Bang Bang You're Dead (3 page)

Eleven years earlier

Before we moved in with Grandpa, we lived in a small, narrow flat at the top of a tower block in Birmingham. It only had one bedroom, Jamie's and mine, and Mum slept on the sofa in the living room. Looking back now, I realize that the estate was a stereotype, like something out of a Channel Four drama: run-down tower blocks looming over concrete walkways, hoodies hanging around on the corners, the odd burned-out car. The lifts didn't work and smelled of pee, and it wasn't uncommon to turn a corner and find someone slumped on the steps with a bag of glue in their hand.

Only three years old, Jamie and I didn't notice much of this. We spent a lot of time indoors because Mum hated living on the estate and this seemed to trigger her depression. She'd go to bed and stay there. Days would turn into weeks, and weeks into months. Meanwhile Jamie and I fed and washed ourselves and put ourselves to bed, after a fashion. But I don't remember ever being anxious. In those days Jamie and I were happy if we were together, and we were together all the time.

One rainy day Jamie and I were playing our favourite game in the damp, tunnel-like hallway of the flat. This involved dashing from one end of the hall to the other and jumping over the frayed holes in the carpet where the crocodiles lived. We were trying to do this as quietly as possible because Mum was asleep, and we had to keep clapping our hands over our mouths to muffle our giggles.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My eyes wide, I looked at Jamie in an agony of indecision.

'Who
is
it?' I whispered. We didn't get many visitors. Those who did come usually wanted money.

'I don't know,' Jamie whispered back.

We both stood there staring at the door, and Jamie put his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he was worried.

'Shall we tell Mum?' I asked.

'Why?' Jamie replied, very reasonably. 'She won't
do
anything.'

We already knew all about Mum's illness, even though we were so very young.

'It might be the King of the Crocodiles,' I told Jamie solemnly. 'Let's creep away before he gobbles us both up for his dinner.'

We were about to tiptoe away into our bedroom when the battered flap of the letter box shot up. A pair of familiar kind, blue eyes looked in at us.

Chuckling with delight, I bowled down the hall towards the front door. 'It's Grandpa, Jamie! It's Grandpa!'

Grandpa lived just a few miles away, but he'd only been visiting for the last couple of months. He and Mum hadn't spoken for years after a huge family row. I never found out the whole story, but I think Mum had stolen money from him and Gran. Gran was dead of a heart attack by this time, and Grandpa was on his own.

'Hello, my darling,' Grandpa said to me through the letter box. He was a tall, upright, ex-military man and our letter box was quite low down so he must have either bent double or got down on his knees. 'How are you?'

'We're very well, thank you,' I replied in my best polite voice. 'Jamie bumped his head on the door yesterday, but he's all right now.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Grandpa, smiling at Jamie, who had run to stand next to me. 'Hello, Jamie. Now, where's your mummy?'

'Mum's in bed,' Jamie and I said together.

Even through the narrow flap of the letter box, I could see that Grandpa was frowning.

'In bed?' he repeated. 'But I thought you'd be all packed up and ready to leave by now.'

Jamie and I were too puzzled by this to reply.

'You're coming to live with me today,' Grandpa went on. 'Didn't your mum tell you? It's all arranged.'

We'd never been to Grandpa's house. He was always inviting us, but Mum hadn't felt well enough to go yet. But I suppose, even at only three years old, I must have immediately thought that it couldn't be any worse than the flat, could it? And it had one definite advantage: Grandpa would be there.

I remember it was grey and raining outside and the flat was dark and cold. But suddenly I was filled to overflowing with hope and happiness. And Jamie's face mirrored my feelings.

'Thanks, Grandpa!' he gasped. He danced around the hall, not even bothering to jump over the crocodiles, singing,
'We're going to live with Grandpa.'

I don't know what Grandpa said to Mum that day. But he had her up and dressed in fifteen minutes. There was a van and two removal men waiting outside for us and an hour later everything had been packed and we were gone.

Grandpa lived in a quiet, leafy suburb on the very edge of the city. The enormous house was a box of delights, an Aladdin's cave of mystery and wonder, a treasure trove of the beautiful and the ugly, the useful and the useless. Grandpa had spent a lot of his life in the army, and he and Gran had travelled all over the world. They were collectors and hoarders, and every corner of every room, every cupboard, every drawer, every chest was packed with objects. Here there would be a tall, carved wooden bird standing on one spindly leg, there a box of jewel-coloured teacups with matching saucers, nestled in blue velvet. There were stacks of dusty books and old magazines, and stuffed animals stared at us from dark corners with their glassy, unblinking eyes.

I had my own bedroom and it was vast and cavernous and stuffed with antiques from the four corners of the globe. Even the cover on my bed was oriental, a deep turquoise silk embroidered with cherry blossom and butterflies in gilt thread. So different from my old tartan blanket that smelled faintly of dog, bought by Mum for 10p from a car boot sale.

Jamie and I could not believe our luck. Every day we roamed through the house, always discovering new treasures. We had favourites which changed almost every hour as we found something else that caught our attention and aroused our interest.

One day, three weeks after we'd moved in, Jamie and I were playing in the attic. We weren't supposed to be there as Grandpa and Mum had both told us it was out of bounds. Grandpa was worried because he didn't quite know what we would find if we were allowed to explore. I think it was because he couldn't remember half of what was stored there.

Of course, that was its attraction for Jamie and me. We didn't usually like disobeying Grandpa, but he was out and Mum was washing her hair, and somehow we dared each other up the stairs and into that huge, gloomy space under the roof.

There were boxes and bags and chests and suitcases, stacked and piled up all over the floor, as alluring as buried treasure. I was instantly drawn like a magpie to an open jewellery box with glittering diamanté spilling out in casual disarray, as if someone had arranged it artfully for a still-life photo. As I slipped the too-big bracelets over my skinny wrists, Jamie stood next to me, poking around in a tin chest.

'Mia! Look what I've found.'

Humming happily and trying to fasten a pearl choker around my neck, I turned to see. The pearls slipped from my hands like water as I realized that Jamie was pointing a gun at me.

'Is it a
real
gun?' I asked in awe. I don't remember being frightened. I
do
remember thinking that the pale grey revolver with its silver inlay was beautiful.

'I don't know.' Jamie pointed the gun at me, holding it with both hands. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but couldn't. 'Bang, bang! You're dead, Mia!'

I collapsed gracefully against the tin chest, clutching my heart, and Jamie roared with laughter.

'Let me have a go,' I said.

Jamie ignored me. He was examining the trigger more closely. 'It's broken,' he said in a disappointed voice. 'It doesn't work.'

'Jamie, let me
see
!' I demanded.

I snatched the gun from him. It felt cool and smooth to the touch, and the weight and shape of it in my hands was completely alien and therefore completely fascinating.

I aimed the gun at Jamie. I tried to press the trigger as he had done, but it didn't move. 'Bang, bang!' I said. 'Now
you're
dead!'

'Urrrgh!' Jamie gurgled. He staggered melodramatically around the loft, clutching his side. 'You got me!'

A footstep on the stairs outside. Jamie and I turned, guilt written large all over our young faces.

Mum appeared in the doorway, wearing her old dressing gown, her hair wrapped in a red towel. She saw the gun and her scream nearly brought the roof crashing in on us all.

'My God, Mia, what are you
doing
?'

Mum dashed across the loft, almost tripping over the hem of her dressing gown. She snatched the gun from me and held it gingerly, carefully, dangling it from her index finger by the trigger, holding it away from us and away from herself as if it might go off of its own free will.

'Where did you find this, Mia?' she demanded. 'Guns are very dangerous – you could have been killed! You're a very, very naughty girl, and I'm going to tell Grandpa exactly what you've done. He'll be very angry with you.'

Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't want Grandpa to know that I'd disobeyed him.

'Jamie found the gun,' I blurted out, pointing my finger accusingly at him. 'It was all
his
fault.'

'Tell-tale,' Jamie muttered.

Still holding the gun at arm's length, Mum glared at Jamie, who was standing sullenly beside me.

'Then
you're
very naughty too, Jamie,' she snapped. 'Now get downstairs where I can keep an eye on the pair of you.'

I don't know what happened to the gun. I don't even know whether Mum told Grandpa what had happened because, although I waited with dread for the inevitable scolding, he never said anything. Maybe Mum kept the gun for her own reasons. Or maybe she just hid it and forgot about it. I don't know.

But now I remember that last year Jamie mentioned the gun again. It was just after Grandpa died. Mum wanted some old junk from the loft to sell at a car boot sale and Jamie and I were poking around up there and he said quite casually, 'Do you remember when I found the gun?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'Mum had a fit.'

'Well, I don't think the gun
was
broken.' Jamie was packing leather-bound books in a cardboard box, turned away from me so I couldn't see his face. 'I think the trigger was stiff, that's all, and we were too little to squeeze it properly. It was actually loaded too. Did you realize that, Mia?'

I shook my head. At the time I didn't think anything of it. But now that remark comes back to haunt me.

Does it mean that Jamie found the gun again and has tested the trigger since that long-ago day when we first found it in the loft?

Monday 10 March, 9.04 a.m.

Shivering, nauseous, I am still sitting on the stack of
Macbeths,
wondering what the hell I am doing here. The noise has stopped. It didn't happen gradually, it was quite sudden, like someone flipping a switch to turn it off. It seems that everyone, in this part of the building at least, has left, and I am alone.

'It's not too late,' I tell myself aloud. 'I can still leave.'

I climb to my feet with an effort, like a shaky old woman. I take one step towards the door and then freeze, immobile, as I hear footsteps running down the corridor outside. They echo loudly in the empty building.

A teacher checking that everyone has left?

The gunman?

Jamie?

Are the last two one and the same?

What are you going to do now?

Don't hang about.

Make a decision.

Making decisions has never been my strong point.

But I stumble behind one of the bookcases where set texts for English Lit classes are stacked. The space is narrow and I stand with my back pressed against the wall and my face against dusty copies of
To Kill a Mockingbird.

Then the cupboard door opens and I am so shocked, I almost wet myself.

I do not move or make a sound. But through the slatted bookshelves I can see my form tutor, Ms Powell, standing in the doorway.

I can leave, I say silently to myself. All I have to do is step out from behind this bookcase right now. Ms Powell will take me outside and I'll be safe.

Do it.

Do it now.

I don't move. I am as still and silent as if I'm in my grave.

Ms Powell is of African-American origin and ebony-skinned, but now she looks grey with fear. She glances quickly into the cupboard and then runs away, leaving the door open.

My knees buckle and sag. I totter out from behind the bookcase and nausea overtakes me. I'm gut-wrenchingly sick, all over a stack of copies of
Hamlet.

I don't much care because I never liked that play. Almost all the characters are either mad or murderers.

I lean against the wall and wipe my mouth and try to think straight. I've made the decision to stay, but I have no idea what to do next.

Focus, Mia.

With an enormous effort of will, I force myself to admit that I have already made my decision.

'I must find Jamie,' I murmur aloud. 'That's what I have to do.'

For the first time, as I walk shakily towards the open door, it occurs to me that if the gunman and Jamie are
not
the same person, then I could be in serious danger. But from now on, I guess I have to assume that they are. I have to, because I've put myself willingly into the middle of this utterly terrifying situation. And if they are
not
. . . ?

I sideline the thought of possible dangers. I am – almost – sure that it
is
Jamie. But I do think of Mum, and I have to take a deep, trembling breath.

I step out into an empty, gloomy corridor. The black blinds are drawn all the way down to block the low-level winter sunshine on one side of the school, the side that faces the entrance gates, the playground and the car park, and for this I give silent thanks. No one outside can see me.

There is a ghostly pall hanging over the building. All the classroom doors stand open, and as I walk by, my legs shaking, I see overturned chairs and books on the floor, interactive whiteboards left on and all the signs of a frenzied rush to evacuate the building. Occasionally a mobile phone left behind in a locker rings and makes me jump. I strain my ears for the sound of gunshots, but I hear nothing.

Where am I going?
I ask myself as I stumble down the stairs.

I don't know. When I last saw Jamie, he was heading towards the annexe. The annexe is over on the other side of the school, as far away as it could possibly be from where I am now. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I am on the ground floor of the huge extension that was built onto the left wing of the school. The annexe is way over on the right-hand side.

But Jamie might not be in the annexe at all. He might have gone there first and then moved on somewhere else. He and Grandpa's gun – and the hostages – may now be in a different part of the school altogether.

I simply don't know what to do. Should I search every part of the school or just go straight to the annexe? Frowning, I agonize over a decision that could be a matter of life or death, literally. Then, as I pass the library door, I am suddenly and sickeningly aware of voices in the eerie silence, voices drifting towards me from further down the corridor.

'Oh, God,' I gasp, almost sliding to the floor as my knees threaten to give way beneath me.

Half of me is glad that perhaps a teacher – Ms Powell or someone else – is looking for me. Half of me is petrified that it might be Jamie and a gun. Jamie wouldn't hurt me, I'm sure of it.

But would he hurt others?

If I
honestly
believe that he was involved in events that have happened in the past, then there can only be one answer.

I can't hear footsteps, just voices, and I strain to hear what they are saying; after a moment I realize that something doesn't sound quite right.

Silently, just in case I am wrong, I move along the ground-floor corridor towards the staffroom, a few doors down from the library.

I step inside very cautiously, in case someone's there. But as I suspected, the TV in the corner of the staffroom has been left on, forgotten about in the rush to escape. Two women are discussing, in hysterically over-interested voices, the latest unlikely happenings in
EastEnders.

I am disappointed.

I am relieved.

I don't know
how
I feel.

I turn to leave, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in a room where pupils are never allowed. As if any of the teachers would care, today of all days. But that's the idiot that is me, Mia Jackson. My twin brother might be in school with a gun, and I feel guilty about doing something I shouldn't—

'We interrupt this programme to bring you some breaking news. Unconfirmed reports are coming in that a school in Birmingham is being evacuated after a gunman entered the building. Police have been called to the scene.
'

Nausea rises in my throat again and I turn back to look at the TV. My eyes meet those of the newsreader, who is blonde and beautiful enough to be a Hollywood actress.

'There are further unconfirmed reports that a class of Year Nine pupils and their form teacher were missing from the emergency roll-call, and may be trapped in the school's annexe, possibly being held hostage by the gunman.

'It is believed that an armed response unit and trained negotiators specializing in siege situations are also on their way to the school. More news as we get it.
'

My mind races as the screen flips back to the two women on their sofa. But one thought stands out, clearer than any other:
I must go to the annexe.

An undiluted, intoxicating burst of sheer adrenalin shoots through my veins. Somehow I have to get to the annexe, to Jamie. I can do it. I
must
do it. Despite the differences between us over the last year, Jamie is still my brother and I still love him with all my heart, and I will not allow him to do this terrible thing for my sake. I do not want anyone injured, or worse, in my name.

I pull off my school sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. Then I wrench off my tie. I'm about to drop it when I stop and wonder if it might come in useful. So I loop it around my skirt on top of my belt instead. I roll up my sleeves, take an elasticated hair band from my pocket and scrape my hair back.

I am ready.

Strangely, I haven't felt so alive in months. Perhaps years.

Every nerve in my body singing, I run full tilt out of the door, down the corridor and round the corner.

There I bump, hard, into Ms Kennedy.