When I Was Joe (24 page)

It's hard to spot Claire. She seems to fade into the background so easily, like a lizard or a moth. It takes a good ten minutes to find her, sitting in the garden being talked at by an old lady. I wait patiently until the old lady trots off and then Claire looks over and smiles and says, ‘Hi, you.'

‘Can we go and talk?' I ask. She shakes her head: ‘My mum said I should stay down here.'

‘Oh. It's too noisy. Where can we go?'

She thinks, then says, ‘There's always Ellie's room. That's not upstairs. She only said not upstairs.'

It's funny. With Ashley, I knew where I was. I didn't
like her, but I did fancy her. The evidence was completely unarguable.

But with Claire, I don't know. I care about her. I think about her . . . but not in, you know, the sort of way I'd think about Ashley in bed at night. I daydream about looking after Claire, and her looking after me, about being close and talking and sharing and soppy stuff like that.

If I see her at school, I don't fancy her at all – she's too much of a freak – and I try not to remember that time she was cutting herself because being turned on by that is just wrong. I know it's wrong. I'm not some sort of perv. I just thought for a misguided second that it was kind of interesting.

But sometimes, when I remember that day she took off her shirt, I feel a bit stirred up, and right now, looking at her big blue eyes, the prospect of being alone with her is very attractive indeed. I wish I could just be consistent.

‘We'll have to be really quiet,' she says.

We wander out to the hallway and miraculously there's no one there. Claire pushes the door to Ellie's room and we slip inside. But it's hopeless. It's noisy, boiling hot, even when I peel off my hoodie; there's the constant sound of people passing through the front door and, worst of all, anyone in the front garden can see us
through the window. I'm beginning to feel breathless. ‘We can't talk here,' I say, ‘it's no good.'

So we scuttle up the stairs, hoping that no one notices. Once in her room Claire wedges the chair against the door again. I pull the curtains. And we sit in the dark on her cushions and I put my arm around her and I feel about as happy as I've ever felt.

‘So, thank you for making the email address,' I say.

‘It's nothing. You could have done it for yourself.'

‘I thought you were upset with me because I forgot Ellie's race.'

She snorts: ‘I wish I could have forgotten about it. We've had nothing but race, race, race for weeks. And now she's won and now Magda's quit, we'll hear nothing but Paralympic training for the next year, and Mum and Dad will always be going away, and everyone will be running around Ellie as usual.'

‘Magda's quit?'

She chuckles: ‘They always do. Couldn't take being bossed around.'

I like being bossed around by Ellie, but I can see that it might not be great if you aren't being trained by her.

‘Aren't you pleased she won?'

‘Pleased for her, but not for me.'

I touch her arm as softly as possible. ‘Are you OK? No more . . . you know. . .'

‘No . . . but it's not always easy. I did try and ring you the other day but there was no answer.'

She's wearing a kind of floaty tunic thing and leggings – it's nicer than her usual over-sized shirts but it still swamps her. I push her sleeves up and look at her arms. At least there are no new plasters, although the latest cut, the one I saw her do, looks pink and sore. I stroke her arm with my finger. ‘I'm sorry. I was away.'

And I tell her about Gran and the hospital and Gran waking up and coming out of the door with Dave. And the blood, and the corridors, and kicking Doug twice. And how the worst bit was afterwards, alone under the blanket.

And she listens, and she takes my hand and she asks, ‘Who are they, these people who want to kill you?'

I've been thinking a lot about that myself in the last few days. ‘It's the family of one of the guys that was in the park that day. I think they are professional criminals, you know, real gangsters. I don't know who they are.'

‘And they want to kill you because you saw their son do the killing?'

‘I suppose. . .' I think about what I actually did see. ‘I think he must have been the leader, the one who started it all. I mean, I don't actually know which one it was that's threatening me. Unless. . .'

‘Unless what?'

‘Well, Nathan. He's the brother of my friend Arron. It was Arron that I followed to the park. And Nathan told me to keep quiet or else. But I don't think Nathan's part of a family of criminals. I mean, I know the family, I'd know if they were criminals, wouldn't I?'

And if they were, they'd be living in a big house somewhere, not in a flat on an estate in Hackney. And you'd have thought Nathan would want me to be a witness because I'm doing it for Arron. I mean, I'm doing it for Gran and I'm doing it for me and I'm doing it for other people too, but if it wasn't for Arron I wouldn't be doing it at all.

But I remember the smell of Nathan, the sour-sweet smell of sweat and fear as he pushed his face into mine, and I'm not sure. Maybe Nathan would know a hitman. He certainly knew where my gran lived.

Claire says, ‘Can't the police tell you more? Now that this has happened? It doesn't seem fair that they know more than you.'

‘None of it is fair. . .'

I'm not all that sure I want to know any more. ‘Let's talk about something else, Claire.'

Claire leans against me: ‘Is it true you've finished with Ashley?'

‘She finished with me.'

‘Is it true her parents told her to chuck you?'

I'm torn. I don't want to tell Claire about the knife. I don't want to tell her about what Ashley said. It's really embarrassing, and it might put her off me if she knows what I've nearly been up to with her enemy. She's probably going to think I'm some sort of opportunistic sex maniac, which wouldn't be totally inaccurate. And it is true about the parents. It just isn't the whole truth. But I need to practise this whole truth thing, and Claire's my best listener. So I tell her everything.

She's shocked, eyes wide, but laughing as well: ‘I can't believe she said that to you. Do you think she says that every time to every boy she goes out with?'

‘No. . .' Of course not. ‘Well, maybe.'

‘Pathetic. She's pathetic. What a fake. Although she's not wrong about the knife.'

‘No, I was stupid and wrong to carry one again. But I did feel less scared.'

‘Again?' she asks.

‘I used to carry one in London. Lots of people do there.'

‘Yeah, and lots of people get stabbed. Do you watch the news?' she says. Then she says, ‘It's a deal: I don't cut myself, you don't carry a knife.'

‘No knives for anyone,' I say, and wonder if I can keep this deal.

‘The thing is, you can fight to defend yourself,
and you can run away. You didn't need a knife in that hospital, did you?'

‘If I'd had one I might have killed the wrong guy.'

‘There you go.'

I'm feeling so much better and so fond of her that, as I stroke her hair away from her forehead, I want to kiss her, but I don't think I should. It's so unclear what sort of a friendship we have, and I'm worried that she's only about twelve. But she leans over to me and says soft and shy, ‘Let's seal it with a kiss,' and the next thing I know we're in the tightest hug possible, and my heart's done a massive flip.

‘I think you're incredibly nice,' I say, and realise immediately that I've picked the wrong word.

‘Nice?' she says. I don't think she's very impressed. I'm flustered and all confused because I've never felt like this before – so close, so equal, so caring and cared about. Tenderness kind of sums it up, but I feel shy just thinking about it. Arron never gave me instructions for this.

‘I think you're great,' I say. And then, because it's bothering me, ‘How old are you, anyway?'

‘I'll be fourteen on November fifth.' She's exactly a year younger than me. That's fine.

‘That's amazing . . . it's my birthday too, except I'll be fifteen. But the police have changed it to the
fifth of September.'

‘It must be horrible to have even your birthday changed.'

Mum always used to take me to see the fireworks for my birthday. Gran would never come because she thought Guy Fawkes night was an anti-Catholic celebration, but Mum said it was all about anti-terrorism and just a bit of fun anyway. I suppose we can go to the fireworks this year, but it won't be the same.

I clutch at her hand. ‘Will you talk to me at school now it's OK with Ashley?'

‘I suppose so, but people will think it's very strange. No one's friends with me, and everyone wants to be your friend. And Ashley's such a bitch . . . you have no idea, Joe, she's so horrible. She likes to control all the girls. She told them that I was a freak and they all started to be mean to me.'

I don't like to tell Claire that the way she looked and acted might have contributed a little to her freak status. I believe her when she says that Ashley bullies her.

‘I don't care what anyone says,' I say, and I hope I'm telling the truth. I kiss her again, really slowly, just to make sure. She smells of soap and she tastes sweet and minty. She's lovely. ‘You're very special,' I say, but I say it in Portuguese, so she just laughs at me.

And then – damn and blast – there's a pounding on
her door. Her mother's come to check up on her and she's found just what she'd forbidden. Claire's blushing and panicky as she dislodges the chair from the door, and I'm totally embarrassed.

‘Claire!' says Janet. She's not happy. Her lips are pursed together. ‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing,' I say, jumping away from Claire, who goes pink and says, ‘We just wanted to talk.' She's so unconvincing that even I don't believe her.

‘You could have talked downstairs. . . I don't think it's very suitable to be sitting here in the dark,' Janet says.

I get up. ‘It was just very noisy, Mrs Langley. We didn't mean to cause any problems. . . I'm going to go. Ummm . . . thank you for inviting me.' And I take to the stairs without looking back.

I head for the garden. I need to find Mum and get home before it gets too late – I'm still nervy about walking around when it's dark. It's chilly when I get out there and I remember my hoodie, still in Ellie's room. I'd better get it.

But when I open the door to her room, there's someone in there. Two people, sitting on Ellie's bed. One's a bloke . . . I think it's Alistair, Ellie's trainer, the one who looks like he should be in Boyzone. And he's kissing my mum.

Of course this isn't the first time. I've met an unexpected visitor at the breakfast table once or twice, and when she's seeing someone I spend even more time than usual staying with Gran or downstairs with Mr Patel or in my room. It's not like I've never seen her kiss anyone, obviously.

But she's never got off with anyone at a party that I've been at before, probably because the only kind of parties we've been to together were things like Great-Aunt Edith's funeral, or trampolining at the leisure centre for someone's seventh birthday.

‘Don't mind me,' I say, reaching for my hoodie while they jump apart. Alistair obviously thinks I'm a complete clod and says, ‘Look, mate, could you just give us a minute?' And Mum pretends we're all at some
polite tea party and says, ‘Oh, Alistair, I don't know if you've met my son T— Joe.'

‘Son? Cho?' says Alistair.

‘No, Joe,' she says.

I can see him looking from her to me and back again and trying to do some quick maths in his head so I say, ‘It's OK, she is about the age that she looks,' adding meanly, ‘which still makes her about five years older than you.'

‘Joe!' says Mum. I can see she's wishing we still had our cosy Nicki ‘n' Ty relationship when she'd quite often pass me off as her little brother.

‘I'm going,' I say. ‘Will I see you later? Or not?'

‘Can I give you a lift?' asks Alistair. I can see my mum doesn't know what to do, but she doesn't want to send me home alone on a bus while she's swanning around on the back of Alistair's flash motorbike or whatever, and she says, ‘That's so kind of you, Alistair – we'd both like a lift, wouldn't we, Joe?'

So I scrunch up in the back of Alistair's motor, which turns out to be a grotty Ford Fiesta, and they sit in the front talking about Ellie's training and Ellie's gym and how Michelle used to love running until she unfortunately got pregnant and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Both of them pretend I'm not there and so do I.

By the time we get home I'm in the foulest of foul moods, and I stomp into the house and slam the door while Mum takes her time saying goodbye to Alistair at the front gate.

Maureen's back and she looks a bit startled when she sees the expression on my face.

‘Are you OK?' she asks. ‘Where have you been?'

‘None of your business,' I say rudely and crash on up to my bedroom. I'm expecting Mum to follow me right away so I can tell her what I think of her, but she stays downstairs for about an hour and I can hear her and Maureen chatting and laughing together, probably about me.

I get ready for bed, do my Maths homework with the book propped up on my knees, then lie in the dark and remember how it felt to hold Claire in my arms. She doesn't seem too young and small any more. She's not a freak at all. She's pretty and delicate and her lips felt so soft and her skin was warm and smooth. I'm just moving on to imagine what might happen next time . . . and then my mum barges into my room and switches the light on.