Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  Then I looked to my left and saw the audience, my parents, teachers, fellow pupils, and it was as though I suddenly realised what was happening, what had just occurred, and the rushing blur of fury subsided, overriden by a feeling I can only describe as oh shiiiiit. People were staring at me. Some were quizzical. Some were aghast. Most were looking at me like I was a freak.

  They’re not wrong.

  I turned to my parents. Our eyes met and it seemed as though they finally understood me. They knew what had been happening for the last few months. They knew everything. In a weird way, it was almost nice.

  And still, nobody spoke. I unhooked the shoulder holster and let it fall to the floor, then left the hall sharpish, people parting hurriedly to make way. Outside, the chalk had vanished from the sky and it was raining lightly, and I started to run down the street, strangely calm, set, focused. I had to go home, I had to get Daryl and I had to leave. Probably for a long time. Maybe . . .

  ‘Stanly!’

  I turned, slowing down slightly. Kloe was running after me. I stopped and she reached me quickly, grabbing both of my hands. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Away,’ I said. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said.

  ‘I have to,’ I said. ‘I can’t . . . I have to.’

  Words seemed to fail her. She stared into my eyes for a second that went on and on, and it told me everything I needed to know, and I pulled her to me and kissed her hard. She kissed me back, and I wrapped her up in my arms, and we embraced, and it was so intense I felt as though I might collapse. It was amazing that nobody came out after us. Momentary luck in a luckless void. This was our time together. I had no idea if we would see each other again.

  We broke apart and I touched her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then I turned and ran, leaving her crying in the rain.

  I got home about half an hour later using a mixture of sprinting and flying, and opened a window with my mind when I realised I didn’t have my keys. As I dropped on to the kitchen floor I heard Daryl gallop downstairs, much faster than I’d ever known him move before. He skidded in, growling, but immediately saw that it was me and relaxed. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You gave me a heart attack . . . you’re soaking! What’s going on?’

  I took a minute to tell him everything and he accepted it as calmly as I had. ‘You’ll have to take your dad’s car,’ he said.

  My parents had two cars. They had gone to school in Mum’s, and I thanked no-one in particular that I had learned to drive in Dad’s. It wouldn’t be long before they got back, so I ran upstairs to get stuff. I grabbed my guitar and filled my rucksack with clothes, a couple of books, my MP3 player and a notebook. I took the ninety pounds from my savings tin and threw that in as well, followed by my bank card, and I was about to put in the tiny stuffed elephant my dad had given me on the day I was born, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick it up. I turned away, chucking in the Casablanca DVD for luck, and ran back downstairs. ‘Find the car keys,’ I said to Daryl. I wrote a very quick note explaining as much as I could as succinctly as possible, grabbed a spare key, unlocked the door, went outside, re-locked. It was pouring with rain now. I put my stuff on the back seat of the car and got into the driver’s seat, and Daryl got into the passenger seat, and I fastened his seat belt and started the engine. The petrol tank was pretty much full. ‘Thank Christ for that,’ I said. I locked the doors, took a last look at my house, reversed out into the road and began to drive.

  Fifteen minutes after we left Tref-y-Celwyn, Daryl finally said something. ‘Can we have a CD on?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I grabbed a random compilation CD and put it into the player.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and fell silent.

  The rain had stopped and the road was shiny, and I cast unnecessary things to the back of my mind and thought about getting to London. There was a map in the glove compartment, I knew that. Eddie had said day or night. I had the scrap of paper with his address. I had all bases covered, apart from a sizeable lack of knowledge about the rules of motorways, although I hoped that void could be filled with common sense. One tank of petrol would hopefully be enough to get me there. The night was new and the Beach Boys’ ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ was deliriously incongruous in my ears as I drove towards a new and uncertain world.

  Two hours into the drive, Daryl said that he was hungry. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot to pack food.’

  ‘Can’t we stop?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll just pull into a motorway service station as the underage driver of a stolen car and get a Twix and a packet of Sensations for my talking dog. Use your loaf.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all this. It’s . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I’m still sorry.’

  I’d put Abbey Road into the CD player without thinking, and as the smoky purr of ‘Come Together’ faded, ‘Something’ began. Of all the songs. Immediately all I could think about was Kloe, wet-eyed and pleading with me in the middle of the road, and I turned the music off and pulled into a lay-by, and for the next ten minutes I cried harder than I had ever cried in my entire life, and my dog was helpless beside me.

  Chapter Eleven

  AT ABOUT HALF past one in the morning we passed over Westminster Bridge, deep in London’s massive looming unreality, and I was keeping my breathing as regular as possible, trying not to be completely overwhelmed by the lights and the sheer scale of the place. It felt as though the buildings were looking at me accusingly, or hungrily, preparing to swallow me up.

  Kind of already been swallowed, though.

  We’d been luckier than I’d have thought possible so far, having avoided the attention of the police and other drivers, and even though I’d had a few minor panic attacks coming into the city, Daryl had been surprisingly helpful with negotiating roundabouts and multiple lanes and stuff. He’d definitely been here before, but I didn’t ask him about it. It wasn’t exactly the most mysterious thing about him. I kept switching the radio on and off, but there was no mention of me. There was no reason that there should have been; I very much doubted that my parents would put out a missing persons report. But just in case . . .

  ‘Are we there yet?’ I asked, as we exited the bridge to a fresh spit of rain.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. Follow those signs.’ He indicated with his nose.

  Eddie lived near Brixton, and Daryl managed to get us there almost without incident, although I did drive the wrong way up a one-way street at one point, resulting in another minor panic attack. ‘It’s fine,’ said Daryl, ‘it’s fine, it’s fine, just go there . . . go there! Go there! There!’

  ‘OK, I’m going there!’ I yelled.

  ‘No need to shout.’

  Finally we pulled up outside Eddie’s house and got out of the car. The place didn’t look like much of a sanctuary; like most of the houses along the street it was mouldy and forlorn, its miniscule front garden a sorry heap of bindweed. I could see distant, shadowy buildings standing stern against a dull, drizzle-flecked orange grey sky, and hear faraway sirens. And more nearby sirens. I felt strangely light, physically at least, as though my body was in a dream but my mind was still awake. Part of me, a fairly major part, felt as though my body was still in Tref-y-Celwyn . . . no, not even there. It was still standing in the rain outside my school, wrapped up in Kloe, in her . . .

  Shut up.

  Feels like a dream? Then it’s a dream. Ride it.

  And stop thinking about her. That is an order.

  Daryl was enjoying an expansive stretch, and I unloaded my stuff, locked the car and walked up to Eddie’s door, which was dull red and had 23 printed on it in peeling white paint. It was after two now, but there was still a light on, and I rang the bell and wa
ited. Nothing. I rang it again. Finally I heard someone moving, and a peephole opened. ‘Stanly?’ asked an incredulous voice.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Um . . . hi. Sorry. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course!’ A bolt was drawn back, and I gave Daryl a meaningful look. He knew what it meant. Don’t speak yet.

  Eddie looked very different. He was much taller, and sported some serious five o’clock shadow, and had dyed his hair white blonde. He was wearing a vest and jeans and no shoes, and his arms were all muscle, and he had an unlit cigarette behind his ear. ‘Come in.’ He smiled and stood back to let me in. He took my bag, but I held onto my guitar. Like a Linus blanket. Daryl followed, and Eddie glanced down at him. ‘Who’s this, then?’

  ‘My dog,’ I said. Well duh. ‘Daryl.’

  ‘Hiya, Daryl,’ said Eddie, in a talking-to-dogs voice. ‘Um . . . I can make up the sofa for you, Stanly, if that’s all right? Sorry, if I’d known you were coming —’

  ‘It was a sudden decision,’ I said.

  Eddie frowned. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it . . . but have you got anything to eat first? We’re starving. Didn’t want to risk stopping on the way down. Being an illegal underage driver and all.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Eddie. ‘Yeah, go through to the living room, I’ll fix you something.’

  ‘I can do it . . .’

  ‘Don’t be silly. What does Daryl eat?’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Bacon,’ said Eddie. ‘Does he eat bacon?’

  ‘He’ll eat bacon,’ I said. ‘We’ll . . . we’ll both eat bacon.’

  Eddie nodded. ‘OK. You two go and sit down, I’ll put some bacon on.’

  The living room was small and equal parts tatty and cosy, and we sat awkwardly on a sofa covered with an Indian throw. There was a small portable TV, a rickety shelf unit full of CDs and books, and a hi-fi system that looked as though it had seen better decades. The curtains drawn across the window were ragged and a bit stained. Daryl shifted around on the sofa for a minute, then jumped off and padded over to a slightly squashed pouffe in the corner. He curled up on it, and I stretched out on the sofa and relaxed for the first time in hours. Neither of us spoke. We were safe, although I still wasn’t sure whether I was awake or not.

  Eddie came in a minute later with two mugs of tea and a bowl of water. ‘Bacon’s on,’ he said. He handed me some tea and placed the bowl of water down next to the pouffe. I shook my head at Daryl, hoping he wouldn’t protest because he hated eating and drinking off the floor. He didn’t, he just leaned down and had a drink.

  ‘OK,’ said Eddie. ‘So what’s the story?’

  I told him, and he said ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and ‘shit’ in all the right places. When I reached the part about throwing Ben he stiffened, and his tone took on a worrying urgency. ‘Everyone saw you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  I did, omitting Kloe entirely because I didn’t want to think about her, and when I was done I said, ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bad, but not terrible, necessarily,’ said Eddie. Wow. That might be the least comforting comforting thing he could have said. ‘I mean . . . people will try and rationalise it for themselves. I doubt you’ll have newspapers and police after you or anything . . . but still best to keep a low profile. Probably not a good idea for you to stay here any longer than necessary – your parents will guess immediately, for one thing.’

  I wondered if that was for my benefit or for his. ‘Where can I go?’ I asked.

  ‘I have friends,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s OK, we’ll find a place for you.’ He smiled, and headed back to the kitchen to sort out the food. I glanced at Daryl. ‘What do you think?’ I whispered.

  He shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Innit.’

  Eddie returned with bacon sandwiches, and we ate them. I had plenty of questions, and I was sure he did as well, but I was too tired to ask any, and Eddie didn’t pressure me. He said I could sleep on the sofa, and offered to make it up for me while I used the bathroom. I felt like I should have offered to do it myself, but sometimes you’ve just got to accept someone’s hospitality.

  I brushed my teeth, washed my face and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was a fugitive, of sorts. Odd indeed. I looked down and watched the water swirling into the plughole, thinking it looked suspiciously like my life, then back at the mirror, half-expecting to see Kloe’s despairing face staring back at me. But it was just me, pale and anxious, alone. I felt the tears threatening to return so I slapped myself, roughly washed my eyes again and went back downstairs. Eddie had made up the sofa with a duvet, a sleeping bag and several pillows, and it looked so inviting that I felt weights vanish from inside me. ‘I might have gone overboard with the bedding,’ he said. ‘I don’t really ever have people over.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘It’s amazing, actually. Thanks.’

  ‘Dim problem,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You still remember your Welsh.’

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ he said. ‘Great language. Completely barmy. But good fun.’ He stood leaning against the doorway, managing a passable impression of a reassuring smile, and I almost felt slightly OK. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort everything out.’ He didn’t sound as convincing as I thought he probably wanted to, but it was nice of him to say it, and I was about to say thanks and goodnight when the phone rang. Eddie’s brow furrowed and he picked it up. ‘Hello? Mary . . . yes, he is. I . . . yes, he’s fine. I . . . just . . . hold on.’ He looked over at me. ‘It’s your mum. Do you want —’

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’ I took the phone from him and he turned and left the room. ‘Hi,’ I said, feeling like that was possibly the most inadequate word I could have selected.

  I heard her sigh, and when she spoke it sounded as though her throat was sore. ‘Stanly,’ she whispered. ‘Thank God. I . . . we couldn’t think where you’d gone. Everybody at the school was going mad, we just had to leave . . . we drove around half the county looking for you, then I suddenly remembered you asking for Edward’s number . . .’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘I just . . . I had to leave.’

  ‘Stanly, what happened?’

  ‘You know what happened.’

  A pause. Then, ‘Yes. I suppose I did . . . I mean, we did. Frank kept on saying “I knew there was something”, over and over again, I was almost begging him to go outside and have a fag.’ We both managed a laugh.

  ‘I . . . can’t come back,’ I said. ‘Not for a while anyway.’

  She didn’t ask why, or beg me to come back. She just said, ‘I understand. Promise me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘I promise.’

  She was crying again. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘I know. I love you too.’ I meant it, even if it might not have sounded like it. ‘I’ll call sometime. Not sure when.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Oh, Stanly?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You were really good. I wish we could have seen the second half.’

  ‘Thanks. Me too.’

  I put the phone down, and Eddie came back in. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. Think I’ll go to sleep.’

  ‘All right. Goodnight.’ He smiled awkwardly and headed upstairs.

  ‘’Night.’ I switched off the light and snuggled down into the pile of bedding in my makeshift pyjamas (boxer shorts and a T-shirt with the same Dawn of the Dead design that Miss Stevenson had been wearing so long ago), and Daryl came and joined me but didn’t say anything. I wrapped myself up, hiding from the world, and tried to bury the fear, tried to bury Kloe’s face. I spent a long time wondering if I’d wake up in Tref-y-Celwyn, r
eady for the first night of the play, and very nearly convinced myself that it was going to happen. When I did manage to sleep I dreamt all night, and the dreams weren’t nice.

  I woke up at ten o’clock the next morning, lying on my front with a patch of dribble on the sofa by my mouth. Daryl was curled up by my feet, still snoring away. I managed to extricate myself from the tangle of bedding and sit up, and for a moment I felt a stab of almost overwhelming disappointment that I’d woken up here, but I pummelled it fiercely into the very basement of my gut. It served no purpose. I was here and that was what was happening. I ran my fingers through my matted, sleep-greased hair and rubbed crunchy dust from my eyes. Dim light was coming in through the window, and I could hear rain being blown against bricks and tiles. The living room had no actual door, just a doorway that led into the hall and across to the kitchen, and I wandered through and found Eddie sitting on the counter reading the paper. He looked up and smiled tiredly. I wondered if he’d slept since I arrived. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Breakfast?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’ My voice was slurred and husky.

  ‘Bagels?’

  ‘Definitely.’ I stretched and felt all my bones crack. ‘I’m going to go and get washed. Can I use the shower?’

  ‘Sure. There’s a towel on the radiator.’

  I went upstairs to the bathroom, stripped off and got into the shower, which was noticeably posher-looking than the rest of the house. As I rubbed shampoo into my hair I wondered what Eddie did for a living, and as I rinsed it out I caught sight of my reflection in the glass, wet and unshaven.

  Shit. I’d forgotten my razor.

  Oh well. Fugitives have facial hair, don’t they?

  Yeah. Anti-hero stubble, innit.