I keep watching the car as I hear Mum open the door and come into the house. Dad doesn’t go after Mum. He sits in the driver’s seat and looks at his mobile. He puts the phone to his ear and then has a conversation. I watch as he gesticulates, but I have no idea what he’s saying or who he’s talking to.
After a bit Dad puts his phone away, gets out of the car and opens the boot. He pulls his and Mum’s suitcases up to the door.
Almost as soon as he comes into the house, I hear him and Mum having a go at each other again. Their voices come up through the floor. I can just about make out what they’re saying.
‘I’m working all the bloody hours under the sun to stop my bloody business going tits up. And all you can bloody do is moan!’ Dad shouts.
I sigh. I hate it when they argue, which at the moment is pretty much all the time.
‘When you are here you’re always bloody drunk,’ Mum says.
‘Ha! The words pot, kettle and black spring to mind,’ Dad says. ‘You can bloody talk!’
I can’t be doing with this. I go and put some music on, bang it right up, drown Mum and Dad out. And then I go and sit behind my drum kit. To think that I was worried they were gonna come in and have a go at me because the place was a mess. They couldn’t care less about anything but themselves. I start playing along to the track, good and loud, so I can’t hear anything else.
About a minute later, my door swings open and Dad stands in the doorway. He says something, but I carry on playing. I look away from him. But out of the corner of my eye, I see him move into my room. He comes and stands in front of me. I stop playing, look at him and roll my eyes. ‘What?’
‘Can you keep the noise down?’ he says. But it doesn’t sound much like a question to me, more of a threat.
‘Why? Can’t you hear yourselves shouting?’
Just for a second, Dad looks like he’s gonna explode and shout at me. But he doesn’t. He just breathes deeply. ‘You making a noise isn’t going to help the situation,’ he says.
I kind of snort with laughter, though it isn’t funny.
‘Please,’ Dad says. He’s trying to stay calm with me.
I roll my eyes and get off the drum stool, go and sit on my bed. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be quiet so that you and Mum can enjoy your argument.’
Dad’s eyes narrow for a second. ‘Thank you,’ he says. But instead of leaving my room, he keeps on standing there. ‘How was your weekend?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘OK.’
Dad rocks on his heels. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good.’
And then there’s a silence. I don’t even look at Dad. I can sense him standing there with his hands in his pockets. ‘Have you done your homework?’ he says eventually.
I shake my head. ‘We didn’t get any,’ I say. Which is a lie. ‘I’ve only got one week left.’
‘Well, you should be revising, then,’ Dad says. ‘The next month or so is gonna be one of the most important times of your life.’
I lie back on my bed. ‘I know,’ I say. I’m not really in the mood for the lecture right now. ‘I’ll start revising next week.’
Even without looking I know Dad’s hanging around in my room, not saying anything. He stays there for a while. And then, still without saying a word, I hear him walk out of my room and back downstairs to go and carry on his argument with Mum.
MONDAY
Joe
When I go downstairs for breakfast, Mum and Dad are both in the living room watching TV. I stand by the door, looking in at what they’re watching. It’s the news. It’s about the fire at the flats. My curiosity gets the better of me and I walk in.
Mum turns round. ‘Oh, morning, love,’ she says.
Dad’s still watching the TV. He points at the screen. ‘Hey, Joe, have you seen this?’
I read the rolling news bar at the bottom of the screen: DORSET POLICE CONFIRM THAT THEY HAVE LAUNCHED A MURDER INQUIRY FOLLOWING THE DISCOVERY OF A BODY IN A BURNED-OUT BLOCK OF FLATS.
I’m not sure what to say. This is weird. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in Fayrewood. It’s not that kind of place.
‘They’re doing a post-mortem as we speak,’ Dad says, still watching the screen.
‘It’s horrible,’ Mum says.
I nod.
Dad puts the TV on standby with the remote and then goes and switches it off at the wall. He turns to me and Mum. ‘There’s a press conference this afternoon,’ he says. He shakes his head and sighs in disbelief. ‘Come on, then, let’s get some breakfast.’
Ash
I’ve been thinking. About what Joe was saying at the rec. About karma. About how we can do some good with the money. It took me ages to think of it, but it’s obvious really. Right under my nose.
Which is why, instead of getting ready for school right now, I’m sitting on my bed counting the money. Mum and Dad have already had a row and both left for work.
I count out twenties. A hundred of them. Two thousand pounds. Then I put them in a big brown envelope, lick the sticky bit and seal it. I pick up a pen, hold it in my left hand and write the name and address. Back in middle school I broke my arm playing football and I had to learn to write with my left hand for a while. I haven’t written with my left hand for years. My writing looks uneven and spidery. Which is just how I want it to look. No one will be able to trace it to me.
When I’m done writing the address, I stick a stamp on the front and stare at it for ages, wondering if this is the right thing to do. And then I get ready for school.
Joe
It’s all anyone’s talking about at the bus stop. The fire. The body. The murder inquiry. Everyone has their own theory about what happened and who was in the fire. There’s even a rumour that it was our head teacher, Mr Watts.
About quarter past eight, which is when the bus is due, Ash walks up the road towards the bus stop, carrying a brown envelope. As he goes past the postbox, he puts it in and then comes over and stands next to me.
‘Last week of school!’ he says. He lets his bag slide off his shoulder and fall on the ground.
I smile. ‘I know. I can’t believe it. We’re nearly free men.’
‘About bloody time,’ Ash says. ‘I can’t wait for this week to end. Actually, to tell you the truth, I can’t wait for the next two years to be over. I’m gonna get my A levels and then get out of this dump for ever.’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Hey, you hear about the flats?’ Ash says.
‘Course,’ I say. ‘It’s mad, isn’t it? Murder in Fayrewood.’
Ash laughs. ‘It’s like the hood in Fayrewood nowadays.’
‘Like New York or something. The Bronx.’
Ash smiles. ‘Too right. I can just imagine it,’ he says. ‘Old Mrs Reilly from down my street, cruising down Marshland Road on her mobility scooter.’ He starts miming driving a mobility scooter. ‘She sees someone from a rival gang – Mrs Webster from the WI. She reaches into the basket of her scooter and pulls her piece. AK47!’ Ash mimes an old lady pulling out a gun in slow motion.
I can’t help but laugh.
‘Bang, bang, bang!’ he says. He blows the smoke away from the top of the imaginary weapon. Then he laughs.
As we’re messing around, the bus pulls into the stop. The brakes hiss and the door swings open. The Year Eights get on first. Me and Ash wait and get on last. Ash goes right up the bus to where a couple of Year Eight kids have sat on the back seat.
‘Shift,’ Ash says. He indicates with his thumb. ‘Down the front of the bus where you belong, little boys.’
One of the young kids makes a face at Ash and sticks up his middle finger. Ash lifts his hand as though he’s gonna slap the kid round the face. The kid laughs and gets up from the seat and so do his mates. Ash uses his hand to ruffle the kid’s head and then breaks out into a grin.
‘Gotta admire that in a kid,’ he says. ‘Takes balls to stand up to your elders and betters.’ He looks at his hand. He sniffs it. ‘He could do with washing his hair, th
ough!’
He holds his hand out for me to smell. I turn away.
The bus moves down Marshland Road, turns right at the end and then on to the main road. It trundles along the road, through the middle of the town, stopping at the lights. The bus slows as we get near the flats. Everyone moves over to the right-hand side of the bus and looks out of the window. The block of flats is still cordoned off and it’s surrounded by police and reporters and TV cameras. There are still police standing around; some in uniform and some in suits and ties. There are others in white boiler suits as well. They must be forensics or something.
The bus moves past and everyone sits back down.
As we drive along the road out of town, Ash’s phone beeps to say he has a message. He reads it right away and sighs.
‘What’s the matter?’
He looks out of the window. ‘Nothing,’ he says.
And neither of us says another word all the way to school.
Ash
Rabbit is the first person I see when I get into the playground. And I feel uneasy as soon as I see him. He gives me a really angry look. And I start to dread what’s gonna happen. See, he sent me a text on the bus, saying, You better be able to explain this. And it can only mean one thing. It has to be about Saturday night and the money. Though why he’s angry about it, I don’t know.
‘Follow me,’ he says quietly, so no one else can hear.
So we sneak away from everyone else, Rabbit leading and me following. And all the time I’m kind of hoping that this is about something else – about something I said the other night when he was round, or some girl he fancies. But I don’t ask what he wants. I just follow.
We walk right past all the mobile classrooms and then go round the back of the last one – Mr Robert’s French room, where some of us go at break time to have a smoke. Rabbit doesn’t usually smoke though, only when he’s drunk. There’s no one else here right now.
Rabbit turns and looks at me. He puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. He looks at it, presses a few buttons and then holds it up for me to see. And as soon as he does, my stomach ties itself in knots. There’s a picture of me on there, holding a gun. The gun. Trying to look like a gangster or something.
‘Explain this!’ he says. He sounds angrier than I think I’ve ever heard him before.
‘Shit!’
‘That’s your fucking bedroom,’ he says. ‘I must have taken that photo on Saturday night.’
I take a deep breath and look away. Shit. I don’t remember that photo being taken.
‘That sure as hell isn’t my gun,’ Rabbit says, ‘so it must be yours. Now explain. Where the fuck did you get a gun from?’
I open my mouth to speak, but don’t say a word. I’m not sure what to say. ‘It’s not what it seems.’
Rabbit stares impatiently at me. He looks like he’s gonna hit me any second.
So I tell him the lot. About me and Joe and how we found the car and the bag and the money. Except I don’t tell him the complete truth. There are parts of this he doesn’t need to know. Like the fact that there was twenty grand in the bag. I tell him five hundred instead. Don’t know why, it just comes out. And I tell him how I found the gun the next day, just before he came round.
‘I don’t believe this,’ he says when I’ve finished. He runs his hands through his hair, looks at the picture on his phone again and then back at me. ‘Fuck!’ he says, kicking at the floor. ‘Did I touch it as well? Are my prints on it?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t remember much from Saturday night. I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t got any pictures on your phone?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I haven’t looked.’
‘Fucking well look now, then,’ he says.
I get my phone out of my pocket. Rabbit comes and stands at my shoulder. And sure enough, when I open up my pictures, there’s one of him wearing my shades and holding the gun, pointing it at the lens.
He kind of wheels away as soon as he sees it. He kicks at the fence. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’
Neither of us says anything for a second. I keep flicking through the photos on my phone. There’s another one of Rabbit smoking a spliff, with a handful of money.
Rabbit takes a long, deep breath and then blows it out slowly. It’s ages before he finally speaks. ‘This is serious.’
‘I know.’
He shakes his head like he can’t take all this in. ‘My prints’ll be all over the gun.’
I nod. ‘Both our prints are on it.’
‘Did you say that you didn’t find it till Saturday afternoon?’
‘Yeah. When I heard the phone ringing I checked through the bag and found it.’
‘So does Joe know?’
I shake my head. ‘No. And I don’t intend to tell him. He’d freak out.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Rabbit says. ‘Course he’d freak out.’
‘He’d go straight to the police,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’ Rabbit says. ‘Maybe that’s not such a bad plan.’
I shake my head. ‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because me and Joe have already spent some of the money. Because me and you have already smoked some of the weed. Because it’s gonna look a bit weird that we found the bag on Friday and waited until now to hand it in . . .’
Rabbit doesn’t say anything. He looks at the ground, where the grass has been worn away by the feet of all us smokers, at the fag ends. It feels like hours before he looks back up at me. ‘In that case, we need to get rid of it,’ he says.
‘What? Sell it?’
He shakes his head, looks at me like I’m mad. ‘No. Get rid of it. Hide it somewhere where it’s never gonna get found.’
‘Like where?’
‘I don’t know. Throw it in the sea or something.’
‘Throw it in the sea? How we gonna do that? The sea’s ten miles away.’
In the distance, I hear the school bell going for the start of registration.
‘Well, what about the woods, then?’ he says. ‘We could bury it.’
‘That’s better. That could work. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ I say. ‘No one else can know this.’
Rabbit nods. He doesn’t look at me. He seems stressed and angry.
‘I’ll cut you in on the money if you want. A hundred quid?’
Rabbit looks at me now. There’s something in his eyes, as though he’s deciding whether he’s gonna hit me or not. ‘I don’t want anything to do with the money,’ he says. ‘I just want that gun to go away and never be found.’
‘Course.’
‘I’ll come over to yours after school,’ Rabbit says.
As soon as I get home, I go straight to my wardrobe and take everything out. I hold the gun in my hands, turning it round and round, staring at it for ages, wondering who it used to belong to. Whether it’s killed anyone. And I feel creeped out by the thought that the object I’m holding might have ended someone’s life. So I check the safety catch is on and put it back in the bag. I lie on my bed.
From downstairs, I hear the door knocker. I run down the stairs two at a time. I pause before I open the front door and I realise how nervous I feel, how serious this situation is. Rabbit is standing on the step. He doesn’t smile as I answer the door; he doesn’t even say hello. He walks into the house without saying a word, a weird mix of fear and determination on his face. I close the door behind him. And then we stand in the hallway, looking at each other, awkward.
‘So how do we do this?’ I say.
‘We should try and wash our prints off the gun first,’ Rabbit says.
‘Can you get rid of fingerprints?’
Rabbit shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had to clean my prints off a gun before,’ he says. He starts off sounding sarcastic, but halfway through his voice changes and he sounds serious, scared. ‘I saw it on some detective show once. It worked when they did it.’
‘What do we need?’
‘
Bleach,’ Rabbit says. ‘Cloths and rubber gloves or something so we don’t have to touch the gun with our skin.’
I nod. ‘Right.’ I head straight to the kitchen, to the cupboard under the sink, where Mum keeps all the cleaning things. I grab a bottle of bleach, a brand new cloth and two pairs of rubber gloves, and we head straight back out of the kitchen, up the stairs to my room.
I drop the cleaning stuff on my bed, chuck a pair of rubber gloves to Rabbit, put a pair on myself and then take the gun from the bag.
‘We should do this in the bathroom,’ Rabbit says. He picks up the bleach and cloth and we go into the bathroom.
I pull the door closed behind us and lock it, then put the gun down on the edge of the basin with a metallic clunk.
Rabbit shrugs. ‘I dunno how to do this exactly,’ he says. ‘We need to make sure that we get rid of any trace of us on the gun, though. No prints, no clothes fibres.’
I nod.
‘We’ll have to get rid of all the cleaning stuff afterwards too,’ Rabbit says. ‘All we need to do is dump it in a bin somewhere. No one’ll find it.’
‘OK.’ I take a deep breath. My heart’s racing faster than ever. This is making me feel like we’ve done something bad, like we used the gun to kill someone, even though all we did was find it. I have to remind myself that what we’re doing is the right thing to do now. It’s the only thing we can do without having to go to the police. So we don’t get in shit up to our necks. We have to do this. There’s no other choice. And I need to focus.
I squeeze some bleach on to the cloth. I take the gun off the basin and start cleaning it, scrubbing at the handle first, then the barrel. I turn it over and do the other side. We’re both silent, staring intently at it. I’m even holding my bloody breath. We exchange a serious glance, but that’s it. After a bit, I stop scrubbing. I turn the gun round and round in my gloved hands, inspecting every inch of it. But I can’t tell whether our prints are off it or not. So I squirt some more bleach on to the cloth and start scrubbing again.
In the Bag Page 7
