Then one evening I’m in my room doing homework, and a row breaks out downstairs. It sounds like a big one, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Next thing, Rachel’s running upstairs and slamming the door to her room. Mum’s right behind and barges straight in to carry on the row. You can tell who’s doing what just by the sound of the footsteps and door slams. Everyone has their own personal signature when it comes to slamming doors.
They start up again in Rachel’s room, and it’s right through the wall from mine so I can hear every word.
‘Don’t run away from me, Rachel,’ Mum says. ‘I told you you’re not to see him again.’
‘I’LL SEE WHO I WANT!’
Volume-wise, Rachel’s about double Mum.
‘Not while you’re living in my house.’
‘THEN I’LL GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.’
‘You can’t, Rachel. You’re thirteen.’
‘WELL, YOU’RE A FASCIST.’
‘There’s a lot of things you don’t understand yet, Rachel.’
‘WELL, THERE’S A MILLION THINGS YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND AND NEVER WILL.’
After a long gap, Mum says, ‘What, Rachel? What don’t I understand?’
‘EVERYTHING.’
‘Like what?’
‘LIKE I LOVE HIM.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I DO.’
‘You don’t, Rachel. You don’t know what it means.’
‘YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ME. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE. YOU JUST WANT TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO.’
‘I’m telling you what to do for a reason, Rachel. He’s a very troubled boy. He’s not someone a person like you should get involved with.’
‘BECAUSE HE’S TROUBLED?’
‘Yes.’
‘WELL, YOU’RE A NICE PERSON, AREN’T YOU? STEER CLEAR OF ANYONE WHO’S IN ANY TROUBLE. DON’T LET YOURSELF BE NICE TO SOMEONE WHO ISN’T 100 PER CENT HAPPY. THAT’S A REALLY GOOD ATTITUDE, ISN’T IT? THANKS, MUM, FOR HELPING ME BE A GOOD PERSON – FOR SHARING YOUR BRILLIANT WISDOM.’
‘I’m not talking about him being unhappy. You know I don’t mean that. What I’m talking about is that he’s dangerous.’
‘NOT WITH ME, HE ISN’T. HE’S VERY GENTLE.’
‘He’s dangerous, Rachel. You saw what he nearly did to Dad.’
Now I know for sure who they’re talking about. I sensed it from the start, but this is when I give up hoping it might be someone else. Rachel and Carl. Girlfriend and boyfriend. It’s gross.
‘HE’S NOT REALLY LIKE THAT.’
‘If he can do that once, without any provocation, he can do it again.’
‘WHO SAYS THERE WAS NO PROVOCATION?’
‘Oh, so that whole thing was Dad’s fault, was it?’
‘MAYBE IT WAS. WE DON’T KNOW WHAT HE SAID. IF I HAD A CHAINSAW, I’D WANT TO CUT HIM UP HALF THE TIME.’
‘You’re being ridiculous now, Rachel.’
‘WELL, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, I’M NOT GOING TO STOP SEEING HIM.’
‘In that case, you’re grounded. You’re not going to see anyone.’
‘MUM! THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM. YOU’RE JUST A TOTAL SNOB!’
‘This is nothing to do with snobbery, Rachel. He’s unbalanced. His mother’s a drunk. His father’s God knows where …’
‘SHE’S NOT A DRUNK. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HER.’
‘She is, Rachel.’
‘YOU’LL SAY ANYTHING TO MAKE ME DO WHAT YOU WANT, AND YOU MUST THINK I’M STUPID IF YOU THINK I’LL JUST BELIEVE YOU.’
‘I know what’s best for you, Rachel, and you’re not to see him. He’s a bad kid. He’s completely out of control.’
‘YOU CAN’T STOP ME.’
‘Well, you can have a long, hard think, young lady, because you’re not going out at all until you give me your word that you will not see that boy again. Understand?’
‘THERE’S NO HUMAN RIGHTS IN THIS HOUSE. YOU’RE A COMPLETE NAZI. GET OUT OF MY ROOM. OR ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE MY ROOM AWAY FROM ME AS WELL?’
The door clicks shut, but it’s a while before I hear Mum going back downstairs.
The house is noisy for a couple of weeks, Mum, Dad and Rachel either not speaking or going at each other like lunatics, sometimes even shouting about how they’re not speaking, which makes no sense to me. She’s supposedly grounded, but they can’t actually stop her going out, and she won’t tell them where she’s going. That’s what all the fuss is mainly about.
During this period, the average dinner-table conversation is something like the following (see fig. 8).
Then one day it’s all silence. Strange, eerie, house-of-sickness silence. Rachel stops going out, she stops arguing with Mum and Dad, and she stops having visitors.
Even Lucy doesn’t come any more.
When Rachel does leave her room, which is hardly ever, her eyes are all red and she won’t speak. It’s like someone’s died. And they have. Rachelucy is no more.
Donny’s watching Open All Hours, which I know he thinks is rubbish, so he’s got no excuse for getting rid of me. If it was a different programme, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I give him a nipple cripple to get his attention and start nagging him for an explanation of what’s going on with Rachel. I’m not expecting an answer straight off, but I’m pretty confident I can wear him down.
FIGURE 8.
DINNER TABLE CONVERSATION DURING RACHEL STROP PERIOD
He caves in relatively quickly, after a short (but one-sided) cushion fight and a prolonged double nipple-cripple revenge. Donny’s the person you have to go to at times of family madness. He’s the only one apart from me with any command of logic.
‘Carl was her boyfriend,’ he says.
‘I know that,’ I say.
‘Even after all the arguments, after Mum and Dad said she had to break it off, she carried on seeing him, in secret. Then one day she went to see Lucy, and Carl was there, in her bedroom.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t be. What else?’
‘There’s nothing else. That’s the story. She visited Lucy, and Carl was there. The end.’
I give this a long think.
‘What were they doing?’ I say.
Donny takes his eyes from the TV and looks at me, smirking. ‘Who knows?’ he says. ‘What do you think they were doing?’
This is a tricky question. I can sense that just about any answer will make Donny laugh at me. I opt for a swerve.
‘What do you think they were doing?’ I say.
‘Ahaaaa,’ says Donny. ‘I’ll tell you if you tell me.’
‘I think they were kissing,’ I say. ‘At least.’
‘At least?’ says Donny.
‘Yeah. At least kissing.’
Donny smiles at me, but he doesn’t laugh. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ he says.
‘And now Rachel doesn’t want to see either of them again?’
‘Exactly. Because they were both lying to her.’
‘About what?’
‘About seeing each other.’
‘What – did they say they weren’t?’
‘No. They just never said they were.’
‘That’s not lying.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘OK, it’s not lying. It’s cheating.’
‘How’s it cheating?’
‘It just is.’
‘How?’
‘It just is.’
‘Are there rules? Is there a rule book?’
‘There’s no book, but there are rules.’
‘So how do you know what they are?’
‘You just do.’
‘How?’
‘You figure them out.’
‘How?’
‘You just do.’
‘So why’s she upset?’
‘I’ve already told you! I’m not explaining it again.’ Girls
are weird. As you can see, Donny pretends to understand, but it all unravels if you question him. He doesn’t get it any more than I do.
What’s really mad is that it’s all over the same boy I used to play with. Not play, but hang out with. And because I basically introduced them, it makes me feel ultra-mature to have such a major role in my sister getting her heart broken. When she’s not too scary to talk to, I’ll tell her I’m really sorry for the part I played in her suffering. I reckon she’ll appreciate the gesture.
Brent Cross
The smaller the thing you want, the bigger the shop you have to go to. This is one of the strange rules of life that Mum lives by. You can get just about anything at our local shopping centre, but one day, when Mum decides she needs a few buttons, a whole excursion is planned, to Brent Cross.
Brent Cross is only shops – shops and a car park big enough to land a jumbo jet on – but going there is a Big Thing. Everyone has to be consulted. Everyone has to be invited. Lists have to be made. Cupboards have to be checked in all rooms for obscure items that might be missing, or broken, or just not bought yet.
It’s hard to explain the excitement, really. I don’t even like shops. But when Mum says she’s going to Brent Cross, I can’t not go. It would be like saying you didn’t want to go on holiday.
Maybe it’s because going there is the nearest you can get to time travel. You feel like you’re going to spend the day in the future, where everything’s paved over and roofed in and heated and perfect. Before you set off it feels like that, anyway. Once you’re there it’s always a letdown, but by then it’s too late.
The other two aren’t interested, so this time it’s just me and Mum, which I know is a bit uncool, but secretly I quite like the idea of it. As we glide off the dual carriageway and down the spiral ramp that takes you to the car park, I can feel a little flutter of excitement in my chest. I know the trip will end up disappointing, but I’ve still got that thrill of arriving somewhere special, and of having Mum all to myself.
It’s always my job to remember where the car is, and I try to fix it in my head, taking a mental photo of our spot. You can’t rely on the cars around you because they might have gone by the time you leave, but I try and remember what they are anyway because it’s interesting to know if they’re still there when you come out. Maybe interesting is the wrong word, but you just want to know.
There’s a red Mercedes next to us, and I make a secret bet with myself that it won’t have left when we come back out because rich people have more money to spend, which must take longer.
Brent Cross doesn’t have a front. Or if it does, we’ve never found it. We always just cross from the car park, go over one of those bobbly bits of pavement for blind people, then you get to a little door, and you go through it and straight away you’re in the middle of racks of flouncy dresses for old women. Proper old women. Mum doesn’t even look at them.
Our first stop is the button department of John Lewis. You wouldn’t think there is one, but there is. Sometimes it’s amazing how everything that exists is for sale somewhere.
All the buttons are heaped up in little perspex display cases, and they’re amazingly fondlable. You just want to shove your hand into all of them and wiggle your fingers, and the great thing is, you can! The more you want to touch something, the more you won’t be allowed, on the whole. But buttons are different, which is a good sign, because it always looked like this was a dead cert for being the most boring bit of the whole day, but we’re doing it first, and already I’m having fun.
The number of things you can admit to enjoying is much lower than the number of things that are actually fun. Sliding your hand in a heap of slippery, cool buttons and having a good squelch is a classic example. You’d never tell anyone about that. I don’t even know why I’m admitting it now.
There are some shops that only have women in. You feel cunning being there when you’re not one – like a spy. Because I’m only a boy they forget about me, and I can listen to the things they say when they think there are no men listening. Most of it doesn’t make sense, but I like hearing it anyway. I like the way women can make anything sound like a secret. I like the way their voices go when they’re gossiping. Mum’s stopped taking me into the changing rooms, though, which is a pity.
She’s ages in the clothes section, but I don’t really mind. Some days you get bored quickly, other days you’re happy just watching people do things. I make a little fuss because she said she wasn’t going to buy any clothes, but I only really do it to make sure she appreciates that I’m not making a big fuss.
‘Don’t tell Dad,’ she says at the till. I think it’s because she’s bought too much stuff, but it’s like there’s a wink in her voice saying she doesn’t really mean it.
‘It’s all very reduced,’ she adds.
I shrug. She reaches out, smooths down a bit of my hair, and leaves her hand there, nestled into the back of my neck. Sometimes I hate it when she touches me and sometimes I like it. Today it’s OK.
I can sense that after this I’m going to get a reward for being good. It’s coffee and cake time. We call it that even though I have hot chocolate with an éclair, and Mum has tea and a croissant. I don’t know why. That’s just our name for it.
New school shoes are next on the list, which is something I dread and also kind of look forward to. It’s the only time you get a grown-up down at your feet, anxiously questioning you about whether you feel comfortable, very comfortable or only slightly comfortable. In children’s shoe shops, it’s like the whole world’s upside-down. The kids are the big experts, up high, giving information and opinions, while grown-ups crawl around on their hands and knees asking questions.
I specially like the bit where you have to walk to the door and back, with your mum and the sales assistant watching nervously for you to give your approval. When you get back, if you just give a slight ‘Mmmm,’ they look straight into your eyes and bark questions at you. ‘Do they pinch? Do they slip? Do they squeeze? Rub? What is it?’ And you can just be all laid back, and go ‘Mmmm’ again, like you’re a king and you don’t like what you’ve been given, but you can’t even be bothered to explain why.
There’s a catch, though. You end up with new shoes. And nothing’s worse than new shoes. Wearing new shoes is like carrying round a placard saying: ‘I’m a shiny, swotty pillock.’ However hard you try, it’s two weeks minimum to scuff them up and look normal again.
I’m just grateful that when I see the two of them, I’ve got the new shoes safely in a bag in my hand, and I’m wearing the old ones.
It’s Olly and Carl. They’re by the fountain, smoking.
I see them from miles away and stop dead. Mum stops, too, follows my stare, and sees who I’ve spotted. I can hardly believe it. The sight of them is like a kick in the stomach.
My first thought is that I have to get out of there as fast as I can, before they notice me. While I can act as if I don’t know Olly still sees him, I’m in control of what happens next. It’s my choice. But as soon as he knows I know, everything’ll have to change. I’ll have to make a stand. I’ll have to walk away.
I can’t just be the spare part. I’m not going to be the hanger-on to those two. I’d never do it and, even if I did, I’d know Carl was just waiting for a moment to turn on me and kick me out.
I have to get out of sight, but I can’t. My legs won’t budge. I’m stuck, staring at them, too shocked or upset or freaked out to get my body to go where I want.
‘I’m going to give that boy a talking-to,’ says Mum.
My head turns to her, and my jaw flops open. I’m so horrified by what she’s said that I can’t think of how to respond. I’d rather wear new shoes every day for the rest of my life than have Mum go over to them but, before I’ve even begun to explain to her that this will be the worst thing she’s ever done to me, she’s off, striding in their direction.
Now it’s an emergency, my legs start working and I go after her.
‘
Don’t,’ I say.
‘He’s smoking,’ she says.
‘Please don’t.’
She doesn’t even break stride. We’re getting closer now. They’re going to see us. My whole world is seconds away from total collapse. I grab Mum’s sleeve and dig my heels into the floor.
‘MUM! DON’T!’
‘Get off me.’
‘DON’T! PLEEEEEASE!’
She can’t move. I’m leaning right back and almost pulling her coat off. Then I turn my head, and see Olly and Carl. They must have heard me because now they’re staring right at us, and I realize what I must look like: a screaming kid pulling at his mum’s sleeve and having a tantrum like a five-year-old. This is the most humiliating thing ever.
I can’t pull her back now, with them watching, so I let go. She shrugs her coat back on to her shoulder and, without even glancing at me, marches over to them. I can’t follow. I can barely watch. I just want to curl up and disappear.
When she gets to them, she ignores Carl completely and starts laying into Olly. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but you can see it’s a telling-off. God knows what it’s about. It goes on and on, and Olly just stares at her like she’s mad, then she sticks her hand out and barks an order at him. I can see her saying the same thing three times. Eventually, he puts his packet of cigarettes in her hand. Without dropping her arm, she says something else, also three times, before he hands over his lighter. She puts the cigarettes and lighter into her handbag, then turns to Carl, says one thing, and strides away, with a cross but happy look on her face.
Both boys look from her to me and back again. They’re not laughing. Not yet.
Before she reaches me, I spin on my heel and walk off, as fast as I can, away from all three of them. I don’t run. I can’t let Carl and Olly see me run.
Round the next corner, Mum catches up and tries to grab my arm.
Bad Influence Page 8
