Big and Clever (24 page)

I take a breath and look out of the window again. I think about everything that's happened to me, try to make sense of it all. I feel strange. Different. Like I've been through a rite of passage and lived to tell the tale. And there's one sentence that just keeps going round and round in my head.
We got away with it
.

The roads are empty at this hour of the morning, and it doesn't take us long to get back to Thurston. We go through the centre of the village, past the shops, weaving through the streets until we're on Wolverton Road, hanging a right into Dale Road and pulling up outside our house.

Dad unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Thanks Raj,” he says. “I really appreciate this.”

“That's alright Tony,” Raj replies.

Dad gets out of the car. I lean across towards Raks. I grip his shoulder.

“Chin up mate,” I whisper. I tap my nose. “And not a word to Zoe, right?”

Raks doesn't say anything.

I undo my seatbelt, pull my door open and step out onto the pavement. The rain is really coming down now. In the distance a dog howls. I duck my head back into the car.

“Thanks Mr Patel,” I say.

Raj nods, but he doesn't look up.

I slam the door and follow Dad down the path. Inside the house we hang our jackets up and go into the living room. I slump into an armchair and Dad heads for the sofa, stopping off on the way to flick the TV on. Force of habit. It's
The Jeremy Skinner Show
. A young bloke with acne and a baseball cap is sitting on a stage next to an old woman in a leopard print top. There's a caption in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.
I LEFT MY PREGNANT FIANCEE — AND MOVED IN WITH HER MUM
. Dad looks at me. We've not said a word to each other since we left the police station, but I get the impression that's about to change.

“Well?” Dad says.

I shrug.

He has another go.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

I rub the top of my head. There's a slight lump there, where the geezer with the red face wrecked his fist earlier on.

“Not much,” I reply. “They took me in, they weighed up all the evidence, they let me go. End of story.”

Dad shakes his head.

“That's not the end of the story. This is serious stuff. You were
arrested
. That's terrible. Shameful. Nobody in our family has ever been arrested. And that'll stay on your record forever.”

“No it won't,” I tell him. “You heard what that copper said. Once I'm seventeen, it gets wiped off. Forgotten about.”

“Don't you believe it. It'll always be there. Employers check things like that.” He takes a breath, then carries on. “Anyway. I want to know what's
actually
been going on.”

I shrug again.

“You were there during the interview. What else do you need to know?”

“Well,” Dad says. “I heard what you said. What the solicitor advised you to say. Just an innocent bystander. In the wrong place at the wrong time. It got you out of trouble. But is it the truth?”

“Oh right. Now I'm a liar.”

“So innocent bystanders have DVDs called
Terrace Warfare
in their bedrooms, do they?”

I look down at a stain on the carpet. The question's still hanging in the air, but I'm not going to answer it.

“Listen Tom,” Dad says. “I watch the news. I read the papers. I know there's been some trouble at Letchford games recently. Fighting, stone-throwing, general thuggery. Is that you and your stupid mates? Arseholes like this Ryan?”

“Not really,” I say.

Dad laughs.

“Right. So it is you and your stupid mates.” His voice is rising. All the pent-up frustration of the evening coming out. “At least we've got that cleared up. Well, I'll tell you now. You're not going to any more games. You lied to me. Just this last weekend you told me that nothing was going on, and I believed you. Never again. No more Letchford Town.”

I say nothing, but my mind's in overdrive. No more Letchford Town? We'll see about that.

Dad starts getting himself properly worked up.

“I mean, what do you think you're going to get out of this?” He spreads his arms out wide. “Punching people. Kicking people. Is it some sort of shortcut to being a man? Do you think it's big? Do you think it's clever?”

I smirk. Part embarrassed, part defiant.

“No.”

“And getting Raks involved,” Dad says. “What do you think Raj Patel thinks, seeing his lad being led astray by his oldest friend?”

“Hey, back up. What makes you think I've led Raks astray? Don't you think he's big enough to think for himself?”

Dad ignores me. He's on a roll.

“Just look at the state of you,” he says. “You look like a yob. Your prison haircut. The clothes you've got on. I'm not an idiot. I know you don't wear your school colours any more. I've seen you, sneaking out with your jeans and trainers in your bag.”

I snort.

“I won't bother trying to hide them in future then.”

“Oh right.” Dad nods his head sarcastically. “I thought I'd get that. Backchat. Cockiness. Just what I'd expect from you these days.”

I swallow. It feels like he's trying to goad me. Tempt me into a massive bust-up. I stare at the TV and try to stop myself rising to the bait. The couple on stage have had their say and Jeremy Skinner's out in the crowd, canvassing opinion. An old bloke with slicked-back white hair and a moustache is saying his piece. He's taken their behaviour as a personal insult. The pair of them should be utterly ashamed. They should bring back the birch. He's getting more and more incensed. Ten seconds after he's finished venting his spleen, his jowls are still jiggling with indignation. Up at the front the happy couple are smiling. They've started holding hands.

Dad flops back into the sofa and lets out a deep breath. He shakes his head. It looks like he's calming down.

“Tom,” he says, voice softer now. “You used to be such a nice lad. What's gone wrong? Just tell me. I'll try to understand.”

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I pick at a bobble of fluff on the side of my chair and avoid eye contact.

“All the good things in your life – fishing, Thurston Dynamo – you don't seem to care about them any more. And what about your schoolwork? I never see you doing anything these days.”

“I get by.”

Dad pulls a face.

“You should be doing more than just getting by. I said this to you the other night. You've got a good brain. Natural ability. But you can't just coast along on natural ability forever.”

I sigh. I glance back at
The Jeremy Skinner Show
. The pregnant fiancée has been brought on stage. She's about eight months gone and she's not happy. She's trying to attack her mum, but she's being held back by a couple of security guards.

Dad's seen that my attention's wandering. He gets up and switches the TV off. The only sound now is the ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

“Tom,” he says. “You've got to get yourself back on track. Don't go off the rails. Start enjoying the good stuff again.”

“Like what?” I ask.

He rubs the stubble on his chin.

“All the things I've said. Fishing, school, playing football. Seeing Zoe. What's she going to say about this?”

“She's not going to find out.”

Dad raises his eyebrows.

“Well that's between you and your conscience,” he says. “But anyway, what I'm saying is get your priorities right. Put your energy into proper things. Even your paper round – you only seem to do it nowadays for the money it gets you.”

I can't help smiling at that. I look up.

“What do you expect me to do it for? My health? To meet nice people? Who like? Mr Curran on Blakely Road, phoning up to complain if I'm a couple of minutes late or I've left his gate open?”

“That's not the point I'm making,” Dad says, angry with himself for getting sidetracked.

“Anyway,” I go on. “I have to earn my own money. I hardly ever get anything out of you.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“There's a reason why I don't give you money,” he says. “It's because I know the sort of things you'll spend it on. I know you've been drinking. I've seen the cans in your room. I could tell you'd had a few this evening too.”

I put my hands on my head. I'm too tired for all of this.

“You're the last person in the world who should be lecturing me about drinking. You were completely plastered at the police station. You stank like a brewery. What do you think they thought about that? They just looked at you and thought piss artist. It's no wonder his son's such a fucking twat.”

Dad's suddenly furious, shocked at what I've said, shocked at the words I'm using.

“Watch your language,” he says.

I'm straight back at him.

“Don't change the subject. You wanted to talk about boozing. What about last Saturday at Raks's? What a performance that was.”

Dad sits up straight. He moves across the sofa so that he's nearer to me, invading my space. His eyes are blazing.

“Don't try to turn all this round so that you can take potshots at me, you rude little sod. You obviously don't give a shit what I say, but think about Mum. What would she have made of all of this?”

I roll my eyes.

“Oh, how did I know you'd bring Mum into it? That's just low.”

Dad shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It's a valid question. What would Mum have thought, seeing her only child growing up to be a lout with a criminal record?”

“Oh piss off. Don't give me all that emotional blackmail bollocks.”

Dad's wagging his finger at me. He's been rattled and now he's fighting dirty.

“I'll tell you what she would have thought. She'd have thought you were a big, big disappointment.”

It's a cheap shot. Way below the belt. At first I don't know how to respond. But then I can feel the anger flaring up inside me. I'm getting that strange metallic taste in my mouth. The one I get at football matches when everything's about to turn nasty. I start to laugh, but there's no humour in it.

“You're fucking priceless. I'm a big disappointment? Then what are you?”

Dad says nothing.

I'm on the front foot now. It's my turn to throw the cheap shots and I'm really going for it.

“What would Mum have thought of you? Pissed as a fart every night. Lying unconscious in the living room. Dossing around on benefits for years. Not washing. Not shaving. Dressing like a tramp. Showing me up in front of my friends. Is that your idea of being a role model?”

His mouth drops open. He can't believe what he's just heard. In truth, I can't believe what I've just said. But it's not like it hasn't been coming. It almost burst out on Saturday evening when we had to leave Raks's house. Tonight, after all that's gone on, I just couldn't hold it in any more.

Without warning, Dad jumps to his feet, standing over me. He's tried everything else, now he's trying intimidation.

“My old man would have thrashed me for speaking to him like that,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” I stand up and look him in the eye. “Well why don't you have a go then? See what happens?” My heart rate has shot right up. It's another surreal moment in a night full of them. I'm ready to chin my own father.

Dad blinks. There's uncertainty in his expression. Fear, even. I'm as big as he is, but I'm a lot younger. A lot fitter. His eyes flick to the side, away from mine. He takes a step backwards, then sinks into the sofa again. All the fight has gone out of him.

I sit back down. I look at my watch. Quarter to four. I've been up for nearly twenty-one hours. I seem to have gone through a couple of years' worth of shit in that time. I've pissed Zoe off again. I've skived school. I've been in a fight in a pub. I've got a big dilemma hanging over my head with the Mackworth game date-switch. I've got arrested at Southlands. I've been photographed, fingerprinted, swabbed, interviewed, interrogated. And now this. I'd almost forgotten I turned fifteen yesterday. Happy birthday to me.

For the next few minutes, Dad's got his head in his hands. It's a strange, awkward scene. Everything's silent, except for the clock ticking on and on. My pulse has slowed down, but I'm still on edge.

Random thoughts are popping into my mind. I'm thinking that me and Dad have said more to each other in the last twenty minutes than we've managed in the last couple of years. I'm thinking about the moment I was arrested and comparing it with the moment when the custody officer told me I was going to be released without charge. I'm thinking about the other night at Raks's again. The way I felt as Dad staggered up the garden path. Knowing that I should give him some sympathy, put things right. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it then, and I can't do it now. Not that it's an option now, anyway. We've gone way beyond that.

Another couple of minutes pass. Dad still shows no sign of doing or saying anything.

I clear my throat.

“Are we finished, then?” I ask.

He doesn't look up. Eventually he grunts.

I take it as a yes.

“Right then.” I stand up, yawn and stretch. “I'm going to bed.”

The bloke next door is banging around again. Saturday morning and he's hard at it. He started a bit later than usual today. Ten to eight, instead of twenty-five past seven. He's making up for lost time now though. Quarter to twelve and things seem to be reaching a crescendo. He's making such a racket that I'm not actually sure if I've just heard the doorbell ring.

I push myself up onto the edge of my bed, leaning across to turn down the volume on my stereo. I listen for a couple of seconds. There's a whining sound like a high-speed drill, but no bell. Perhaps I'm imagining things. I'm just about to turn my music up again when I hear ringing. This time there's no mistaking it. We've got visitors.