Big and Clever

by Dan Tunstall

  I can’t help smiling at that. I look up.

  “What do you expect me to do it for? My health? To meet nice people? Who like? Mr Curran on Blakely Road, phoning up to complain if I’m a couple of minutes late or I’ve left his gate open?”

  “That’s not the point I’m making,” Dad says, angry with himself for getting sidetracked.

  “Anyway,” I go on. “I have to earn my own money. I hardly ever get anything out of you.”

  He runs a hand through his hair.

  “There’s a reason why I don’t give you money,” he says. “It’s because I know the sort of things you’ll spend it on. I know you’ve been drinking. I’ve seen the cans in your room. I could tell you’d had a few this evening too.”

  I put my hands on my head. I’m too tired for all of this.

  “You’re the last person in the world who should be lecturing me about drinking. You were completely plastered at the police station. You stank like a brewery. What do you think they thought about that? They just looked at you and thought piss artist. It’s no wonder his son’s such a fucking twat.”

  Dad’s suddenly furious, shocked at what I’ve said, shocked at the words I’m using.

  “Watch your language,” he says.

  I’m straight back at him.

  “Don’t change the subject. You wanted to talk about boozing. What about last Saturday at Raks’s? What a performance that was.”

  Dad sits up straight. He moves across the sofa so that he’s nearer to me, invading my space. His eyes are blazing.

  “Don’t try to turn all this round so that you can take potshots at me, you rude little sod. You obviously don’t give a shit what I say, but think about Mum. What would she have made of all of this?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, how did I know you’d bring Mum into it? That’s just low.”

  Dad shakes his head.

  “No,” he says. “It’s a valid question. What would Mum have thought, seeing her only child growing up to be a lout with a criminal record?”

  “Oh piss off. Don’t give me all that emotional blackmail bollocks.”

  Dad’s wagging his finger at me. He’s been rattled and now he’s fighting dirty.

  “I’ll tell you what she would have thought. She’d have thought you were a big, big disappointment.”

  It’s a cheap shot. Way below the belt. At first I don’t know how to respond. But then I can feel the anger flaring up inside me. I’m getting that strange metallic taste in my mouth. The one I get at football matches when everything’s about to turn nasty. I start to laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

  “You’re fucking priceless. I’m a big disappointment? Then what are you?”

  Dad says nothing.

  I’m on the front foot now. It’s my turn to throw the cheap shots and I’m really going for it.

  “What would Mum have thought of you? Pissed as a fart every night. Lying unconscious in the living room. Dossing around on benefits for years. Not washing. Not shaving. Dressing like a tramp. Showing me up in front of my friends. Is that your idea of being a role model?”

  His mouth drops open. He can’t believe what he’s just heard. In truth, I can’t believe what I’ve just said. But it’s not like it hasn’t been coming. It almost burst out on Saturday evening when we had to leave Raks’s house. Tonight, after all that’s gone on, I just couldn’t hold it in any more.

  Without warning, Dad jumps to his feet, standing over me. He’s tried everything else, now he’s trying intimidation.

  “My old man would have thrashed me for speaking to him like that,” he says.

  “Oh yeah?” I stand up and look him in the eye. “Well why don’t you have a go then? See what happens?” My heart rate has shot right up. It’s another surreal moment in a night full of them. I’m ready to chin my own father.

  Dad blinks. There’s uncertainty in his expression. Fear, even. I’m as big as he is, but I’m a lot younger. A lot fitter. His eyes flick to the side, away from mine. He takes a step backwards, then sinks into the sofa again. All the fight has gone out of him.

  I sit back down. I look at my watch. Quarter to four. I’ve been up for nearly twenty-one hours. I seem to have gone through a couple of years’ worth of shit in that time. I’ve pissed Zoe off again. I’ve skived school. I’ve been in a fight in a pub. I’ve got a big dilemma hanging over my head with the Mackworth game date-switch. I’ve got arrested at Southlands. I’ve been photographed, fingerprinted, swabbed, interviewed, interrogated. And now this. I’d almost forgotten I turned fifteen yesterday. Happy birthday to me.

  For the next few minutes, Dad’s got his head in his hands. It’s a strange, awkward scene. Everything’s silent, except for the clock ticking on and on. My pulse has slowed down, but I’m still on edge.

  Random thoughts are popping into my mind. I’m thinking that me and Dad have said more to each other in the last twenty minutes than we’ve managed in the last couple of years. I’m thinking about the moment I was arrested and comparing it with the moment when the custody officer told me I was going to be released without charge. I’m thinking about the other night at Raks’s again. The way I felt as Dad staggered up the garden path. Knowing that I should give him some sympathy, put things right. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it then, and I can’t do it now. Not that it’s an option now, anyway. We’ve gone way beyond that.

  Another couple of minutes pass. Dad still shows no sign of doing or saying anything.

  I clear my throat.

  “Are we finished, then?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look up. Eventually he grunts.

  I take it as a yes.

  “Right then.” I stand up, yawn and stretch. “I’m going to bed.”

  sixteen

  The bloke next door is banging around again. Saturday morning and he’s hard at it. He started a bit later than usual today. Ten to eight, instead of twenty-five past seven. He’s making up for lost time now though. Quarter to twelve and things seem to be reaching a crescendo. He’s making such a racket that I’m not actually sure if I’ve just heard the doorbell ring.

  I push myself up onto the edge of my bed, leaning across to turn down the volume on my stereo. I listen for a couple of seconds. There’s a whining sound like a high-speed drill, but no bell. Perhaps I’m imagining things. I’m just about to turn my music up again when I hear ringing. This time there’s no mistaking it. We’ve got visitors.

  I stand up and head out onto the landing. Dad’s downstairs, but there’s not much likelihood of him getting up. He’s crashed out on the sofa again. I start to go down the stairs. I’m wondering who’s at the door. It might be Jehovah’s Witnesses. They’re quite often in this neck of the woods at weekends, suits on, briefcases in hand. I think they were round last Saturday though, so it probably isn’t them. I can rule the postman out because there’s already a pile of junk mail on the mat. So that leaves Raks or Zoe.

  As I reach my hand up to turn the catch, I make a prediction. Raks. I’ve not seen him since Tuesday night. He’s not been at Parkway and he hasn’t been returning my texts or calls. He’ll have been under the cosh big-time at home, but now he’s coming round to tell me all about it. I’ve got lots to tell him, too. It’s been a pretty interesting week at school. I open the door. I’m half right. Because it is Raks. But Zoe is there too.

  I blink, surprised.

  “Alright you two?” I say.

  They both give me nervous smiles.

  I step aside to let them in, but they’re hesitating. I feel a little flicker of anxiety. Something’s going on. I hope it’s not what I think it is. Surely Raks wouldn’t have given the game away? Not after I specifically told him not to.

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to brazen things out.

  Zoe looks at me. She steps up into the hallway and puts her arms round my waist, squeezing me tight. It’s just a hug, but there’s something strange about it. It feels more like sympathy than affection. It’s the sort of hug I
remember relatives giving me at my mum’s funeral. She loosens her grip, then kisses me on the cheek.

  I laugh.

  “This is all very formal,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  Zoe takes a breath, composing herself.

  “Tom,” she says. “I haven’t got long. I’ve got to get the twenty past twelve bus into school for a dress rehearsal. Let’s not mess around. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I swallow. I decide to play dumb. I’m pretty certain I know where this is leading, but there’s always a chance I might have got it wrong.

  “Say anything about what?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Tom. I know about Tuesday night.”

  Instantly I feel like all the air has been knocked out of me. I rub my nose, thinking about what I can say.

  Zoe carries on.

  “Raks told me. He feels really bad about it, like he’s let you down. But he did it because he’s your mate and he wants what’s best for you. He thinks you need to talk.”

  It’s a totally inappropriate response, but I get a sudden urge to laugh. I’m in the middle of what Americans call An Intervention. I glower over Zoe’s shoulder, trying to catch Raks’s eye, give him the look of death. If he thinks I think he’s betrayed me, he’s spot on. Raks just stares at the ground. My mouth is dry. I swallow again.

  “Do you both want to come in then?” I ask.

  Raks looks up.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “You two have got a lot of things to talk about. Why don’t I leave you to it, and go down the Rec? Tom, you could come down when Zoe goes into town.”

  I shrug.

  “Whatever you want,” I reply, offhand.

  Raks heads off up the path and I pull the door closed.

  Zoe gives me another nervous smile.

  “Shall we go for a chat then?” I ask.

  She nods and follows me up the stairs.

  In my room I sit on the bed. Zoe stays standing up. She’s in her indie kid gear again. Converse, skinny black jeans. Her army jacket isn’t zipped all the way up and I can see that she’s wearing the Mickey Mouse T-shirt she bought last month on our trip into Letchford. She brushes dust off my chest of drawers and picks up a DVD case. Terrace Warfare. My heart sinks. I keep forgetting to give it back to Ryan.

  Zoe tuts and puts the DVD down. She comes across to the bed and sits next to me.

  “I don’t know how to start,” she says. “I knew something was going on, that you were changing, but I never thought you’d get yourself into anything like this. Arrested for football violence.” She shakes her head.

  I clear my throat.

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I say. “We’ve not been charged with anything.”

  Zoe laughs. It’s a hollow sound.

  “Only because you denied it all. Raks told me you were both in the thick of it. And that you’d done other stuff before.”

  My mind is in a whirl. I flatten out a section of my quilt cover with the palm of my hand.

  “Sorry,” I say. But as I say it, I realise I don’t really mean it. Why should I? It’s not like I got myself arrested to spite her. She’s just trying to make me feel guilty.

  She ducks her head down to look into my eyes.

  “Why, Tom? What’s happening to you?”

  I pull a face. There’s not really an answer to that. Or if there is, it’s too complex to put into a few sentences.

  Zoe flicks hair out of her eyes, looking around, searching for the right words.

  “Come on Tom. You know what football hooligans are like. They’re scumbags. Wanting to hurt people, making people’s lives a misery. You’re not like that.”

  I shake my head. There are things I could say to her. Like how there’s more to it than just hitting people. It’s about pride. About belonging. But I don’t think she’d believe me. I’m starting to feel annoyed now. Irritated at being put on the spot and having to justify myself when there really shouldn’t have been any need.

  “I suppose Ryan Dawkins is behind all of this isn’t he?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  She isn’t convinced.

  “I asked you what Ryan was like and you wouldn’t tell me anything. But I’ve heard stuff now. There are people at my school who know about him. He was sent down a year, basically for being a complete nutter. Did you know they call him ASBO Boy?”

  I laugh. I’ve not heard that nickname for a while.

  “It’s not funny,” Zoe says. “Do you really want to be known as someone who hangs around with people like that? You’ll get a reputation as an idiot, too. Yeah. Tom Mitchell. Good bloke to know if you need someone headbutted or slashed with a Stanley knife. Either that or you’ll get yourself killed.”

  I blow out a breath and flop back onto the bed. I can’t get a word in edgeways.

  Zoe leans over me. There’s a sad look in her eyes now.

  “The thing is, “she says, “I can’t help feeling like I’m somehow to blame.”

  I prop myself up on one elbow.

  “In what way?” I ask.

  Zoe looks down.

  “Oh, you know. I just haven’t been there for you over these past couple of months. What with all this time spent on Oliver. I’ve given you a load of grief about your hair, drinking, about the people you’ve been hanging about with, stuff like that. Maybe I’ve driven you to this.”

  I actually do feel a twinge of guilt now. I reach out my hand and stroke Zoe’s face. Her skin feels smooth and soft.

  “Don’t be silly,” I say. “It’s not you.”

  She tries a smile and touches the T pendant around my neck.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she says. “I’m really sorry if I’ve been giving you a hard time.”

  I ease myself back down. Zoe lies next to me and we stay that way for a while. It’s starting to occur to me that this might be a good moment to get one or two things off my chest. It looks like I might just have landed on the moral high ground by accident.

  “I haven’t really seen much of you recently,” I tell her. “It’s like I’ve seen you, but I haven’t seen you.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I know what you mean.”

  “And I know that you think it’s me that’s changing, but maybe it’s you. I think maybe I’ve been a bit worried about that. You’re dressing differently and spending time with different people. Sometimes I feel you might be leaving me behind.”

  There’s a pause while Zoe lets this sink in.

  “No,” she says eventually. “You’re just being paranoid. You’re the one that’s changing. Look at the evidence. I’m growing up. There’s a difference.”

  I nod. The moral high ground has just collapsed under my feet. I keep my mouth shut.

  Another couple of minutes pass. Zoe looks at her watch. It’s nearly five past twelve.

  “Anyway. I’ve got to go. I’ve said what I needed to say. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, yeah? And I’ll do everything I can to help you put this Letchford Town episode behind you.”

  My stomach lurches. Zoe thinks I’m done with Letchford Town. I’m shocked for a second or two, but then the shock subsides. Of course that’s what she thinks. It’s obvious from the way she’s been acting. I can hardly believe I didn’t suss it out for myself. Raks must have given her the full run-down of what was said on Tuesday night. The desk sergeant advising us not to show our faces at Southlands for a while. That was just an unofficial warning though. Nothing binding. As far as I’m concerned, the Letchford Town episode isn’t behind me. Not by a long way.

  Zoe kisses me.

  “I just want to have the old Tom back,” she says, sitting up.

  I cough.

  “So what do you reckon?” Zoe asks. “Fresh start?”

  “Fresh start,” I say. I’m completely cornered. Unless I want a big flare-up, there’s nothing else I can say. Another twinge of guilt goes through me. And this time it’s a killer. Because I know all of this is
bollocks. There’s not really going to be a fresh start between us. Not if it means giving up Letchford Town. And after next Friday night, with the small matter of the clash between Oliver and the Letchford-Mackworth derby, there probably isn’t even going to be an us any more.

  Fifteen minutes later Zoe has gone and I’m walking along Hill View Drive, on my way to meet Raks. I’ve gone through a pretty big range of emotions in the last three quarters of an hour. Surprise, annoyance, irritation, guilt. Now I’m feeling pissed off and angry.

  There’s been a hard frost overnight and there’s no sign of a thaw yet. As I go through the gate and head across the Rec, the grass is white and brittle, crackling under my feet. In spite of the weather, the usual punters are out in force. The dog walkers, the two big blokes in England shirts whacking golf balls around, the kids on quad bikes and mopeds, number plates wrapped in plastic bags in case the coppers turn up.

  I can see Raks. He’s sitting on one of the few unvandalised swings in the adventure playground, swaying to and fro, squinting at his mobile, breath coming out in white clouds. I hadn’t noticed it before, but his hair’s getting long. He didn’t get it cut the last time I did and it’s quite bushy now. He’s wearing a short brown pilot jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. He doesn’t look like an NLLF boy any more. I keep walking. As I get closer, Raks glances up. He’s spotted me. I can see that he’s smiling. And he can see that I’m not.

  “What’s up?” he asks, stuffing his phone into his pocket. It’s a fairly pointless question. He knows what’s up.

  I pull myself onto a swing next to him. The chains are icy cold in my hands. I shake my head.

  “I don’t fucking believe you. What did you have to tell her for?”

  Raks looks like he’s going to say something, but then he thinks better of it.

  I look down at the ground. Frosted bark chippings, broken glass and fag ends, muddy scuffs worn away under each of the swing seats. I shake my head again. I’ve got so much I want to say but I don’t know how to start. I look up at the sky. There’s a plane cutting its way through the clouds. The cobwebs in the corners of the swing frame are frosted white like cake decorations.