Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  I sit in the passenger seat of Mum’s car, staring out of the window. We’ve been on the road for over an hour now, having left the city behind a while ago. The farmhouses around here are few and far between. I’d heard of the back of beyond, but I’d never driven through it before.

  ‘Troy, I want you on your best behaviour,’ Mum warns.

  ‘Yeah, well, I hope you told Sonny the same thing,’ I say. ‘He’s the one who started it.’

  ‘Troy, I’m not playing.’ Mum’s eyes narrow into slivers of ice. ‘You are to behave yourself or you and I are going to fall out – big time.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ It really isn’t worth arguing about. I resolve to just keep my mouth shut for once and try to get through the day without Mum shouting at me.

  Damn it, but Sonny lives in the middle of nowhere. Typical! Kilometres and kilometres of nothing to do but look at the greenery. How does he stand it? And Mum wouldn’t even let me bring my tablet so I could at least play games or watch films while at his house.

  ‘I want you two to sit and talk to each other. Really talk,’ Mum declared. ‘I’m sure you’ll find you have a lot in common if you give each other a chance.’

  Yeah, right.

  At last we turn into a wide driveway, flanked on both sides by trees. That’s when I catch my first glimpse of Sonny’s house and, OK, I admit, it’s impressive. I thought our driveway was long and strong, but Sonny’s is like the grown-up version. Poplar trees, tall and skinny sentinels, line the way up to his manor. I get out of the car, my mouth hanging open. Mum smiles wryly at me.

  ‘Catching flies, hon,’ she says.

  My mouth snaps shut.

  ‘Sonny lives here?’

  ‘Most weekends he does,’ says Mum.

  ‘Him and what army?’

  ‘Just him.’ She chuckles. ‘Well, he has staff of course, but it’s his house. During the week, he stays in his flat in town.’

  ‘I thought he wrote songs,’ I say, puzzled.

  ‘He does. At least one fifth of the songs currently in the Top One Hundred were written or produced by him,’ Mum explains. ‘He uses different names for the different genres of songs he writes.’

  Ah! That explained why my Internet search had been lacking in information.

  I look around. ‘And he owns all this land too?’

  ‘Yep. All fifteen acres,’ says Mum. ‘There’s a quarry to the north and woodlands to the south and east, and the lake over there to the west is also his.’

  ‘OK, so Sonny’s not dating you for your money then!’

  Mum stares at me, then bursts out laughing. ‘Is that why you’ve been so hostile towards him? You thought he was after my money? Aw, Troy – bless!’

  Mum only says ‘bless’ like that when I’ve said or done something particularly moronic. She’s still chortling as we make our way up to the front door. We don’t even have to knock before the door is opened by Sonny himself.

  ‘Welcome. Hey, Troy. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I mumble.

  Sonny looks from Mum to me and back again. Mum is grinning. It wasn’t that funny! ‘What have I missed?’ he asks.

  ‘Troy thought—’

  ‘Mum! Don’t you dare!’ I warn.

  She takes one look at the scowl on my face and shakes her head apologetically at Sonny. ‘Just some mother–son humour.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Come in.’

  Thankfully, he doesn’t push it, though I have no doubt that Mum will tell him when the two of them are alone. Sonny steps aside so that Mum and I can enter his house.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Troy,’ he tells me.

  I take him at his word, and off comes my jacket, then my jumper, and I fling both over the stair banister. After all, we’re going to be here for quite some time.

  ‘How’s Callie Rose?’ Sonny asks Mum.

  ‘She’s great. Going from strength to strength,’ she says proudly. ‘One day that girl of mine is going to be Attorney General for the whole country.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’

  ‘She has a big court case to prepare for or she would’ve come too,’ Mum explains.

  ‘No worries. Tell her I said hi,’ says Sonny. ‘Troy, would you like me to show you my recording studio?’

  ‘You’ve got a recording studio here in your house?’

  ‘I do. Wanna see it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’ll head to the kitchen and help with dinner,’ says Mum.

  ‘Sephy, I didn’t invite you to dinner so you could cook for me,’ Sonny protests.

  ‘You know you burn water,’ she teases. And she heads straight for the closed door on the left-hand side of the grand polished-wood staircase that sweeps down to the middle of the vast hall. She opens the door on to a huge kitchen decorated with white cupboards and black marble worktops. It takes a moment to click, but click it does.

  ‘You’ve been here before, Mum?’ I call after her.

  She turns, and the tips of her ears are red and she can’t quite look me in the eye. Sonny’s cheeks are a fiery tomato-red too. I turn back to Mum. She’d been to Sonny’s house before, and more than once, and I bet it was for more than coffee. Ewww.

  ‘I … er … well …’

  ‘Is that a yes then?’

  ‘A couple of times,’ Mum admits.

  So it’s like that, is it?

  She hurries into the kitchen, ignoring the knowing look I give her. Sonny shows me his indoor swimming pool and gym, the attic which has been converted into a cinema room, the lot. And each room is like something out of a high-tech magazine. His house really is amazing.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask.

  ‘Just over ten years,’ Sonny replies. ‘Some of my neighbours weren’t thrilled when I bought the place, but I’m still here and they’re not.’

  ‘Why weren’t they thrilled?’

  ‘A blanker moving into a predominantly Cross area?’ Sonny shrugs. ‘Some of them were worried I’d drive down the house prices around here. When I made it clear I was staying put, some of them moved elsewhere – and good riddance.’

  He says it likes it’s a joke, but we both know he’s serious. I shake my head. For Shaka’s sake! We’re now at the recording studio in a soundproofed annexe to the side of his house.

  ‘Troy, you into music?’ Sonny asks as he shows me around.

  ‘Only to listen to,’ I reply.

  ‘You don’t play an instrument or sing or spit bars?’

  ‘Me? Nah.’

  ‘Shame.’ Sonny smiles. ‘You sure you don’t want to record a little something for your mum?’

  ‘Er, that’s a hard pass! I love my mum. I wouldn’t do that to her,’ I protest, at which Sonny laughs.

  We actually end up having the first proper conversation we’ve ever had as Sonny shows me round his home. And he is all smiles and questions, and he listens to my answers. By the time the tour is over, I am beginning to wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake about him.

  Once we reach his kitchen, which is even bigger than ours at home, Sonny says, ‘Dinner will be at least an hour so, Troy, why don’t you grab one of the quad bikes from the garage and go and explore?’

  My eyes widen. This sounds great. ‘Really? Can I?’

  ‘Er, a quad bike. I don’t think—’ Mum begins.

  ‘Sephy, let the boy go and have some fun. He’ll be fine and it’s perfectly safe as long as he sticks to the tracks,’ Sonny interjects. ‘Troy, feel free to go anywhere you like except north to the quarry, OK? It’s not safe up there and, if you fall into one of the many caves or pits up there, it could be weeks before we find your corpse.’

  I start to laugh. Sonny doesn’t. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at me. Oh my God, he’s serious.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I reply, the smile dying on my face. ‘I’ll head round the lake and through the woods.’

  ‘Just stick to the established tracks and you won’t get lost or i
n any trouble, OK?’

  I nod vigorously. Mum still doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t tell me no.

  ‘Troy, make sure you wear your jumper and jacket,’ she says.

  ‘But, Mum—’

  ‘Jumper and jacket or forget it,’ says Mum firmly.

  I exchange a long-suffering look with Sonny, who smiles in sympathy.

  ‘Sonny, tell her!’ I plead.

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’ He splutters. ‘Me? Get between the two of you? I don’t think so.’

  No help there then.

  Reluctantly, I put on my jumper and jacket. Beads of sweat are already breaking out on my forehead and my armpits are prickling.

  ‘Let’s go, Troy. I’ll show you how the quad bikes work,’ says Sonny.

  ‘Sonny—’ Mum still isn’t happy.

  ‘Don’t worry, Seph,’ he soothes. ‘My quad bikes are so easy to manage, a four-year-old could ride them.’

  We head to Sonny’s garage, which is like the showroom of an upmarket car dealership. It is huge, almost as big as the downstairs of his house. Luxury cars I’ve only seen on TV line one wall. Motorcycles requiring serious muscles to control line the opposite one.

  ‘This is something else.’ I’m wide-eyed like a child at Crossmas. ‘These are all yours?’

  ‘Every one of them,’ Sonny says. He’s not boasting, just stating a fact.

  After I pick his brains about a couple of his vintage cars, he leads the way to his three quad bikes.

  ‘They’re for me and my two nieces,’ he explains.

  Sonny shows me how they work, and what he told Mum about how easy they are to manage isn’t a lie. Right foot pedal to go. Left foot pedal to stop. Steering wheel to steer. Emergency stop cord around my wrist to immediately cut power to the engine should I fall out. Push button to start. And that was it. Five minutes later, I’m heading for the lake, whooping with glee as Sonny chortles behind me. I’ve never been on a quad bike before and it is the boss!

  ‘One hour, Troy. No longer.’ Mum appears at the back door to call after me.

  ‘Yes, Mum!’ I call back without even looking round.

  I have one hour and I intend to make the most of every single second.

  Sticking to the tracks, I drive round the lake several times. During my second lap, I pull off my jacket and jumper, dumping them in the seat beside me, and I feel better for it. The lake water glistens blue and gold in the sunlight, like liquid diamonds. The air smells so … clean. No diesel, no petrol fumes, no pissy aromas. I could get used to this! I head for the woods, lifting my foot off the accelerator so I don’t go crashing into anything. After all, it’s not my quad bike. Driving through the trees is a revelation. I don’t have to race to still enjoy myself. At first I think the only sounds are from birdsong and the quad bike, but, as I listen, I realize my mistake. There’s an underlying rhythm to the stillness, almost like the woods are breathing. The crackle of twigs, the sound of lapping water, a hoot, a dog barking far away. I can well understand now why Sonny bought this place. If I had serious money, I’d do the same.

  Weather-wise, the temperature is just how I like it – cool but sunny. Even the slight chill in the air can’t dampen my excitement. After exploring the woods for ages, I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes left – and the only place I haven’t yet checked out is the quarry.

  If I take it slowly and carefully, what harm can it do? What’s the point of having all this land if some of it is out of bounds? I leave the woods by the track furthest away from the house, and, once I’m sure I can’t be spotted from any of the windows, I head north. The dirt track is worn, but that’s the worst of it as far as I can see. No potholes, no troughs, no cave-ins, no caves. Am I missing something? I head further north at a slowish speed.

  What was Sonny talking about?

  This route is no more dangerous than any of the others on his estate. I round a bend in the track skirting a fringe of trees, and then I see it about twenty metres ahead. Like some titan has taken a huge scoop out of the earth and left a massive hole instead. The quarry. I slow right down as I approach, my foot barely on the accelerator pedal. Ten metres from the edge I stop the quad bike and get off. I edge forward like I’m a hundred and ninety, not wanting the ground to suddenly give way beneath me. Maybe this was what Sonny meant about caves and cave-ins. If the ground is going to collapse anywhere, it’d be here.

  One step.

  Another.

  I peer over the lip of the quarry. Far below I can see the smashed remains of two cars and the burnt-out remnants of one other. How long have they been down there? And why would Sonny allow anyone to use the quarry on his land as a dumping ground for vehicles? I can’t tell the make of the burnt-out car, but, of the smashed-up ones, isn’t the one closest to the lip of the quarry a Whitman Scorpius? A navy blue one, by the look of it. I frown. What a waste of a classic car. Why would anyone—?

  A dark blue Whitman Scorpius.

  I fall to my knees. Minutes pass as I stare down at the mangled yet still identifiable car. There must be some mistake. I keep searching for proof that I’m wrong – but I’m not.

  I don’t know how much time passes. The cold of the ground seeps into my bones. Or am I the one freezing the earth beneath me? Numb, I finally get to my feet.

  That car …

  The same make and model that killed my dad in the hit-and-run incident.

  It has to be a coincidence. It just has to be. Eyes down, I head back to the quad bike. Thoughts sting like angry wasps as I gingerly turn it round, only to find I’m no longer alone. Up ahead on the only track away from the quarry sits Sonny on another quad bike, watching me.

  nineteen. Libby

  * * *

  ‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’

  Mum scowls at me. ‘How long are you going to keep this up, Libby?’

  How long have you got? ‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’

  Late Sunday afternoon and my attention isn’t on my homework or even on the forthcoming school election. It’s on my dad. I have so many questions there’s no room in my head for anything else.

  ‘You and I have no more to say to each other until you tell me who my dad is,’ I tell Mum again. If she thinks I’m joking, she’s going to find out otherwise.

  ‘Maybe I don’t know,’ says Mum.

  ‘Really? You’ve been taking money from this man for almost eighteen years, but you don’t know who he is? I’m supposed to believe that?’

  Mum’s lips tighten until they’re just a slash across her face. ‘I’m the one who had you and took care of you. Your dad wasn’t interested. He told me to have an abortion and, when I refused, he promised he’d have nothing to do with either of us and he kept that promise. Paying into a trust fund all these years was his way of turning his back on us and not being saddled with a guilty conscience to go along with it.’

  ‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’

  ‘Stop asking that question,’ she snaps, exasperated. ‘Believe me, you’re better off not knowing.’

  ‘Who’s my dad, Mum?’

  ‘You want to know? I mean, d’you really want to know?’ The change in the tone of Mum’s voice should’ve set off warning bells, but it doesn’t.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I reply. ‘I wouldn’t have been asking for the last two days if I didn’t.’

  ‘OK. You want to know the crappy truth – I’ll give it to you. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  And then Mum lets me have it.

  Straight between the eyes.

  twenty. Troy

  * * *

  All the way back to the house, Sonny doesn’t say a single word to me. His quad bike is always just behind mine. He isn’t taking any more chances of me going places and seeing things I shouldn’t. His eyes bore into my back. I press the pedal to the metal, desperate to get back to the house and Mum. My anxiety ratchets up every moment Sonny is behind me. By the time his house comes into view, I feel physically sick with relief.

  ‘Just park at the front,�
�� Sonny calls out.

  I turn. He is wearing a smile like a first-year school uniform on a sixth-former. It’s a bad fit. I skid to a halt and dart for the house. The door is shut but not locked.

  Pushing it open, I yell out, ‘Mum!’

  She emerges from the kitchen, a carrot in one hand, a knife in the other. One look at me and her smile fades, a question mark drawing her brows closer together. ‘You OK, Troy?’

  My relief at seeing Mum is short-lived. Sonny is right behind me.

  ‘Sephy, I’ve already told you, I didn’t invite you here so you could do all the work,’ he says.

  ‘I’m only doing the veggies,’ Mum says, smiling. ‘Besides, you know I love to cook. It relaxes me.’

  ‘I’ll help, love.’ Sonny heads over to Mum, the two of them sharing a smile.

  Love? Is that where their relationship is at now? My heart dive-bombs.

  What to do? Follow them into the kitchen and tell Mum what I saw? But then what will Sonny do? We’re alone in his house, kilometres from anywhere. After dithering in the hall for several moments, I follow the sound of Mum’s laughter into the kitchen. She and Sonny stand side by side, preparing veggies, their bodies dangerously close to one another. Mum is topping and tailing carrots, her focus on them, though she’s smiling at something Sonny just said, but Sonny’s eyes are on Mum and the look on his face … He’s got it bad and he’s not even trying to hide it. The lack of space between the two of them makes up my mind. Following my sister’s advice for once, I realize I need to pick the right moment – and this isn’t it. I go into the sitting room to watch TV, but no matter how hard I try to concentrate, my mind is elsewhere, my thoughts racing. I need to tell Mum what I saw before Sonny can get rid of the evidence, but how do I even begin to do that? How do I start?

  Dinner is excruciating. I push my food around with my fork, east, west, north, east again. Bits of beef, mashed potato and carrots circumnavigate my plate. Again and again my gaze is drawn to Sonny. I can’t get the dark blue Whitman Scorpius in the quarry out of my mind, its metal mangled, twisted, broken. A reflection of my dad’s state once that car had hit him.