I thanked the vet and tucked Lucky under my arm, and the three of us walked along to Cat’s house. Time was running too fast, like it always does when you want something to last. We stood at the gate in a little pool of light from the street lamp, and Cat looked at me with her eyes all soft and smiley, like she was waiting for me to kiss her or ask her on a date.
I didn’t, though. I knew enough to suss that there’d be no future for a boy from the Eden Estate and a girl like Cat.
We said goodbye and I promised to bring Lucky round to see her sometime, when he was better, even though we both knew it probably wouldn’t happen. And then the front door creaked open and her mum appeared on the steps and called her in, and that was it, over.
When I was eight years old and Mum told me we were moving to the Eden Estate, I thought it would be like paradise. First off, we’d be together again, after almost a whole year of being apart. I’d have been happy wherever we were, but Mum told me we’d be living way up on the ninth floor, with a view clear across London. Our garden would be one big stretch of pure blue sky.
Our block was called Nightingale House. That sounded kind of magical, as if you could fall asleep to the sound of birds singing, but actually it turned out that you fall asleep to the sound of sirens and shouting and people playing their music too loud. Our view was mainly the tower block opposite, but Mum was right, we had our own patch of pure blue sky, and nobody could do much to mess that up, however hard they tried.
Eden Estate is bigger than you’d think, a city inside a city. There are four big blocks, all with wraparound balconies and scabby satellite dishes jutting out awkwardly. There is no colour, no texture except for the peeling layers of grey paint, the endless pebble-dash. The blocks are all called after birds, which was probably some council planner’s idea of a joke, because you’d be lucky to catch so much as a one-legged pigeon hanging out around here.
Some nights the place is quiet, almost peaceful, but tonight isn’t one of them. There’s a smouldering fire in the middle of the pavement, fluttering pages from the Daily Star blowing along the kerb like tumbleweed. A shiny Ford Ka sits abandoned in the middle of the road, minus its wheels, one door hanging open as if the driver just nipped out and never returned.
I wonder if Cat would think it was cool? Probably.
Lucky whimpers, sniffing at the air, and I hold him a little closer. He’s going to have to get used to this, like I did, but he’s a street dog, a survivor. He’ll be OK.
We pass a kids’ playground where the swings have long since been trashed. A huddle of older teenagers sit crouched on the ancient roundabout, smoking and listening to rap music on a ghetto blaster. ‘Hey, Mouse,’ one of them calls through the dark, and I wave and keep walking, past Eagle Heights and Skylark Rise.
Little kids on bikes are circling the Phoenix Drop-In, a wooden hut surrounded by a chain-link fence. It’s just about the only splash of colour on the whole estate, with its sky-blue walls and fiery spray-paint phoenix mural. Inside the fence is a tiny garden stuffed with bright flowers and veggies and fruit trees trained in fancy patterns along the fence. I did the mural, and Mum does a lot of the gardening stuff – she works at the Phoenix. It’s a day centre for recovering drug addicts, so it’s not an easy job, but she loves it. She cares.
Outside the lifts in Nightingale House, my mate Chan’s little sister and her pals are playing with Barbie dolls. One of the dolls must be Ballerina Barbie, dressed in a tutu and satin ballet shoes. The other is a wild-haired thing in plastic boots and a minidress, covered in felt pen tattoos. Probably Eden Estate Barbie.
The little girls run up to see Lucky, squealing with delight. The lift appears, clanking and sighing its way to the ninth floor, and then it’s just a walk along the hallway to flat 114. I pass old Mrs Scully, out with her can of Mr Sheen, polishing her front door in spite of the peeling paint and the fact that it’s past eight o’clock at night.
‘Hello, dear!’ She smiles, and her skin crinkles up so that it looks like a contour map of the Himalayas we once studied in geography, all spidery lines and wrinkles. She looks hard at Lucky. ‘Is that my Frankie’s dog?’
‘No, he’s mine, Mrs S.,’ I say. ‘His name’s Lucky.’
‘Must need new glasses,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. He’s very sweet.’
‘Let’s hope Mum thinks so,’ I say over my shoulder. The doors on either side of our flat are boarded up, but number 114 is painted spray-can red with a graffiti tag of a mouse-face on the concrete floor in place of a doormat.
I hope Mum’s going to be OK with this. I didn’t mention Lucky to her last night – I wasn’t sure how things would turn out. Now, though, it’s real. I shrug off my hoodie, wrap Lucky inside it, turn the key in the lock.
‘Mum?’ I call. She’s curled up on a beanbag in the living room, watching TV, surrounded by huge, jungly houseplants that stretch up to the ceiling. The place looks more like Kew Gardens than somebody’s flat. The plants are good, though – they hide the damp patches on the wall, the peeling wallpaper.
Mum’s small, like me, with mouse-brown hair in an urchin crop, and big grey eyes that always look amazed or happy or hopeful.
‘Hi, Mouse,’ she says, flashing me a smile. ‘Have you eaten? There’s pizza in the kitchen. Oh … what have you got there?’
I put my hoodie-wrapped parcel down in the middle of the scratchy nylon carpet. ‘A surprise,’ I tell her. ‘I know I should have asked you first, but …’
Lucky sticks his head out of the folds of black fabric, grinning, and Mum’s hands fly to her face. She looks horrified. ‘Mouse!’ she shrieks. ‘What the … Mouse, what are you doing with Frank Scully’s dog?’
A sad, frozen feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I’d argue, but Mrs Scully’s words are still fresh in my ears.
I’ve been blanking the idea that Lucky might have an owner, but an owner like Frank Scully? That’s just too sick. He’s one of the estate’s small-time crooks, a weasel-faced loser with a drug habit who also happens to be the grandson of the sweet old lady with the Mr Sheen fixation. Scully is bad news.
‘Scully’s dog?’ I echo. ‘No way. I didn’t know Scully had a dog!’
If he did, surely it would be a Rottweiler or a Staffie. He wouldn’t want a skinny little terrier with a pirate patch. Would he?
Mum bites her lip. ‘He has a dog now, not much more than a pup,’ she tells me. ‘And this is it. I recognize the patch over the eye, and the bandana. He brought it into the Phoenix a while ago, told everyone he won it in a card game. Poor thing was starving – I gave it a plate of macaroni cheese.’
Lucky battles his way free of the hoodie and takes a couple of limping steps forward. He looks from me to Mum and back again, but I can’t quite meet his eyes.
‘Where did you find him?’
‘Near Dave’s office, yesterday,’ I say. ‘He got run over by a girl on a bicycle. We got him fixed up – even the vet thought he was a stray!’
‘He’s not, Mouse. We can’t keep him – Scully’s not the kind of bloke I’d want as an enemy.’
Nobody would want Scully as an enemy – not many would want him as a friend, either.
‘I’ve been calling him Lucky,’ I say. ‘Funny, huh? He must be the unluckiest dog in London. How come he was wandering around the streets anyway? How come he was so thin and dirty? That loser won’t look after him, Mum, you know he won’t!’
Mum looks upset. ‘What did the vet say?’
‘Just a sprain. He’ll be good as new in a few days. If he’s properly looked after, that is …’
‘If,’ Mum says.
There’s a long silence while Lucky tilts his head to one side and does his best impression of a hungry, homeless, unloved mutt. Mum chews her lip. She’s always been a sucker for waifs, strays and lost causes – I can see her struggling to resist Lucky’s sad-eyed gaze.
‘OK, OK,’ she says, at last. ‘We’ll keep him for a day or two, until his leg’s better. Don’t go te
lling everyone – we don’t want Scully turning up on the doorstep looking for a fight.’
‘Mrs S. recognized him just now,’ I admit. ‘I thought she was nuts, but obviously not. She said she must need new glasses.’
‘How a lovely old lady like that ended up with that thug for a grandson I’ll never know,’ Mum says. ‘Never mind, Mouse. I don’t think that’ll matter, not if it’s just for a couple of days. And it is just for a couple of days, OK?’
‘OK.’
Later, wrapped in our fluffiest bath towel and eating pizza, Lucky settles on a big floor cushion under the Swiss cheese plant. He no longer looks as if he’s been living in a coal mine.
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ Mum warns him. ‘This is temporary.’
Lucky looks up from his pizza crust, grinning, and she ruffles his ears. I reckon she could get attached to him – his grubby bandana is swishing around in the washing machine right now. Everything would be perfect if it wasn’t for Frank Scully.
‘Scully might be glad to be rid of him,’ I think out loud.
‘Maybe,’ Mum says. ‘If we explain it to him gently. The next time he turns up at the Phoenix I’ll have a quiet word, see what he says.’
If anyone can talk Scully round, Mum can. She tried to help him years ago, when the Phoenix first opened. He was still in his teens then, on probation for a drugs-related theft, and he came along to the Phoenix every day for a fortnight before his lowlife mates lured him back to a life of crime. Since then, he’s been in prison twice, and even his mum and gran have given up on him. I frown. Something, somewhere, doesn’t quite add up.
‘What’s Scully doing hanging around the Phoenix anyway?’ I ask. ‘He’s a dealer, isn’t he? Don’t tell me he’s trying to clean up his act – no way.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘Mouse, I know,’ she says. ‘I don’t trust him either. He’s been along a few times lately. If he says he wants to change, what can we do? We can’t refuse him the chance to try.’
I wince. Letting Scully into the Phoenix is like allowing a fox into your chicken house – asking for trouble. I bet he’s only hanging around for a free meal. Or – the thought makes me go cold all over – to push drugs on vulnerable ex-junkies when nobody’s looking.
‘Don’t worry, I’m watching him,’ Mum says, as if she can read my mind.
Lucky turns in a circle three times, then settles down to sleep.
‘Lucky,’ Mum says, thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s hope he is.’
My CD alarm crashes into life with My Chemical Romance yelling about the Black Parade. I open one eye, wince and hide under the covers again.
Last year, I had the bright idea of covering up the peeling woodchip wallpaper in my bedroom by using up all the odds and ends of spray paint I had lying around. It looks like an explosion in a paint factory, which is cool most of the time, but first thing in the morning it can be kind of traumatic. All those swirling, clashing colours and patterns are not for the faint-hearted.
A wet nose snuffles against my neck – Lucky. I hug him close and tell him I’ll keep him safe from Frank Scully, though I don’t have a scooby how. ‘I’ll think of something,’ I promise. ‘Trust me.’ Lucky sighs and smiles and burrows in under the duvet, and the two of us sleep till midday.
The doors to Jake’s workshop are flung wide, with scabby, half-wrecked cars spilling out on to the forecourt. One of them, a rusting Lada, has the bonnet up, and I can see my best friend’s trademark baggy jeans as he leans over it, fiddling with spark plugs and bits of wire.
‘Hey, Fitz!’ I call over, and he comes out from under the bonnet, oil-smeared and grinning.
‘Look who it is – the spray-can king of Green Vale Comp!’ he says. ‘How’s it feel to be a juvenile delinquent?’
‘You tell me,’ I laugh. ‘You’ve had more practice!’
‘That’s harsh, Mouse,’ Fitz replies. ‘I’m just misunderstood. I’m a joker, man, yeah? A stink bomb here, a tap left running there, a fire alarm accidentally set off just before the Year Nine exams … I’m only acting in the interests of my fellow students.’
‘Practically a saint, huh?’ I say.
‘You got it. You and me, Mouse, we’re like silent superheroes, saving the world from boredom, misery and double maths.’
I laugh, leaning up against the Lada.
‘Anyway, man, you’re busted, right?’ Fitz tells me. ‘You were seen. Your secret’s out!’
‘My secret?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. Like I said, you were seen. Jake!’ he yells. ‘Jake, it’s Mouse!’
Jake comes out from the workshop, wiping his hands on paint-spattered overalls. He’s Fitz’s dad, although he doesn’t look like a dad – he’s still pretty young himself. You get the feeling he and Fitz’s mum weren’t exactly planning a baby, but Fitz came along anyway. Jake wasn’t ready to settle down, though. He’s never lived with Fitz and his mum and gran, even though he sees Fitz plenty.
It’s the kind of cool, matey relationship I always imagined I might have with my dad, only in my case it didn’t happen. It’s not just that my dad wasn’t ready to settle down, he wasn’t ready to even live on the same continent as me.
‘Come on then, Romeo,’ Jake says, flicking me with an oily rag. ‘Spill it. Who is she?’
I start to grin. ‘Who’s who?’ I bluff.
‘The girlfriend, man!’ Fitz bursts out. ‘The chick you were holding hands with last night! Jake saw you, Mouse, OK?’
‘Comin’ out of the tube station,’ Jake says. ‘I was making a little – ah – delivery, nearby. I waved, but the pair of you were too wrapped up to notice. Young love, eh? Way-hey-hey!’
The two of them smirk and nudge each other, like they just caught me walking along Clapham High Street in lime-green swimming shorts and a pair of flippers.
I hide behind my fringe. ‘She’s just a friend,’ I say.
‘Just a friend?’ Fitz snorts. ‘No, no, Mouse, I’m just a friend. Chan is just a friend. You don’t hold hands with us, do you? Nope, this chick is not just a friend!’
‘Pretty too,’ Jake chips in.
I sigh. ‘Yeah, she’s cute,’ I tell them. ‘But she goes to a posh private school and lives up Rivendale Avenue in a house with roses around the door. So even if I did like her, it wouldn’t be happening, OK?’
‘Why not?’ Jake demands. ‘So what if she’s posh? Shouldn’t make any difference, mate. You gotta be confident, get out there, grab the world by the throat.’
‘Don’t go telling him that,’ Fitz argues. ‘We’ll never hear the last of it. Pass her on to me, man, I’ll look after her!’
‘In your dreams,’ I say, and Fitz just grins.
Jake chucks me a couple of newspapers and a roll of masking tape. ‘I’ve got work to do here,’ he tells me. ‘You helpin’, or not?’
‘Might do,’ I say. I like helping Jake out, especially if I’m trying to earn some cash, and he always gives me his leftover spray cans, which is cool. ‘What needs doing?’
Jake points to a big, blue, shiny four-wheel drive in a corner of the workshop. ‘Paint-job,’ he says. ‘From blue to black – needs masking up. Don’t bother with the windows, I’m replacing them anyway – just the chrome and stuff. OK?’
I frown at the four-wheel drive. It looks brand new, and hardly in need of a paint-job, especially one to change the colour. I notice that Jake has taken off the number plates, and he’s obviously planning to change the windows too. It crosses my mind that this car may not be strictly legal.
‘Whose is it?’ I ask, wrapping a wing mirror with newspaper, taping down the edges neatly.
‘Let’s just say it’s for a couple of important local businessmen,’ Jake says. ‘So do a good job, yeah?’
Fitz pulls a face. On the Eden Estate, businessman translates as drug dealer, and/or crook. Jake is a nice guy, but he has some seriously dodgy friends. He manages to stay out of trouble most of the time, but only just.
Fitz chooses
not to talk about his dad’s iffy mates, or the fact that some of the resprays and repairs he does at the garage may not be strictly above board, so I ignore it too.
Fitz turns back to his spark plugs. ‘How d’you meet her?’ he wants to know. ‘This posh girl? She got any friends?’
‘Like I’d let you loose on her mates!’ I tell him. ‘As if! I met her in Clapham High Street – she ran over this little dog and landed on the pavement in front of me.’
‘She fell for you, man,’ Fitz laughs.
‘Funny,’ I say. ‘Like I said, Fitz, this relationship isn’t going anywhere. She’s posh – different. It wouldn’t work out.’
‘Who cares?’ Fitz says. ‘Maybe she wants to slum it a bit!’
Maybe she does, but I don’t want to be an experiment in how the other half live. Cat’s gorgeous, but she’s out of my league. ‘We took the dog to the vet’s,’ I say, masking off the front grille. ‘I reckoned it was a stray, so I brought it home.’
Fitz ducks out again from under the bonnet, his face a picture of disgust. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he says. ‘You ditched the girl but kept the dog? Mouse, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing!’ I protest.
‘You’re crazy,’ Fitz declares. ‘Seriously.’
I chew my lip. ‘Well, maybe I am,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll never guess whose dog it turned out to be? Only Frank Scully’s, that’s all. How scary is that?’
Fitz blinks. ‘Very scary, man,’ he says. ‘You gave it back, yeah? The dog?’
I turn back to the four-wheel drive, folding and shaping newspaper to the side window, so Fitz can’t see my face. ‘Not yet,’ I admit. ‘I mean, I’m going to, when the dog’s all better and stuff …’ As I say this, I know that deep down, I have no intention of ever, ever letting Lucky go back to Frank Scully. I’d sooner hand him over to Cruella de Vil.
‘You’d better, man,’ Fitz is saying. ‘I mean, that guy doesn’t have a sense of humour …’
Lucky Star Page 4
