‘OK,’ I say.
‘And I want you do to the same. No more secrets.’
‘I promise.’
‘Pinky promise?’ She holds out her little finger. I lock it with mine. Just like old times.
‘Pinky promise,’ I confirm.
Chapter 38
Ram
As I walk back to the hotel, the rain beating down on my back, fragments of my conversation with Frankie keep playing on loop inside my head.
What was it she said?
That I was incapable of letting go? Of having an emotional reaction to anything?
What a joke. In fact, she’s so far off the mark, it’s unbelievable. Just because I know how to hold myself together doesn’t mean I don’t know how to express emotion.
You haven’t cried since the night your dad died, a voice inside my head says.
That isn’t relevant, I hiss back. I had a job to do. I had to look after Mum and Laleh and Rox. Be strong for them. Make Dad proud. I didn’t have time to cry, OK? I didn’t have that luxury.
No one told me this was what I had to do. No one took me aside and gave me a pep talk about how I was the ‘man of the house’ now and that my mum and sisters would be relying on me. The opposite. Every day in those first few weeks after Dad died, people went out of their way to reassure me. They told me it was OK to cry, to mourn, to let things slide if I needed to, to go easy on myself. It was me who decided to ignore every bit of their advice, me who decided what was and wasn’t an appropriate way to behave. And my instincts were right. Nearly three years on, there’s a reason Mum and Laleh and Rox are thriving. And no, I don’t for even one second think that’s all down to me, but the way I’ve handled things must count for some of it, right?
As I approach the car, I reach into the right-hand pocket of my shorts for my keys. They’re not there. I check the other pockets, patting them in turn. No keys.
That’s when I remember. They’re in the front pocket of my bag, up in the hotel room.
I sprint back into the hotel.
In the foyer, Reece is nowhere to be seen. A woman is sitting in his place, her white-blonde hair pulled back into an aggressively tight ponytail.
‘Sorry, we’re full,’ she says, barely glancing at me.
‘I’m not after somewhere to stay,’ I say. ‘I need a spare key card for room four-two-six.’
She consults her computer. ‘And you are?’
‘Er, Ram. Ramin Jandu.’
‘Are you on the booking?’
‘No. My friend is. Jojo Bright. Wait, no, sorry, it’s Amelia, er, Amelia … someone.’
The woman frowns.
‘Amelia someone?’ she repeats.
‘Amelia’s not her real name,’ I say. ‘Jojo Bright is. Please, I need to get into the room. My car keys are in there.’
‘No can do,’ the woman replies. ‘I can only deal with the person named on the booking and that is plainly not you.’
‘But I need my keys.’
‘In that case, I suggest you ask your friend, this “Amelia Someone”, to help you.’
‘I can’t. She’s not here. I need my car so I can pick her up.’
The woman sighs. ‘I’m sorry, young man, but there’s nothing I can do. Now, if you’d kindly step outside, you’re dripping all over the tiles.’
I think about arguing my case, but something in the woman’s demeanour tells me I’d be wasting my time. I mutter my thanks and head back out into the rain.
I return to the car, on the off-chance I acted totally out of character earlier and forgot to lock it. I didn’t, though. Of course I didn’t.
I sigh and give the front wheel a half-hearted kick. Almost immediately I realize my mistake. It’s too late, though; the alarm has already gone off, its ear-splitting squeal filling the street.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
How could I be such an idiot? I lectured Frankie about how sensitive the alarm is literally just a few hours ago.
If I had the key, I could turn it off in seconds. Without it, I don’t have the foggiest how to get the noise to stop.
I let out a howl of frustration and kick the wheel again. Harder this time.
How about that, Frankie? That enough of a reaction for you?
I picture her watching me, her arms folded across her chest, her head cocked to one side, unmoved and unimpressed.
Well, I’ll show her.
I kick the wheel again, booting my foot against the tyre with as much power as I can muster.
What about that then? ‘Emotional’ enough for your super-high standards, Ms Ricci?
Panting, I pace back and forth on the pavement, my heart hammering in my chest, anger bubbling in my belly.
I want it out of me.
I take a few steps back before chucking my entire body against the side of the car.
Slam.
It hurts.
I like that it hurts.
I stagger back and do it again, hitting the car with such force I almost bounce back off it, the soles of my trainers skidding against the wet paving slabs.
More. I want more.
I do it again.
And again and again and again.
I keep doing it until my body is aching and I can’t see straight.
I don’t care, though. I couldn’t stop now even if I wanted to. It’s like I’ve been possessed, the anger and frustration and hurt I’ve been bottling up for God knows how long spurting out of me with every howl, every swear word, every kick, every body slam.
I don’t see the blue flashing lights.
I don’t hear the shouts or footsteps.
I don’t even properly register the hands on my body until I’m being dragged from the screeching car and shoved up against the brick wall, the rough clay scraping my right cheek and ear.
‘Calm down,’ a voice says as I continue to thrash.
Calm down? Is he joking me?
Then comes the sensation of cool metal as a pair of handcuffs is snapped onto my wrists.
‘You are under arrest on suspicion of criminal damage. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Finally, my brain catches up with what’s happening.
‘Wait,’ I cry. ‘Stop! It’s my car!’
The police officer’s grip on me loosens slightly. My hands still cuffed behind my back, I shuffle around to face him. He’s tall and broad with a closely shaven head.
‘If it’s your car, then why were you throwing yourself at it like a maniac?’ he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
‘I’m locked out.’
He laughs. ‘Well, that’s certainly convenient.’
‘I’m telling the truth, I swear. I’m supposed to be picking my friends up.’
He sighs. ‘Got any ID?’
‘Er, yeah. In my wallet. Back pocket.’
‘OK if I grab it?’
‘Yeah.’
He reaches into my pocket and pulls out my wallet, flipping it open. I see a flash of the photo of me, Mum, Dad, Laleh and Roxy I keep in the front. What would they think if they could see me now? I don’t even want to think about it.
‘Ramin Jandu, eh?’ the police officer says, studying my driving licence.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to need to run a check on this.’
‘Fine.’
He unclips his radio from his belt and turns away from me. ‘Control room, can you run a PNC for me? Licence plate is …’
While I wait, I stare at my car. My beloved car, the one I’ve been saving up for since I was about ten years old, all covered in dents. Dents that I made. What the hell was I thinking? But I suppose that was the whole point. For maybe the first time in years, I wasn’t.
After a few minutes, the police officer slides his radio back onto his belt. Without saying anything, he gestures for me to turn around
and removes the handcuffs. ‘The details matched up,’ he says as I shake out my wrists. ‘You’re free to go.’
‘That’s it?’ I say. ‘I’m not arrested any more?’
‘You’re not arrested any more,’ he confirms.
I nod, flexing my wrists. It’s a curious anti-climax.
‘You’re bleeding,’ the policeman says.
‘What?’
‘Your hand. It’s bleeding.’
I look down. The knuckles on my left hand are covered with blood.
‘It needs bandaging,’ he says.
‘It’s fine,’ I murmur. ‘Really.’
He shakes his head but walks back to his car.
I sink down on the kerb. It’s only then I realize the alarm has stopped. I stare at my feet. My Converse, box-fresh and brilliant white at the beginning of the evening, are soaked and streaked with dirt.
‘Hey,’ a voice calls out.
I look up.
It’s the police officer, the passenger door of his patrol car flung open. ‘Let me bandage up your hand.’
‘Seriously, I’m OK.’
‘No, you’re not. Now, just get in. Please.’
I look back down at my hand. Even with the rain pelting down and washing it away, the blood keeps oozing. The scary part is, I don’t even remember doing it.
‘It might save you a visit to A&E,’ the police officer adds.
That does the trick. A long wait at the hospital is the last thing I need tonight.
I push myself to my feet and get in the car. ‘I’m going to get the seat all wet,’ I say, shutting the door behind me.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m Andy, by the way.’
‘Er, hi.’
‘And you’re Ramin, right?’
‘Yeah. Most people just call me Ram, though.’
‘Ram it is, then. Now hold out your hand.’
I do as I’m told.
Andy starts by cleaning my knuckles with an antiseptic wipe. ‘That sting?’ he asks.
It does but I shake my head. The last time I had any sort of interaction with a police officer was the night my dad died. I can still conjure up his face – craggy yet kind, with pale blue eyes and flecks of white in his reddish beard. I saw him again about a year later, laughing with a female colleague in the street. It was weird to see him smiling and sharing a joke, weird to see that he existed outside the realms of my grief-stricken house. Without really thinking about it, I raised my hand in greeting, and he responded with the bland blank smile of someone who doesn’t have a clue who you are. I didn’t mind, though. He was kind when it mattered and that would do for me.
‘Now, here’s a question,’ Andy says as he begins to bandage my hand. ‘What’s a decent-seeming kid like you doing bashing up his car, and a pretty nice car at that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Andy raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No,’ I murmur, tracking the progress of three separate raindrops as they slide down the windscreen.
‘So you just started chucking yourself at your car for no reason?’ Andy says.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Right.’
He’s clearly not buying it and I don’t blame him. Nothing about my explanation adds up.
‘Did something happen tonight?’ he asks. ‘Something to make you kick off like that?’
I don’t say anything.
‘Look, Ram, you’re under no obligation to talk to me, but you never know, getting whatever’s gone on tonight off your chest might just help. I mean, it’s not going to make things worse, is it?’
‘I found out I was a dad tonight,’ I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
‘Congratulations.’
I don’t say anything.
‘I’m taking it, it came as a surprise,’ Andy says.
‘You could say that.’
‘It’s been a lot to get your head round, huh?’
I nod. ‘Do you have kids?’ I ask.
‘I do. Two. Samuel and Kiera. What have you got? A boy? A girl?’
‘A boy,’ I say. ‘Albie.’
‘Nice.’ He finishes bandaging my hand. ‘That OK?’ he asks. ‘Tight enough?’
‘Yeah, great. Thank you.’
He’s done a good job.
‘So, what’s the story?’ he asks, putting the lid back on the first aid kit.
‘The story?’
‘I’m assuming there’s a story here. There generally is where kids are involved.’
‘Yeah, there’s a story.’
‘Want to tell it to me?’
I hesitate. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
‘How about you start by telling me what you’re doing in Swindon,’ Andy says, like he’s reading my mind. ‘And we can go from there.’
And so I do. I tell him about Frankie turning up at the rink with her crazy theory about Jojo and Olivia Sinclair; I tell him about our journey down here and the moment Frankie emerged from the lift and slapped me; I tell him about New Year’s Eve and how I’ve spent most of this year trying (and failing) not to think about it; I tell him about going up to Jojo’s hotel room and the moment everything clicked into place; I tell him about Albie, about how amazing he is and how my brain is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that he’s mine, that Jojo and I made him together; I tell him about my argument with Frankie in the street; I tell him about Dad, about what a great bloke he was, and how I miss him every single day but hardly ever admit it out loud; I tell him about Mum and Laleh and Roxy and my hopes and dreams for them.
At first I’m self-conscious and hesitant, relying on Andy’s questions and prompts, but soon the words are pouring out of me and Andy is able to just sit back and listen. And when I cry for the first time in over two and a half years, he just places his hand on my shoulder and lets me, not saying a word.
Chapter 39
Jojo
I wake up nose to nose with Frankie. I’d forgotten how peaceful she looks when she sleeps, even with smudged eyeliner and a big fat graze on her chin. Her face is soft and serene, her eyelids smooth, her lips gently parted, her hair curly from the rain.
The room is silent. The storm must have finally passed.
I wonder what time it is. I sit up. Ram’s makeshift bed on the floor is empty.
‘Over here,’ a voice says.
I look to my right.
Ram is sitting on the floor next to Albie’s cot.
It was gone 3 a.m. when he turned up at the club, full of apologies, his hand in a bandage. His car keys locked in the hotel, we ended up getting a cab, all four of us stuffed in the back seat, silent with exhaustion.
Back at the hotel, I’d fallen asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, all the sleepless nights of the past few weeks finally catching up with me.
‘Hey,’ I say softly.
‘Hey.’
‘How long have you been up?’ I ask.
‘A while,’ he replies. ‘I couldn’t really sleep.’
‘What time is it?’
He checks his phone. ‘Just before seven.’
‘He’ll be awake soon,’ I say, nodding at Albie.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. For his feed. He’ll go back down after it, though.’
Ram nods.
We sit in silence for a few moments, our eyes trained on Albie as his chest rises and falls. I glance at Ram. He’s transfixed.
I have so much I want to express but no idea what to say first. It all feels too huge to even consider putting into words.
‘Look at his eyes,’ Ram says. ‘The way they’re flickering. Do you think he’s dreaming?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say, drawing my knees up under my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs.
‘What about, do you reckon?’
‘Milk,’ I say decisively.
Ram smiles and looks back down at Albie, wonder in his eyes. ‘He’s amazing,’ he says.
‘I know.’
‘I can’t s
top looking at him.’
I smile. I’m familiar with that feeling.
‘I’m serious,’ Ram says. ‘I’ve been staring at him for like an hour now and I legit haven’t got bored.’
I tell him about the night I went up to the Special Care Baby Unit, how I held Albie for so long my arm went dead.
‘He was poorly when he was born?’ Ram asks, his eyes soft with concern.
‘Low blood sugar,’ I explain. ‘It was easy to fix, though. He was on the ward with me within a day.’
‘There’s so much I don’t know,’ Ram says.
‘I know. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you had to find out like this,’ I add.
He considers this for a moment. ‘At least I know now,’ he says. ‘That’s the important thing, right?’
‘I guess.’
There’s a pause.
‘Frankie told me about your mum and stepmum.’
‘She did?’ I ask, swallowing hard.
‘Yeah. Last night. You were asleep.’
‘You must think I’m the worst person in the world,’ I say.
He frowns. ‘Don’t be stupid. I mean, the idea of you going through with it is awful, but I get why you were tempted.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah. A baby is a big deal and what they were suggesting must have sounded appealing, especially at first, when everything was brand-new and extra-scary.’
‘I wouldn’t have gone through with it,’ I say. I think I knew this all along, deep down, but it feels a relief to admit it out loud.
Ram smiles up at me. ‘I know. And I’m glad. We’re in this together.’
‘Are you sure?’
He looks confused. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘But what about uni and stuff? What about becoming a lawyer?’
I remember our conversation back in the utility room on New Year’s Eve – the way Ram’s chest puffed out and his voice glittered with pride when he talked about his career plans.
‘I can still go to uni and be a dad at the same time. Just like you can still go to the Arts Academy and be a mum.’
He makes it sound so simple, so manageable, like it’s just a matter of sorting out a few logistics.
‘You really think we can make it work?’ I ask.
First Day of My Life Page 25
