In the Bag

by Jim Carrington

  Mum smiles. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘don’t you worry about that. Whatever grades you get, we’ll both be proud of you.’

  Which is a lie. I know. Cos Dad has been on my back for weeks about revising and making something of my life. But I smile back at Mum anyway, or at least I try. ‘I know. Thanks.’

  Mum goes through to the lounge carrying a tray of Chinese food. I stare out the back door at the garden, wait for the kettle to boil, cursing myself for not saying anything to her. When the kettle boils, I make the coffee and carry the mugs through to the lounge.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Mum says.

  I put my mug down and help myself to some food. Normally if Mum had brought Chinese home for tea I’d pile my plate high cos I love Chinese food. But right now I don’t feel hungry. I don’t feel like eating at all.

  Mum’s put the TV on. There’s some talent show blaring out. I sit and watch as I try to eat. There’s a man on there juggling chairs. It looks impossible. He drops one and then they all come tumbling down to the ground. He gets buzzed out by the judges.

  Mum laughs. ‘That wasn’t very good,’ she says. ‘You at least should have rehearsed if you’re gonna go on national telly.’

  I nod my head. Although, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit about talent shows. They’re lame.

  I scoop a forkful of special fried rice into my mouth as the next act comes on. It’s a father-and-son act. They say they’re gonna tap-dance. Jesus.

  ‘Oh, I like these,’ Mum says, watching the screen, her fork hovering above her plate.

  ‘Mum,’ I say.

  ‘Yes?’ she says. She keeps staring at the screen as the dad and his kid tap-dance.

  ‘What time’s Dad gonna be home?’

  Mum doesn’t answer. I don’t know if she’s even heard me – she’s just staring at the screen and smiling. ‘What?’ she says. ‘Oh, your father? I don’t know. Late, I should think.’

  I don’t say anything. I just think. She can’t have a clue what’s going on, what Dad’s really up to, otherwise she wouldn’t say it like that, would she? She’d be angry, bitter. She’d feel like I do.

  ‘Why’s he always working late?’

  Mum sighs. She turns and looks at me. The adverts come on the TV. ‘To keep his business afloat,’ she says. ‘It’s not easy running your own company.’

  I sigh. I want to go over to Mum and shake her. I want to shout the truth at her. I don’t want to keep this secret on my own. I want her to know.

  ‘Sometimes he comes home at eleven at night, though, Mum,’ I say. ‘He can’t be working right through till then, can he?’

  Mum takes a sip of her coffee and puts the mug back down on the side table. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, who else is gonna be around at that time?’ I say. ‘What business can he be doing?’

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s lots he can be doing,’ she says. ‘Accounts. Phoning clients in America. All sorts.’

  I sigh. I can’t believe she’s defending him. I have to tell her. She turns back to the TV as the next act on the dumb talent show starts. ‘Mum,’ I say. My voice comes out uneven.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  She still doesn’t turn round.

  ‘Something important.’

  Mum turns to look at me. She smiles.

  I open my mouth. ‘I . . .’ I stop. I don’t know how to say this. ‘I . . . Dad . . .’

  Mum sighs. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Spit it out. I’m missing my programme.’

  I look down at the floor. I can’t believe I can’t say this. I never have a problem with words. They always come easy to me, they’re always just there. They usually come out before I’ve even had a chance to think about them.

  And then I hear Dad’s car pulling into the driveway.

  Mum turns and looks out of the window at the drive. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  I get up. There’s no way I can tell her now. I run up the stairs and shut my door just as I hear the front door open and Dad come in.

  THURSDAY

  Joe

  I slept OK last night. I didn’t think I was going to. I felt on edge all evening, even though we got rid of the money. It was like there was too much adrenalin in my body. I was jumpy as hell. I couldn’t stop thinking. I was expecting the guy who wanted the bag to turn up at any minute and come crashing through my door. I kept thinking about the text message. But I guess I tired myself out thinking about it all cos when my head hit the pillow I must’ve gone straight to sleep.

  The first thing I do after I’ve woken up is go and switch my computer on and check the news. Cos I have to set my mind at rest, I have to know that no one’s taken the bag to the police or anything like that. I try the local news first. And there’s nothing there about the bag, or the car, or the body. Just the story from yesterday morning. I try a couple of other sites as well – a couple of national newspapers. But there’s no mention of it at all.

  I switch my computer off and sigh. I feel better in a way. I mean, at least there isn’t a story saying that the bag’s been handed in and they’re running forensic tests on it or anything. But I still have a weird feeling. I still don’t feel at ease. I feel edgy, nervous. But I’m sure it won’t last. The last couple of days have scared me.

  After breakfast, I get my bag and stuff together and go downstairs. Out the front door and up the road. The sun’s out, though it’s not that warm. I’m the first one at the bus stop. I stand at the edge of the pavement and look down, at the gravel that’s come off someone’s drive. I kick it over the edge of the pavement into a drain. Each stone disappears with a tiny plop.

  Gradually more and more people turn up at the bus stop. No sign of Ash, though. To be honest, I’m not that bothered after yesterday. I’d quite happily not see him today. But just before the bus is due to arrive, he comes walking slowly down the road. His school shirt is untucked and he’s got a big pair of white trainers on. His hair’s all over the place, like mine usually is. He looks at me as he gets near to the stop and nods his head in greeting. He doesn’t smile. He barges a couple of Year Eights out of the way instead of walking around them.

  ‘You all right, Ash?’ I say.

  He nods his head. ‘Yeah,’ he says kind of defensively. ‘Why shouldn’t I be all right?’

  It takes me sort of by surprise. What’s he got to be angry about? ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I start, but I don’t bother finishing my sentence. He’s already looking away. Besides, surely he should be the one apologising to me.

  The bus pulls up at the stop a few metres from where me and Ash are standing. He barges straight through the queue. ‘Get out the way, munchkins,’ he says. ‘Year Elevens coming through.’

  I follow behind him. We’re on first. We go right to the back of the bus and sit down.

  ‘You got a note for yesterday?’ I say, as all the other kids get on the bus.

  He looks at me like I’m being a div, like, ‘Why on earth would you need a sick note for missing a day of school?’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Suit yourself, then,’ I say. ‘I typed one on the computer and forged my mum’s signature.’

  Ash just shrugs. ‘Who cares?’ he says. ‘We’re leaving school tomorrow anyway. What can they do?’ He looks out of the window and ignores me the rest of the way to school. Which is fine by me.

  Ash

  The sooner I leave this place, the better. I’ve had enough of people telling me what I can and can’t do, had enough of wearing a uniform, doing pointless homework and all that bullshit. I’ve had enough of all the other plebs at school as well, hanging around, thinking they’re cool. The end of this week can’t come soon enough, believe me.

  The bell has already gone for the start of morning registration. Most people have gone to their tutor rooms. But I’m still in the playground, walking slowly. I’m in no rush. Eventually I go in through the doors, look left and right alo
ng the corridor. There’s no one about. All the good little boys and girls are in their classrooms, listening to what their teachers have to say, doing what they’re told, so their mummies and daddies will be proud of them. Suckers.

  I look across towards the main school door and size it up. I could just go. The door has an alarm on it. I’ve seen visitors and stuff go through it before, but no one ever pays any attention to the alarm. And even if they did, I’d be gone by the time anyone noticed. They wouldn’t catch up with me. And it’s not like I’m gonna be missing much – what are they gonna teach us in the last two days of school that we don’t already know? If they had anything decent to teach me they would have done it by now.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in your tutor group?’

  I look round. It’s Mr Coupland. The deputy head. He’s got an eyebrow raised, hands behind his back, standing rocking backwards and forwards on his heels, in his shiny suit. He thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks.

  ‘The bell went five minutes ago, Ashley.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I heard it.’ I look at the door again. One barrier between me and freedom. I’d love to make a run for it now. I’d love to see Coupland’s face.

  ‘Chop-chop,’ Mr Coupland says. Patronising idiot.

  I sigh and roll my eyes. ‘All right,’ I say in my most impatient voice. ‘I’m going.’ And I walk off towards my tutor room. Except, when I’m a few paces down the corridor, I turn my head. Mr Coupland is walking the other way down the corridor, towards his office. I give his back the middle finger and then carry on walking.

  When I get to the tutor room, the door is shut. I stand outside for a second, thinking, before I put my hand on the handle and open it. The classroom is silent. Everybody turns in my direction, including Mr Benson, my form tutor. He gives me an evil look as I walk in. I look away from him and walk to my place next to Joe.

  ‘Excuse me, Ashley,’ Mr Benson says, ‘but you knock and wait for an answer before you come into a classroom.’

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. Why does he have to be such an uptight dickhead? Why can’t he let things go? ‘This is my form room, sir,’ I say, ‘and I’m coming in for tutor time. Why do I have to knock?’

  I look up at Mr Benson. His eyes are narrowed, staring at me. You can tell he’s angry but he’s trying to restrain himself. Around the room, a couple of people snigger.

  ‘Ashley, if you are more than five minutes late for tutor time,’ Mr Benson says, ‘you knock before you come into the classroom. And as you enter, you apologise for being late. It’s common courtesy. Good manners. Do you understand?’

  I nod. ‘I understand, sir,’ I say. ‘I just don’t see the point.’

  There are more sniggers around the classroom. Mr Benson tries to ignore them. I can feel loads of eyes staring at me.

  ‘I think it’s best if we carry on this conversation at break time, don’t you?’ Benson says.

  I shrug. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  Mr Benson ignores my comment. He looks down at the register. I look around the room. Next to me, Joe has a shocked look on his face. Most of the other people in the room are staring at me, grinning. I grin back at them. Then I turn to look at Mr Benson. He’s still looking at the register.

  ‘Um,’ Mr Benson says suddenly. He looks up at me. ‘Ashley, you were away yesterday. Do you have a note?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, sir.’

  Mr Benson keeps staring at me. ‘Why were you off school, Ashley?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Were you ill?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say under my breath, not loud enough for Benson to hear. But a couple of people around me hear it and laugh.

  ‘Pardon, Ashley? I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I had diarrhoea, sir,’ I say.

  A few people in the class laugh. I smile. Mr Benson looks down at his register again. I heard somewhere – on the radio, I think it must have been – that if you want to take a sickie, the best thing to say is that you shat yourself, or that you have diarrhoea, cos everyone just believes you. I mean, what kind of idiot would make up a lie about shitting themselves? Everyone believes it.

  Mr Benson looks up again. He smiles. ‘Actually, Ashley,’ he says, all high and mighty, ‘you shouldn’t come into school for forty-eight hours after a bout of diarrhoea. Those are the official guidelines.’

  A couple more people laugh. I smile again. ‘Seriously, sir?’ I say. ‘So I should go home then . . .’

  More laughs. Benson looks so angry at the front of the class. ‘Come and see me at break time, Ashley,’ he says.

  The bell goes and we all go off to lessons.

  The bell goes for the end of Maths. Break time. Me and Dylan walk out of the classroom and into the corridor. It’s noisy as hell in the school. And it’s the Year Elevens making all the noise. I guess everyone else feels like I do. Why play by the rules when you’ve only got a couple of days of school left? Like I said, they’re hardly gonna chuck you out just before you’re about to do your GCSEs. Last year Tony Davies actually hit a teacher in his last week of school. It was Mr Box, the DT teacher. Mr Box is a sarcastic bastard. Everyone says that he said something to Tony about how in a week’s time he’d be working on the bin lorries, where he belonged. So Tony thought, Fuck it, and lamped him one. Mr Box had a black eye after that. And to be honest, I think he deserved it. Tony got an exclusion for the rest of the week, which basically meant he got three days’ extra study leave. But he still sat his GCSEs.

  ‘You coming for a smoke?’ Dylan asks.

  I look at him. I’m dying for a smoke, as it happens. But I also have a date with Mr Benson. I weigh it up in my mind: fifteen minutes with Mr Benson or fifteen minutes with Mr Benson and Mr Hedges. No contest really, is there? I smile. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Why not?’

  So we walk through the corridors, knocking Year Eights out of the way, out into the playground and then on to the field. We walk straight over to the edge of the field where the mobile classrooms are, where all the smokers hang out at break time. Two more days and I won’t have to go through with this stupid bloody charade. I’ll be free to make my own decisions. I’ll be able to smoke if I want, when I want. I won’t have to hide away like some leper.

  A couple of people are already behind the mobile classrooms when we get there. Year Ten girls. Chavs. One of them, Suzie, is known as the school bike. I’d want her pedals cleaning before I had a ride, though, if you know what I mean. You don’t know who else has had a ride or what they’ve stepped in. I get my fags out of my pocket and light one. Dylan takes a fag packet out of his blazer, looks inside and then sighs. He stares at me.

  ‘What?’ I say, even though I know exactly what he’s up to.

  ‘You couldn’t give us one, could you?’ he says. ‘I’ve run out.’

  I stare back at him. Cheeky bastard. ‘You taking the mickey?’ I say. ‘You asked me if I wanted to come and have a smoke and all the time you didn’t have any yourself?’

  He shrugs, smiles nervously and nods. ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ he says. ‘So can I have one? Otherwise you’ll be stood here like a Billy No Mates.’

  I give him the fag that I’ve already lit and then take another one out of the pack for myself.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says. And he takes a puff. ‘Hey, you going to Rabbit’s house tomorrow?’

  I nod, take a drag, breathe the smoke out. ‘Yeah. Definitely,’ I say. I turn to Suzie and her mate, whose name I can never remember. ‘Hey, girls, you going to Rabbit’s house tomorrow?’

  They shake their heads. ‘Why?’ Suzie says. ‘Is there a party?’

  I look at Dylan. We both smirk. I’m not sure that Suzie and her mates are the kind of guests that Rabbit has in mind for tomorrow. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Tell your mates. Only the fit ones, though.’

  Suzie and her friend giggle and smile.

  Dylan winks at me. We both turn away from the girls and smirk. Rabbit’ll kill us.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Dylan says. He takes another d
rag of his fag. ‘I’m dreading the Maths exam. I didn’t have a bloody clue what Perkins was talking about today, did you?’

  I shake my head. ‘You’ll be all right, Dylan,’ I say. ‘Who cares if you scrape through with a C anyway?’

  Dylan laughs. ‘My parents’d go mad.’

  I nod. My dad’d go mad as well. But to be honest, right now I couldn’t give a flying fuck what he thinks. His opinion is worth nothing.

  All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye I see Suzie throw her fag down and stamp it out in a hurry. ‘Shit,’ she hisses. ‘Quick. It’s Benson.’

  I drop my cigarette to the ground and stamp it out. Dylan does the same. Then we walk away from the mobiles, back on to the field, trying to look innocent, trying not to catch Benson’s eye. But even as I’m trying to ignore him, I can sense that he’s heading straight for me. It’s useless. I sigh and turn to face him. He marches towards me, his stupid tweed jacket flapping and his paisley tie over his shoulder. He has a grin on his face. He’s gonna bloody love this.

  ‘Ashley,’ he says. ‘Caught red-handed. Not having a good day, are you?’

  I let my shoulders sag and look away from him, shake my head, like this is so unfair.

  He stops marching and stands right in front of me. He’s got one hand on his hip. ‘You are supposed to be in detention with me right this very instant,’ he says. ‘Can you explain to me why you’re out here?’

  I look across the field at kids playing football. I sigh. ‘Forgot,’ I mumble.

  Benson takes his hand off his hip and tries to move so he’s in my line of vision. I look the other way.

  ‘You decided not to come to detention but to have a smoke instead,’ he says. ‘Ashley, look at me when I’m speaking to you.’

  I look at him and smile. I can tell from the look on his face that it winds him up. ‘I wasn’t smoking, sir,’ I say. ‘It’s a filthy habit. It causes cancer.’

  Benson takes a deep breath. ‘I can smell it on you, Ashley.’