928 Miles from Home

By the end of the week we’ve all served our exclusion time and it is business as usual back at school.

Mr Fox announces we have a special Friday whole school assembly. Everyone shuffles into the hall and the noise level rises as we all discuss what it might be about.

‘I’m pleased and proud to introduce a very special guest,’ he beams from the front. ‘My talented son Hugo.’

We all groan. Mr Fox wheels his ‘talented son Hugo’ into school at least once a term to tell us what a wonderfully good actor he is and how we can all aspire to be like him, even though we’re so obviously poor with few prospects.

‘I’m here today to tell you that my success is nothing to do with privilege.’ Hugo strides up and down at the front of the hall. He’s warming to the task now and gesticulating wildly with his arms. ‘I’m a respected local young actor because I’ve worked hard.’ Mr Fox stands next to him like a nodding dog. ‘Some of you could achieve too, if you’re willing to persevere. Though I do appreciate that living around here on the estate, success must sometimes seem a million miles away.’

With the expressions on their faces, one or two of the teachers look as if they’re sick to death of listening to Hugo Fox, too.

‘I’m lucky enough to go to a private drama school in the city,’ he drones on. ‘But you have great facilities right here on the estate, and I have some very exciting news to announce.’ He stops talking for a moment and I almost expect there to be a drum roll. ‘I’m going to be running some free drama workshops at the Expressions community centre. We might even be able to get some real actors and film directors in to speak to students—’

‘Hugo is very kindly giving his time to help young people in disadvantaged areas,’ Mr Fox interrupted, beaming at his son. ‘I would encourage you all to take advantage of this.’

‘Young people like you,’ Hugo declares, throwing his hands out to us. ‘You can work towards a better life right now.’

But film directors coming in to speak to us . . . now that might be interesting. If only they thought we really had a chance.

Young people from the local area are gathered, listening to a famous film DIRECTOR speak.

DIRECTOR

(enthusiastic)

So, let’s talk about job goals. There are lots of different jobs in the film industry. Roadies, acting extras, catering staff, hair and make-up; you get the idea. Anyone here interested in working in the industry?

Nobody raises a hand. DIRECTOR scans crowd, his eyes settling on a BOY. He points at him.

DIRECTOR

You there. What do you want to do with your life?

Everyone turns to look at the BOY. BOY’s face reddens. He looks at his hands and stays silent.

DIRECTOR

Come on, don’t be shy. Everyone has dreams, what’s yours?

BODY

(nervously)

I want to write screenplays.

DIRECTOR

(winking at crowd)

Did you say ‘screenplays’?

BOY

Yes. Screenplays for movies. Movies with big budgets and top actors.

DIRECTOR

And where do you live, boy?

BOY

I live here, on the estate.

DIRECTOR

And have you ever been to Hollywood?

BOY

No.

DIRECTOR

And do you know anyone in the industry, any screenwriters or contacts that can give you a break?

BOY

No.

DIRECTOR

And are your parents sending you to drama school?

BOY

No.

DIRECTOR

Well, all I can say then is good luck with that one.

Loud, roaring laughter erupts from the crowd. Laughing residents from the estate gather at the open doors. The BOY spots his own dad at the back. He’s wiping his eyes and laughing.

‘So, is anyone here interested in coming along?’ Hugo asks. ‘I’ll be taking names at the end and you’ll be guaranteed a place.’

A few hands are cautiously raised. I tuck my own hands under my thighs, the cruel laughter from my imagined scene still ringing in my ears.

Despite Mr Fox’s enthusiastic thanks to his son and trying to get us whipped up into a frenzy of admiration, there is only a smattering of applause from the teachers at the end of Hugo’s talk.

After the last lesson of the morning we meet as usual outside the Technology block, before walking across the courtyard for lunch.

I’m last to get there and when I follow the lads inside the building, Linford hangs back in the corridor outside the bustling dinner hall. He slings an arm across my shoulders and I sag a little under the pressing weight.

‘You’re not planning on going to see that counsellor like Mr Fox suggested, are you, mate?’

Linford gives a little shake of his head. ‘Course he’s not. I’m just making sure, after the Sly Old Fox tried to get us all to agree to it.’

I wish he’d take his arm away. He’s taller and broader than me and his elbow is digging into the middle of my back. But he tightens his grip.

‘A little bird tells me you were over in the Admin block this morning.’ Linford’s grin fades a bit.

‘I saw you walk over there, Cal,’ Harry says apologetically. ‘But like I told Linford, there’s no way you’d be going to see that poxy counsellor.’

I get this feeling inside that reminds me of when I was a little kid and I’d done something wrong without realizing what.

‘I had to go over there to the school office to get a contact form to change my dad’s mobile number, that’s all.’ I shrug as if I don’t know what the big deal is. ‘I thought Mr Fox said we’d all got to go to see the counsellor, though.’

‘Did he? I thought he’d just suggested it.’ Linford pulls a cartoon frown at the others. ‘The Sly Old Fox says we should do a lot of things, but we usually ignore him – right, lads?’

‘I just thought I’d ask, Cal, because that would be bang out of order, mate. If I found out you’d been to see her, I mean.’

I think about my chat with Freya, how she said it was just between the two of us.

‘No worries.’ I drop my head forward and try to shrug him off, but he still doesn’t move his arm.

‘They’d love it if they got us grassing each other up. That’s why the Fox wants us all to go.’ Linford’s face hardens. ‘She’ll start off all friendly, get you to write a load of stuff down, and then turn it against you. Turn it against us.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, sensing a damp patch forming at the bottom of my back.

At last, Linford’s arm slides off my shoulders and his lips peel back revealing two rows of neat teeth.

We’re still standing in the corridor outside the dinner hall looking at each other. Someone has pulled the outer door shut and the air hangs around us, heavy and warm.

Linford smiles then and the other lads grin. We all start walking towards the double doors of the dinner hall and finally I feel my shoulders drop a little.

I pull open the door and a flood of noise billows out like escaping steam. I turn to look back at Linford and a brief shadow flits across his eyes, like something glossy and dark swarming underwater.

The dinner hall is heaving, but our table remains unoccupied in the far back corner.

We collect our loaded food trays and walk through the bustling tables. Linford leads the way and chair legs scrape the floor as other students shuffle hastily aside to let him through.

We’re nearly at our seats when he suddenly stops walking and spins round, his face animated and split into a wide grin.

He stops at a table where three girls sit huddled together over their food at one end. At the other end, sitting alone, is the new boy who got us all excluded.

He picks at his food with his head down, frayed blazer sleeves trailing down his fingers.

The boy visibly jumps and his head jerks up. He opens his mouth to say something but swallows it back down when he sees Linford.

Linford’s eyes scan the hall but the lunchtime supervisors are all busy up front, sorting out the unruly queue.

‘When someone asks you a question in this country, Immi, you’re supposed to answer.’

The girls have stopped eating and the people seated at nearby tables are now watching with interest.

‘My name is Sergei Zurakowski,’ the boy says quietly, his eyes cast down at his plate.

‘Flipping heck, that’s a bit of a mouthful.’ Linford screws his face up in distaste.

Sergei is misunderstanding. He thinks Linford is actually interested in his name.

‘Yeah, well, enough of the boring family history. I think we’d better just stick with Immi.’

Sergei’s long skinny legs are folded awkwardly under the table. His trouser hems are ragged and the toes of his shoes scuffed to a dirty grey against the dull black leather. One of his feet jiggles up and down as if there’s music playing in his head.

‘Linford, I think one of the dinner ladies is on her way over,’ I call. He never knows when to stop.

‘I’m glad to see you’re enjoying your free English nosh, Immi,’ Linford continues pleasantly, as if he’s discussing the weather. ‘And I’m pleased you’re getting your free education, courtesy of the British taxpayers.’ His eyes flash dangerously. ‘Why don’t you have some free water, too?’

Linford upends his full glass over Sergei’s meal tray and water gushes down, flooding his food. He shakes out the last few drops for good measure.

Sergei doesn’t jump back or cry out in surprise. He stares down at his ruined food and he doesn’t move at all.

A roar of shocked laughter rises all around us and Linford walks quickly away. I hear the dinner staff calling for calm from over the other side of the room, but by this time we’re already sitting innocently at our table.

‘Plans for Friday night then, lads?’ Linford announces when we sit down with our trays – as if nothing’s happened. ‘My old fella’s got me and him tickets for Forest’s home game. What’s everybody else up to?’

‘Cinema with my brother and his mates,’ Harry mumbles through a mouthful of food. ‘Don’t know what film we’re seeing yet though.’

‘We’ve got a houseful. Aunties, uncles, cousins. Flipping nightmare.’ Jack rolls his eyes. ‘It’s Mum’s birthday, so at least I should be able to smuggle a couple of beers up to my room.’

I glance over at Sergei. He’s trying to roll up his sopping blazer sleeves while the people around him stare on.

‘Cal?’ Linford looks over at Sergei and then back at me. ‘I asked what you’re up to tonight?’

Something usually pops into my head if anyone asks, but today I can’t think – I’ve got brain freeze. The sounds of cutlery chinking and plates rattling grows louder in my ears but there is still no answer for Linford.

‘Bowling,’ I finally manage. ‘Me and Dad are going ten-pin bowling tonight.’

I look down and push my food around. The spaghetti looks like a tangle of worms on my plate.