Blood Ties

Also by Sophie McKenzie

GIRL, MISSING

Richard and Judy’s Children’s Books Winner 12+

Winner of the Red House Book Award older category

Winner of the Bolton Book Award

SIX STEPS TO A GIRL

THREE’S A CROWD

www.sophiemckenzie.net

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © 2008 Sophie McKenzie

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.

The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
Africa House
64-78 Kingsway
London WC2B 6AH

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84738-275-7
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85707-258-0

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

www.simonsays.co.uk

For my father with love.
And for Moira, Gaby, Julie, Melanie and Sharon,
for making the difference.

I could see him waiting for me outside the steel school gates.

Roy.

He was leaning against a lamppost, his arms folded. From the second-floor window behind my desk I couldn’t make out the expression on his face. But the way he was slumped against that lamppost suggested he was bored.

Good. Bored was good. If Roy was bored, he wouldn’t be suspecting anything.

‘Hey, Theo,’ Jake hissed.

I turned away from the window. The last lesson of the day was almost over. History. Something to do with the Second World War. I wasn’t really paying attention.

‘Twenty seconds until Operation “Liberate Theo” commences,’ Jake whispered. His eyes were fixed on the stopwatch function on his phone – he’d synchronised it with the school bell earlier.

I rolled my eyes, pretending I was way too cool to be excited. But the truth was my heart was pumping like it might burst. This was my first serious attempt to escape from Roy. I mean, I’d tried – and failed – to run away from him before. But this was the first time I’d planned out an actual escape route.

‘Fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . .’ Jake said under his breath.

I glanced towards the front of the classroom.

‘Eleven . . . ten . . .’

The teacher was writing on the white board.

‘Eight . . . seven . . . six . . .’

My books were already in my bag. I picked it up off the floor and slid it silently onto my back.

‘Three . . . two . . . one.’

The school bell cut through the squeaking of the whiteboard pen.

I leaped to my feet.

‘You are go. Repeat. You are go.’ Jake’s voice rose above the commotion that filled the room.

I stormed towards the door. Wrenched it open. Sped down the corridor. Other doors were opening. Other classes spilling out. I pounded down the stairs. Down, down to the ground floor. A huge group of Year Sevens and Eights were jostling and shoving their way across the entrance hall.

But I was bigger.

Faster.

Stronger.

The younger boys shrank away as I barged through, my eyes on the fire door at the end of the corridor.

I reached it. Shoved it open. Burst into the tiny courtyard at the back of the school – a patch of concrete surrounded on three sides by the school building and on the fourth by a high brick wall. I raced towards the large tree next to the wall. As I ran, I glanced over my shoulder. No one was following me. I looked up at the windows overlooking the courtyard. No one was watching me.

I reached the tree. Jake and I had dragged a school chair outside at break and stashed it behind the trunk. I hauled it out and climbed up, steadying myself as the chair wobbled on the uneven tarmac. The nearest branch still looked a long way up. I bent my knees. Jumped.
Yes.
My hands gripped the branch. My arm muscles tensed, straining to hold my weight. I swung for a moment, the bark cutting into my palms.
Do it
. Using all the strength in my arms and shoulders I hauled myself up. Up. I gritted my teeth. Hooked one elbow over the branch. Then the other. I was scrabbling up with my legs now. Locking a knee over. Kneeling up. Reaching for the branch above.
Yes
.

I stood up, panting, catching my breath.

The air was cold, despite the sunshine. A gust of wind blew my fringe across my eyes. Mum’s always nagging me to get it cut. It
is
sometimes a bit irritating. Still. Her being annoyed about it is worth any amount of irritation.

I took a deep breath and pushed the hair off my face. I gripped the branch above me more tightly. Hauled myself up again.
Jesus
. Even a few months ago, there was no way I could have done this. Back then my escape attempts depended on distraction techniques. But now I was tall enough and strong enough to overcome any physical obstacle. Well, that’s how it felt. That’s how
I
felt.

Powerful. Unbeatable. Invincible.

I’m Theo Glassman. I need no one.

I scrambled up and up. It got easier as I climbed, the branches closer together. Soon I was level with the top of the wall. I looked down. My stomach tightened. The ground was a long way beneath me – maybe four or five metres. I edged across the branch until I reached the wall.

‘Oy! You there! Boy!’ The voice was deep and male. One of the teachers. Shouting from a school window.

Crap
. I didn’t have much time. If whoever that was realised it was me out here, he’d be straight down to tell Roy. I stepped onto the wall, carefully avoiding the spiky shards of glass poking up at intervals along its surface.

‘GET DOWN FROM THERE!’ the teacher yelled.

My plan exactly.

The wall was three brick widths across – enough room for me to stand on both feet and turn right round. I’m good at balancing, and I don’t mind heights. But this was way high. I held tightly onto the branches above my head as I shuffled round. The grassy park on the other side of the wall was littered with heaps of blown leaves – all reds and browns. A long way down.
Don’t think about it.

I jumped.
Whoosh
. Through the air. Through the leaves.
Wham
. The impact jarred all the way up my legs. I fell over onto my side, breathing heavily for a second. Then I pushed myself up. Tested my legs. They were fine. I was fine.
Yes
, I’d done it.

I’d escaped from Roy. I’d escaped from my bodyguard.

I smiled to myself as I started running across the grass. My plan was to head for the nearby high street, meet Jake in Starbucks and go to the cinema.

Maybe that sounds weird to you. That I’d risk getting detention, falling out of a tree, cutting myself open on glass and the rest of it, just to hang out in the high street for a bit and catch a movie.

All I can say is: you’d understand if you lived my life.

‘See you later, then, Rachel.’

‘Bye, Dad.’ I switched off the call and turned my key in the front door. As I shut it behind me my phone beeped.
No
. School had only ended ten minutes ago and I was getting hate texts already. That was quick, even for Jemima Robertson. I hesitated, then pulled the mobile out of my bag. 1
MESSAGE RECEIVED
. I switched it off.

I couldn’t bring myself to read the text. Not yet.

‘Is that you, Rachel?’ Mum’s sickly, cloying perfume wafted out into the hall. I sighed. Mum was usually home when I got back from school. She doesn’t work, you see. She dabbles. A bit of painting. A few adult education classes. The gym. Tennis lessons. And a lot of manicuring, body-wrapping and spa days out.

I trudged across the hall, hoping I could make it up to my room without her seeing me. I reached the bottom step of the stairs just as she click-clacked out of the kitchen.

‘Hiya, Rachel darling.’ That’s Mum’s signature sound. Cooing and soothing and totally fake. A sweetie wrapper round an arsenic lollipop.

‘How was your day, darling? Mine was frightful. Giovanni completely messed up my hair. I swear he’d taken so much charlie last night his hands were shaking too much to hold the scissors straight.’

There. Now you have my mum. Her hairdresser’s a junkie from Harlow with a fake Italian name. And she thinks it’s cool to use outdated drug slang.

Oh yes. And she’s botoxed up to her eyebrows. Above them in fact. I guess it’s because she’s so much older than other mothers. She was forty-seven when she had me. I’m not kidding.

That was fifteen years ago.

‘Hi, Mum.’ I carried on stomping up the stairs.

‘Darling, don’t slouch.’ I could hear her trit-trotting back to the kitchen.

I went upstairs and lay on my bed. The day circled round and round in my head. I had a system. A way of grading each day. And today had been bad. It looked something like this:

Fat comments: five. (The worst was Jemima Robertson saying my arse looked like two satellite dishes side by side, when we changed for gym.)

Stupidity comments: three. (Including one from my maths teacher, who told me off for misunderstanding our homework. I still don’t get it. I mean, why would two kids, taking half-metre strides every three seconds, across a thirty-four-metre wood in the middle of the night, be doing that? Isn’t ‘why’ more interesting than how long it would take them?)

Ugliness comments: six and a half. (Several mentions of the spot on my nose, at least two references to how I was too ugly for any boy to want to snog me at next month’s school disco, and Jemima, again, pointing out very loudly that my hair is skank. Which it is. She’s right. Still.

The half was some guy on my way home making a comment about my legs. I didn’t understand what he said, but it didn’t sound very nice.)

A grand total of fourteen and a half. Any day with a score over ten is a bad day. Still, at least no one hit me or stole money from me today. That happens sometimes. Not that often, I guess. Maybe once or twice a week.

But, hey, I’m used to it. Don’t think I’m complaining. That’s just my life.

Mum rapped at the door. She stepped inside without waiting for me to say anything.

‘Sweetie, don’t lie on the bed in your school uni. The skirt pleats will get creased.’

My school uniform is a green tartan pleated skirt and a tan polyester blouse. You’ve never seen anything more hideous in your life.

Except my body inside it, according to Jemima Robertson.

‘Sweetie.’ Mum’s voice was insistent now.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

‘Piano lesson in half an hour. And it’s chicken salad for tea.’

‘Great.’ I tried to smile. It was easier not to resist.

Mum sighed. ‘I wish you’d show a bit more interest, sweetie. Especially in the piano. You know how good you could be if you tried.’

I froze. That was another way in which I graded the days. By the number of mentions of Rebecca.

We were building up to today’s first.

‘What d’you mean, Mum?’ I said in this fake cheerful voice. I knew perfectly well what she meant. And I didn’t want to hear her say it. But somehow I couldn’t stop myself.

‘You know, darling,’ Mum cooed. ‘Rebecca took Grade Six with distinction when
she
was in Year Ten. It’s a shame for you not to make the best of your talents too.’

Suddenly I wanted to cry.

‘Right.’ I stood up. ‘I’d better get changed then.’

Mum nodded and backed out of the door.

Tears leaked down my face as I changed into jeans and a loose top. Fat, shapeless, nothing clothes for a fat, shapeless, nothing person.