When I Was Joe (5 page)

DC Bettany produces a book of photographs.
‘Anyone here you recognise? Not just that afternoon at the park, but from any time?' I do see a few faces I know and point them out. They ask about St Saviour's, which guys Arron and I hung around with. They ask about the paper round. They ask about what we did after school – mostly homework, I reply. I'm not sure they believe me.

They ask about gangs. Had anyone ever asked me to join one? Would I have liked to join one? It depends. It depends a lot on what you think a gang is. According to the newspapers they're mostly for black boys and they've got names and rules and tattoos and things. So I answer no without any worries.

I'm tired, and I stifle a big yawn. The policemen glance at each other. DI Morris asks, ‘You'd been friendly with Arron since you were what, five years old?'

I nod. ‘You were the only boys from your primary school to go to St Saviour's, yes? Most of the rest went to St Jude's or Tollington?' The names of the schools seem like something from a film or a book – far away and fictional. I nod again.

‘So you and Arron were quite close in your first year at secondary school. Did things remain that way?' I nod again. The room is hot, and my throat feels incredibly sore, like someone inside me has been slashing with a razor. My arm is aching so that I can hardly lift the
mug of tea. It must be all the training.

‘But you made new friends? Your circle increased?' asks DI Morris. I find my voice.

‘Arron, he was good at making friends. People wanted to be around him.'

‘I see.'

He asks a bit more. Boring stuff. Nothing to worry about. But I don't like the way he seems to think it's OK to ask about any part of my life. It makes me feel a bit exposed. Like I'm in the Big Brother house, except that would be way cooler than this dump.

And then he says, ‘OK, Ty, thank you for answering our questions. I realise this is not at all easy for you. Now you can ask what you like, although I'm sorry to say that there may well be things that we cannot tell you.'

‘Why are there things you can't tell me, when I have to tell you everything?' I ask.

‘As a witness, you can't be told about our investigation, because that could affect your account. It's a high-profile case and it is good that you are removed from the local area.'

‘What do you mean, high profile?'

‘There's a suggestion that there may be racism involved. Feelings are running high locally.'

‘But there wasn't. . . No one said anything racist. . .' I say.

‘You'll understand why people think that, though,' he says, but I don't really, when I think about Arron's black mum and various white dads and the way he and his brother and sisters were all different shades of brown.

‘Who are these people that want to kill me?' I ask. ‘Who bombed the shop? Can they find me here? Is it . . . are they . . . people we know, or someone else?'

I think of Nathan, his face close to mine, sweat pouring from his forehead to his eyes, so it looks like he's crying, spitting out the words. ‘Keep your mouth shut, or I'll make sure it stays shut.' How would he make sure?

DI Morris looks hard at me, as if weighing up something, then makes up his mind.

‘As you know, Ty, we are dealing with three suspects here. Three people have been charged with a very serious offence. Because there are three of them, their lawyers will all be trying to shift the blame, one to the other, and also they are casting doubt on your integrity as a witness. We need to be absolutely sure that you are telling the truth. You will almost certainly be asked difficult questions in court.

‘After the petrol bomb incident we are concerned that you may be subject to witness intimidation. That's why we are taking extra care of you and your mother in
the run up to the trial, and, if we deem it necessary, beyond.'

‘Who are they? What else do they do? Why can't you catch them? Why do they want to shut me up?'

DI Morris hesitates. ‘We are confident that we can protect you,' he says, which doesn't even begin to answer my questions.

‘What about my gran, and my aunties? Are you looking after them?'

‘We will keep an eye on them, yes. Luckily only your gran lives very locally, doesn't she?'

‘Yes, but there's my aunties too.'

‘We're doing our best, Ty, but I'd be lying to you if I said we could protect every single member of your family.'

Why not? It's just three more people, not a huge clan.

‘When will the trial be?'

‘Courts take their time. I'd be hoping for something by late autumn. The earlier the better.'

‘So I'll be Joe until then?'

‘Yes, unless there is a reason to move you. But the most likely reason for that would be if you or your mother does something unwise, like contacting family or old friends, going back to London to visit, or telling people here about your former identities.'

‘What does everyone think? Why do they think we have left?'

‘It's entirely possible that many people think you were involved in the fight in the park that night, Ty. The defendants are all juveniles, and their names will not be made public, so no one really knows who they are. Others think you have moved away. Your mother's job, for example – they think that she was offered another post in a different part of the country and moved away.'

Oh yeah? I can't see anyone actually believing that. First, my mum loved her job. Second, if she was leaving, she'd have thrown the biggest party ever, ending up with her karaoke version of ‘Love Machine' with my aunties doubling up as the rest of Girls Aloud. They're famous for it. People think they ought to go on X Factor.

‘The defendants – are they in prison?'

‘They are in a Young Offender Institution and so far bail has been denied.' I must look blank, because he adds, ‘That means they will probably stay there until the trial.'

‘What happens after the trial? Will I go on being Joe?'

‘It's possible. When you give evidence we will certainly apply for your identity to be protected – but after the trial it may be safer to move you. I'd think of this time as a temporary phase.'

I want to ask about Arron, and his family, but the
slasher feeling in my throat is back. I say, ‘Can my mum get a job? Can you help her? I don't think we will have enough money.'

‘Doug is here to help with that, and he should make sure that there is enough money either way, job or no job.' DI Morris leans forward. ‘Would it be better for her if she had a job? Is she a bit depressed and lonely, do you think?'

Of course she is, I want to shout, but instead I just nod. DI Morris says, ‘OK then, I'll speak to Doug. Try not to worry too much. Thanks Ty,' and he hands me his card. ‘If you want to speak to me then call this number.'

Why would I want to do that? Talking to him is like watching a film with the sound turned down. You know there are important bits that you're missing but you can only guess at them. You're left filling the gaps with stuff that might be worse than reality.

There's a lot that he's not telling me. But does he realise how much I'm not telling him?

I'm jittery and sleepless, jumpy with nerves. I have a constant buzz of nausea, which buggers my appetite completely. I'm pretty much existing on a diet of raw caffeine, Coke Lite to be specific. I've helped myself to a few of Mum's cigarettes.

This is not the greatest state in which to start a heavy new training programme. Ellie sat down with me on the first day and went through a set of health questions, and I told her exactly what she wanted to hear. So, I sleep for nine hours a night, eat a healthy balanced diet and have never smoked. More or less true six months ago, give or take the odd kebab. Mostly true just a few weeks ago. But now I'm forcing myself to nibble a handful of crisps, which is all I've eaten today before facing her for the third training session this week.

It's a bright sunny day, but instead of going to the
running track we head for the school gym. It's not like any school gym I've ever been in. They call it the Fitness Suite and it's full of expensive equipment.

It's very quiet because most people are outside. She sorts out a programme for me, shows me how things work and writes it all down. ‘I'm not going to be able to give you as much time as this in the next few weeks,' she says. ‘I've got a big competition coming up. So you need a programme you can work at on your own.' It all sounds like hard work.

‘What you need is an access card,' she adds.

‘A what?'

‘An access card, so you can use all the sports facilities of the school out of hours. The only thing is they don't hand them out to anyone as young as you, but I can go and have a word with Mr Henderson if you like.'

She smiles, then ruins it. ‘Anyway, you seem much older than your age. I can't believe you're still only twelve.'

‘I'm not
twelve
,' I say, devastated, adding lamely, ‘I'm nearly fourteen, actually.' What an insult. I'm going to be fifteen in November.

She grins. ‘Sorry! Let me ask anyway.' She tells me which buttons to press to set up the treadmill to let me run for forty minutes, and says, ‘I'll be back soon.'

It's strange running on a treadmill, and I don't like it so much. I feel like I'm about to fall backwards or wobble off. It takes a few stops and starts to get going, and eventually I find the easiest thing is to shut my eyes and imagine that I'm outdoors. At first it's hard going, then the rhythm of the breathing takes over, and the physical motion gets easier and easier.

I run and run and in my head there's a long road leading to London. And then I'm back in the park, running and running, heart thumping in my chest. Thoughts scuttling round my head like rats on a rubbish tip: ambulance, Arron, ambulance, Arron.

I'm running and running and there's no one to help me; and then I see the red bus on the road and I know I can get help and I know I can help Arron and the red bus is red blood and it's flooding the white shirt. . .

I slam my hand down flat on the treadmill's emergency stop button and stagger off the machine. I'm going to faint or throw up or something. I drop to my knees on the mat and curl into a ball; I'm trying to stop the shaking which has taken me over. I'm still like this when Ellie comes back.

‘Oh my God,' she says. ‘Are you all right?'

I can't speak. I concentrate on stopping shaking. She stretches her hand out, leans down to me, pats
my shoulder and asks urgently, ‘Joe, what's happened? Are you OK?'

With a huge effort I sit up. But I can't speak. I breathe deep and hug my arms around my knees. I have to stop shaking, I have to stop seeing the blood, the mud, the meaty flesh – stop thinking about the ambulance, stop the panic. Christ, Ty, get a grip.

Ellie hands me a bottle of some sugary sports drink. ‘Try this. Maybe you're dehydrated.' I sip a little. It helps. ‘Shall I call for help? Are you in pain?'

I shake my head, no, filled with shame. I want to speak, but every time I open my mouth I shut it again because I'm very scared that what's going to come out is going to sound something like a scream.

Ellie moves her hand on my shoulder and I reach up and grab it. It feels like she's the only thing keeping me anchored to safety. I glance around. Thank goodness we're all alone. Ellie keeps hold of my hand, and I gradually calm down. It's strange looking up at her when I've only ever looked down.

We seem to sit there in silence for hours, but eventually she says, ‘You're looking better now. Can you tell me what happened?'

I'm still holding her hand, like a pathetic baby. I let it go right away. She straightens up and I think how uncomfortable it must have been for her, leaning
over the chair to reach me. I'd like to run away but I owe her a little bit of truth. ‘I closed my eyes when I was running and I lost touch of where I was. It was like a flashback.‘

‘A flashback to something pretty scary?' she says, obviously dying to know more.

‘And I haven't had much to eat today, and I suppose that didn't help.'

She looks at her watch. ‘It's six o clock now. Are you OK to go and get changed? Then we could go down to the High Street and get a coffee and a snack and have a chat. I don't want this happening every time you're training, especially if I'm not always going to be around. And look. . .' she reaches into her pocket, ‘I got you an access card. But there was a big fuss about it. That's why I was so long. There's a boy in your year – Carl someone – who's the captain of the under-fourteen football team. He was furious that he and his team weren't getting cards too. Argued for ages. But Mr Henderson said he could make an exception for one but if he let them in he'd have to let in hundreds. I hope you don't get any hassle about it.'

I shrug. ‘Thanks, anyway.'

She looks thoughtful. ‘Unless, maybe, this has put you off training completely. Do you think it could happen again?'

I consider. ‘No. I like training. Mostly it makes me feel a lot better. It's just today I wasn't in great shape.'

‘Good. Can you get up? You ought to stretch a bit too.'

I get up. I stretch. And thirty minutes later we are sitting in an organic health food cafe on the High Street – ‘I don't think we'll find any of your fan club in here. They'll be having frappuccinos at Starbucks,' says Ellie – and she orders some brown rice stir-fry for both of us.

‘What do you mean, my fan club?'

Ellie laughs. ‘Joe, you must realise that you've taken the school by storm. Most of the girls in year eight – and years seven and nine for that matter – are crazy about you. You're the talk of the town.'

She's got to be joking. ‘How would you know?' I ask cautiously.