by Rachel Ward
“My mum works on the checkout.” That was Charmaine, two seats along from me.
“Yes, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but, you, Charmaine, could be the store manager if you wanted to. You all need to look a bit further, realize what you can achieve. What do you see yourselves doing? Come on, what are you going to be doing in a year, two years, five years? Laura, you start.”
He went ’round the room. Most of the kids hadn’t got a clue. Or rather, they knew his first assessment had been pretty accurate. When he got to Spider, I held my breath. The boy with no future, what would he say?
Of course, he rose to the challenge. He sat on the back of his chair, like he was addressing a crowd. “Five years’ time, I’m gonna be cruising the streets in my black BMW, got some vibes on the sound system, got money in my pocket.” The other boys jeered.
McNulty looked at him witheringly. “And how, Dawson, are you going to do that?’
“Bit of this, bit of that, sir. Buying and selling.”
McNulty’s face changed. “Theft, Dawson? Drug dealing?” he said coldly. He shook his head. “I’m almost speechless, Dawson. Breaking the law, peddling in misery. Is that all you can aspire to?”
“It’s the only way any of us are going to get any cash, man. What do you drive, sir? That little red Astra in the parking lot? Teaching? Working for twenty years? I’m tellin’ you, I ain’t driving no Astra.”
“Sit down on your chair, Dawson, and shut up. Someone else, please. Jem, what about you?”
How could I possibly know what was going to happen to me? I didn’t even know where I was going to be living in a year’s time. Why was this man torturing us, making us squirm like this? I took a deep breath and said, as sweet as I could manage, “Me, sir? I know what I want.”
“Oh, good. Carry on.”
I made myself look him right in the eye. 12252023. How old was he now? Forty-eight? Forty-nine? He’d go just around the time he retired, then. On Christmas Day, too. Life’s cruel, isn’t it? Christmas spoiled for his family for the rest of their lives. Serve him right, the cruel bastard.
“Sir,” I said, “I want to be exactly…like…you.”
He brightened for a second, a half smile forming, then realized I was taking the mick. His face shut down, and he shook his head. His mouth was a hard line, you could see the bones sticking out as he clenched his jaw.
“Get your math books out,” he barked. “Wasting my time,” he muttered under his breath. “Wasting my time.”
On the way out of class, Spider high-fived me. I didn’t do that stuff normally, but my hand went up to meet his like it had a mind of its own.
“Like your style, man,” he said, nodding his approval. “You got him good. Result.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Spider?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t do drugs, do ya?”
“Nah, nothing heavy. I was just winding him up. Too easy, innit, sometimes? You walking home?”
“No, got detention.” I needed to hang back for a couple of minutes, let the crowds of kids thin out. Karen would be waiting outside the gate. She was walking me to and from school at the moment, just until I’d “earned her trust.” No way I was going to let any of this lot see me with her. “See ya around, then.”
“Yeah, see ya.” He drop-kicked his bag through the classroom door and swung out after it, and as I watched him I thought, Stay away from drugs, Spider, for Christ’s sake. They’re dangerous.
CHAPTER THREE
It was one of those gray October days when it never really gets light. The rain wasn’t exactly falling — it was just there, hanging in the air, in your face, blotting everything out. I could feel it soaking through my hoodie, starting to make my shoulders and the top of my back go cold. We were ’round the back of the shopping center, where the concrete slabs of its walls met the dull green streak of the canal.
“We should go in the shops, at least it’s dry,” I suggested. Spider shrugged and sniffed. Even his movements were subdued today, like the weather had sapped his energy.
“Got no money. Anyway, those security guys are on my case.”
“I’m not staying here. It’s cold and rank and boring.”
Spider caught my eye. “But apart from that?”
“It’s crap.”
He snorted in appreciation, then spun ’round and started off down the path. “Come on, let’s go to mine. It’s only my nan there, and she’s OK.”
I hesitated. We’d kind of drifted into hanging out together, after school and on the weekends, since Karen had loosened the reins a bit. Not all the time — Spider sometimes went ’round with a gang of lads from school instead. From what I could tell, he’d run with them until they had a row, or even a fight, then he’d keep clear for a bit. There’s always something going on with boys. It’s like animals, isn’t it, monkeys or lions, sorting out the pecking order, who’s the boss? Anyway, for whatever reason, he wasn’t with them this Saturday, he was with me, and we were bored as hell. There was nothing for us to do.
Going to someone’s house was a big deal for me. I’d never been asked before. Even when I was little, I was never one of those girls who skipped out of the classroom in pairs, holding hands sometimes, giggling, excited. Having friends over for tea parties didn’t fit in with Mum’s lifestyle.
“I dunno,” I said reluctantly. Like usual, I was worried about meeting anyone new, not knowing whether to look at them or not. People think I’m shifty because I don’t like looking at them, but really I’m just trying to keep out of their lives — TMI.
“Suit yourself,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and setting off on his own.
The rain was getting in my face, annoying me now. “No, hold up!” I shouted, and ran to catch him up, and we walked along together, hoods up, heads down, in the filthy London drizzle.
It took about five minutes to get to his place, one of those maisonettes at the front of the Park Estate projects. It was in the middle of a row, on the ground floor, with a little square of garden at the front. The garden was something else — some grass and a few flowers and that — but the great thing was all these little statues and things: gnomes, animals. It was hilarious.
“Cool garden,” I said, half taking the piss, half meaning it. Spider made a face.
“It’s my nan,” he said. “She’s crazy.” He vaulted over the low wall and picked his way through the concrete crowd. He swung his leg at the head of a particularly ugly gnome.
“No, don’t,” I called out.
He stopped midkick.
“They’re nice. Don’t hurt them.”
“Oh, God. Not you as well.” He shook his head and waited while I opened the peeling tubular metal gate and walked up the path. Then he pushed in the front door — it must have already been open — and shouted out, “Only me, Nan. I’ve brought a mate.”
Nervous as I was, I clocked that, him using the word mate. And I liked it.
There was a narrow hallway and then straight into the front room. Every shelf, every surface was covered with stuff: little china animals, plates, vases. Think of every garage sale you’ve ever been to, all the stuff left over at the end that no one wants, and you’ll get the picture. The overpowering smell of cigarette smoke made the air thick. No windows open, obviously. A plume of it wafted through from the next room, and I followed Spider through there. His nan was perched on a stool at a breakfast bar, newspaper in front of her, cup of tea at hand, ciggy lit. She didn’t look nothing like her grandson. She was small, white, like me, with short spiky hair dyed a dark shade of purple. Her face was lined, hard-looking. I watched as he stooped to peck her cheek, and thought that if you saw them in the street you’d never know they were family. But that’s the way now, isn’t it? The days of family photographs — Mum, Dad, two kids, all dressed up, all looking the same — did that ever happen? Is there anywhere that still happens? Not here, anyway. Families ’round here are what they are — just your nan, like Spider, or no one, like me — b
lack, white, brown, yellow, whatever. That’s how it is.
As Spider stood back up, his nan looked at me. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Val.”
I tried to keep my eyes down, but for some reason I looked up briefly and, instantly, she held my gaze. I couldn’t look away. Her eyes were amazing — hazel, set in clear white, despite the smoke. And it wasn’t like she was just looking, like anyone else. No, she was taking me in, she was really seeing me. I clocked her number, 02202054: forty-four years to go with a heavy smoking habit. Respect.
“Who are you, then?” she asked, the words sounding harsh, although I don’t think she meant them to.
I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even remember my name. I was like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of those eyes.
Spider came to my rescue. “Her name’s Jem. We’re gonna watch the telly.”
“In a minute. Don’t rush off. Sit here a minute, Jem.” She indicated the stool next to her with a nod of her head.
“Na-an, leave her alone. Don’t go off on one.”
“You mind your attitude, Terry. Don’t listen to him. Sit here.” She patted the stool, her hands small and lined with massive curled yellow nails, and I clambered up meekly. Spider’s nan wasn’t the sort of person you argued with, and on top of that there was something else going on. I could feel it in the air, like electricity sparking between us. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. I still hadn’t stopped looking at her, and as I shifted on the stool to get my balance, she put her smoke down and took one of my hands. You know that I don’t like contact, but I didn’t draw away. I couldn’t, and we both felt it, a crackle, a buzz, as her skin touched mine.
The reek of stale smoke from her mouth was filling my nostrils. Made me feel a bit queasy. I like a cigarette as much as anyone, but someone else’s, secondhand? Nah.
“I have never met anyone like you,” she said, and I thought, No, that’s right, you haven’t, but how do you know? “Do you know about auras?” she asked. The question was met by a snort of derision from Spider, who’d wandered into the front room.
“Leave it out, Nan. Leave her alone, you old witch.”
“Shut up, you!” She turned back to me, and her words, slow and carefully spoken, went deep into me, like I was listening with my whole body, not just my ears. “You have the most amazing aura I’ve ever seen. Purple and white. All around you. The purple shows your spiritual energy, and the white that you’re able to concentrate that energy. It’s quite remarkable — I’ve never seen anyone with an aura as strong as yours.”
I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, but I wanted to know.
“Your aura, Jem, is the energy you carry with you. It radiates ’round you, all different colors. And the aura tells you more about that person than anything else. Everyone’s got one, but not everyone can see them. Just us lucky ones.” She narrowed her eyes. “You see them, too, don’t you?”
“No,” I said truthfully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’s talking bollocks, that’s what,” shouted Spider.
“I’ve nearly had enough of you, son! You shut your mouth!” She leaned in closer to me and lowered her voice. “You can tell me, Jem. I understand. It’s a gift, but it’s a curse, too. Tells you more than you want to know sometimes.”
The pit of my stomach lurched. She knew what it was like. The first time I’d ever met someone who understood. God, I wanted to tell her, ’course I did, but fifteen years is a long time to keep a secret. Not telling becomes part of you. And I knew deep inside that once I started talking about it, even to someone like Spider’s nan, everything would change. And I wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet.
“No. There’s nothing,” I mumbled. I managed to wrench my eyes away from her piercing, seeing gaze.
She leaned back and sighed — I could almost see her breath, it was that thick. “Suit yourself,” she said, lighting up another smoke. “You know where I am now. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”
As I slipped off the stool and went to find Spider, I could feel her eyes drilling into my back.
Spider was sprawled across an armchair, his long legs dangling over one side, feet twitching at the ankle. “Don’t take any notice of her. She lost the plot years ago. Didn’t you?” he shouted out. “Sports or something else?” he said as he flicked through the channels.
I shrugged, then spotted a black box on the floor. “PlayStation?”
He untangled himself from the chair and flopped down on the carpet, sorting through the heap of games. “Yeah, Grand Theft Auto?”
I nodded.
“You’ve got no chance,” he said. “Had a bit of practice. I’m so hot at this, I’m smoking.”
He was, too. I should have known. Boys like him all seem to know how to drive and shoot. It’s bred into them, isn’t it? I wasn’t going to let him psych me out or anything, but he had the knack — that quickness and aggression. He put everything into it, concentrating like his life depended on it, playing with his whole body. I put up a fight, but he beat me every time.
“Not bad for a girl,” he teased.
I gave him the finger. He smiled, and I felt like I was fitting in at 32 Carlton Villas just fine.
We watched the telly for a bit, but there was only crap on. Bloody Britain’s Got Talent or something. Thousands of no-hopers queuing up for hours like cattle, thinking they’re going to make it big. Retards. Even the ones who could sing. Do they really think the world is going to take them to its heart — fame, money, the whole lot? The Simon Cowells of this world just get as much money as they can out of them, and then spit them out, back to where they came from. It’s not a future, is it? It’s just an ego trip. Suckers. Still, we had a good time, laughing at them, Spider and me. Turned out we found the same things funny. Felt good sitting there — despite the smoke and that stale smell that Spider brought with him everywhere — although I was aware of his nan perched in the kitchen all the time, like one of those birds — hawks or buzzards or something. Vultures. Listening to us. Waiting.
“I’d better get back,” I said a bit later.
Spider unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ll go with ya.”
“Nah, s’alright. Won’t take long.”
“I could drive ya, if I had some wheels.” He paused. “I could get some wheels.”
I looked at him. He was dead serious, trying to impress me, I guess. I made for the door. I didn’t need to get involved in nothing like that. Didn’t need the hassle. I could hear his nan shuffling around in the kitchen, the microwave door slamming, buttons beeping as she set the timer.
“Your dinner’s nearly ready. I’ll see you around,” I said. “See ya!” I called out from the front door to his nan, not wanting to go in there and talk to her again. Her face appeared around the kitchen doorway. Lightning breached the gap between us as her eyes met mine again. What was it about that woman?
“Bye, love,” she said. “I’ll see you again.” And she meant it.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I want you to write about your best day ever. Don’t worry too much about spelling and punctuation. Just quickly. Write it from the heart.”
Another example of the Nutter’s cruelty, to make us think about our sad and pointless lives. What was he expecting? The day Daddy bought me my new pony? Our holiday in the Bahamas? Me, I didn’t like to look backward. What was the point? The past was gone, nothing you could do about it now. Impossible to pick out one day and say that was the best one. Easier to pick the worst one, several candidates there — not that I’d tell the Nutter about any of them. None of his business. I thought about sitting there and refusing to write anything. There was nothing he could do. But then something flipped inside me and I thought, No, I’ll tell him how it is, if that’s what he wants. I picked up my pen and started to write.
“Time’s up!” Howls of protest. “Stop writing, please. Doesn’t matter if you haven’t finished. Now, instead of handing them in to me, I’m goin
g to ask you to read them out loud.”
Outright rebellion — cries of “no way” and “get lost.” I felt cold inside, knew I’d made a mistake.
“I want you to stand up and speak the words you’ve written. No one’s going to be laughing at you. You’re all in the same boat. Give it a try.”
The barracking subsided.
“Amber, you start. Come up to the front. No? All right, stand where you are, and read it out in a nice, clear voice so we can all hear.”
And so he went, ’round the class. Holidays, birthdays, days off. Kind of what you’d expect. Then one kid, Joel, described his little brother being born, and the room took on a different feeling. Suddenly, everyone was listening as he told us about helping his mum in their bathroom at home, wrapping up the baby in an old towel. A couple of the girls said, “Aww” when he’d finished, his friends high-fived him as he made his way back to his seat. Fair play to him, he’d done a good thing, but I felt sick inside — the thought of that vulnerability, the innocence, the knowledge that the end is written for them even on their first day — it’s too much. I don’t do little kids.
Spider was next. He shuffled to the front of the class, stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes on the page in front of him. You could tell he wanted to be anywhere but there. “Ah, man, do I have to do this?” he said, flapping the page down to his side, stretching his neck back to look up at the ceiling.
“You do,” McNulty said firmly. “Come on, we’re listening.” And he was right. The class was quiet, everyone was getting into this.
“OK.” Spider drew the paper up in front of his face, so he couldn’t see us and we couldn’t see him. “My best day was when my nan took me to the seaside. It had a great name, like Weston-Super-Something. We went on the bus for hours, and I went to sleep. When we got there I’d never seen so much space in my life. The sea went on for miles and there was this huge beach. We had chips and ice cream, and there was donkeys. I had a ride on a donkey, weirdest thing ever, but great. We stayed somewhere, had a couple of days there, just me and my nan. Bloody brilliant.”
