Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  A flush of unwelcome red climbs up my neck to perch on my cheeks. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mrs Robe. Honest. I was just doing my homework and lost track of the time, that’s all.’

  I stand up. This conversation is over.

  ‘Goodnight, miss.’

  ‘’Night, Liberty.’

  Heading out of the door, I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to know that Mrs Robe is still watching me. I let my guard down. Mistake. I need to be more careful. But I’ll say one thing about my mistakes – I tend to only make them once.

  nine. Troy

  * * *

  The late September afternoon is too warm. The sky is grey but it’s still cloyingly humid. My jacket is tied around my waist and my shirt is sticking to me like one huge plaster. It’s been a bitch of a day. Ayo and I are walking home after football practice, which has left me sweaty, tired and strangely irritable. It’s the long walk home from school that’s really got to me. I stupidly forgot that my car is out for repairs after I backed over a sneaky bollard that was lower than the boot so wasn’t immediately visible.

  ‘For Shaka’s sake, Troy! Your car has a parking camera at the back,’ Mum ranted when I told her what had happened. ‘You just weren’t paying attention and that’s going to cost you. Don’t even think about asking me to help pay the repair bill.’

  Which was exactly what I’d been about to ask her. That bill is going to put a severe dent in my savings. Plus that morning, when I’d asked Mum for a lift to school, she shook her head and said, ‘Can’t help you, honey.’

  ‘What about Nana Meggie? Can’t she drive me?’

  ‘Your nana has given up driving. Besides, I have no intention of waking her up just to suit you,’ said Mum. ‘Start walking, child. You wouldn’t want to be late, would you?’

  At first I thought Mum was winding me up, but she waved her hand in front of her face and said, ‘Does it look like I’m joking? I’ve got an early meeting with a particularly obnoxious turd that I don’t want to be late for, so off you go.’

  ‘Who’s your meeting with then?’ I couldn’t help asking.

  Mum sighed. ‘A guy I used to know back in the day. He was a piece of work then and he’s an even bigger piece of work now. He’s got something I need and it’s going to cost me to get it back.’

  ‘What’s he got? And cost you what?’

  ‘Never you mind. Hurry up and get to school.’

  Mum’s gaze fell away from mine like she regretted saying as much as she had. I knew from experience I wasn’t going to get any more out of her so I chucked my rucksack over one shoulder and headed out of the door, making my way to the bus stop – just in time to see the bus drive off without me.

  Like I said, a bitch of a day.

  ‘What’s going on between you and Libby?’ asks Ayo, walking beside me.

  I frown. ‘Nothing. What makes you think otherwise?’

  Ayo contemplates me like I’m under a microscope. My eyes narrow. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s not getting on with someone. There’s detesting someone. And then there’s what you two do,’ says Ayo. ‘Whenever you’re together, I have to break out my woolly hat and gloves ’cause the temperature drops by twenty degrees – at least.’

  I shrug. ‘Pfft! Can’t get on with everyone.’

  Ayo eyes me speculatively.

  ‘What?’ Oh my God! Ayo is beginning to work on my nerves.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, when it’s obviously something. ‘It’s just that you and Libby – well, that’s a whole new level.’

  ‘Does it really show that much?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Ayo scoffs, eyebrows raised.

  Damn it! That’s why for the most part I try to stay away from Libby. She and I invariably rub each other up the wrong way. Antagonism crackles between us like static electricity, but I certainly don’t want to be responsible for driving Libby towards a pair of scissors or anything else with a sharp point.

  ‘I’m just not a fan of her and her bullshit,’ I say. ‘She can’t ever be honest, even with herself.’

  That piques Ayo’s interest. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ I shake my head. ‘So d’you wanna go and see the new Black Panther film this weekend?’

  Ayo and I discuss the last two Black Panther movies and the forthcoming one until we reach the security gate that leads to my house. Ayo lives in the gated estate about a mile further along the same road. My house and its grounds are almost the same size as three houses where Ayo lives. Stupid, I know, but I always feel just a slight tinge of embarrassment when I reach our security gate. I love that we live in a large house and I have my own bedroom and my own activity room, but Mum has always brought me up to value and be grateful for every single thing I have.

  ‘Don’t get too caught up in things, Troy,’ she warned me, and more than once. ‘Things can be taken away just as easily as given to you; things can be lost as well as found, sold as well as bought, stolen as well as recovered. Measure yourself by the things you have and, if you lose it all some day, you won’t know who you are. D’you understand?’

  I shook my head every time Mum asked that. I mean, why would we lose anything, or have it taken away? It makes no sense.

  Ayo waves bye and peels off to continue down the road to his house. Entering the code to open the gate, I head along the driveway. Nope, tired doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling. Knackered, more like! The moment I open the front door, the welcome smell of roast lamb hits me. I take a deep, appreciative breath.

  ‘Hey, Troy,’ Mum calls out. ‘How was your day?’

  I pass the dining room on the way to the kitchen. The tablecloth has been changed and the table is laid.

  ‘Can I have a snack before dinner? I’m starving.’ I dump my rucksack by the door and follow Mum’s voice into the kitchen where I head straight for the fridge.

  ‘“Hello, Mum. How are you today? That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,”’ Mum mocks.

  I straighten up and grin at her. Actually, the dress she’s wearing does look like it was bought this century, her braided hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s wearing lipstick and stuff! She does look kinda nice. ‘Hello, Mum. How’re you today? Lovely dress you’re wearing!’

  ‘Don’t strain yourself, Troy,’ says Mum, unimpressed. ‘And don’t go packing your face. Dinner will be ready in an hour.’

  ‘Actually, you’re looking relatively reasonable,’ I say. ‘What happened? Cosmic ray?’

  ‘Child, you’re not too old for a spanking.’

  I burst out laughing. Likely! I’m over six foot tall and Mum is five foot and a small something. ‘Mum, you’ve never spanked me in my life and you’re so anti-violence, it’s actually embarrassing.’

  ‘That can be rectified,’ Mum warns, though the twinkle in her eyes gives her away.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say.

  I’d seen Mum get upset after inadvertently stepping on a beetle on the pavement. Any and every march for peace, love and understanding in the capital and she’s there.

  I’m a PACIFIST, honey. Deal with it.

  How many times had I heard that when I was growing up? Mum says she’s seen too much violence in her life to be anything else.

  ‘Troy, I mean it,’ Mum says with a frown. ‘Don’t go spoiling your appetite.’

  ‘Just have a sarnie then.’ My nose is back in the fridge.

  ‘No sandwich. Have some fruit, Troy, and save the textspeak for your phone. Don’t they teach pronouns at your school any more?’ Mum sighs. ‘Pronouns are friends. Don’t drop them – use and cherish them.’

  I roll my eyes. Not this again! How many times have I heard this particular nag?

  ‘How’s the election going?’ she asks. ‘Are you winning hearts and minds? Are you setting the world to rights? Are you championing the fight for liberty and justice? Are you? Are you?’

  ‘Mum, d’you have to be so extra?’ My eyes roll. ‘It’s not that big a deal.’ />
  ‘Oh yes it is,’ Mum immediately contradicts. ‘It takes no work at all to sit and grumble. It takes courage to stand up and be counted. Good for you.’

  Which is precisely why I didn’t want to tell Mum I was entering the school election in the first place.

  ‘You want my advice?’

  It’s a rhetorical question, so I emerge from the fridge with an apple in hand and wait to hear the answer.

  ‘Be true to yourself, Troy. Don’t turn into someone you don’t like or even recognize simply because you think it will win you this contest,’ says Mum, suddenly very serious.

  ‘It’s not a contest, it’s an election.’ I bite into the apple, which has more of my attention than my mum.

  ‘Oh, honey, elections are the most cut-throat contests there are,’ she says. ‘My second piece of advice? Watch your back.’

  Her tone of voice has me straightening up. ‘Wow, Mum. It’s a school vote to choose our head student, not a general election.’

  ‘Ah, Troy, you’re so young!’ she says. ‘Whether it’s a general election or an election to decide who’s the best at picking up litter – when it’s a position you really want, there’s no difference. When it comes to politics, people will lie, cheat and steal to get what they want. And don’t talk with your mouth full.’

  I sigh inwardly. Typical Mum! Always blowing simple things out of proportion. Being head student really isn’t all that. It looks good on university applications and it means sitting in on a few staff meetings throughout the school year, but that’s about it. I must admit though, if I’m voted head boy, I have plans to make the role bigger, like attending school-policy meetings, not just boring staff meetings. But the role is hardly vital to world peace. Mum is taking this – along with everything else – too seriously.

  ‘I wish your dad was here to see this. He’d be so proud of the way you’re stepping up to fight for what you believe in.’ Mum gives me a hug. I put up with it for a good three seconds before trying to shrug her off.

  ‘OK, let go now, Mum.’

  She hugs me tighter.

  ‘Mum! Get off!’

  She hugs me tighter still. ‘This hug is from your dad as well as from me so it’s got to be twice as long.’

  I sigh. ‘Mum, you’re talking shite again.’

  ‘Language, child. I’m your mother!’

  But at least she lets me go. She smiles, but not enough to lighten the trace of sadness dimming her eyes.

  ‘I miss him too, Mum,’ I say quietly.

  She opens her arms to give me another hug. Hell, no! I leap back. ‘Had today’s quota of hugs, thanks.’

  Mum laughs, her hands dropping to her sides. I love to see her laugh. After Dad died, it was as if her smile died with him.

  It was the spring term of Year Ten. March 8th to be exact. The voice of Miss Juniper, the school secretary, played out over the school public-announcement system.

  ‘Could Troy Ealing report to the head’s office? Troy Ealing to the head’s office, please.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ the rest of the class called out spontaneously. The automatic assumption was that I’d done something heinous and was now in deep manure.

  ‘Er, do you mind?’ said Mr Marshall, annoyed. The class quietened down. ‘Off you go, Troy. Don’t keep the head waiting.’

  I closed my history books and scraped them off my desk into my backpack. What was going on? I racked my brains for something I might’ve done that would warrant a visit to Mrs Paxton. When I reached the school office, I was stunned to see who was waiting for me.

  ‘Mum? What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Troy, it’s your dad. He’s been in an accident,’ she said, hugging me to her.

  ‘What kind of accident?’ I tried to pull away but Mum wouldn’t let me.

  ‘A bad one. He’s in hospital. Come on, love. Let’s go.’

  A bad one …

  Those words and no others kept echoing in my head. I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Time moved in a series of snapshots, fast and sharp like finger snaps. Getting in the car. Getting out of the car. Outside the hospital. Inside the hospital. The click of Mum’s heels as we walked along a corridor. The smell of bleach and vomit. Beeps and whirrs and flickering lights overhead. The sour taste of fear in my mouth.

  Is Dad OK?

  Please let Dad be OK.

  Mum and I sat in a waiting room with faded green plastic chairs.

  A Cross female doctor with neat, close-cropped hair and wearing a white coat entered the room. She was tall, willowy, holding herself straight, proud to make the most of every centimetre of her height.

  Mum stood up. Her hand on my shoulder stopped me from doing the same. She stepped forward to speak to the doctor. How many seconds passed? Five? Ten at the most. Mum’s whispered ‘No …’ echoed in the room. She swayed to her knees.

  I jumped to my feet.

  Mum buried her face in her hands. Tears dripped between her fingers. Her body shook, racked with silent sobs. She didn’t make another sound. I ran to her. Hugged her. Held her. My own tears fell like winter rain. In the course of a day, hours, minutes, both our lives changed.

  To this day, I’ve never heard these words spoken to me – ‘Troy, your dad is dead.’

  Still can’t remember when or how I learned exactly how he’d died. It must’ve been later that same day. Dad was a hit-and-run victim. The car that killed my dad was a dark blue Whitman Scorpius. A vintage car. Very expensive, very rare. The driver didn’t stop but accelerated away as my dad lay dying on the road.

  The police never found the car, let alone who was driving it. The person who killed my dad got away with it. No repercussions, no comeback, no clapback, nothing. The driver and the car were long gone. That was the day I learned the truth – the bitter truth – about the real world: sometimes the guilty get away with it.

  The very worst thing is knowing Dad’s killer is out there somewhere, enjoying life, while my dad isn’t. I had to watch Mum fall to pieces. If it weren’t for Nana Meggie and Callie, I don’t know what we’d have done.

  ‘Earth to Troy. Come in, Troy.’ Mum’s voice drags me out of unhappy memories.

  ‘Seriously, Mum, being head student isn’t all that,’ I say, covering the tracks of where my thoughts had taken me.

  ‘That depends on your point of view, Troy. Just because you think a certain way about something doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same,’ she says. ‘Believing that is not just narrow but dangerous.’

  For Shaka’s sake! ‘Mum, I only wanted a snack, not a lecture.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She smiles ruefully. She walks over to me, studying, scrutinizing my face. I frown. What’s she doing? ‘I love you, Troy.’

  My frown deepens. ‘Are you dying?’

  Mum bursts out laughing. ‘No. Hopefully I have a few decades left before that happens. Can’t I say I love you now?’

  ‘Fine, but don’t say that in front of my friends though, yeah?’

  Mum smiles and kisses my forehead. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Now go and change for dinner.’

  Hang on … Mum is looking fresh, roast lamb for dinner on a weekday and the table in the dining room is laid. Damn, but I’m slow.

  ‘Mum, is it just you and me for dinner tonight?’ I already know the answer.

  Mum’s gaze falls away from mine. ‘Er, I invited Sonny to join us.’

  Again? I open my mouth to protest, only to snap it shut again. Over the last couple of years since Dad died, I’ve watched Sonny worm his way back into Mum’s life. When Mum first introduced him to me, about two months after Dad’s death, she said he was an old friend. Wasn’t quite sure I believed that. Too many times I’ve watched him watching her and that look on his face … Like he’s already nuts about her and is trying – and failing miserably – to hide it. No … actually, it’s more than that. Sonny is seriously hung up on Mum but, judging by his demeanour when he’s around her, it isn’t exactly making him happy.

  ‘That OK,
love?’ says Mum. ‘About Sonny joining us?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s your house too.’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘Why, thank you!’ Her smile fades. ‘Troy, why don’t you like Sonny?’

  ‘Never said I didn’t,’ I reply.

  ‘You never said you did either.’

  ‘Don’t think about him one way or the other,’ I lie.

  ‘Troy, can’t you—?’

  ‘What?’

  Mum sighs. ‘Never mind. Go change and do your homework before dinner.’

  For once, I don’t argue. Appetite gone, I throw the barely touched apple in the bin before I leave the kitchen. After the crap day I’ve had at school, I really don’t need it to continue at home. The last thing I want is a row with Mum.

  Sonny …

  Dad was barely cold in his grave before Sonny came sniffing around, presenting himself as a friend who had not just one but two shoulders for Mum to cry on. Recently, during the last couple of months, Mum and Sonny have started having dinners out alone, just the two of them. I know Dad died over two years ago, but it’s too soon for Mum to be dating again. And if Sonny thinks he’s going to replace my dad …

  Listen to me. Damn it! I feel like a selfish dickhead with a huge dollop of arsehole on the side. Shouldn’t I give Sonny more of a chance for Mum’s sake? He obviously loves Mum and is waiting patiently for her to see him as something more than a friend. And Mum deserves to be loved. But who am I trying to kid? I’ve tried – tried hard – over the last few months, yet I still haven’t warmed to Sonny. Would I feel the same about anyone trying to fill the gap left by my dad? Probably. But in this case it’s Sonny.

  And I don’t know what to do about it.

  ten. Libby

  * * *

  My heart thumps as I put the key in the front door. Home is where the heart is, but my heart isn’t here. I never relax when I open the door, never feel at peace. In fact it’s just the opposite. School, homework, being head girl, going to a good university, becoming a doctor, they’re all rungs on the ladder of escape to get me out of this house. Up or out, I don’t particularly care which, as long as it’s away from here. Away from her. I can’t afford to fail, yet sometimes my fear of failure cripples me. I’m scared of starting to get away, testing and tasting what it’s like on the other side, only to take a false step and be dragged back down into the mire Mum calls her life. Our life. No! Once I’m out of here, I won’t let her get hold of me. If I do, she won’t just drag me down, she’ll push me under and drown me.