just a little party to celebrate.’
‘Thanks, Ellie.’ Her shining happiness is the sort that swallows up all your worries and concerns. She’s like a kind of superperson, a celebrity. Everything about her is more, somehow, than ordinary people. It’s strange that Claire isn’t like that – in fact, Claire is the opposite, somehow smaller, quieter and less of a person than everyone else.
‘Oh, but one thing, Joe,’ says Ellie. ‘I’m going to ask you because no one else will. What on earth were you doing locked in my little sister’s room for three hours?’
‘I . . . er. . .’
‘Claire won’t tell us, and my mum is completely confused about what you might have been up to, and she’s all worried that you’ve got bad intentions. I said I thought you had plenty of girls to choose from so it’d be pretty unlikely you’d be after Claire like that, but Mum seems to think different. Says you were in the dark.’
‘We were just talking and then I was feeling a bit tired so I had a lie down on the floor. . .’
Ellie looks pretty unconvinced. ‘I can’t think what you were talking about. She never speaks. Or are you saying she bored you to sleep?’
‘No, we were talking about school and that. She’s OK to talk to. Maybe you should try talking to her a bit more often.’
I’m feeling a bit annoyed on Claire’s behalf. After all, Claire seems to care so much about Ellie’s feelings that she won’t even speak to me, even though Ellie doesn’t seem bothered at all that I forgot her race.
Ellie shrugs. ‘Whatever. See you later. . .’ And I have to run all the way to Maths while she goes off to the running track.
It’s only as I walk home that I’m able to pull out Claire’s note. There’s an email address and a password, and that’s it. She’s kept her promise and made me an account. We can communicate wherever I am, whatever happens, whatever my name is. With Mum crumbling and Gran ill and my aunties disappeared abroad – where in the world are they? – it’s a promise of continuity, of support, of friendship. I decide I am definitely going to Ellie’s party tonight.