Scrambled (5 page)

‘Oooh, listen to her, boys.’

Davidde found himself not being scared of Lyndon any more, but actually being fed up with him. He thought about how Dwayne had said he was annoyed with Lyndon too.

‘Shall we get this done then?’

‘After you. Ladies first.’

Davidde led the way to the starting line. He looked at Lyndon. Lyndon drew level with his visor up.

‘Gonna ride like your mam again?’

Davidde thought he should say something cool. It was well known that Lyndon’s mother wasn’t too sharp. He thought about taking advantage of this by saying something like, ‘At least my mother never gave me Ralgex sandwiches on a school trip.’ (Lyndon’s mother had actually once mistaken an open pot of muscle rub for lemon curd before a school trip to London, and Lyndon spent most of the day in Hammersmith Accident and Emergency having his scalded tongue seen to.) Davidde put his hand to his chin to help him think, but as he did, the race started and Lyndon was off to a flier. Davidde quickly engaged the clutch but he was already miles behind. He cursed his stupidity.

Lyndon had a huge lead. Davidde gained on him slowly, but at the end of the first lap Lyndon still had the edge. He wasn’t showing off this time, so Davidde found it hard to catch up, but at least he felt he’d earned a little bit of respect. On the second lap Davidde’s power started to count and he was right behind Lyndon. He followed in his
slipstream and waited for the third lap to make his move. He was enjoying himelf again. He could tell Lyndon didn’t like having him right behind. His frontrunner’s movements were jerky and showed signs of panic. It was just a matter of time – take him on the inside, like Dwayne said.

But as they started on the third lap, Davidde lost a little bit of concentration. He became aware that his father was stood on one tip, looking down on him, clapping and shouting encouragement. On another, Davvide thought he could see the Black Rider, motionless on the big black bike. He felt under pressure to perform. He blinked hard, shook his head and decided to make his move. He made ground and got within passing distance and went for the inside, but Lyndon blocked him off!

Davidde lost quite a bit of speed, he wasn’t expecting Lyndon to do that – he didn’t last time. He waited till the next corner, but Lyndon blocked him again. They were on the final straight – Davidde had to use his power now, that’s all he had left.

He told himself not to look round if he pulled ahead – that’s how he lost last time!

He opened up the throttle and his bike took off. He pulled level with Lyndon. He was tempted to turn sideways and look Lyndon in the face as he pulled clear, but he fought the feeling and concentrated on what was in front of him. No potholes, no danger. He spotted Lyndon’s bike through the corner of his eye as he pulled clear, till he was only aware of the Lyndon’s front wheel. He was ahead, but he couldn’t shake the front wheel, it was still there!

He was dying to look but he couldn’t.

The wheel was still there!

The line was approaching – he had to look!

He could only take a quick look.

He looked. He couldn’t believe what he saw.

He had to look again!

The front wheel was there, but that’s all there was. Lyndon and the rest of the bike were nowhere to be seen.

Davidde looked to the front to check for holes and slowed down as he approached the finishing line. He allowed himself to look behind him. He could see Lyndon’s bike on its side, the front twisted and bent. Lyndon himself had flown over the front of the bike, his head landing in a
pothole, his body sticking up straight out of it, his legs waving in the air. Davidde laughed and pulled a wheelie as he crossed the line.

Winning felt fantastic!

His father ran to him and there were tears in his eyes!

‘Dai, Dai! I don’t know what to say – I just feel so – proud!’

Davidde didn’t know what to say either. This was the first time his father had felt proud of him. For all the work he did in school, he realised that his father just didn’t get it. This sort of thing he understood.

‘I mean, you would have beaten him anyway, but when he went over his handlebars, well … I know it’s bad, but it was, like, the funniest thing I ever seen in all my life.’

‘I’d better see how he is, Dad.’

‘Aye, you do that.’

Davidde rode over. Lyndon was out of the hole now. He was sat on the floor, winded.

‘You better not be coming here to gloat.’

‘No – I’ve come to see you’re OK. You OK?’

‘Aye, butt. I would have beaten you then. I’ll
beat you in the proper race, you remember that. You had a lucky break this time.’

Lyndon was OK. Nothing was his fault, as usual. Davidde thought that if Lyndon had checked his bike properly he wouldn’t have had a problem. He had enough experts to help him after all.

Dwayne walked over to Davidde with his hand out. He looked sheepish.

‘Well done, butt.’

Davidde couldn’t really understand why Dwayne was congratulating him. It was hardly like Lyndon’s boys to be magnanimous in their leader’s defeat. Davidde shook hands with Dwayne. He found it weird.

‘Well done, butt, you did real well.’ As they shook hands Dwayne tried to signal something at Davidde with his eyes. ‘Real good like.’

‘Did you see anyone looking at the race?’

‘Only your father.’

‘Did you see anyone on a black bike. Black leathers?

‘Can’t say I saw anything like. Anyway, you done well.’

Davidde could feel something in Dwayne’s hand.

‘Real tidy. Time for you to go though now, innit.’

‘Thanks Dwayne. That means a lot, butt.’

Dwayne went back to the group. Davidde looked down at his palm. Dwayne had left a wingnut in it.

The wingnut that held the front wheel on a scrambler.

Ralph was pushing Davidde’s bike up the crooked alley behind their house, on the way to put it in the garage. When Mr Leighton’s kitchen window came into view, Davidde stopped his father.

‘What you doing?’ asked Ralph.

‘I don’t want Mr Leighton to see me.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll go nuts. He was helping me look for a telescope, but I spent all my money on my bike. And he spends most of his time phoning the police complaining about the kids down the Rec on bikes.’

‘And he doesn’t know that you’re one of them?’

‘Correct.’

‘That’s hilarious, that is.’ Ralph took a moment. He looked into Davidde’s eyes. ‘He needs to learn that sometimes things change. Sometimes we
change. Sometimes some things can change us, deep inside.’

‘Are you feeling alright?’

‘Er, yeah, I’m fine. Look – I might not be around much this weekend. Will you be OK?’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing, I’m just not going to be around much, OK?’

‘OK, I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.’

‘Tidy.’

6

The week passed quickly and the proper race came around soon enough. Davidde had decided to use gel in his hair, after he realised that he was getting genuinely positive messages about how Pickle’s mucus made it stand up on its own. It wasn’t sarcasm at all. He didn’t get much further with his Art project, though he had managed to avoid Miss for another week. Dwayne had said nothing about his sabotage of Lyndon’s bike either – it was something to be left completely unacknowledged. Dwayne had been friendly in Art lessons, but Kaitlinn was going the other way completely. Davidde stayed out of her way. He also seemed to be seeing less of his dad – he was hardly in at nights at all. Davidde wondered how much poker one man could play?

Lyndon had also kept a low profile. Whether it was the ignominy of losing, or just of flying over his handlebars and landing head-first in a hole, it was hard to tell. Either way, Davidde didn’t see much of him until the posters went up.

They appeared one day, plastered all over the school.

There was great excitement. On the Tuesday before the race, Ceri Fuss walked over to Davidde in the yard at breaktime.

‘Oh, my gawd, like I’ve heard you are wicked on the bike like.’

Davidde didn’t know what to say.

‘I’m alright like,’ he said.

But he was chuffed. This sort of thing didn’t usually happen to him. And Ceri Fuss wasn’t the only one. Younger boys in Year 7 looked at him in awe. Davidde felt great.

On Wednesday, he was teasing his gelled-up hair in front of the mirror in the toilet before Art. Pickle came in by himself and did a double take when he saw Davidde. Pickle went straight for Davidde’s throat. He grabbed him and held him against the cold, wet wall.

‘Listen, Dai, I’m only going to say this once, pal, so listen carefully.’

Davidde knew there was nothing he could do. Over the years he’d learned to keep his head down and not to be in the toilets at the wrong time. This had kept him safe. Now he realised he’d been taking a few too many risks. This was the price of arrogance.

‘Listen, Dai.’ There was something heartfelt and pleading in Pickle’s pained blue eyes.

Davidde braced himself for the punch to the stomach and the application of mega-hold
phlegm to his hair. Pickle was going to pay him back for giving him the idea for wearing gel.

‘I like your hair.’

‘Thanks. It’s gel this time, not your mucus.’

‘You’ve got to beat him on Friday. I know you think I like him, but I don’t. I only do tricks to stop him making fun of my boy-boobs.’

He paused.

‘I can’t help it if I’ve got a fuller figure. That’s what my mam says.’

Then Pickle left, slamming the door behind him.

Five seconds later he came back in.

‘I came in to have a slash,’ he said.

Art was looking to be another long game of cat and mouse for Davidde, except that Dwayne had handed him a lucky break. Again, Davidde didn’t have anything to show Miss Pughes-Pervis, and he wanted to make sure he had clear escape routes to his left and to his right so Miss couldn’t trap him into having a conversation about his lack of coursework. It wasn’t long till half-term, and there were only a few weeks to get everything done before the moderator came in.

Dwayne sat down by Davidde.

‘I took your advice.’

Davidde couldn’t remember giving any advice.

‘You know, about giving her something special. In a box, like.’

Dwayne went under the table and produced a bag. This was surprising, as he never brought a bag to school. He rummaged around inside it, and brought out a metal tin that had once held shortbread. Davidde asked him what was in it.

‘Watch this now,’ he said, before finding a thick permanent marker and scrawling ‘sori i carn wait till valentines’ on the tin. He crept his way across the room to where Ceri Fuss had been sitting. She was looking for ideas on Miss’s bookshelf, so Dwayne left the tin in her workspace on the table. Then he crept his way back.

‘What’s in it, Dwayne?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Well, it seems very thoughtful. I never took you for the romantic type.’

Dwayne got agitated as Ceri wandered back to her desk, with a heavy book on Salvador Dali in her hands. His face was screwed up and he was breathing heavily. His hands were balled into fists that he rubbed against his trousers.

Ceri sat down and inspected the box. She read the message on it and looked around. Dwayne kept his head down and tried to look like he was working. Ceri shook the box and listened. She put the box back down and tried prizing open the lid. It was hard for her to open. She tried again; the lid flew across the table and the quiet of the art room was shattered by the lid crashing on a desk, and then Ceri’s piercing scream.

Ceri was on her feet – there was something green on her shoulder. She waved her arms and then it was on her head! She was screaming and shaking her head to get it off. Arming herself with the Salvador Dali book she started hammering at the table.

‘What was in there, Dwayne?’ ’asked Davidde. Dwayne held his sides as he laughed and he tried to say, ‘Frog!’

Ceri was a well-known animal lover, but in her shock she had flattened the frog. It was running down the book cover and spine like the melting clocks on the cover of the book. This irony was lost on Miss, Dwayne and most of all Ceri, who had to be taken to the sick bay for the rest of the day to recover. Dwayne spent the day in the
Deputy Head’s office, writing but he thought it had been worth it. Davidde was delighted that the fuss Dwayne had created had taken most of the lesson to sort out, and he didn’t have to worry about his artwork for another week.

Davidde didn’t feel like it, but he called in with Mr Leighton on the way home. He’d been avoiding him because he felt uncomfortable with his double life, humouring Mr Leighton and his irrational hatred of scrambling and scramblers, and then being one the scramblers his neighbour so detested. Mrs Leighton let him in, but he didn’t get the usual welcome. He followed her into the kitchen. For a change Mr Leighton wasn’t at the window, but was sat down at the kitchen table fuming about something in the paper instead.

‘Mad, it’s gone, the world. The world’s gone mad,’ he said.

‘Have a biscuit,’ said Mrs Leighton.

‘I can’t, I’m too annoyed about those Mongolian bats.’

‘I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Davidde. Have one when you’ve calmed down a bit.’

‘My tea will be cold. And everyone knows there’s no point having a biscuit with cold tea.’

‘Well … well … stick it up your backside then,’ said Mrs Leighton and she ran upstairs crying, after she’d thrown a biscuit at Mr Leighton’s head.

Davidde had never seen them like this before. They’d bickered plenty of times, but he’d never heard Mrs Leighton upstairs sobbing before and he found it a bit awkward. Mr Leighton carried on reading the paper, mumbling. Davidde followed Mrs Leighton upstairs.

‘Sorry, Davidde, love. How are you? How’s school going? We don’t see you as much as we used to.’

Davidde thought about school. It had been great, mostly, but not in the way she was thinking. He hadn’t kept up with any of his work, work he would have done if he’d called in on them more often. He thought he’d better not mention that and make things worse.

‘Everything’s fine, Mrs Leighton.’

‘How’s your father? Haven’t seen him in a while either.’

‘I haven’t seen much of him myself to be honest, Mrs Leighton.’

She sniffled.

‘Sorry, Davidde,’ she said, ‘but sometimes I can’t cope with him. He can be such a … pig.’

‘He has been quite grumpy lately.’

‘I mean, most of the time he’s fine, and I realise that I’m lucky. It’s hard for your father, and for you, losing your mother like that.’

Davidde thought about Mr Leighton downstairs, not apologising, just muttering to himself. And then Davidde realised something. For a long time he’d felt guilty about how Mr and Mrs Leighton had been so good to him over the years, especially since his mother had died. The times they’d cooked for him and helped with the homework his father couldn’t help him with, the times they’d made him cups of tea, the times he’d looked at stars with Mr Leighton. He realised, though, that they’d got something out of this as well – they enjoyed the company, and he didn’t have to feel guilty about it. He’d felt guilty about so many things – like being a burden on his father, about being bullied in school, about not having things to say to people.

He realised that he didn’t have to feel guilty about every single thing.

‘OK, Mrs Leighton, I’ll try and talk to him,’ said Davidde. As he walked back down the stairs he realised he didn’t have a clue how to do this, but he would give it a go.

Mr Leighton was at the window with his binoculars, fuming. His face was red and he was shaking.

‘Miscreants! Blaggards!’

‘Hiya, Mr Leighton. What’s happening?’

‘Oh, the usual, you know. The world going mad, idiots on the Rec and the police not taking a blind bit of notice.’

‘Mrs Leighton doesn’t seem very happy.’

‘Don’t worry about her, she’s never happy.’

Davidde thought that he wouldn’t be very happy if he was Mrs Leighton either, but he didn’t say it.

Mr Leighton put down the binoculars. He stared hard at Davidde.

‘And how’s school going?’

Davidde felt very uncomfortable. It was as if Mr Leighton knew the truth. He went to scratch his head. He felt the gel in his hair.

‘Well…’ said Davidde. Right on cue there was a tap at the window. It was his dad.

‘Come back to the house, mun, I got us an Indian. Hiya, Charlie, how’s things?’

Mr Leighton went to the door with Davidde to let him out.

‘I was saying to young Davidde now,’ said Mr Leighton, ‘we haven’t seen much of him lately.’

‘I’m not surprised, Charlie,’ said his dad. ‘He’s been too busy practising.’

‘Practising?’

‘Yeah, practising.’

‘Practising? For what?’

‘For the big race this Friday.’

‘What big race this Friday?’

‘Down the Rec. On his bike.’

Davidde heard Mr Leighton’s binoculars smash on the wooden floor.

‘You’ll get a good view from here.’

Not with smashed binoculars he wouldn’t.

He pointed at Davidde.

‘You … how … since when … why?’ spluttered Mr Leighton.

‘Come on, Charlie,’ said Ralph. ‘He’s young, he’s got a bike and he’s having fun. He’s not hurting anyone…’

‘BUT IT’S AGAINST THE LAW! HE’S TOO YOUNG! HE’S NOT STUPID LIKE THE REST OF THEM! HE’S NOT STUPID LIKE…’

He stopped.

Ralph was much closer to Mr Leighton now. Davidde saw him draw up close to Mr Leighton’s face, looking angry and talking quietly.

‘No, go on. What were you saying?’

Mr Leighton looked away. Davidde was worried his father was going to hit Mr Leighton.

‘Not stupid like I was, is it? Was that what you were going to say?’

Mr Leighton squirmed where he stood, but didn’t back down completely. ‘Having fun is he? Having fun. Like Stuart Davies was having fun.’

Ralph drew back as if he been punched. He seemed to lose a foot in height.

‘Stuart Davies … Stuart Dav … now he was stupid … he was stupid…’

Ralph backed away from Mr Leighton’s door, pointing at Mr Leighton as if he was threatening him, but visibly upset as he moved backwards towards his own house.

‘He was stupid. He was definitely stupid. But he was definitely having fun.’

Obviously, Davidde had to know who Stuart Davies was. Ralph was only a few steps ahead of his son, but when Davidde got into the kitchen he had a can of cider in front of him and he was sucking furiously on a cigarette.

‘Let me tell you about Stuart Davies,’ said Ralph
quietly, looking into the distance through the kitchen window. ‘Stuart Davies was mad. I know people say that about people who are a bit funny, or people who act a bit dull to get attention, or people with red hair (and he did have red hair, by the way), but Stuart was seriously mad. We were in the same year in school, and I used to sit by him. Well, I did while he was still cleaning his teeth.’