‘Yeah, whatever.’ I knew he hated me saying that. ‘D’you want Mum again?’
But now, from Mum’s bedroom, I heard Jennie starting to cry–a rising wail that would soon be full-scale yelling.
‘Sounds like your little sister needs attention,’ Dad said. ‘No, it’s OK. Night, then, Josh. See you Saturday.’
‘Josh? Why aren’t you in bed?’ Mum called above the racket of bawling baby. She was using her tired, cross voice that I didn’t like. ‘You ought to be getting ready by now. I’ve been too busy with Jamie and Jennie to notice the time.’
‘No, no, don’t worry about me,’ I grumped to myself, turning off the computer. ‘I’m fine. No, really.’
Mum was all Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Jennie, Jennie, Jennie. And Dad would have Kevin. Who’d have time for Josh?
Soon Kevin would be with Dad every day, and Jamie and me only every other weekend. He’d act like the house was his, and we were unwanted visitors. Like the computer’s his and the TV’s his. Or I’d be in the bathroom, and Kevin would thump on the door, and what if I’d made a smell? I’d have to open the door and come out, and he’d go in and smell my smell, and he’d do that sneery face he does, to show I’m not just a geeky little kid he’s got to put up with, I’m disgusting as well. How was I meant to cope with that?
Jamie was asleep–or at least I thought he was. The cat mask was where he’d left it, on the low table between our beds. I turned on the bedside lamp, and picked it up. By now it was a bit crumpled, and torn where the elastic was attached, but still recognisable as Leo.
I held it up to my face and looked through the slits. Then I slipped the elastic over my head and stood up to look at myself in the mirror.
‘I’m Leo,’ I said, in the drawly voice Jamie had used. ‘Leo. Don’t try to tell me what to do. I do whatever I want.’
Partly, I was mucking about–but partly, I wasn’t. And as I looked at my reflection, a shivery thrill went through me. He was there. He’d been there all the time.
Leo looked back at me. Striped, solemn face. Alert ears. Deep, mysterious eyes. My eyes, lion eyes. I felt bigger, prouder, stronger than my Josh self, as big as a lion. I stared and stared. In the dim light of the bedroom, he–I–we–looked fierce and dramatic. A lion lurking in shadows. Who knew what was going on in his–in our–lion mind?
The bed creaked, and a movement in the mirror made me turn. Jamie was sitting up in bed, staring at me. His eyes were wide and round.
‘Josh?’ he said. ‘Make him go away! Please–make him go away!’
17
PROWLER
Something had got into the house.
It crept into my bed, making me restless and uncomfortable. It seeped into my body, making me fidgety and hot. It oozed into my brain, making me edgy and fearful. When I slept, wildcats roamed through my dreams and clawed at the insides of my eyelids. When I was awake, they lurked in the shadows of the room. Once, my eyes jerked open and I looked straight at Jamie. He was sitting up in bed, staring back at me. And, weird though this was, I must have dozed off again, because next time I woke up, the Something was coming straight at me.
My heart was thumping so loudly that it made my hands shake. It took me three tries to find the lamp switch.
The prowling thing was Jamie. At once he stopped dead. He’d been sneaking up on me, caught in the light, freeze-framed.
In that moment, I was scared of him–the look on his face was so weird, so unJamie-like.
‘Jamie?’ My voice wobbled out. ‘What’s up? What d’you want?’
He didn’t answer. Eyes fixed on mine, he started to move forward, very slowly. It was like Splodge in the garden, when he sees a bird and stalks it in slow motion: one front leg reaching forward, then a pause for concentration. Splodge’s whole body would be focused on that bird, just as the whole of Jamie’s body was focused now. On what? What did he want from me?
I clutched my pillow. The light in the room seemed too bright to be real, Jamie’s pyjamas too blue, his eyes too bright and fixed. I thought of Brody saying, ‘He’s gone mental again, your brother.’ What if he had? What if he was possessed by Leo–what if he was really losing it? I didn’t like the thought of this person, this Jamie-but-not-Jamie, creeping round the room while I was asleep. Watching me. Stalking me. Goose-pimples prickled my arms and neck. Whatever Leo-strength I’d had earlier had drained out of me. I’d shrunk smaller than Jamie.
The fear grabbed hold. With both arms, I hurled my pillow at him. ‘Stop it! Stop acting stupid and get back in bed!’
The pillow hit him full in the face. He stumbled against the wardrobe door, then slumped to the floor. I expected him to yell out, and Mum to come stomping in and demand to know what was going on, but he didn’t make a sound.
I shouldn’t have done it. But I had.
‘Stop it! Stop mucking about!’ I swung my feet to the floor and went to help him up. ‘Do you want the toilet or something? What’s with this stupid Leo performance?’
I’d got hold of his arm, but he resisted and made himself limp. He looked up at me and I saw his eyes shiny with tears. Then, slowly, like a very old man, he got up and went back to his bed. He got in and pulled the duvet over himself.
‘You all right?’
‘No!’ He looked at me, then whispered, ‘Make him go away.’ He was holding Lowther, not noticing that he was upside-down.
‘Make who go away?’
‘Leo. Make Leo go away.’
‘But you like Leo,’ I told him.
‘I don’t! He gets inside me and won’t go away.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I burst out. ‘We’ve all had it with Leo–give it a rest, can’t you?’
He gave a big sniffle, and clutched Lowther more tightly.
‘At least you’re talking now,’ I said, in a nicer voice. ‘Bet you could have talked all along.’
Jamie shook his head. ‘He’s real,’ he whimpered. ‘He gets inside me and burns me with his breath.’
‘No. He doesn’t. You’re making it up––’
‘He does! He does!’
A tear brimmed over and splashed down his cheek. No, he wasn’t pretending. Whatever it was, it was real enough to him. It had been real to me, too, when I looked in the mirror. And just now.
‘All right, Jame.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I’ll–I’ll try to make him go away.’
I looked at my cube clock. Nearly half past six. The first feeble grey light was starting to push through the darkness outside. Half an hour till it was time to get up. I could hear Mum moving about now, murmuring to Jennie. The cat mask was where I’d hidden it last night, under my bed. Was that what Jamie had been looking for?
But he was talking now. As Jamie.
I wondered whether to call out to Mum, but instead I looked at him intently and said, ‘Jamie. What did the lion tell you?’
An obstinate expression came over his face. ‘Nothing. Lions don’t talk.’
‘That one did, the one we saw. He said something to you, didn’t he?’
Jamie shook his head vigorously. ‘No! Lions don’t talk, stupid!’
And then Mum was in our room, wrapping her dressing-gown round her, looking at us first in amazement and then in delight, when she saw that Jamie wasn’t wearing the Leo mask.
‘I thought I heard you talking! Oh––’ She came over and kissed Jamie, then me. ‘How are you feeling today, J?’
Jamie shrugged. ‘I’m OK.’ He made it into a question, why are you asking? ‘Can we have porridge?’
‘Yes, if you want. You get in the shower while I change Jennie, then I’ll go down and make it. All right?’
I could tell she didn’t want to push Jamie by asking too many questions, but she gave me a well done look and went back to her own room.
‘Jamie––’ I began, wondering whether to ask him again about the lion, but he got in first, sounding perfectly normal.
‘Who are Chelsea playing on Saturday? Do you know?’
‘Arsena
l, isn’t it?’
It didn’t seem the right moment for lions. When he went to have his shower, I pulled out the mask–just a tatty piece of card with crayoning on it, that’s all it was–and took it into Mum’s room. That was Leo out of the way. Mike was still in bed, fast asleep–all I could see was one eyebrow and a tuft of hair. Mum had finished changing Jennie’s nappy, and was settling her back in her cot.
‘Here.’ I handed her the mask. ‘Jamie wants Leo to go away. So p’raps we shouldn’t have this in our room. But I didn’t bin it, just in case he wants it again.’
‘Wants Leo to go away? Is that what he said?’
I nodded.
‘Thanks, Josh. I’ll keep this. I might want to show it to the psychologist. There, that’s you sorted out, young madam,’ she said to Jennie. ‘Now–porridge.’
‘Yes please,’ Mike said, without opening his eyes.
18
MENTAL
Friday turned out to be one of those days when nothing seems to go right. One of those days when everything gangs up on you. One of those days that seems bad and unfair from the start. When anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Once you know you’re having that kind of day, the only thing is to get through to bedtime and hope tomorrow will be back to normal.
First thing was, I hadn’t done my French homework. I’d forgotten all about it. And if you’re going to turn up to any teacher’s lesson without your homework, you’d better not choose Mr Dawkins.
‘Did I imply to you that homework was an optional extra?’ he went.
‘No, but––’
‘Did I ask you to do it as a special favour to me?’
‘No, but––’
‘Did I suggest that homework might be available to liven up those dull moments when you find yourself with nothing better to do?’
I gave up trying to answer, and dumbly shook my head.
He enjoys going on like this, I swear he does. It’s a sort of performance. He must have got a real kick from standing over me like a one-man Gestapo, while Toby and Bex and Chad giggled in the back row.
‘In that case, I cannot understand why you have no work to hand in. Maybe you’d care to explain.’
‘Forgot,’ I mumbled.
‘He’s having a hard time at home, sir,’ Bex called out helpfully.
What? I turned round to glare poison darts at her.
It worked, though. You could see Mr Dawkins thinking, what, parents splitting up? (No, done that.) Dad lost his job? (No, been there as well.) House flooded out, or struck by lightning? Someone died? He backed off.
‘See me at the end of the lesson then, Josh,’ he said, and started on about verbs that go with être.
After I’d stayed behind for a large dose of one more time’s a detention and you need to adjust your attitude, I steamed off down the corridor, ignoring Brody and Noori, who’d waited for me outside. I was looking for Bex. I knew where she hung out with Freya at break and lunchtimes, in the canteen, waiting for a Year 10 boy they both fancied. There was Bex, leaning against the door-frame, to give her victim no chance of escape.
‘What was that about?’ I shouted as soon as I saw her.
‘What?’
‘In French just now. Hard time at home.’
She put on a prissy face. ‘Only trying to help. Don’t thank me or anything, though.’
‘Who asked you?’
‘Don’t go on at her,’ said Freya, champing crisps. ‘Just cos your brother’s a mental case. She got Dawkins off your back, didn’t she?’
‘A what?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Bex had out her mobile now and was texting away with both thumbs. ‘He’s going to a mental clinic, isn’t he? They’ll give him drugs and stuff, sort him out, I expect.’
Freya looked at me, smirking. ‘Does it run in the family?’
‘Where d’you get all that rubbish from?’ I demanded.
‘From him!’ Bex tilted her head towards Brody.
Right. Got it. Brody’s little sister’s in the same class as Jamie, and so’s Bex’s brother. They’d know how weird Jamie had been, and Brody knew about the psychologist. Didn’t expect him to blab it all round the class, though, or I’d never have told him.
I swivelled round to Brody.
‘What?’ he said, all innocence. ‘You didn’t say it was secret!’
I don’t know what got hold of me then. I hurled my bag at the nearest table and flew at Brody, grabbed him by his coat and shoved him as hard as I could, throwing my whole weight at him. Off-balance, he stumbled against a chair, which tipped and crashed to the floor. We both fell, me half on top of him, wanting to punch and wrench and hurt. I was vaguely aware of the commotion around us, Noori trying to pull me away, Bex’s voice chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ other kids either hurrying over or scattering out of our way, and then, cutting through it all, a teacher’s voice: ‘Hey! Stop that! Right now!’
Getting to my feet, I felt a trickle of blood down my shin. Must have scraped it on the chair. My bag, where I’d chucked it, had toppled another chair over. A small crowd had gathered, first to watch the fight, now for the fun of seeing me and Brody getting an earful. I didn’t know the name of the duty teacher, the one who’d shouted out, but now Mr O’Shea was striding into the canteen. It’d have to be him, wouldn’t it? The other teacher spoke to him quietly, and Mr O’Shea rapped at us, ‘You boys! Up to my study. Now.’
In the Admin corridor, we were left standing outside Rick’s closed door while the two teachers talked inside.
‘Thanks a lot!’ Brody hissed at me.
‘Well, you asked for it!’
‘Asked for it how? You’re mental, you are–total head-case, just like––’
‘Shut it! Just shut it! I’ll get you, later!’
And, course, that was the moment Mr O’Shea opened his door. He froze, looked at me, and told us both to come in.
Result: mega ear-bashing from Rick, along with a lot of head-shaking, and utter disgrace, and shocked to hear of such behaviour, and a threat to phone our parents if anything like this ever happened again, and a lunchtime detention for both of us. This took up the whole of break, so we were late for History, and had to explain to Mrs Cartwright, while Bex sniggered.
For the rest of the day, Noori tried to make peace between us, but I wasn’t having it. I wouldn’t speak to Brody. Hardly spoke to anyone, in fact. I suppose you could say I did a Jamie. Brody and I did our detention, and he had a go at talking afterwards, but I wouldn’t listen.
Maths, Art and RE dragged by, and at last it was time for home. Only I didn’t feel like going home. Brody set off for St Luke’s as usual, jogging, keen to get away from me. I didn’t go after him.
Didn’t want to see Jamie, didn’t want to see Mum. Didn’t want to see anyone.
19
STRANGER DANGER
Noori was waiting for me, but I told him I had to go to the shops, and walked off before he had the chance to say he’d come too.
I hung around in the High Street for a bit, but there were loads of kids from school there, older ones flirting with each other, calling names across the street or pretending to push each other in front of buses. I decided to walk, and headed off without knowing where to go. A bus to Wembley pulled up at the next bus stop, so I bought a ticket from the machine and jumped on just in time. I sat upstairs at the back. When everyone else got off, I did too, then walked some more.
Usually I like being out in the streets, especially in the mornings when the shops are opening up and the roads are busy with delivery vans and people going off to jobs and school. I like the feeling of the day starting up, and I like seeing people, wondering where they’re going and what sort of day they’re going to have.
This was different, though. I was making myself feel like a runaway, a fugitive, because it suited my mood. It was already getting dark, and it was cold too, and starting to drizzle. I carried on walking, choosing whichever direction I liked the look of. Noise spilled out of
a pub, and a man wavered across the pavement in front of me. I smelled fag-ash and whisky, even though it must be early for drinking. A group of big lads came towards me, laughing, taking up the whole pavement. The drunk man shouted something at a passing car, then one of the group yelled out something I didn’t catch. There was a bit of laughing and shoving, and two of the boys barged into me, but didn’t say sorry.
I turned left into a quieter street. It led away from the shops, into a road of parked cars and vans, and lock-up garages. There were rubbish bins and an overflowing skip. Should I carry on, or go back to the road with the pub in it? I had no idea where I was. There was no street sign that I could see, so I walked on till I saw some, but the names Wigley Road and Albion Crescent didn’t mean anything to me. I carried on to the next corner. The rain was coming down harder now, and a passing motor-bike sprayed water all over my trousers. This was pointless, but I wasn’t giving in and going home. Not yet. My hair was getting wet, and cold water was seeping down inside the neck of my coat. After a bit I almost started to enjoy it, in an odd way. It felt right, the mood I was in. An icy wind and a blast of hailstones would have been even better.
A right turn, then left and right again, brought me to another main street, with buses and cars and traffic lights. It was busy here, Friday rush hour, everyone coming home from work. I saw a warmly-lit café, Agnelli’s Cappuccino Bar, and thought of going inside. It made me think of Mike, steaming and foaming away with his new coffee machine. I’d have loved one of his special choco-lattes just then.
Ahead of me I saw steps down into an Underground station. People were streaming out, turning up collars, zipping their coats, opening umbrellas. I went down and looked at the big map, with the tube lines all in different colours. I could get on the Bakerloo line here, then change for wherever I wanted. Where did I want? I stood tracing the Bakerloo brown with my finger, and saw that at Baker Street it links up with the yellow of the Circle Line. The Circle Line goes to South Kensington, which is where you get off for the Natural History Museum. I knew because we went there on a school trip once, and I wanted to see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition that was on now.
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