Inside My Head

by Jim Carrington

  ‘It’s a bit skanky, isn’t it?’

  Gary peers through the window. ‘That’s Henry for you. He was a stingy bastard. That’s what Dad always said.’

  We step back from the house and just look around, at the farmyard with weeds growing up through it, at the barn, at the overgrown fields, at the dead tractors.

  ‘What are you doing today, then?’

  Gary shrugs. He looks at his watch. ‘Gotta go home,’ he says. ‘Mum’ll be back from work in a minute.’

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  Gary looks across the field. ‘God knows,’ he says. He looks at his watch again. ‘I gotta go,’ he says. And he starts marching off.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll walk with you,’ I say. And I jog a few steps to catch him up.

  We walk in silence, pretty much. I ask Gary the odd question. And he gives me the odd one-word answer, or sometimes just a grunt. He doesn’t ask me a single question. He still has no idea who I am, or where I come from. But then I’ve asked him, like, a bucketful of questions, and I still don’t know anything about him, either. Maybe I should just stay quiet as well.

  As we’re walking down the middle of the road, back towards the village, I can see someone walking in the middle of the road, towards us. Gary kind of flinches when he sees him.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gary says. ‘It’s just him. That bloke. The medal man. I don’t like him.’

  I let out a little laugh. ‘The medal man? What kind of a name’s that?’

  Gary shrugs.

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  Gary shrugs again. ‘He’s weird. He stinks.’

  As he gets closer, I can see why they call him the medal man. He has a medal hanging round his neck: a cheap piece of metal hanging on a dirty red, blue and white bit of cloth. There was a man like that in Morden, except he only used to wear white clothes, nothing else. He even started painting himself white for a while – his face and hands and feet. But he disappeared after that. I heard he started drinking white gloss paint as well, to paint his insides. Everyone said he’d died.

  The medal man hasn’t noticed us. He looks like he’s having a conversation with someone, arguing with them. But he’s on his own. He’s wearing this old light-blue suit that won’t do up cos he’s got a massive belly. And he’s got an old grey sweatshirt. His beard’s grey and greasy and stained yellow near his mouth. On his head he’s wearing a cowboy hat. He looks totally mental.

  Gary walks right on the edge of the road, to try and keep away from him. But I just keep walking down the middle of the road.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, as the medal man gets close.

  He looks up. He’s confused, a little scared. And Gary’s right, he does stink. ‘What?’

  ‘I like your medal,’ I say.

  Gary stands behind the medal man. He wants to keep walking, I can tell. He’s nervous.

  The medal man holds up his medal and looks at it. He seems to be finding it hard to focus. He can’t even stand without swaying.

  ‘What did you get it for?’

  He looks at me, tries to focus on my face. ‘I was in the war,’ he says. ‘This . . .’ He holds the medal out for me to see. It has two boys playing football engraved on it. ‘This is for bravery!’

  I laugh. But I feel guilty, so I stop.

  The medal man carries on walking down the road. Every now and then he turns and looks at us.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Gary says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talk to him!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  We start walking along again.

  ‘He’s mental,’ Gary says. ‘You shouldn’t talk to him.’

  I turn and look at Gary. He’s saying all this like he’s doing me a favour. ‘Why shouldn’t I? What harm’s it gonna do?’

  Gary doesn’t answer. I know why. He’s scared of the weird old man, that’s why.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Who?’ Gary says.

  ‘The medal man, stupid.’

  Gary shrugs. ‘He’s a tramp. He don’t live nowhere.’

  ‘A tramp?’ I say. I had no idea tramps lived in the countryside. ‘Where does he sleep, then? In the doorway of the shop?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Gary says. ‘Woods probably. Maybe a barn.’

  We walk on in silence for a minute. We’re coming in towards the village. I’m only about five minutes from home now. I think.

  ‘Do you ever wonder why people like that end up being tramps?’ I say.

  Gary looks at me. He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I mean, he must’ve had a house. And then something happened and he couldn’t deal with it, do you know what I mean? He must have run away from something. And now that’s him. The medal man. Walking around the place on his own.’

  Gary looks at me. He’s thinking about it – you can see it on his face. ‘S’pose.’

  ‘It’s sad, isn’t it?’

  Gary shrugs. ‘I don’t think it’d be so bad to run away,’ he says quietly.

  I look at him. He looks away. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say. ‘I was gonna do it once, after my mum and dad found out I’d taken some money from the pot in the kitchen. I packed a load of stuff in a bag and snuck out of the flat. Only got as far as the end of the road, though. I felt too guilty.’

  Gary looks at me. ‘I think about it sometimes,’ he says. ‘Running away. I wouldn’t be like the medal man. I wouldn’t start drinking or anything like that. I’d just get away from this shithole, try and find a job or something.’

  I smile at him. ‘You wouldn’t, though, would you?’ I say.

  He stops walking and looks at me. ‘Probably not,’ he says. And he turns and walks off to the left.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home,’ he says.

  ‘Do you live down there?’

  He stops walking, looks down at the ground. He nods.

  ‘Can I come?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  He doesn’t answer. He just turns again and walks home.

  .

  David

  ‘That was a dodgy ref, Davey,’ Dad says, taking his eyes off the traffic jam to look at me.

  I nod. I watch the wipers scrape drizzle off the windscreen.

  ‘He cost us the game today,’ Dad says. ‘There’s no way that was a penalty. That was ball to hand! Clearly. Do you reckon he left his white stick in the dressing room?’

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, I reckon,’ I say. ‘There’s no way we’re getting in the play-offs now, is there?’

  Dad sighs. ‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’ And he puts the radio on.

  We sit in traffic without talking, listening to the full-time reports come in. I look out of the window, watch the Norwich fans dodge in and out of the traffic on their way back towards the town. And as I’m staring into space, the Ipswich report comes in. They won 3–1 at home. Two penalties and the opposition keeper sent off. Lucky buggers.

  ‘Typical,’ Dad says. ‘It’s all fixed, Davey. It’s all a Suffolk conspiracy to stop Norwich from winning the league. Here, I bet that ref today was from Suffolk. What do you reckon? Have a look in the programme.’

  I look on the back of the programme. ‘Nah, he’s from Barnsley, Dad.’

  ‘That’s what he says,’ Dad laughs. ‘But I’d like to see it written down on his birth certificate!’

  I laugh. The lights up ahead change and the traffic starts to move. Dad’s company car purrs down the street.

  We cruise along the ring road. There isn’t too much traffic. The clouds get darker and the rain gets a bit heavier. As we get round to the other side of Norwich,
near the A47, near the retail parks, Dad looks at me.

  ‘Fancy a quick trip to Maccie D’s?’ he says.

  I smile back at him. I don’t even need to answer. As if I’d ever say no to a burger.

  ‘Don’t tell your mother, though, will you?’

  I put my hand on my heart. ‘Scout’s honour,’ I say.

  .

  We sit down at a table near the window looking across to Pet Superstore, and scoff our burgers and chips.

  But then Dad puts his burger down and leans in towards me. ‘David,’ he says. He’s got his serious voice on. ‘Have you spoken to Ollie much lately?’

  I put my burger down. I shake my head. ‘Not really.’

  Dad has a worried expression on his face. He looks down at the table.

  ‘Why, Dad?’

  Dad sighs. He looks back up at me. ‘I was just wondering,’ he says.

  Dad looks out of the window. He picks a couple of chips up and stuffs them in his mouth. He looks bothered. And I don’t know what to say. I pick my burger up and take a bite.

  ‘Hey, maybe we should go to Pet Superstore, Davey,’ Dad says in his matey-jokey voice. ‘We could get City a new striker, replace that donkey Lewis. Pick ourselves up a penalty-box predator! What d’you reckon?’

  I smile. ‘Yeah, why not? Couldn’t be any worse than what they’ve already got.’

  We sit there without saying a word for ages, stuffing food into our mouths, staring out of the window at the rain.

  All of a sudden Dad springs to life, tidying his rubbish on to his tray. ‘Come on then, Davey,’ he says. ‘Let’s get moving or Mum’ll guess that we paid Ronald McDonald a visit. If we’re quick we might have time to nip into the pet shop and buy the ref a guide dog!’

  Back in the car, Dad puts the radio on and pulls out of the parking space. We head for home. I sit in the passenger seat, staring out of the window at the industrial estates and then, when we get out of Norwich and into the countryside, at the soggy hedgerows, ploughed fields, pig pens and rusty tractors. And the whole time I’m sitting there I want to say something about Ollie, to ask Dad what’s going on. But I can’t think of the right thing to say. So I sit there quietly.

  .

  Sunday

  Gary

  ‘I’m going out,’ I say. Not that there’s any point in saying it. Mum’s working this morning, went ages ago. And Dad’ll be sleeping off the pub for ages yet. ‘Come on, Patch,’ I call.

  Patch comes padding over, wagging his tail. I grab his lead and heave the front door open.

  I let Patch off the lead. He trots along by my heels, sniffing the road and the grass and trees. We go to the end of the road, then turn right, out of the village. There are no cars about, so I walk down the middle of the road, towards Henry’s farm. Patch keeps to the verge, going in and out of the hedge. He’s got a scent of something. Probably a rabbit. When he was younger, me and Dad would bring Patch up to Henry’s and shoot rabbits. Patch weren’t ever much of a gun dog. He’s too spoilt, that’s what Dad said. He’d go and fetch the rabbit, but the greedy bugger sometimes wouldn’t bring it back. He’d take it off somewhere. Dad would always give Patch a kick up the arsehole when he did that, but Patch never learned. He’s too old now, though. And Dad ain’t interested in shooting any more.

  I walk as far as the gate. Patch ain’t nowhere to be seen. So I climb up on to the gate and sit. He’ll turn up in a bit. Always does.

  The sky’s grey today. Again. It’s not that warm. But there’s quite a wind. Might blow the cloud away later. Patch comes out of the hedge with his nose to the ground. You can hear him sniffing and snorting. He follows this trail that goes round and round, through the grass and out into the field. He’s in his own little world. After about half a minute, he’s miles away across the field. And after a minute, I can’t see him no more.

  So I sit there, on the metal gate. Thinking. About tomorrow. About going back to Wendham High School. Cos I don’t want to. No way. Nothing’s gonna be different. And now Knaggs’ll be twice as bad as he was. You could tell from the way he just sat there outside Moore’s office, smirking like it was all a joke. Cos that’s all it is to him. Bastard. I bet he managed to get off without being in any trouble. And I know why, I think. It was David Wright. Had to be. He went in there to talk to Mr Moore – I saw him. And I bet he told him that Knaggs didn’t do nothing and I just hit him for no reason. I bet.

  But I have to go back, don’t I? I haven’t got another option. There are no other schools for miles around, and there aren’t any buses that go to them anyhow. And I’m too young not to go to school. I s’pose I could just run off. Just leave for good. Don’t know where to. But at least I wouldn’t have to go to school. I could find somewhere to sleep, scrounge some food, maybe get a job.

  I sigh. I can’t see Patch anywhere. I whistle for him. Nothing. I whistle again. Still nothing. So I jump down off the gate and walk across the field, through the long grass to find him.

  .

  Monday

  Zoë

  I can’t eat breakfast this morning. Even the thought of food turns my stomach. So I stay in my room instead and stare at my uniform. I really don’t want to go to a new school, simple as that.

  At half seven, Mum comes up the stairs and knocks on my door. Gently. She opens it and peeps round the corner. ‘Zoë, love, are you going to get ready for school? We’ve got to go soon.’

  I make a face and sigh. ‘I don’t want to go, Mum,’ I say. I don’t want to cry, but I do.

  Mum sits down on the bed, puts her arm round me and pulls me over towards her. ‘Don’t cry, Zo,’ she says. ‘You’ll set me off.’ I already have set her off – I can hear it in her voice. ‘You’ll be fine, Zoë,’ she says. ‘You’ve always been a confident girl. You’ll make new friends easily. Anyway, you’ve already got a friend at the school, haven’t you? Gary, isn’t it?’

  I sit up and nod. And then I sigh. ‘I don’t want to go to Wendham High School, though. I want to go back to my old school, with my old friends, Mum,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want to move to this shithole.’

  Mum sits up straight and looks at me. Her face is cross for a second. ‘Zoë!’ she says, like she’s never heard me swear before. But then she just looks upset. ‘I know it’s a big change, Zoë. But Norfolk’s a nice place. Much nicer than Morden. It’ll be a great place for us to bring up the baby. And you. Just give it a chance.’

  I look away from her.

  ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we treat ourselves this evening? We could go into town and get a DVD and a takeaway. Your choice. Indian, Chinese, fish and chips – whatever you want.’

  I give her a smile. Just a little one, though. ‘Can I choose the DVD?’

  She smiles. ‘Yeah, as long as you get dressed and go to school,’ she says. Mum gets up from the bed. ‘Leaving in fifteen minutes, Zoë. Make sure you’re ready.’

  And then she goes back downstairs.

  .

  The receptionist at school asks us to wait outside the office on some comfy chairs. Mum looks at me. She raises her eyebrows and smiles. I just sit there and feel uncomfortable in my new uniform.

  After a couple of minutes, a tall man in a suit comes over to us. Mr Scott. Mum looks up at him and smiles. He shows us round the school and gives us all the talk about what a great school it is and how I’ll love it here and how good the GCSE results are and blah-blah-blah. Mum laughs at all his jokes, like she’s the new girl. She seems nervous. The school’s a bit like Morden High School. Except it’s much smaller. My form tutor’s a man called Mr Sharkey. He has black and white hair. Makes him look a bit like a badger. Then we go back to the office and Mr Scott talks some more, but I’ve stopped listening. My heart’s beating too fast to concentrate.

  The school bell goes and Mum gets up to leave. And suddenly
I feel about three years old. I want my mummy. She wishes me luck and blows me a kiss. And for a few seconds I really wish I could go with her. But then she’s gone.

  Mr Scott smiles at me. ‘Don’t worry, Zoë. Year Ten are a really nice year group. You’ll settle in easily. And if you have any worries, you can always talk to Mr Sharkey or you can come and talk to me, OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit nervous, that’s all.’

  He smiles again. ‘That’s just natural, Zoë. You’ll be fine. Let’s go and meet Ten M, shall we?’

  I nod and follow Mr Scott.

  We walk down loads of corridors that all look the same. There’s no way I’m gonna remember my way round this place. We stop by a door. Mr Scott smiles at me and then knocks. My hands are clammy. My stomach keeps turning. I feel like I’m gonna be sick. Mr Scott opens the classroom door and walks in. I stumble along behind him.

  ‘Good morning, Ten M,’ he says.

  Ten M stand behind their chairs. ‘Good morning, Mr Scott,’ they say. And they all sit back down again.

  Everyone looks at me. This is so embarrassing. I stand slightly behind Mr Scott, so they can’t really see me.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you all to Zoë,’ he says. He steps aside, so that everyone can see me.

  I smile at them. A couple of girls smile back, one even gives a little wave. Some of the boys smile back. But not many. Some of them look miserable, or don’t look at all. And right at the back, in the corner, I see the two boys from the playing field – the one in the cap and his tall friend. They’re smiling as they look over at me. But I can’t tell if they’re smiling cos they recognise me, or whether they’re taking the piss again.

  ‘Zoë is joining us from a school in London,’ Mr Scott says, like everyone should be impressed. ‘I’m sure that we’re all going to make her feel welcome here at Wendham.’

  A couple of the kids smile again. The two boys from the park say something to each other and then laugh. I think they’re taking the piss.