Big and Clever (25 page)

I stand up and head out onto the landing. Dad's downstairs, but there's not much likelihood of him getting up. He's crashed out on the sofa again. I start to go down the stairs. I'm wondering who's at the door. It might be Jehovah's Witnesses. They're quite often in this neck of the woods at weekends, suits on, briefcases in hand. I think they were round last Saturday though, so it probably isn't them. I can rule the postman out because there's already a pile of junk mail on the mat. So that leaves Raks or Zoe.

As I reach my hand up to turn the catch, I make a prediction. Raks. I've not seen him since Tuesday night. He's not been at Parkway and he hasn't been returning my texts or calls. He'll have been under the cosh big-time at home, but now he's coming round to tell me all about it. I've got lots to tell him, too. It's been a pretty interesting week at school. I open the door. I'm half right. Because it is Raks. But Zoe is there too.

I blink, surprised.

“Alright you two?” I say.

They both give me nervous smiles.

I step aside to let them in, but they're hesitating. I feel a little flicker of anxiety. Something's going on. I hope it's not what I think it is. Surely Raks wouldn't have given the game away? Not after I specifically told him not to.

“What's up?” I ask, trying to brazen things out.

Zoe looks at me. She steps up into the hallway and puts her arms round my waist, squeezing me tight. It's just a hug, but there's something strange about it. It feels more like sympathy than affection. It's the sort of hug I remember relatives giving me at my mum's funeral. She loosens her grip, then kisses me on the cheek.

I laugh.

“This is all very formal,” I say. “What's going on?”

Zoe takes a breath, composing herself.

“Tom,” she says. “I haven't got long. I've got to get the twenty past twelve bus into school for a dress rehearsal. Let's not mess around. Why didn't you say anything?”

I swallow. I decide to play dumb. I'm pretty certain I know where this is leading, but there's always a chance I might have got it wrong.

“Say anything about what?”

She shakes her head.

“Tom. I know about Tuesday night.”

Instantly I feel like all the air has been knocked out of me. I rub my nose, thinking about what I can say.

Zoe carries on.

“Raks told me. He feels really bad about it, like he's let you down. But he did it because he's your mate and he wants what's best for you. He thinks you need to talk.”

It's a totally inappropriate response, but I get a sudden urge to laugh. I'm in the middle of what Americans call
An Intervention
. I glower over Zoe's shoulder, trying to catch Raks's eye, give him the look of death. If he thinks I think he's betrayed me, he's spot on. Raks just stares at the ground. My mouth is dry. I swallow again.

“Do you both want to come in then?” I ask.

Raks looks up.

“I'll tell you what,” he says. “You two have got a lot of things to talk about. Why don't I leave you to it, and go down the Rec? Tom, you could come down when Zoe goes into town.”

I shrug.

“Whatever you want,” I reply, offhand.

Raks heads off up the path and I pull the door closed.

Zoe gives me another nervous smile.

“Shall we go for a chat then?” I ask.

She nods and follows me up the stairs.

In my room I sit on the bed. Zoe stays standing up. She's in her indie kid gear again. Converse, skinny black jeans. Her army jacket isn't zipped all the way up and I can see that she's wearing the Mickey Mouse T-shirt she bought last month on our trip into Letchford. She brushes dust off my chest of drawers and picks up a DVD case.
Terrace Warfare
. My heart sinks. I keep forgetting to give it back to Ryan.

Zoe tuts and puts the DVD down. She comes across to the bed and sits next to me.

“I don't know how to start,” she says. “I knew something was going on, that you were changing, but I never thought you'd get yourself into anything like this.
Arrested for football violence
.” She shakes her head.

I clear my throat.

“It's not as bad as it sounds,” I say. “We've not been charged with anything.”

Zoe laughs. It's a hollow sound.

“Only because you denied it all. Raks told me you were both in the thick of it. And that you'd done other stuff before.”

My mind is in a whirl. I flatten out a section of my quilt cover with the palm of my hand.

“Sorry,” I say. But as I say it, I realise I don't really mean it. Why should I? It's not like I got myself arrested to spite her. She's just trying to make me feel guilty.

She ducks her head down to look into my eyes.

“Why, Tom? What's happening to you?”

I pull a face. There's not really an answer to that. Or if there is, it's too complex to put into a few sentences.

Zoe flicks hair out of her eyes, looking around, searching for the right words.

“Come on Tom. You know what football hooligans are like. They're scumbags. Wanting to hurt people, making people's lives a misery. You're not like that.”

I shake my head. There are things I could say to her. Like how there's more to it than just hitting people. It's about pride. About belonging. But I don't think she'd believe me. I'm starting to feel annoyed now. Irritated at being put on the spot and having to justify myself when there really shouldn't have been any need.

“I suppose Ryan Dawkins is behind all of this isn't he?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She isn't convinced.

“I asked you what Ryan was like and you wouldn't tell me anything. But I've heard stuff now. There are people at my school who know about him. He was sent down a year, basically for being a complete nutter. Did you know they call him ASBO Boy?”

I laugh. I've not heard that nickname for a while.

“It's not funny,” Zoe says. “Do you really want to be known as someone who hangs around with people like that? You'll get a reputation as an idiot, too.
Yeah. Tom Mitchell. Good bloke to know if you need someone headbutted or slashed with a Stanley knife
. Either that or you'll get yourself killed.”

I blow out a breath and flop back onto the bed. I can't get a word in edgeways.

Zoe leans over me. There's a sad look in her eyes now.

“The thing is, “she says, “I can't help feeling like I'm somehow to blame.”

I prop myself up on one elbow.

“In what way?” I ask.

Zoe looks down.

“Oh, you know. I just haven't been there for you over these past couple of months. What with all this time spent on
Oliver
. I've given you a load of grief about your hair, drinking, about the people you've been hanging about with, stuff like that. Maybe I've driven you to this.”

I actually
do
feel a twinge of guilt now. I reach out my hand and stroke Zoe's face. Her skin feels smooth and soft.

“Don't be silly,” I say. “It's not you.”

She tries a smile and touches the T pendant around my neck.

“Well, I don't know,” she says. “I'm really sorry if I've been giving you a hard time.”

I ease myself back down. Zoe lies next to me and we stay that way for a while. It's starting to occur to me that this might be a good moment to get one or two things off my chest. It looks like I might just have landed on the moral high ground by accident.

“I haven't really seen much of you recently,” I tell her. “It's like I've seen you, but I haven't
seen
you.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I know what you mean.”

“And I know that you think it's me that's changing, but maybe it's you. I think maybe I've been a bit worried about that. You're dressing differently and spending time with different people. Sometimes I feel you might be leaving me behind.”

There's a pause while Zoe lets this sink in.

“No,” she says eventually. “You're just being paranoid. You're the one that's changing. Look at the evidence. I'm growing up. There's a difference.”

I nod. The moral high ground has just collapsed under my feet. I keep my mouth shut.

Another couple of minutes pass. Zoe looks at her watch. It's nearly five past twelve.

“Anyway. I've got to go. I've said what I needed to say. I just want you to know that I'm here for you, yeah? And I'll do everything I can to help you put this Letchford Town episode behind you.”

My stomach lurches. Zoe thinks I'm done with Letchford Town. I'm shocked for a second or two, but then the shock subsides. Of course that's what she thinks. It's obvious from the way she's been acting. I can hardly believe I didn't suss it out for myself. Raks must have given her the full run-down of what was said on Tuesday night. The desk sergeant advising us not to show our faces at Southlands for a while. That was just an unofficial warning though. Nothing binding. As far as I'm concerned, the Letchford Town episode isn't behind me. Not by a long way.

Zoe kisses me.

“I just want to have the old Tom back,” she says, sitting up.

I cough.

“So what do you reckon?” Zoe asks. “Fresh start?”

“Fresh start,” I say. I'm completely cornered. Unless I want a big flare-up, there's nothing else I
can
say. Another twinge of guilt goes through me. And this time it's a killer. Because I know all of this is bollocks. There's not really going to be a fresh start between us. Not if it means giving up Letchford Town. And after next Friday night, with the small matter of the clash between
Oliver
and the Letchford-Mackworth derby, there probably isn't even going to be an
us
any more.

Fifteen minutes later Zoe has gone and I'm walking along Hill View Drive, on my way to meet Raks. I've gone through a pretty big range of emotions in the last three quarters of an hour. Surprise, annoyance, irritation, guilt. Now I'm feeling pissed off and angry.

There's been a hard frost overnight and there's no sign of a thaw yet. As I go through the gate and head across the Rec, the grass is white and brittle, crackling under my feet. In spite of the weather, the usual punters are out in force. The dog walkers, the two big blokes in England shirts whacking golf balls around, the kids on quad bikes and mopeds, number plates wrapped in plastic bags in case the coppers turn up.

I can see Raks. He's sitting on one of the few unvandalised swings in the adventure playground, swaying to and fro, squinting at his mobile, breath coming out in white clouds. I hadn't noticed it before, but his hair's getting long. He didn't get it cut the last time I did and it's quite bushy now. He's wearing a short brown pilot jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. He doesn't look like an NLLF boy any more. I keep walking. As I get closer, Raks glances up. He's spotted me. I can see that he's smiling. And he can see that I'm not.

“What's up?” he asks, stuffing his phone into his pocket. It's a fairly pointless question. He knows what's up.

I pull myself onto a swing next to him. The chains are icy cold in my hands. I shake my head.

“I don't fucking believe you. What did you have to tell her for?”

Raks looks like he's going to say something, but then he thinks better of it.

I look down at the ground. Frosted bark chippings, broken glass and fag ends, muddy scuffs worn away under each of the swing seats. I shake my head again. I've got so much I want to say but I don't know how to start. I look up at the sky. There's a plane cutting its way through the clouds. The cobwebs in the corners of the swing frame are frosted white like cake decorations.

“What did you have to tell her for?” I ask again.

Raks says nothing.

I launch into a rant, everything spilling out at once.

“You really fucking dropped me in it. I kept quiet about Tuesday night all week. I just carried on as if everything was normal. I even went to school on Wednesday morning after I'd only had a couple of hours sleep.”

“Tom…” Raks says.

I cut him off.

“Zoe didn't have a clue that anything had gone on. That was exactly what I wanted. But then you went and opened your big fucking trap. You did exactly what I told you not to do.”

“Tom, I was trying to…”

“Just leave it. The damage has been done.”

We sit in silence. It's probably only a minute or two but it feels longer. I swing slowly from side to side. I'm still feeling pretty wound up, but the real hostility is dying down now. The anger's not gone, but it's directed more at myself and at the world in general than at Raks. I blow out a breath.

“Anyway,” I say. “How've you been? Everyone's been asking about you. What've you been up to?”

Raks looks relieved. He rolls his eyes.

“Shit man,” he says. “You don't want to know.”

I chuckle.

“I bet your mum and dad went ballistic, didn't they?”

Raks stares out past the cricket square.

“Ballistic's not the word. It was beyond ballistic.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I thought you might have been in some deep shit when you weren't at school.”

Raks is still gazing at a point somewhere in the distance. The thousand yard stare.

“I tell you man, it was touch and go whether I'd ever be going back to Parkway.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mum's never liked the place. She thinks there's too many bad influences there. She was straight on the phone to Letchford Grammar on Wednesday morning. Got me a place all sorted out. It was only my dad that stopped her going out and buying me the uniform. He talked her round. Now they're going to give me one more chance. If I fuck up again, that's it. Bye bye Parkway.”

I whistle.

“Shit.”

I dig the toes of my trainers into the bark chippings and push myself backwards. The frame of the swing groans and creaks as I swish forwards through the cold air.