Taking Flight (6 page)

Chapter 10

VICKY

‘A
month
!' I stared in despair at the wet, Sunday-quiet road outside the car. ‘No
way
!'

‘I'm not asking you; I'm telling you.' Mum indicated right into Fliss's road.

‘But
you
don't even want him.'

She didn't deny it. ‘He's family.'

‘
Family
! God, Mum, you sound like someone from
EastEnders
.'

‘And you, miss, are going to have to start being nicer to him.' The ‘miss' meant she was seriously pissed off.

‘It just
spoils
everything.' I thought she was being nice, giving me a lift to Fliss's in the rain, but it was only a chance to capture me and talk about
him
.

‘It's much harder for him, you know.'

‘How?' I knew how, really. It was like there was Nice Me – normal me, that is – and then there was Nasty Me. And I knew it was Nasty Me saying ‘how?' like that. I just didn't know how to shut her up.

‘Oh, come on, Vic. His mum's in hospital; he doesn't
really know us; you're treating him like a leper. Do you not feel even a
bit
sorry for him?'

‘Nope.' I yanked off my seatbelt. We were nearly at Fliss's and I wasn't going to hang around and listen to this for a second longer than I had to. ‘Anyway,' I said, ‘I don't think he cares about his mum. He's too –' I tried to think of a word. ‘
Hard
. Like the other day, you were talking about his mum and he just kept on watching TV. He was just like,
whatever
.'

‘People can feel things without showing it. I remember when my dad died.'

Oh no, I thought, please don't!

‘It was so sudden. Just like Gran. I cried for days. I cried till my face was raw.' She stopped the car and gave a sort of artificial little laugh.

‘And?' Images of Mum or Dad dying crowded into my mind. Horrific. I tried to push them away. Mum was only thirteen when her dad died.

‘And Gerard didn't. Not a tear. You should have seen him, Vicky. He handed round tea at the wake, talked to people. He even did a reading at the funeral. And all Mum and I could do was cry. But then a week later Theresa and I sneaked out to the shed – Dad's shed, we always called it – for Theresa to get a smoke and there he was, in the middle of all the junk and dad's tools and stuff crying his eyes out.' She sounded so sad – I didn't know if it was thinking about her dad or about Gerard, who died in a car crash when he was twenty two and Declan was a baby. And in a minute she might start talking about
Gran
dying. Declan had cried enough at Gran's funeral but that had probably been guilt. I had a sudden memory of it, my only time in a Catholic church, watching Declan, Mum, Theresa – everyone but me – say all the
prayers and stand up and kneel and everything all at the right time, and me feeling totally out of it. Even though she'd been my gran too.

Anyway. ‘Can I get out now?'

She wouldn't let up. ‘I'm serious. For a start, you can take him with you to the yard. Otherwise' – as I opened my mouth to argue – ‘I won't take you near the place.'

‘But Cam's giving me a lesson on Wednesday. Mum, that is
so
unfair!'

‘I didn't say I wouldn't take you. But Declan's going too. I think he's taken to Flight.'

That was another thing I didn't want to think about. The way he looked at Flight yesterday. Like he
wanted
him. Then I remembered how he'd helped me – and I'd hardly even thanked him. I knew I couldn't win. ‘Well, I suppose. Can I go now?'

‘Yes. But remember – well, just remember. And back for tea. I want you to come with us tonight.'

Then she let me go, finally.

* * *

I sat in the back of the car, plugged into my iPod and ignoring Mum and Declan in the front, though it was clear I wasn't exactly missing much.

Mum parked the car in a lay-by opposite a tatty terrace of houses. It was so different from Sandringham Park that it felt like a different city. It was still raining which didn't make the streets any nicer, though I guessed they would look grotty even on a sunny day. The sun would just show up the graffiti more, and the litter and the bricked-up houses. They weren't all like that – some of them were actually very smart, with fresh paint and
immaculate gardens, the way Gran's had been. A little statue of the Infant of Prague used to sit on the windowsill and I always thought he was welcoming people. I wondered where the Infant of Prague had gone. There was nothing like that in our house. Mum seemed to have given up on religion when she married Dad, I suppose with him being a Protestant. Not that he was religious either.

I sighed my way out of the car after Mum and Declan. It didn't take three people to pick up more of Declan's manky stuff.

‘OK, let's go,' Mum said, clicking the remote to lock the car. She shot an uneasy glance at a couple of steeky-looking lads hanging round on the corner.

We trooped up the path to the peeling front door. Declan was holding Mum's old gym bag, banging it against his legs.

‘What about her, love?'

We all swung round. An old lady shuffled to the gate of the house opposite. She had a snipey face and a bad greyish-ginger perm. Declan and I both shrank in behind Mum – it was the closest I'd ever been to him – while the old bag leaned on her gate.

She was a nosy old cow but Mum told her as little as she could – just that Theresa wouldn't be home just yet and that Declan would be staying with us.

‘And where is it you are exactly these days, love?'

‘Malone.'

‘Oh. Very nice.' Then her harsh voice went all creamy. ‘Och, it's a pity of her too, isn't it?'

Mum made a non-committal noise.

‘Sure her and our Mairéad used to be as thick as thieves. Our Mairéad would still call to see her, you know; sure
she's only round the corner. But she says she'd got a wee bit
funny
lately. You know, not answering the door and that. I think she was a wee bit depressed.'

Well, Nobel Prize for psychology to you, I thought and I felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Declan having to listen to this. I took out my phone and started texting Fliss to show I wasn't earwigging and kind of jiggled my feet a bit to encourage Mum to hurry up.

‘She liked a man around, didn't she?' the old woman went on.

‘I really couldn't say,' Mum said, all prim.

Declan leaned against the front door and shot the old bag a pretty mean look. I didn't blame him.

‘And how are you getting on at your auntie's?' she asked him.

Declan grunted.

Mum leaped in. ‘Fine. Vicky here is just the same age.' She made it sound like the Waltons.

‘Look, can I go in?' Declan said. ‘I have to get my stuff. Only you have my key –'

‘Here you go.' Mum handed him a key and he let himself in.

As soon as Declan was away the old bag lowered her voice – like she was getting down to the
real
gossip – but as she wasn't exactly softly spoken I didn't miss a word.

‘Och, I think
he's
settled down a bit since the trouble. That lad who was with him, now, he was bad news – that Emmet McCann.' She sniffed. ‘But your Declan seems to have kept his nose clean.' She sounded like she regretted this. ‘Mind you, the kids round here's desperate these days. I was only saying to our Mairéad the other night…'

‘And how
is
Mairéad?' Mum interrupted.

I left them to it and went into the house. The hall
smelled of smoke and cooking fat and seemed to have shrunk in the last year. The stairs rose straight up to a narrow landing. I could see an open door and a light so I supposed Declan was in his bedroom. The living-room was tidy enough but the flowers on the wallpaper clashed with the pink flowers on the three-piece suite. They must always have done, but I'd never noticed.

‘It's not as nice as when Gran was here,' I said to Mum when she
finally
followed me in.

She looked round. ‘No,' she said. ‘I suppose Theresa has her own ideas.'
Ideas
? Looked to me like the only idea Theresa had was to do as little as possible. I picked up a photo from a shelf to change the subject. ‘Is that you?' It was a wedding group. Mum was the bridesmaid in a salmon-pink dress that did nothing for her.

She looked. ‘Hmm, Theresa's wedding. Theresa and I are the only people still alive from that photo.'

‘Mum! That's a bit morbid.'

‘It's true, though. Look, isn't Declan the picture of his dad?'

‘I suppose.' I set the photo back. ‘So, how come Theresa lived with her mother-in-law? Is that not a bit weird?'

Mum shook her head. ‘She moved in after Gerard was killed. Declan was only a baby. I suppose they looked after each other.'

I followed Mum's gaze around the poky room. ‘It's a bit grim, isn't it?'

‘Shh!'

‘It's OK, he's upstairs. And I don't mean it in a horrible way.'

‘Well, don't let Declan hear you,' Mum warned.

‘I'm glad
you
moved away from here.' I didn't just mean the house; I meant the whole skanky estate.

‘I was luckier.'

‘You weren't
just
lucky. You told me you worked dead hard.'

She smiled. ‘I did. But I was clever too. I passed the 11+. And I don't know why but somehow I always wanted out of here. Gerard and Theresa both liked it OK.'

‘So why doesn't Theresa get a job and move somewhere nicer?'

‘Well, maybe she will when she's better,' Mum said. She didn't sound convinced. ‘But sweetie, next time you feel like being mean to Declan or putting that snobby face on, just remember this is what he'll be going to back to next month.' We were both whispering.

‘OK! God, Mum! Lighten up a bit.'

‘I'm just going upstairs,' she said.

I turned on the huge TV – it was the only new-looking thing in the room – and settled down to flick through the channels.

Chapter 11

DECLAN

Feels like months since I was in my own room. I sit on the bed and look round. The dark patch on the blue carpet where Emmet and I spilled the whiskey he nicked from his dad when we were twelve. The torn bits of wallpaper behind the bed that I pick at when I'm bored. Part of me wants to crawl under the duvet until all this is over. The other part can't wait to get out. That stupid old bitch, saying all that crap about Mum. I get up and cross to the window. Backyards. Roofs. The streetlights of the street behind this one. The neon sign of Fat Frankie's – only the sign says The Golden Fry. All I can see from the guest room at Colette's is her garden and the one behind it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Colette in the doorway. I haven't got very far. The bag she gave me is sitting empty on the bed, gaping like an open mouth.

‘This used to be my room,' she says. ‘Your dad had the big one. I used to say it wasn't fair because he was never in and I was never out.' She laughs. ‘God, the hours I used to spend studying in here.'

I have the smallest room because Gran had the other one. When she died Mum said I could move into her room but I didn't like it so I moved back in here after a couple of weeks.

‘Does it look the same?'

She looks round. ‘I didn't have a TV. Or football posters. I had Duran Duran.'

‘
Who
?'

‘Long time ago.'

‘I don't know what to bring,' I say.

‘Do you have a warm coat – a fleece or something? And didn't you say you had to pick up your football boots?'

‘Oh yeah.' I dive under the bed for them.

‘Books?'

‘In my schoolbag.'

‘I meant … Oh look, a guitar!' She must have seen it on top of the wardrobe. I shoved it up there months ago. ‘D'you want to bring it?'

‘Nah. Mum gave it to me last Christmas. It was lying around the house. But I've never learned to play it.'

‘You could start. It might give you something to do.'

She says this like she's noticed how bored I am at her house. I don't suppose she'd stop me going out and just walking about but I don't want to. Which is stupid cause they must be dead safe, those posh streets.

‘Nah.' I shake my head.

‘OK.' But she reaches up for it. She sits on the bed and cradles it and strokes the dust away from its front, like she's stroking someone's face. ‘Gerard's guitar.' It's a remembering voice. ‘God, he loved that when he was your age. Drove us all mad strumming and trying to sing. He and Gary Brogan were meant to start a band but nothing came of it.'

I never knew any of that. Mum just said I might as well have the guitar because it was only gathering dust. I thought she gave it to me because it was cheaper than buying me a proper present. I did sort of know it was my dad's but I never thought of him loving it or anything. Maybe I would have felt differently if I'd known that. Maybe I'd have tried to learn it. I mean, probably not. But maybe.

I start grabbing stuff fast and shoving it into the bag.

* * *

As soon as Mr Dermott says, ‘Right, you lot. Off to assembly,' Seaneen makes a beeline for me. No one else does. Most of the boys in my class are either friends with Emmet McCann or scared of him. Emmet has connections. Well, his da has. Seaneen Brogan's OK. It's just that she's nosy. And a girl.

My granny says she'd a great chat with your Colette. So you're living it up on the Malone Road, then?' She says ‘Malone Road' in a pretend posh voice.

‘Yeah. It's all showjumping and champagne.'

‘What?' She screws up her face. She has dark stuff smudged round her eyes. Vicky puts that stuff on every morning in front of the mirror in the hall.

‘Joke.'

‘Oh right.' She feels in the pocket of her blazer. ‘Damn. No fags. You got any?'

I shake my head. ‘Nah.' I remember the chips she gave me last week. ‘I've got money, though. Colette gave me a tenner. I'll buy some at lunchtime.'

‘They won't serve you if you're in your uniform. I know who's got some though. Emmet McCann.'

‘Well, I'm not buying off him.'

‘Oh yeah.' She narrows her eyes. She's the only person I know with green eyes like a cat. ‘I forgot. Does his da not still go with your ma?'

‘
No
. Piss off, Seaneen.'

‘Declan Kelly. Seaneen Brogan. Get to assembly.' Mr Dermott pads up behind us in that sneaky, teachery way. He mustn't have heard me saying piss off. Or maybe he just ignored it. Sometimes he lets on to be deaf.

‘Right, sir.'

He locks the classroom door and follows us down the corridor so there's no chance of mitching off assembly. ‘Still at your aunt's, Declan?'

‘Yes, sir.' I don't tell him it's going to be for a month. I can just see Seaneen's ears flapping.

‘Oh, while I remember – I need to have a word with you about your work experience placement. Come to my classroom at break.'

Bloody work experience. That's all I need. We shake him off when he sees a couple of Year Eights beating each other round the head with schoolbags.

‘So, where's your work experience, then?' asks Seaneen.

I shrug.

‘Well, what did you put on your form? It's next week.'

‘Can't remember. Sure it's a load of crap.'

‘It's a week off school. I'm going to a nursery school. I can't wait.' Her tits and her curly pony-tail bounce.

‘Seriously?'

‘Yeah. I
love
wee kids. See our twins? I give them their bottles and all. They probably think I'm their ma.'

‘My cousin has a baby sister. Half-sister, whatever.'

‘Och, that's lovely,' she says in this soppy, girly voice. ‘What's your cousin like, Declan?'

‘Stuck-up bitch.'

‘Is she pretty?'

‘She's a dog.'

I wonder if I should forget about going to see Dermott at break but if I don't show he'll just pounce on me anyway. Probably haul me out of class in front of everyone. Easier to go.

Mr Dermott's marking books but he looks up and smiles at me. ‘OK, Declan, sit down. Thanks for coming. I won't keep you long.' I think he hopes his politeness will rub off on us. God love him.

I pull out a chair with ‘Liverpool FC' scribbled on its seat.

‘OK. Well. Now.' He sounds a bit awkward. ‘There's been a bit of a setback with your placement. You said you wanted to work with cars, didn't you?'

‘That was your idea, sir. I didn't know what to put. You said cars because of the joyriding. People always think you must be interested in cars if you've nicked one.'

‘Er, quite.' He tugs at his earlobe. Does he remember visiting me in there? He's never mentioned it. ‘Well, it was just a thought. The problem is, we can't seem to get anyone to take you. And all our usual contacts … Anyway, time's getting short and I thought I would see if you have any ideas yourself. Any contacts.'

‘Not those sort of contacts, sir.'

‘This aunt of yours – does she have any contacts we could use?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Where does she work?'

I have to think for a moment. ‘She's a librarian.'

‘Oh.' He looks disappointed. ‘Can't really see you in a library.'

‘Me neither, sir.'

‘And your uncle?'

‘Solicitor.' I can't be bothered to explain that he isn't my uncle any more.

Mr Dermott looks surprised but not hopeful. ‘Hmm. Any other ideas, Declan? Come on, help me out here.' He's trying to sound all jolly. I suppose he's getting a bollocking from Payne or someone for not getting me sorted out. ‘What's your best subject?'

This is ridiculous. Mr Dermott's been my tutor since Year Eight. He knows what sort of marks I get.

‘Well, last exams my highest mark was Religion.' I don't remind him it was 37%. ‘So you reckon I should become a priest, then, sir?'

‘Huh, a comedian, more like. Look, lad, time's getting short. It's really in your best interests to get something sorted and to do your best at it. If you get a good report – well, it all helps. You don't have to end up doing it for rest of your life. So will you go home and ask your aunt tonight if she knows
anyone
who would let you go there for a week?'

‘Yes, sir.' I know I won't ask Colette this in a million years but it's the easiest thing to say. The bell rings for the end of break and I go to PE. I try to get interested in work experience. I try to make myself worry that it's next week and I haven't got anything sorted. But I can't make myself believe that any of it matters one bit.