Fifteen Bones

  “Yeah, I do too.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “I don’t either. Maybe it’s because it looks like the buildings are protecting the palace.”

  “Yeah, like they’re all in this together.”

  Robin picked at the railing. I looked down and wondered how many people had thrown themselves off this ledge. I wondered if any of them had miscalculated the taper and sliced through the base like French fries. I wondered if anyone had thrown themselves off and killed someone on the ground.

  Robin’s face became strained as she looked out at Paris.

  “Have you had a terrible time?” I asked, the rattle in my throat coming back.

  She looked into the mist spilling on to the city. “This was probably the best day of my life.”

  I looked at the triangles.

  “I’ve had a shit life though,” she said, “so don’t get excited.”

  As I leaned over the ledge, my eyes followed the path of vein-like roads leading to the thousands of houses and apartments and little garden flats and mansions and hotels, and I thought the cars looked like bugs eating away the city. I thought about how someone can die and hundreds of people will come to his funeral, and how someone else can die and rot away in a house without anyone noticing. Fifteen times I’ve moved into houses stinking of death. Bodies decay faster than you would ever think. Bugs come to melt them away.

  I wondered what Robin saw when she looked down at millions of lives. Maybe she saw the beauty of the city; maybe she saw the bugs.

  She smiled, her eyes sleepy, caught in a daze as she watched the crawling city below. I could finally see her clearly. We stood side by side until we became cold and the darkness swallowed up everything around us.

  “That’s it,” Robin said, “time’s up.”

  We climbed down the tower and with every step my feet became heavier.

  Near the palace we found a tiny patisserie that smelled like blackberry crumble. “Fooooood,” Robin said as she pushed open the door. The smell sent sugar sliding down my throat. It made me sick with excitement.

  “Bonjour,” I said, “je voudrais une—”

  “Yes, what would you like?” the baker interrupted.

  “Oh,” I said, “a pain au chocolat.” Robin tugged my elbow. “Two pains au chocolat.” I pushed my remaining euros towards him. I felt so faint I couldn’t count them.

  “Non.” The man smiled at the coins. “Sorry, it’s not enough.”

  “Oh, sorry, pardon,” I said, relieved he wouldn’t serve me.

  The man leaned into the kitchen and spoke in rapid, lyrical French. The second man, older, looked at me and patted his stomach.

  “OK,” the younger baker said, “you can have them.”

  “Merci!” I said.

  “OK, bye,” the baker said. He smiled and turned to the next customer.

  The bag was greasy in my hand. If only kind Doctor Kahn could see me holding a greasy bag! Robin and I sat on the pavement outside and took a pastry each. I bit into it. It hit my mouth like a firework. I couldn’t speak. “Man alive, I should stay here, eat this every day,” I said, “stop looking like a prisoner of war.”

  “You could learn French,” Robin said as she bit into her pastry, “get your strength up.”

  “God, this is good.” I tried to slow down and savour every bite, but it was hard to not swallow it whole, like a pelican. I munched as quickly as I could to stave off the voices of the baby birds. “Almost as good as Greggs.”

  Robin laughed. She sucked flakes of pastry from her thumb. “Be fair, Greggs is wicked. Iced fingers.”

  “Yeah, yum-yums, epic.”

  “People keep giving us evils.”

  “Do they? We are pretty scraggly, to be fair,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I washed my clothes. And I need to get my hair did.”

  Robin laughed. “Don’t ever say that.”

  “What, get my hair did?”

  “Stop it!”

  “What’s wrong with me getting my hair did?”

  She hit my leg and laughed. “So, you think you’ll still do your show? Your comedy thing?”

  I shook my head. “Do you know which university most famous comedians go to? Where John Cleese and Sacha Baron Cohen and David Mitchell and Stephen Fry went?”

  Robin curled her lip.

  “Cambridge,” I said, scratching the sweat off the back of my neck. “Cambridge. We were on track for Cambridge, you know. I was on track, and now I couldn’t go to Cambridge on a bus.”

  “If Richard Pryor grew up in a brothel and Dave Chappelle never went to university, then you don’t need to go to Cambridge,” Robin said. “Anyway, you can go Cambridge if you want; it can’t be that hard, it’s all written down. I’d be more worried that you’re about as funny as war.”

  I laughed. “I used to be funny.”

  “Yeah, well, I used to be prima ballerina. Shit happens.”

  “You could definitely do that if you wanted. You look like you can fly.”

  “I thought…” Robin said, looking at her arms, “I was going to be extraordinary.”

  “You are.”

  She laughed.

  The last shred of pastry flaked from my mouth. I even put my oily finger to the paper to pick up some last bits.

  “Robin,” I said gently, “why did you bring me here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why here? What are we doing here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you know, all the missions we’ve been on. This is another one of those, isn’t it?”

  Robin’s face dropped. “What are you saying?”

  “What? No. Nothing. I’m just saying that whatever this mission is, I’m cool with it. I mean, I’m fine with it.”

  “This was supposed to be an adventure.”

  “I don’t mind, Robin. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I just need to know.”

  “What are you on about? Why can’t I just be here to have fun? Don’t trust me, is it? Think I’m up to something, is it? You daft racist.”

  “I’m not racist, I hate everyone equally.”

  “You,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “can get back to London on your bloody own!”

  She stomped off, and I headed back to the Gare du Nord alone. When I got to the train, it was so packed we had to sit where our tickets told us to. Robin kissed her teeth as I sat down next to her. She was back in her grey tracksuit and her braids were loose again.

  “Time’s up,” she said with a yawn before she fell asleep.

  I jolted in and out of sleep. I watched the tunnel rush past and tried to hold my breath. I imagined sleepwalking and trying to get out of the speeding train. I looked at Robin’s delicate hand spread out on the table. The tip of my little finger touched hers.

  What I would ever enjoy if I couldn’t enjoy a day in Paris with Robin Carter? I wondered why didn’t I care if we got arrested at the border.

  I couldn’t bear to go back, not to London, nor to Paris, nor anywhere.

  King’s Cross was an agony of noise. The cars gunned for each other in trapped frustration. Pedestrians crowded the pavements. Every headlight hit a ghost bike surrounded by flowers.

  “I hate it here,” I declared, like a child. “I have to get out.”

  “You go Wimbledon on the Overground. I’ll go Southfields on the District line,” Robin said, heading into the Underground.

  “No,” I panicked, “let’s go back together.”

  “Nah, that’s bait.”

  She flew off. I had to run to catch up with her. “Robin, I’m sorry. What I said was stupid. I just wanted to help.”

  She flattened her hair and drew her hoodie so far over her head it covered her eyes. “God!” she said, walking wit
h greater speed.

  “Robin, please don’t leave me.”

  “What did you just say?” She stopped and turned. “Please don’t leave me?” She said it in agonizing slow motion. “What are you, in the Supremes or sammink? The world’s shittest James Brown tribute act? Please don’t leave me. What, are we married in the Forties or what? What is wrong with you?”

  “It just came out wrong.”

  “You came out wrong,” she yelled. “You don’t even know me. You knew and you still did it.”

  “Still did what?”

  She stopped and turned on her heel. “You went into the office of a boss and you planted a bug. What’s wrong with you?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “What were you going to do if you got caught?”

  I couldn’t lift my head.

  “Why?” she said, furious now. “Why did you do it? Why did you go along with everything I said? You messed with very, very dangerous people, Jake. Why did you do it?” She sounded breathless. “And if you thought I was setting you up for something in Paris, why did you come?”

  “Because you told me to,” I said, my voice wavering. I didn’t realize how pathetic it sounded until it came out of my mouth.

  “You make me sick, you know that?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You do. Look at you. You’d rather throw your life away than be by yourself.”

  Under the lampposts the brown leaves looked like smouldering fire. She turned and disappeared into the darkness. I ran after her. “Take that back!”

  “Where is everyone then?” She stopped and raised her hands. “Where are all your mates watching out for you? Look at you. You’re just another lonely kid.”

  “Shut up, Robin.”

  “You should see yourself! Thin as death, muttering to yourself, hitting yourself in your sleep. See you when you’re in your thirties? You’ll be on the streets, fam.”

  “Shut up.”

  “They don’t look after people like you, Jake. Not after you turn sixteen.” She shoved me. “Stand up for yourself.” She pushed me again. “Why won’t you stand up for yourself? Jesus actually wept, the state of you.”

  Robin brandished her palms, shoved me to the ground, and walked away. From the ground I looked up at her and suddenly realized why she reminded me of the baby birds at the hospital.

  “You’re suicidal,” I said.

  She turned. Her eyes widened with fury. “I am not suicidal. I’m black. I’m a warrior. Black people do not kill themselves. Black people don’t get depressed. You fucking lot get depressed.”

  “That’s a myth,” I said, “a really dangerous myth. You need to get some help, Robin.”

  “I don’t need no one’s help. This is armour,” she said, slapping her arms. “And this city,” she swung her palms towards the street, “is mine.”

  I rolled on to my side and put my knees to my chest. After some effort, I rolled to my knees and lifted myself up. I checked my jacket. Mud covered my back. This was just what I needed to add to the row I was about to get for being home so late.

  On the Overground train I held my bag to my chest and watched the carriages like a tennis match, terrified of getting picked off by a roaming pack of hoodies. There’s nothing worse than being cornered on a train. If you get kicked and you’re down on the carriage floor, you can feel the tracks pummelling through your back. A very ancient part of your body thinks you’re being dragged to death so you panic like a madman.

  I pulled my collar and bolted like a greyhound as soon as I reached Wimbledon.

  At the mouth of my long, dark road everything was quiet and empty. I put my head down and walked home as fast as I could. Once I spotted my house, I took my keys out of my rucksack and broke into a jog, the keys between my fingers like Wolverine. Outside the door I looked about before hurriedly putting the key in the lock and bracing myself for a wall of aggravation.

  Inside the Death House the air was still. Nothing had moved. I looked upstairs and could see my parents’ bedroom door was open. I went up. Empty. I checked the house phone. No calls.

  I went to my room and looked out of the window at the Toad House. No one was there.

  The pastry I had eaten rolled in my stomach, the oil coating my throat. I went to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. I was sweating so much I took a shower. I was scared to be in the shower because the pipes made weird noises that sounded like someone breaking in. I washed my hair but the soap became rough. I worried that my body had grown that weird fur again, like that time I was in Meadow Gorge. I held up the soap and it was covered in hair. Not mine though. Gross, I thought. Dad never washed the soap.

  I looked again. Blond hair.

  I ran my fingers along my scalp. I pulled, looked at my fingers. Hair. It was coming out in clumps.

  “No, no, please,” I said. “No, no, no. Please.”

  I went to the mirror in growling panic. I squeezed my nose, certain I was dreaming. I didn’t wake.

  “No, no, no.”

  I washed the hair off my hands and ran downstairs to the kitchen. I rummaged through the cupboards and found a box of Frosties. I ripped open the lid. I took a handful and shoved them into my mouth. The sugar rushed to my head with such force that I buckled. I took a jar of chocolate spread, sank to the floor and ate it with my fingers. I pulled packets of meat and cheese from the fridge. I worked my way through the ham, even though the breath-smelling packets make me sick.

  When the frenzy was over, I looked at the chocolate fingerprints all over the kitchen and the packets and boxes and empty pots of baby food. The cold of the tiles was creeping through my legs. My stomach raged war, and sent shooting pains to my heart and down my left arm. I took four of my diet pills and a handful of caffeine pills. They would keep me awake long enough to purge the crud from my system. My rabbit heart raced. As I made my way through a canister of black coffee and a bottle of mouthwash, I noticed Robin hadn’t come back. I blinked and wondered why the night was so bright.

  I couldn’t believe it. Behind the mansions, the sun was rising.

  On Saturday I slept in fits, barely able to get out of bed. I kept glancing at her window, her room unchanged.

  Sunday: I paced the Death House, the sound of my footsteps hitting the walls. I hated that the house was so empty. A whole life chucked in a filthy skip. I returned to my window again and again like a trapped fly. Sometimes a small light pulsed beneath the mound of grey clothes. Her phone. She might as well have left behind a limb.

  That’s it.

  Time’s up.

  I couldn’t silence her words.

  She’d been gone a full day. I went to the door of the Toad House. I looked up at the blinking red light and summoned all of my nerve to knock. It set off a cascade of screaming and barking. Screaming about who the hell it could be this time and who the hell was going to answer it and if it was the bloody police and rah rah if it was the bloody bailiffs rah rah rah … I scurried halfway down the path by the time Robin’s mother threw open the door.

  She had managed to get dressed today. She wore pink Aladdin trousers and a black sweater so large it grazed her knees. Her eyes were like washed-out ink, her skin flaky like pastry. The corners of her mouth hung down like kippers as if she didn’t have the energy to lift them. “Who are you?” she said, baring massive white teeth.

  “Uh … I’m … is … Robin in?”

  “Robin’s in when she wants to be. Who’s askin’?”

  “Oh … I’m … Jake. From next door?”

  She threw a disgusted glance at my house. “That where all the bangin’s coming from?”

  “Um? Yeah, my mum’s … difficult.”

  One of her kippers trembled as if trying to smile. “Yeah, well, no ’fence but she does look mad.”

  I did take offence.

 
“Robin!” she screamed. “James is ’ere!”

  “It’s, uh … Jake,” I said.

  “Ugh, Jake he’s saying now.” She tipped her head to the silence. Her pupils were the size of pinpricks. “She ain’t ’ere.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No.” She curled her lip.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “What? I ain’t her blaaaaady secretary.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “What are you some sort of sort?”

  “I don’t know what that means.” Cold wind rushed through my hair, stinging the patches of my scalp. I pulled at my shirt.

  “You questioning me?”

  “What?”

  “ … what?”

  “You gan plaze?”

  I didn’t know whether she was saying plays, please, place, police.

  “Well, you plaze?”

  Rabbit heart.

  “You better not gan plaze, you maga sort.”

  “What words are you saying?”

  “You muggin’ me off?”

  “I’m just—”

  “Just what? You know what ’appens to people rand ’ere who ask questions?”

  “God,” I muttered to myself.

  “Oo? Go on, get off out of it!”

  Slam.

  I staggered backwards. “Charmed, I’m sure.” I reached for my phone, thinking I could find Kane or Clarissa, but I had no phone, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have their numbers. And even if I did, I didn’t know them well enough to call them. And even if I did, they wouldn’t come out to help me.

  I went back to the Death House and phoned the hospitals. I called the police non-emergency line and asked if there had been any incidents at Wimbledon Park. There had not. I asked if anyone had been reported missing. They said no. They asked if I was all right and I said yes. They asked how old I was and I hung up.

  I walked to Wimbledon Park. In the pale daylight the park was restful. I walked to the spot where that kid had been beaten up. Children were playing cricket with their father and laughed when he didn’t catch the ball. They were too young to realize he missed on purpose. I looked all around. I didn’t know what I could do so I went home and went to my room and sat by the window.