I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Tom Becker

  I walk back towards Oxford Street, dodging the tourists and clubbers. As I pass the darkened windows of Sandwich City, I picture my gloves sitting at the bottom of my locker. My fingers feel like icicles no matter how many times I point and flex them in my pockets. I expect they’re all in Tiger Tiger by now, drinking sugary cocktails and dancing, Pete grinding up against Angel’s round arse, his breath tickling her neck as he promises her a pay rise.

  It’s nearly midnight. After a quick loo break in a busy pub, I station myself at the 25 bus stop round the side of John Lewis, stamping up and down to keep the blood in my toes circulating until the driver finishes his fag and starts the engine.

  The second the doors open, I fly for the back seat. Funny, when I was a little kid, I liked upstairs the best. Mum used to moan, try to persuade me to stay downstairs, but she’d always give in eventually. I’d sit at the very front where I could see everything, holding on to the bar like I was on a theme-park ride. When I first moved here, that’s where I sat, my eyes as round as saucers as we passed all the stuff I’d only ever seen on the telly – The Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, The Ritz – until the weather turned and I worked out the warmest spot was downstairs, above the engine. On cold nights like this, you have to move fast to stake your claim. Luckily fast is exactly what I am. I used to run the 100 metres for my school. Not good enough to train for the Olympics or anything like that, but the fastest in my year for a bit. I close my eyes for a second and imagine myself on the starting line at the county championships, strong and lean in my shorts and T-shirt. How long ago was that now? Two years? Three? I wish I could go back to that very moment, knowing what I know now. Maybe then I could change stuff, fix things. Stop Dad from running off to Spain. Stop Mum from meeting Craig. Not lose my temper the way I did. I have daydreams about it, full-on fantasies. Like, if I could have any superpower I wanted, that’s what I would pick. Not flying, or invisibility, or superhuman strength. I’d want to go back in time and make everything OK again.

  A few regulars get on the bus with me – the Turkish guy with kind eyes, the Irish bloke who talks to himself, the skinny woman with orange hair dragging her scuffed pink suitcase on wheels. Apart from the Turkish guy, who gives me a nod, we all pretend not to recognize one another. The Irish bloke has a bottle of wine in his hand. Even four seats away, I can smell him.

  “You’re a better man than you were yesterday,” he announces to no one in particular, raising the bottle as if making a toast.

  A girl about my age, maybe a bit older, wobbles down the aisle in her high heels before plonking herself opposite me, in the seats I can’t sit in because travelling backwards makes me feel sick. She takes out her iPhone and jabs at the screen before lifting it to her ear, the dangly snowman earrings she’s wearing clanking against it.

  “Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she says in a babyish voice. “Yeah, I’m on the bus. I should get in just before one. You still OK to pick me up at the other end?”

  Her dad must say ‘yes’ because she smiles and thanks him before hanging up.

  I visualize him getting out of bed, pulling on a jumper over his pjyamas and padding downstairs to find his car keys. He’ll keep the engine running while he waits, so the car is nice and warm, maybe even bring a blanket for her to drape over her knees on the short drive home.

  The girl glances up from her phone and for a split second our eyes lock as she takes in my pale face, the backpack on my knee. She looks away first, wrapping the chain-link handle of her handbag round her wrist, once, twice, three times. She doesn’t make a massive deal over it or anything but somehow that almost makes it worse. I want to tap her on the knee and tell her that a few months ago, I was just like her, that I wore dresses and heels and straightened my hair, too; that I used to have a nice, cosy home, just like her. I doubt she’d believe me though. Why should she?

  A load of blokes dressed in Santa suits pile on at the next stop. They’re pissed, singing ‘Fairytale of New York’ at the tops of their voices. A couple of them clock the girl, breaking away from the rest of the group to chat her up. She seems to like it, answering their stupid questions and laughing when one of them asks if she’d like to sit on his lap. In my jeans and hoodie and Michelin Man jacket, I’m totally invisible to them. It’s weird, because I used to get chatted up all the time at home. Name a cheesy chat-up line and I bet you I’ve heard it at least ten times before.

  The bus rumbles down Oxford Street, gradually filling up until it’s standing-room only. I stare out of the window as we weave our way out of the West End and through the city, past the Gherkin and St Paul’s cathedral, which always puts that song from Mary Poppins in my head – ‘Feed the Birds’ – before continuing east. The journey gets boring after that. The road to Ilford, where the bus terminates, is long and straight, populated by fried chicken shops and nondescript convenience stores. Given the choice I prefer to ride the number 9, which goes through Kensington, or the 11 through Chelsea, but on nights like this, it’s best to go for the longer routes to keep changes to a minimum. It means I can’t play my favourite game though, the one where I pick out the houses I like the look of and fantasize about getting off the bus and opening the front door with a magic key. I’ve become obsessed with houses, which is funny because I was never bothered before. Whenever Mum watched Kirsty and Phil on the telly I used to get up and leave the room. Now I get the attraction. Now I understand they’re more than just a loads of bricks with a roof plonked on top.

  At Whitechapel, a woman gets on with her tear-stained kid, his screams drowning out the singing Santas. Poor kid, it’s way past his bedtime, no wonder he’s howling like that. At Bow Road, a gang of teenage boys push and shove their way up the stairs, most of them not even bothering to swipe their Oyster cards. The driver turns a blind eye, clearly not in the mood for a confrontation. I wonder if they’re the ones who nicked my phone that time, back before I figured out it’s not smart to sit on the upper deck after dark. They certainly look the same, with their black hoodies, furtive eyes and scarves pulled up to obscure their faces. At Stratford someone is sick on the stairs, the acidy smell of their vomit hitting my nostrils in seconds. I purse my lips together and try to block it out, burying my nose in the top of my bag.

  I’ve seen everything on the night bus. Fist fights, drug deals, sex, break-ups, make-ups, nosebleeds, bottles smashing, screaming rows, mass singalongs, even a woman’s waters breaking. And puke. So much puke.

  The girl opposite me gets off at Woodgrange Park. I watch as she sprints towards the waiting car, its lights already on.

  *

  I wake up when my head hits the cold glass of the window with a soft thud.

  Shit. I didn’t mean to doze off. It’s against my rules. No sleeping after dark.

  I do a quick inventory, my heart beating fast as I check for my phone and wallet.

  I haven’t had a proper sleep for a few days now. Milly lets me kip at hers during the day sometimes, while she’s at college and her mum’s at work. I have to stay upstairs though, in case the neighbours spot me through the windows and tell on us. Otherwise, if I’m not at Sandwich City, I’m stuck wandering the streets. I go for miles and miles sometimes, pounding the pavements until my feet are sore. It’s too cold to do anything else; I don’t have the luxury of standing still any more. No wonder I’ve got so skinny. God, I used to love it when my jeans felt too loose. I’d wear them low on my hips like a badge of honour. Now I long for a bit of meat on my bones and everything it stands for.

  Peering out of the window, I realize we’re in Ilford. I check the time. 1.38 a.m. It feels later.

  All change please, the automated voice says, robotic but sort of kind at the same time. I sometimes wonder who she is. An actress probably. I bet she got to sit in a cosy little recording studio somewhere, sipping tea between takes.

  Reluctantly I stand up and brace myself for the ten minutes in the cold before I can climb back on again.

  The Irish bloke refuses to get of
f. Sometimes they call the police. Tonight though, the driver clearly can’t be bothered, letting him finish his bottle of wine in the relative warmth of the stationary bus while the rest of us huddle under the shelter, not speaking. The pavement is covered with a sparkling layer of frost. I trace my toe in it, drawing a picture. It’s only when I’ve finished, I realize I’ve drawn a house.

  *

  An hour and a half later I’m back round the side of John Lewis. Déjà vu.

  I secure a seat above the engine. It’s still warm from whoever was sitting in it last.

  Someone gets on after me with what smells like a Maccy D’s, awakening the almost permanent hollow of hunger deep in my belly. I manage to identify the telltale brown bag, relieved when its owner takes it upstairs, out of sight. It reminds me of the pizza crust in my pocket. I unwrap it, nibbling on it like a squirrel, taking tiny bites to make it last.

  On automatic, I check my phone, even though I know Milly probably went to bed hours ago. 3.32 a.m. I resist yawning, knowing one will only lead to another, and another.

  I don’t notice her at first. I’m too busy watching a fight unfold on the pavement outside the big Primark near Tottenham Court Road station, the screams belonging to someone I assume must be one of their girlfriend’s, leaking through the open door.

  “Lauren?” she says.

  I look up.

  Angel is advancing down the aisle towards me, immaculate as always, her bare legs seemingly immune to the cold.

  Shit.

  That’s when I remember that she lives in Stratford, right near Westfield. I curse my stupidity, my cheeks blazing as she sits down opposite me.

  “I thought you were babysitting,” she says, taking in the backpack on my lap, the way my arms are wrapped around it like it’s the most precious thing on earth, the half-eaten pizza crust in my right hand.

  “They cancelled,” I say. “Got the flu.”

  “Where have you been, then?” she asks.

  “I met up with a mate. Had a few drinks.”

  “You should have come to find us.”

  “Not really dressed for it,” I say, indicating my jeans and trainers.

  “Where you going now?” she asks.

  “Where do you think? Home.”

  There’s a pause.

  “You do know this bus doesn’t go to Harrow, don’t you?” she says.

  Harrow is where Milly lives. It was her address that allowed me to get the job at Sandwich City in the first place. I blink rapidly, my mind racing.

  “Are you joking me?” I say. “I could have sworn it said Harrow on the display.”

  My voice is shaky though. I’m trying too hard.

  I’ve always been shit at acting. I never even got a speaking part in the nativity – I would be the innkeeper’s wife or one of at least a dozen mute angels, wandering aimlessly after Gabriel, wearing a halo made from silver tinsel on my head. I can’t deliver a line to save my life.

  Angel is looking at me, I mean, really looking at me, her eyes flickering as she attempts to join the dots, panic swirling in my belly with every straight line she draws.

  My arm shoots out to press the bell.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  I pull my backpack on to my shoulders and lurch down the aisle, pressing the bell again, like that’s going to make the bus reach the next stop any faster. Angel is calling my name, her heels clattering as she leaves her seat to come after me.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I push the emergency door control.

  “Oi!” the driver yells as the doors judder open.

  I ignore him, leaping off the bus and sprinting down the nearest side street, my bag banging against my back as I run, lungs and calves on fire. Even though I know there’s no chance Angel could have followed me, I don’t dare stop running until I’m outside Bond Street tube station, panting hard.

  I chuck myself on to the first bus I see, an N137 to Crystal Palace. The only seat left is on the top deck, right at the back. Slumped down low, I pull my hood up so all that’s visible of my face is my eyes and nose. The tears that flow are red hot with shame.

  *

  The following morning, I brush my teeth in the loos at McDonald’s, trying to ignore the curious glances of the woman washing her hands beside me.

  I allowed myself to grab a bit of sleep on the bus earlier, waking up as we crossed Tower Bridge, the sun peeking over the horizon, making the River Thames glow a buttery yellow.

  The girl looking back at me in the mirror has purplish half-moons under each eye, hair shiny with grease. I haven’t washed it since I was last at Milly’s and it shows. I yank the hood of my coat up to cover it.

  *

  I’m waiting outside the shop when Pete swaggers round the corner.

  “You’re eager,” he says, fishing in his pocket for his keys, stale alcohol and chewing gum on his breath.

  “My bus was early,” I say.

  He shrugs, obviously uninterested.

  Once inside, he disappears into the cupboard-sized room he calls his office, where the phone is ringing, while I go to the locker room and change into my uniform, tucking my greasy hair into my Sandwich City cap.

  When I come out, Pete’s attacking the rota pinned to the corkboard on the staffroom wall with a rubber.

  “Everything all right?” I ask.

  “That was Angel,” he says.

  My heart sinks to my shoes. She’s told Pete. He’s removing me from the rota altogether. Reporting me to Sandwich City headquarters for passing Milly’s address off as my own. I realize I’m shaking.

  “Says she’s woken up with the flu,” Pete continues, frowning over his shoulder. “Which is funny because she seemed fine about eight hours ago.”

  I nod, trying to process his words alongside my last sighting of a gleamingly healthy Angel on the number 25 bus.

  “Not going to be in all week apparently,” he says. “Reckons I should give all her shifts to you.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Well?” he says. “Do you want them or not?”

  “Yes,” I stutter. “Course I do.”

  “She said something about some food she left in the fridge as well,” Pete adds, screwing up his face as he writes my name on the rota. “Says to have it, if you want it. Her stuff’s got her name on it apparently.”

  I walk over to the fridge, crouching down to open the door. There’s a ready meal with Angel’s name printed on it in block capitals, plus a couple of yogurts, a packet of bagels, a smoothie, half a pack of blueberries. I stare at her name until the letters start to dance in front of my eyes, blurring behind a fresh film of tears.

  “Since when did you two become so pally?” Pete asks, his voice thick with suspicion.

  Since about 3.30 a.m. this morning, I answer silently, hugging the packet of bagels to my chest. I just didn’t realize it until now.

  About the Authors

  –

  Tom Becker won the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize in 2007 at the age of twenty-five with his first novel, Darkside. As well as further books in the Darkside series, Tom has written several standalone YA horror novels, including Dark Room for the Red Eye series from Stripes.

  Holly Bourne writes YA novels and blogs about feminist issues. Her first two books, Soulmates and The Manifesto on How to Be Interesting, have been critically acclaimed and translated into six languages. Am I Normal Yet? was chosen as a World Book Night book for 2016 and shortlisted for The Bookseller YA Book Prize.

  Sita Brahmachari was the winner of the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize in 2011 for her debut novel Artichoke Hearts. Red Leaves was endorsed by Amnesty International and she scripted the stage adaptation for Shaun Tan’s The Arrival. She is Writer in Residence at Islington Centre for Refugees and Migrants.

  Kevin Brooks is the author of many critically acclaimed YA books. In 2015 his novel The Bunker Diary was the controversial winner of the CILIP Carnegie Medal. Brooks was previously shortlisted three times for the awa
rd, with Martyn Pig, The Road of the Dead and Black Rabbit Summer.

  Melvin Burgess won the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the CILIP Carnegie Medal in 1997 for Junk. Another four of his novels have been shortlisted for the CILIP Carnegie Medal and in 2016 he was given a special achievement award by The Bookseller YA Book Prize to mark the twentieth anniversary of Junk’s first publication.

  Katy Cannon is the author of books for teenagers and younger readers. Her YA debut, Love, Lies and Lemon Pies has been translated into eight languages and her forthcoming book, And Then We Ran, will be published by Stripes in 2017.

  Cat Clarke worked as an editor and in-house writer before publishing her first novel, Entangled, in 2011 to critical acclaim. She is now a full-time author of gritty, gripping YA novels including Torn, Undone, A Kiss in the Dark and The Lost and the Found.

  Tracy Darnton is the winning author of the Stripes YA Short Story Prize for her story ‘The Letter’. She recently graduated with distinction from the Bath Spa MA Writing for Young People and is working on her debut novel.

  Juno Dawson – formerly known as James – is the multi-award-winning author of dark teen thrillers Hollow Pike, Cruel Summer, Say Her Name and Under My Skin. In 2015 she released her first contemporary romance, All of the Above, and in 2016 she authored World Book Day title Spot the Difference.

  Julie Mayhew is an author, playwright and actress. Her debut novel, Red Ink, was shortlisted for the Branford Boase Award in 2014 and her critically acclaimed second novel, The Big Lie, was shortlisted for Peters Book of the Year and Shropshire Teenage Book of the Year. Julie’s latest novel is the Russian saga, Mother Tongue.