Bad Influence

by William Sutcliffe

  Carl turns round, and grins. You can tell he’s loving it. He shouts something I don’t hear and points across the road to where we last saw the towers, then swings out into the traffic, steering himself right across to the fast lane. Without thinking, I follow him, and so does Olly behind me. A big truck hoots and flashes at us, brakes squealing, but we make it. Right in the middle of the road, Carl stops, and we pull in behind him.

  ‘That way,’ he says.

  The traffic is now whizzing by on both sides of us. We’re doing a right turn in the way you’d do it in a car, not going up to the lights and crossing there, but stopping in the middle and letting everyone go round us while we wait for a gap in the oncoming traffic. Because we’re only on bikes, no one stops behind us, so we’ve got two lanes on each side, zooming past, with lots of cars hooting and swerving at the last minute. It’s a bit like being a skittle.

  We wait for ages, but there are no gaps. None of us speaks. We’ve all got our feet in position, one on the ground, one on a raised pedal, and our heads are angled in the same direction, looking ahead of us at the endless stream of cars, waiting for our moment. There are lots of half-moments, when I think it might just be possible, but I stop myself at the last second, and judge the gaps as they go past to figure out if I would have made it or not.

  It’s during one of these half-chances that Carl goes for it. The fast lane’s empty, but there’s a Volvo tanking along in the slow lane that looks much too close, and as soon as Carl sets off it’s clear there’s no turning back, and also that he’s in the wrong gear because he’s got no acceleration, and it’s like the whole thing’s in slow motion, it’s like the whole thing’s been timed exactly so he’ll go smack into the front bumper of the Volvo because, even though it hasn’t happened yet, it’s so close and so unavoidable that Carl might as well be dead already. I can see exactly where the crash is going to happen, with Carl right in the middle of the lane at the second the car gets there. Carl’s not stopping, and the Volvo’s going much too fast to stop, but it hits the brakes anyway and skids, hurtling forwards with its tyres locked, screaming against the tarmac. It seems like Carl’s got about half a second to live, but suddenly the shrieking stops, the wheels turn and the car swerves out into the fast lane, the whole body of it tilting, the driver’s eyes almost popping out as he goes past right in front of us, squeezing through the gap between Carl’s back wheel and my front wheel, and then it’s all over, and Carl’s standing there on the opposite side of the road, in one piece, grinning.

  There’s a smell in the air of burnt rubber, same as when we tried to melt Carl’s ball.

  He gets off his bike and does a victory dance, waving his arms in the air and wiggling his bum. It barely seems possible that he’s there, still alive, dancing, and all I can do is stare, everything vanishing from my mind except the sight of Carl, in his red tracksuit, wiggling his bum on the other side of the street. He touches the tip of a finger to his tongue and draws a ‘I’ on an imaginary blackboard in the air, then he makes a circle with his finger and thumb, and shakes it in our direction. With the cars thumping past between us, it’s like he’s in a different world. It’s as if I’m looking through a screen at him, as if he’s on TV and I’m real.

  I know there’s nothing more dangerous than someone who’s fearless, and I know I ought to be scared of him, but I don’t really feel it. What I feel, more than anything, is excited. It’s strange, because I don’t like him, and I know he’s bad, but I want to be with him. I want to be on the other side of the street, dancing, looking back at Olly.

  Then Olly goes past me. I look up the road and there’s a long gap, so I cross, too. Even if it had only been a short gap, I would have gone for it.

  ‘Did you see his face?’ I say. ‘In the Volvo?’

  I pull it, puffing my cheeks out as far as they’ll go and pushing my eyebrows down towards my nose.

  Olly and Carl laugh, and we all pull the face, seeing who can do it best, then we’re off again. It’s just an ordinary road now, with houses on each side and only a few cars. After Kenton Road, it’s the easiest thing in the world. We slalom all over the place, sometimes turning round and pulling the Volvo face to the person behind to try and make them laugh. We’re all excited like we’ve just won something, and everything makes us crack up, even stupid little things like bumping into each other. It’s probably because we nearly got killed.

  The road we’re on looks just like the one where I live, but the slope of it’s different. You always know which road is yours. After a bit, we get to a crossroads. There’s a line on the tarmac showing that we’re the ones who have to stop. I think I’ve been here in a car, but I don’t really know where we are. It’s not anywhere I’ve been on a bike. All I know is that home’s behind us.

  There’s been no sight of Wembley since the park.

  ‘That way,’ says Carl, pointing straight across the junction. He doesn’t slow down for the white line or wait to see if we agree about the direction, he just goes, and we follow.

  The roads wiggle and turn, and for ages there’s not even a glimpse of the stadium. Half the time we’re on quiet streets with houses and half the time we’re on big roads with shops, but after Kenton Road nothing seems scary any more. It’s like we’re invincible.

  When we get to a roundabout – the biggest one I’ve ever done on a bike, with cars coming at us from every angle like a video game – we just have to guess which exit to take, and even Carl admits he’s not really sure.

  Then we see a railway and follow it in what feels like the right direction. The tracks lead us to Preston Road station, which means we’re going the right way because Preston Road is the Tube stop between us and Wembley. Just after that, we see the towers again, and it feels like a miracle because they really are closer. Not just closer, but bigger.

  The idea that you really can go anywhere – that you don’t have to ask anyone, and that nothing bad is going to happen – is like suddenly discovering the best game in the world. Just because somewhere’s far away, that doesn’t mean it’s more dangerous. It doesn’t make sense that your little bit is the only safe bit. Somewhere far away is somewhere near for the people who live there, and where I live would be far away to them. There are people everywhere, which means everywhere’s near for someone, which means there’s probably nothing wrong with it.

  It’s obvious, once you think about it, but today it’s a new and completely amazing thought.

  I haven’t looked at my watch once, and I’m hardly even tired at the moment we go round a corner and see the long, straight path that goes from where we are right to the bottom of the twin towers. We’ve seen it on telly. Everyone in the world’s probably seen it on telly, on Cup Final day, with thousands of football fans bobbing towards the stadium, like the whole place is carpeted with people. And now we’re there. Just us. We’ve got it all to ourselves.

  Olly’s the first one to whoop, but as soon as he starts Carl and me both join in and hold it as loud and as long as we can while we peg it down the path, our hearts pounding, riding faster and faster towards the stadium steps, racing but not racing, just all of us going as quick as we can, together, celebrating that we’ve done it, that we’ve got there, to Wembley. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  We muck around at the stadium for ages, riding up and down all the ramps and skidding in the puddles (which are huge). The car park in front is so massive that you can’t look at it without wanting to ride in long swoops all around. There’s no one there except us, us and the pigeons, who flap away in clouds however fast you ride up to them. It’s Carl’s idea to try and run them over, but none of us even gets close.

  We’re so busy that we don’t once think of having lunch. We just find that we’re on the way home, without anyone having to say it’s time to go, and even though it’s the longest distance I’ve ever cycled, the whole trip is somehow imprinted on the brain, and it’s really easy to get back. At each junction, you just remember it and know which way t
o turn. We don’t even have to talk about it. We all just go the same way.

  I’ve always wondered how grown-ups know how to get everywhere, and now I understand. There’s no magic to it. Or if there is, it’s magic we can all do.

  As we’re riding back, I remember that I still haven’t told Olly what I know about Carl. I haven’t told him what Carl did with the chainsaw – how he lost it and behaved like a freak.

  I’d been thinking that I couldn’t wait to tell – to put him off Carl and get things back to normal – but now I’m wondering if I should keep it to myself for a while. Maybe having three of us is more fun than two. Maybe I should just stay quiet and see if Carl turns out to be OK. With him around, things happen. New things.

  We get to Olly’s house first. It’s almost dark. As we’re saying bye, Carl asks Olly what his number is. Olly goes into the house and comes out with it written on a bit of paper.

  ‘I put Ben’s down as well,’ he says as he hands it over.

  ‘Can’t he do it himself?’

  Because he’s saying it to Olly instead of me, I can’t give an answer, but it makes me feel weird that he’s said it – that when we’ve all had fun he should suddenly act like he wants an argument.

  ‘What’s yours?’ asks Olly. You can tell he’s changing the subject on purpose.

  Carl doesn’t say anything, but takes the pen, yanks Olly’s sleeve up and writes in huge numbers on his forearm, making him laugh and squirm as he does it.

  ‘D’you want it?’ he says to me, after he’s finished.

  I shrug a yes. Carl takes my arm and writes on the back of my hand in tiny, smudged digits. I pretend I haven’t noticed the difference, or don’t care, secretly straining to come up with a joke that would get him back – that would balance things out again – but I can’t think of anything.

  We’re in the same spot as where Olly’s mum told me the two of them had gone to the park without me. It feels like ages ago, but it was only this morning. Now, with Carl gripping my wrist and scratching minuscule numbers hard into my skin, I get the same feelings all over again: that I’m being left out; that Carl’s ranked me below Olly.

  Olly doesn’t look at me as he says bye.

  In the bath, later, I wash and wash it till it hurts, till there’s no trace.

  Olly’s House

  It’s a regular thing with me and Olly that on Saturdays, while we’re waiting for Final Score, we put on the wrestling and copy the moves on the living-room floor.

  When Carl joins in, it becomes a different game. The fighting is more like proper fighting, especially when it’s me v. Carl. He can beat us both, but with Olly he’s gentle. He deliberately gets the two of them twisted up into funny positions, and they’re always laughing. With me, he just grabs hold of an arm or wrist or ear, and twists as hard as he can until I submit, then he makes me say it again and again before he actually stops.

  He never hurts Olly like that. Just me. Olly knows it, too, but he doesn’t care.

  Olly actually likes him. That’s the problem. He likes being in a group, instead of a pair. So from Wembley right till the end of the holidays, the three of us are a unit. It’s never just me and Olly any more. It’s always all of us.

  That’s not how I want it but, if Olly phones him, I can’t turn Carl away. And I can’t stay away myself, or I’d have nothing to do. You have to act together to keep someone out. When you’re friends with someone you do it all the time, without thinking. Just the way you are together makes it obvious no one else is invited. But with Carl, Olly doesn’t do it. He opens the doors and lets him right in, without even asking me.

  It’s always Olly’s house now. We never get invited to Carl’s and don’t go to mine either. Dad would go mental. I’d never be able to explain how Carl’s become my friend. I haven’t had any say in it, but Dad wouldn’t understand that.

  As soon as I get a good moment, alone with Olly, I tell him the chainsaw story, but it’s too late. By then, Olly knows I don’t get on with Carl, and the way it comes out the story doesn’t sound believable. It just sounds like I’ve made something up to put Olly off him.

  Olly doesn’t tell me I’m lying, he just says, ‘So?’

  So I tell the story again, more vividly, with more details of how mad Carl seemed. And still Olly just says, ‘So?’

  You can’t argue against that. It doesn’t give you anything to work with.

  Sometimes I think maybe Olly doesn’t really like Carl, either. He just likes the way Carl treats him, compared to how Carl treats me. Before, when it was only two of us, I was definitely in charge. Now everything’s upside-down, and it’s Carl in charge, with me at the bottom of the heap. It’s always me that gets hurt, or teased, or left behind, never Olly, and definitely never Carl.

  If Olly thought I always bossed him around too much, he should have said something. To just let someone new take over is stupid because Carl makes everything worse. It’s obvious. But Olly’s always been like that. He wants everything the same for ages and ages, then suddenly he’ll decide he likes something new, and that’s it. There’s never a warning, and he never changes his mind. Nothing I can say about Carl would make any difference.

  Olly will usually do what other people want, but he’ll always think what he wants. On little things, you can persuade him; on important things, forget it. He’s half butterfly, half donkey, that’s what he is.

  As a three, what we do is completely different. Carl’s the new one – he ought to be like a guest – but from the minute he’s in, he takes over. One by one, he ruins or turns us against all the games we used to like (see fig. 6).

  It’s hard to say exactly what we do instead. We wander around more. Often we just go to the shopping centre and look at stuff, talking about what we’d buy if we had a million pounds. It sounds boring, but with Carl we’re never bored. There are lots of things I don’t like about him, but I can never say he’s boring.

  FIGURE 6. GAMES SPOILT BY CARL

  The Playground

  When term starts, I get the best news ever. Carl isn’t at our school. During the week, it’s going to be just me and Olly again, like before. And I’ve got a plan. I’m going to be better to Olly. I’m not going to boss him around or ever tell him he’s stupid.

  It’ll have to be gradual. It can’t look like I’m sucking up. But slowly, I’ll win him back and show him that we don’t need Carl.

  First day back at school is more exciting than you’d ever dare admit, not just because it always is, but because we’re starting the last year of primary. It’s like being royalty. At long last, we’re the biggest. We’re in charge.

  During first playtime, everyone gathers at the best bit of territory, around the water fountain. You only get this spot when you’re the top year, and none of us has ever really been here before, except to dash in and get a ball, or after school hours, which doesn’t count.

  From here, there’s a view of the whole playground, no one can sneak up behind you, and you have command of the best football pitch, which for now we’re not even using. There’s too much to get used to. No one wants to play just yet.

  The girls in our year have now got the very top of the hilly bit, under the tree. A couple of the boys go over to talk to them and check out their new land. We all watch as they do it. It’s a strange thing to attempt, but it’s not one of the saddos or girly boys who does it. It’s Martin Kaye and Scott Franklin. So instead of laughing at them for talking to girls, everyone just watches, impressed.

  The girls are a bit frosty, but let them have a look round. Then Martin and Scott try and persuade Verity to come back and have a look at where the boys are, but she won’t. You can see by the gestures what they’re saying. She screams when Martin tries to pull her up from where she’s sitting, but you can tell she likes it. Verity’s the prettiest girl in the school. Martin bought her a Mr Whippy on the last day of term, before the summer holidays, so everyone knows she’s taken.

  Whatever Martin and Scott do, you can’
t laugh at. Martin’s captain of the football team and he’s had a trial at Watford. Scott’s dad’s a fireman. If anyone else was wearing the trousers they are, it would be the biggest joke of the day. They don’t go straight down, but get narrower and narrower all the way to the ankles, almost like tights. Because it’s Martin and Scott, no one says a word. Apparently, they’re called drainpipes. You’d never guess they were for boys.

  Our new classroom’s upstairs, which is excellent, and our teacher’s Mrs Dickson, which isn’t is as bad as it could be. She’s got bug eyes and is quite strict, but at least she’s not Mr Hughes.

  Me and Olly get ourselves the perfect desk, right at the side, near the windows, two rows in from the back.

  She says we’re going to do the whole history of everything, starting with the Egyptians. This happens every year, and I’ve never got past the Romans, except once when Miss Wood did Henry VIII. One Friday, Miss Wood came to school with a surfboard on her roof rack because she was going on a trip with her boyfriend. She was amazing.

  The Shopping Centre

  It’s Saturday afternoon. Me, Olly and Carl are hanging around under the statue of Sally the skipping girl in the centre of town. It’s got benches all round it, so everyone can sit there looking up at where Sally’s knickers would be if her skirt wasn’t solid metal.

  We’re not doing much. Carl’s drinking a Slush Puppy and Olly’s stuck into a Curly Wurly, but I’m just sitting there. When I see Rachel and Lucy walking towards us, at first I’m not too worried. I don’t have to say hello to her in public because there’s no way she’d say hello to me. There’s always the chance that she’ll look at me and pull a face as she walks past, but the probability of the other two noticing isn’t very high. I don’t know how it came about, and neither of us had to say anything, but for a long time it’s been agreed that pretending not to know each other is the safest policy in front of other people. It’s like a peace treaty (see fig. 7).