Wild, page 3
‘So I hear you’re the racking prince.’ Jay raises his eyebrows without smiling. ‘Can the crew have a view?’
I reach for my phone.
‘You don’t have the real stuff?’ says Jay.
‘I didn’t take it to school.’
‘He’s smart,’ says Shiv, pointedly.
They lean in to take a look.
Kai whistles. ‘Six! Nice!’
Jay is nodding. He looks impressed too.
‘Did you have face down, hood up—or no camera?’ asks Shiv.
An icy wave runs down my spine. I didn’t think about that.
‘Face down,’ I lie. A white lie, because an old man with a bell on his shop door is unlikely to have CCTV.
‘Good news,’ says Shiv, ‘because once the police have your mugshot it’s a nightmare. Gets passed round everywhere, for ever. Some shops print them out and stick them next to the till, just in case you come in. We need to sort you out with a bike, don’t we?’
It feels like the bike is no longer my problem. It’s our problem. And I’m guessing ‘sort out’ doesn’t mean ‘buy one’.
‘Yeah. What about the train station?’ says Kai. ‘Plenty of choice on Friday. Start of the holidays, everyone’s out late for a party then takes a taxi home. They don’t want to cycle, so they leave their bikes till morning. Big mistake.’ He grins.
‘No one home at mine tomorrow. We can make some plans.’ Frazz doesn’t say much, but when he speaks, everyone listens.
‘Cool,’ says Shiv. ‘Bring your black book, Jack. We can show the others your pieces.’
‘I wanna get started,’ says Kai, rubbing his hands together. ‘Take the paints down to the old shack and dress it up.’
We all nod.
‘Yeah,’ murmurs Jay.
The little voice deep inside and far away whispers stop stop, but it’s getting fainter. Soon I won’t be able to hear it at all.
Crew 2
‘Jack, stay behind, please.’
Students pour through the doorway like sand through a timer.
‘Jack.’
I put my bag on my shoulder and pretend not to hear.
Heads turn.
‘Mr Willis wants you,’ mutters the sand to my right.
I hang back until everyone has gone, then turn to face Mr Willis.
He’s waiting behind his desk, arms folded. He isn’t smiling or frowning. He has the same neutral expression Mum wears when she’s planning to talk things through.
‘Pull up a chair.’
We both sit down. Mr Willis rests his elbows on the desk.
It’s more serious than I thought.
‘Jack, your teachers have mentioned that you’re not turning up for lessons. I checked with the nurse, and he says you haven’t been to sick bay this week.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
I am silent.
He rests his chin on his thumbs. After a minute or so, he says, ‘I had hoped we could talk about it.’ His tone has changed. It’s quieter, melancholy even. I know this tone. It’s the I’m sorry about your dad tone.
I am silent.
The far-away voice is trying to tell me something, but I can’t make out the words.
I’m glad Mr Willis made me stay behind. I hadn’t realized, but the chance to be silent is what I wanted. The chance to be blank. To show that despite what everyone expects, I don’t feel anything right now.
I am aware of something else happening, something which I don’t like. Beneath the nothingness, a kind of pressure is building. A dark, swirling mass. I’m not sure where it’s come from or what’s feeding it. If I open my mouth, I sense that the darkness might be tempted to escape, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop it.
‘Jack, I’m here every morning, lunchtime and after school. I’m always ready to listen, when you’re ready to talk. If you’d rather chat to a different teacher, that’s fine too.’
The swirling mass is gathering momentum. I need to get up. I need to leave.
‘Don’t miss any more lessons, Jack.’ Serious voice has returned. ‘You’re a good student. Next term is key for decisions you will be making later in Year Nine. You need to keep your grades up.’
A tightness is spreading across my forehead. I reach for my bag.
‘Right. See you tomorrow morning.’
He chooses to ignore the fact I am already halfway to the door.
I’m late for Spanish. I walk quickly, but my feet don’t stop when I reach the languages wing. They speed up. I walk past the room where Dan and Johannes will have started their lesson. The seat next to Dan, empty again. I keep moving until I reach the gym. I pause outside the changing room doors. There are voices, laughing and talking. A class getting ready for PE. I can’t stay in the corridor. I think about waiting in the toilet. But my body has a life of its own. I elbow my way in, through a jumble of T-shirts, arms and feet.
‘Wrong class!’ someone shouts. A few heads turn and there is laughter.
‘Message for Mr Sim,’ I say, pushing past.
Mr Sim is by the door, holding a stack of multicoloured cones.
‘Left my bag by the fence,’ I say. ‘I’ll be quick.’
Mr Sim nods. ‘Hurry up.’ He doesn’t question why I’ve walked through the gym to reach the playing field. He doesn’t seem remotely interested in what I’m doing, as long as I leave the changing room. Which is good, because anything more than a glance would have revealed that my bag is on my shoulder, tucked behind my right arm.
I walk briskly across the field, and duck under the hole in the fence.
I tap my phone to refresh the screen. Frazz lives at the far side of the high street. I don’t know the area well, so I follow the map to a terrace of pebbledash houses with tarmac drives. A sticker on his letterbox says No Cold Calling. I can’t see a bell, so I lift the flap and let it drop with a thud. Through the frosted glass, a figure grows larger. For a second, I wonder if this is the right house, then the door swings open.
‘Jacky-boy!’ says Kai. ‘Don’t wait there like an advert for school-skiving, get inside.’
The sitting room is stuffy. Music is playing from something out of sight. Shiv and Jay are sitting on a shiny black sofa, Frazz is slumped in a huge beanbag by the window. I wonder how long they’ve been here.
‘Show us your book, show us your book,’ encourages Frazz, before I sit down.
‘Picassooo!’ hollers Jay, pattering a drum roll on his legs. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me. I assume he must be, as he hasn’t seen anything I’ve drawn before.
The zip on my bag sticks. I give an extra tug, then slip the A4 sketchpad from the inside pocket, passing it to Frazz. He turns the first page, and the second without comment. As he turns the third, he begins to shake his head.
‘Whoah,’ he mutters. ‘You did this?’
‘Hand it over!’ says Jay, leaning forwards.
Frazz snatches the book away. ‘Patience, my friend.’ He carries on flicking slowly through.
‘That’s based on Zephyr’s old-school style.’ I point. The book is upside down for me, but I know every sketch.
‘Is he from round here?’ asks Kai.
‘He’s from New York. One of the best. That’s ROA.’
Frazz is shaking his head again.
‘What did I tell you?’ says Shiv.
‘These two are like Basquiat’s early stuff.’
Frazz frowns. ‘Nope.’
‘French. You should check out his work.’
When he’s finished, Frazz passes the book to Jay, then Kai.
It’s getting dark when Frazz looks at his phone.
‘OK, you have to leave. Seriously. My dad will be back in ten minutes, and he will be super annoyed if his house is full.’
Everyone gets to their feet. Kai opens the window.
I stuff the sketchpad back in my bag.
‘Those are some stellar pieces you have in that book,’ says Kai, ‘but get a move on.’ He waves me to the door. ‘You do not want to annoy Frazz’s dad. Ever.’
Fire
I smooth down a page in my sketchbook. I’ve added nothing for three months. My pencil hovers above the white space as I picture the outline for a new design. The shapes I want to make. No letters or animals. I want to create something abstract—swirling and wild and dark.
Downstairs, the front door clicks shut.
Silence.
Then Mum calls, ‘Hello, darling, are you OK?’
I stare at the blank page. The shapes evaporate, until I am left with just a pencil and some paper.
The stairs creak a dull tune, then my door swings open.
‘I wasn’t sure you were here!’ Mum’s tone is cheerful, but criticism lingers in the spaces between the words. When she’s here, I should drop everything and make the most of it.
I’m lying on my bed, so she perches on the chair by my desk. She’s wearing smart clothes which look out of place. Dad used to sit in that chair. He’d spin it round then sit astride, resting his arms on the back like he was riding a horse. He was always smiling. That’s how I remember it. Although for a split second, I find it hard to see Dad’s face. His features won’t settle.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, darling?’ Mum leans forwards, searching my face for clues.
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter through clenched teeth.
‘Jack, I’ve had another call from school.’ She hesitates. ‘They told me that you’ve been absent from a number of lessons. They would like me to go in for a chat. With you. They want to see us together.’ She pauses again, taking a deep breath, before adding, ‘We can fix this, Jack.’
There is no heaviness this time. Instead, the dark swirling thing from earlier swoops in. The word ‘fix’ is for furniture and plates. For cuts and grazes. What’s happened to me cannot be fixed. No one can ‘fix’ a hole that wasn’t there before. There are no edges to sew up, no sides to glue. I sense the whirlwind spinning out of control.
Mum is staring at me, her eyes wide. The rest of her seems frozen, unmoving.
There’s nowhere for me to go. Nowhere to hide. I can’t run to my room. She’s already here. I can’t run to the kitchen. She’ll just follow. I toss the sketchbook aside and lurch towards the door. I need to get out before the whirlwind bursts free.
‘Jack!’ Mum calls as I thud down the stairs. ‘Jack, I want to help. Just talk to me. Don’t shut me out.’
I try to block her words. Instead, they echo round my head as if trapped in a jar talk-to-me-don’t-shut-me-out.
I’m not shutting her out. She was never in.
I rush through the hall, running my arm along the shelf, sweeping a jumble of pots and figures to smash or fracture on the wooden floor.
‘Jack!’ Mum is shouting now, from the top of the stairs.
I pull on my trainers and run outside, slamming the door behind me. Cold air bites at my face. I keep running. I don’t have a plan. My feet take me in the direction of the park, so that’s where I’ll go. The gate will be padlocked, but that’s not a problem. The whirlwind carries me over the metal fence and onto the frosty grass. I keep going, past the playground. Past the football pitches. I know where this path leads, where my feet are taking me. The low brick building comes into sight. Dark holes gape where the windows should be. On the left, three squares reflect night-white clouds, signalling their presence. Inviting me. They know why I’m here. I scout around the walls, looking for chunks of brick or concrete. With four lumps cradled in my arms, I retreat ten metres, then raise my hand and throw. The first brick crumps against the wall with a powdery thud. The second explodes amidst a spray of glass. Another flies from my fingertips so fast that the window smashes, followed by a thud as my lump of concrete strikes a wall within the building. As the third window erupts, I hear shouting.
‘I see you!’ a voice cries.
I start running, my feet following the route Shiv and Jay took on their bikes. Towards the gap in the hedge, leading to a quiet road.
My breath comes in short gasps as my legs and arms pump up and down. It feels good, but I can’t maintain this pace.
Something is moving across the grass much faster than the man, something which grabs at my sleeve. I stumble to the ground, rolling, chin tucked to my chest. A dog with short, dark fur clamps its teeth around the edge of my sweater, growling with a menacing rumble. I jerk my arm away but the dog tugs it down. Its head is level with mine.
Footsteps thud nearby.
‘Let go!’ I hiss, pulling my arm again.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ snarls a man, panting to catch his breath. ‘He might take a real bite.’
I don’t want the man to see my face, but the dog won’t let go. If the man calls him off, and I sprint away, the dog will be faster. I’m trapped. I keep my head down anyway. There’s someone with the man. Two pairs of feet wait a few metres to my left.
‘You’ve got two choices.’ The man’s voice has a hard edge, but now it sounds more matter of fact. ‘I can take you to the police station, and you can explain to them what you were doing. That’s choice number one. Choice number two is that I take you home, and you can tell your parents what you were doing.’
My mind races. I don’t want to go home. Ever. I don’t want to apologize in front of Mum. The police station would be better. Anything would be better. But something makes me hesitate. The voice is shouting from far away. I can’t hear it, but somehow I know what it’s saying. Dad wouldn’t like me to go to the police station. But Dad’s not here.
‘He won’t answer. Let’s just take him to the station.’ I glance up. The voice belongs to a tall boy with a thin face. He’s older than me. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.
‘Who are you with?’ asks the man.
‘No one,’ I say. ‘On my own.’
‘Throwing rocks at a building. That’s a fun thing to do on your own,’ says the boy.
‘Leave him. He can explain to the police. Let’s go.’ The man starts walking.
The dog growls as I get to my feet.
‘Drop it! Drop!’ the man commands. The dog releases my sweater and trots alongside, its hot breath near my hand.
Beyond the hedge is more fence and a gate. It’s shut, but not padlocked, and swings open with a screech.
‘Wait,’ I say. The man spins round. ‘Take me home.’
‘Right.’ His voice is business-like. ‘You go in front. Casper will keep you company.’
‘Hope it’s not far,’ grumbles the boy from somewhere behind me.
I guess Casper is the dog.
Again, I have a weird sensation that I’m watching myself, that these events are happening to a different me. But different me lives at the same address, with the same front door.
Ash
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. There is movement on the landing. Padding footsteps. The handle of my bedroom door creaks gently down. Something hovers in the doorway.
‘Jack,’ a voice says softly. ‘It’s time to go to school.’ The voices pauses. ‘It’s late. I can drive you in, if you want.’ A hand slides quietly down the doorframe. ‘It’s the last day of term. I thought you might like to see your friends.’ There is no mention of important choices, big decisions. The future.
I roll onto my side and pull the covers above my head.
The handle creaks gently up. Footsteps pad downstairs, but the front door doesn’t open. Or close. Mum hasn’t gone to work.
Heaviness seeps through my bones, pinning me to the bed. Today is the last day of term. Beyond that, the holidays. Two weeks of festive family time. Two weeks of togetherness.
I replay last night’s events in my head. The look of surprise on Mum’s face when she opened the front door to find me arranged like a carol singer between the man and his son. Casper growling by my feet. How she smiled as the man spoke, trying to intuit the situation. How her smile faded, and she began nodding, apologizing, telling two complete strangers about Dad.
Once they had gone, she followed me into the kitchen. I sat down, waiting for the chat, wanting it to be over with as soon as possible.
She filled the kettle with water. Wiped down the surfaces. Almost as if I wasn’t there. I thought perhaps she had forgotten about me. Absorbed in thoughts about school, vandalism, her pointless son. Then she pulled up a chair. We sat in silence for a while. That’s how the worst chats begin. The ones that go on for ever, concluded only when issues have been defined, addressed, discussed, boiled alive.
The silence continued. I began to wonder if this was a new type of ‘chat’, one where I was simply given space to think about what I’d done in a meaningful way.
I turned to look at Mum.
She looked back, and whispered, ‘I miss him too, Jack.’ A tear splashed on the table. She brushed it away, like the toast crumbs at breakfast time. Then she pushed back her chair and returned to the kettle.
Pancakes
My phone won’t stop buzzing.
I drank the water which Mum left next to my bed. I ate the toast.
She rolled up my blind to let the light in but didn’t mention school again.
Now the square of light is fading. Dusk is falling.
I haven’t moved all day.
I reach for my phone.
There are too many updates, too many messages. I scroll through, not reading, until I spot one from Dan.
Still up for my house tomorrow? Ben wants to know if you’re throwing up again. D
I keep scrolling, past the messages from Shiv and Ben, then place the phone on my bed.
After a few minutes, I pick it up, and scroll back to the messages from Shiv.
No show today?
Midnight at car park. Don’t be late. Time to choose your present!!
I won’t be late. I won’t be there. I wonder if they’ll steal me a bike anyway. Choose my ‘present’ for me.
Mum is on red alert. There’s no way I can slip out.
