Drive By

by Jim Carrington

  I look at my watch. It’s coming up to the time we’re meant to meet. I start to wonder whether he’s gonna turn up or not. I chew my gum, blow a bubble that pops in front of my face. I check my phone, see if he’s called. I check my watch again, shuffle my feet nervously. He’s gonna stand me up. I know it. He thinks I’m a freak. And he’s probably right.

  Then I see him crossing the road from the bus stop. He looks up, sees me and smiles nervously. My heart starts to beat faster.

  I take my earphones out and put them in my bag. I take my gum out and put it in a tissue.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m late, aren’t I?’

  I shake my head. I think about saying something, making a lame joke, but all of a sudden all my words have dried up.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says, sounding kind of nervous.

  I look down at my clothes. Same old black clothes. To be fair though, this afternoon I spent ages choosing exactly which black clothes to put on. ‘Thanks,’ I say, realising I sound surprised as I say it.

  There’s a pause. Maybe I should be the one filling it.

  ‘You look nice as well,’ I say.

  He smiles shyly. ‘Do I? Thanks.’

  And then there’s another pause. We look at each other and smile awkwardly, nervously.

  ‘We should go and get a drink or something . . .’

  He nods. ‘Definitely.’

  So we go into the shopping centre, talking as we walk about stupid things, like how stinky the bus was that he travelled on, which makes me feel good. At least I’m not the only one who notices stupid stuff like that.

  We go straight up to a café in the food court. Frothy, creamy, iced coffee for me and orange juice for Johnny. We sit at a table with a view out over the high street.

  We sit in silence for a bit. I stir my coffee with a straw. And I start to wonder whether this is gonna be awkward. We know nothing about each other. Who knows if we have anything in common apart from being made to do all the errands and hating smelly buses? I take the straw out of my coffee and lick the cream off it. I stir it around again as I think about what I’m gonna ask him. Then I take it back out again and lick the cream and coffee off it.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that!’ Johnny says.

  I immediately feel my cheeks flush. ‘Sorry. Was I being gross?’

  He laughs, then shakes his head. ‘Not at all.’

  I look down at my coffee and think of something to say. ‘How old are you?’ It sounds a bit rude and abrupt when it comes out. It sounds like a dumb question.

  ‘Sixteen,’ he says. ‘You?’

  I smile. ‘Same. So do you go to school around here?’

  ‘Yeah. Shannon Corner High. In Raynes Park. How about you?’

  ‘Tooting. St Martin’s,’ I say.

  He nods. He sips some of his juice and looks out of the window at the high street. He looks back at me and smiles.

  ‘It’s weird, don’t you think?’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way we’ve never met and then all of a sudden we keep bumping into each other.’

  He nods his head.

  ‘Maybe it’s fate or something.’

  He nods again, gulps down some of his drink. ‘Either that or one of us is a stalker!’

  I smile. ‘Oh, so you figured me out, then!’ I sort of wish I hadn’t said it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. If he didn’t think I was a stalker beforehand, he does now. I slurp some of my coffee to try and hide my burning cheeks.

  But Johnny just smiles. ‘You’re right. It must be fate.’

  I nod. ‘Totally. It has to be, doesn’t it?’

  Johnny looks at me, holds my gaze for ages. I look at his pupils. I watch them dilate. I heard that it’s a way you can tell if someone likes you – if their pupils dilate when they look at you, they’re attracted to you. I don’t know whether that’s true. His pupils dilate though. He likes me. But he looks away again.

  ‘I checked out a couple of Cure albums online,’ Johnny says. ‘After I met you the other day.’

  I nod and stir my coffee. ‘Really? Cool.’

  He smiles and nods. ‘The Head on the Door, is it called?’

  I smile. I feel a sensation in my tummy, like butterflies. ‘That’s my dad’s favourite record ever.’

  Johnny nods. ‘Your dad has good taste.’ He smiles.

  ‘He’s pretty cool.’

  Johnny’s smile gets wider. ‘So have you got any more music tips? What else should I be listening to?’

  I smile. We’re away. The ice is broken. I tell him some more of my dad’s favourite records and some of mine as well. After that we sit and chat for ages. The little silences between us get shorter and less awkward. And I find out all kinds of stuff about him. Like he has a younger brother that annoys him like mad. He has a paper round. He wants to be a scriptwriter when he’s older, writing films, which is very cool. In return, I give him a potted version of my life story, but heavily edited to leave out the stuff I don’t want him knowing.

  Our drinks are long finished when a cleaner comes over and takes the empty cups off the table and wipes it with a cloth and some spray. The conversation suddenly dries up as we watch the cleaner work. And then, as soon as he’s gone, we look at each other and laugh.

  ‘Do you think that was a hint?’

  ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

  We get up and start walking out of the food court, down the escalator and out of the shopping centre. Neither of us seems to be taking the lead in where we’re going. We just kind of amble along, chatting and laughing, along the high street till the high street peters out into a load of newsagents and restaurants. We take a turning on the left on to a residential road of posh-looking houses.

  ‘Is this where you live?’ Johnny asks.

  I laugh. ‘God, no. I live in a seriously scuzzy little flat in Tooting. These places are palaces.’

  ‘So do you know where we’re going?’ he asks.

  I shrug. I stand and think for a second. ‘Not really.’ And then I have an idea. ‘Seeing as we both agree that fate brought us here, maybe we should let fate decide where we end up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I open my bag and search for a coin. I flip it in the air, trying to look cool, but only just manage to catch it. ‘We let the coin decide,’ I say. I point up the road. ‘See that turning up ahead? Heads, we go straight on. Tails says we go right.’

  Johnny smiles. He nods. ‘Cool,’ he says. ‘All right, then.’

  I toss the coin in the air and then catch it. Slowly I take away my top hand.

  ‘Tails,’ Johnny says. ‘We go right.’

  So we do. And for the next couple of minutes we keep doing the same thing, letting the coin decide, till we end up next to a church with a low wall and a churchyard out front. I stop walking. I take the coin out once more.

  ‘Heads, we sit in the churchyard. Tails, we keep walking.’

  The coin arcs through the air and lands in my hands. I look directly at Johnny as I take my top hand away.

  ‘Heads,’ Johnny says. ‘We go into the churchyard.’

  I look at him and smile, shrug my shoulders. And then I unlatch the little gate into the churchyard and hold it open for Johnny. We walk in along a path and sit on a bench outside the church.

  Johnny looks kind of nervously around at the gravestones. ‘So this is where fate brought us?’ he says, still looking at the graves. ‘Do you think that’s a bad sign?’

  I laugh. ‘I hope not. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with graveyards,’ I say. ‘Though I have to admit that going to one on a first date is a bit . . . well, strange.’

  Johnny looks at me. He smiles. He doesn’t say anything. Our eyes lock in on each other. For a second I think he’s gonna lean over and kiss me. And I sort of wish that he would. But then he looks away as though something just occurred to him. He stares at the graves.

  I look at the rows and rows of gravestones a
s well. How rubbish am I? I decide to try and look cool and impulsive by letting the coin decide, to make Johnny think that’s the kind of person I am, and we wind up sitting in a graveyard in silence. Talk about a mood killer.

  Johnny stares at the headstones. He still looks nervous. I think maybe he’d rather be somewhere else.

  After a while he clears his throat. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Summer?’

  ‘Yeah, I think I do.’ I turn to him. ‘Do you?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t really know,’ he says. ‘I think so.’ Then he goes quiet, staring out across the graveyard. I wonder what he’s thinking about.

  ‘I don’t believe in white sheets and howling and all that stuff though,’ I say. ‘I believe in spirits.’

  Johnny nods. He doesn’t say anything. He slowly turns and looks at me. Our eyes lock in on each other again. But then I start thinking about things. About Dad. About Nan. I look down at the ground and try to let it pass.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Johnny says. I can sense him sitting uncomfortably on the bench, thinking that he’s done or said something that’s upset me.

  I nod my head. ‘I was just thinking about my dad. Sorry.’

  There’s a pause. Johnny doesn’t say anything. He looks awkward, confused. It’s time to explain.

  ‘He died before I was born,’ I say, still looking down at the ground. ‘A road accident.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m sorry,’ Johnny says.

  I look up at him. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Johnny doesn’t say anything.

  ‘He was driving to work and got hit by a white van.’

  ‘My God. That’s awful.’

  ‘I never even met him. He never even held me. When I asked about him Mum always told me that his spirit was watching over us. She said that he could see me, that I should sense him around me.’

  Johnny nods.

  ‘It made me totally paranoid,’ I say. Then I laugh. ‘Imagine your dad being able to see everything you do . . .’

  Johnny looks horrified. ‘Uh, no thanks.’

  ‘But I think there was something in what my mum said. I think he is around still. His spirit.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Johnny says. ‘I’ve had the feeling that there are spirits about.’

  I look at him. He looks away immediately, like he wishes he hadn’t said anything. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is exactly, but sometimes I just get a feeling like I’m not alone.’

  I nod. I wasn’t expecting him to say anything like that.

  ‘I never see anyone or hear anyone, but I just know there’s someone there.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ I ask.

  Johnny doesn’t answer right away. He looks at his feet. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says eventually. Then he pauses. ‘Did you ever try and speak to your dad’s spirit?’

  I nod my head even though I feel a bit stupid admitting to it. ‘Of course. I used to all the time. Not so much now.’

  ‘Did he ever answer?’

  I smile. ‘Kind of, I think. Sometimes he’d send a sign. He’d do something, like an object would move in the room. Or I’d feel a breeze. Or I’d just happen to see a word, like on a sign, that was to do with what I’d spoken to him about.’

  ‘Really? You think it was him, then?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so,’ I say. ‘You know, my nan went to a medium to try and get in touch with my dad after he died.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I only found out recently, after she died. I asked my grandad about it and he said it didn’t make it any easier for her. But he said that there were tape recordings of the sessions. He’s still got them.’

  Johnny sits staring at his trainers. He nods his head. ‘Have you listened to them?’

  I shake my head. ‘I want to. I don’t think my grandad wants me to though. I’d love to hear what she heard and even just hear her voice again.’

  ‘You should borrow them,’ Johnny says. ‘Without your grandad knowing.’

  I shake my head even though it’s just what I’d like to do. I get up from the bench. Johnny gets up too.

  ‘There’s no way I’d be able to get them without him knowing,’ I say as we walk back down the path. ‘I don’t even know exactly where they are.’

  Johnny opens the gate and holds it for me. I put my arm through his as we start walking down the road.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot,’ I say. ‘I’m gonna try and get in touch with my nan and my dad myself.’

  Johnny looks at me. ‘What? How? Like a ouija board or something?’

  I shake my head. ‘There’s a spiritualist church nearby. They get in touch with the dead apparently. I’m going next Tuesday.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  I nod. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  Johnny doesn’t answer straight away. And I wonder whether I’m starting to freak him out. First a churchyard, now communicating with the dead. Maybe it wasn’t the brightest thing to ask right now.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’m up for it.’

  Johnny

  I’m walking home from the bus stop, going over everything in my mind. It wasn’t what I expected at all. It’s not like I have a lot of experience in these matters, but I didn’t think in a million years that we’d end up in a graveyard talking about ghosts.

  Maybe I should’ve stayed quiet about what’s been happening to me or changed the subject. But I like Summer. I feel like I can trust her – as long as I don’t tell her too much. It’s cool that she’s happy to talk about things like that. It was good being able to say things without her thinking that I’m soft or weird.

  I walk along Exminster Avenue with my head down. I glance up at number fifteen, which looks just the same as always. I turn on to my road and get my keys out of my pocket as I walk up to my house.

  Inside, I go into the living room and flop down into the sofa. Mikey’s already in there, lying on the floor flicking through a dumb sci-fi magazine. He looks up at me.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  I grab the remote control and switch the TV on. ‘Nowhere,’ I say. ‘What’s it to you?’

  Mikey sits up and smirks. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘It’s just that the police were here earlier and they wanted to know where you were.’

  I freeze. ‘What?’

  ‘The police,’ he says, cool as you like. ‘They wanted to talk to you.’

  I don’t say anything. A million thoughts flash through my mind at once. I wonder whether they’ve been to Jake or Badger or Drac’s houses. Jesus. My heart thumps. I try and stay as calm as I can.

  ‘What for?’ I say. ‘Did they say why?’

  Mikey shakes his head. ‘Not really. They just said you were in big trouble.’

  I stare back at him. He holds my gaze. And then all of a sudden he smirks and has to look away. He starts laughing, rolling around on the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  Mikey stops for a second and looks at me. ‘You really are stupid,’ he says. ‘You must have one hell of a guilty conscience if you believed me.’

  I feel confused. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in. He’s lying. He made it up. There was no visit from the police. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or relieved or what. I shake my head.

  ‘You’re a sad case, Mikey,’ I say. I look away from him and stare at the TV.

  ‘You’re the sad case who fell for it,’ Mikey says. ‘You know, if you’re feeling that guilty, maybe you should hand yourself into the police. Maybe they’ll go easy on you if you fess up.’

  Summer

  I’m still in my dressing gown, drinking a glass of juice at the kitchen table, when the front door opens and a couple of seconds later Mum comes in. She puts her shopping down.

  ‘Morning, Summer,’ she says and plants a kiss on my cheek. She goes over to the sink and fills the kettle.

  ‘You been to the shops?’
I ask, just for something to say.

  ‘Yes.’ Mum switches the kettle on and then unpacks the shopping from the bags. ‘I looked in on Harry as well.’

  I nod. ‘Was he OK?’

  Mum opens the fridge and puts some food away. ‘Yes. I think so,’ she says. She turns and stares into space as though she’s thinking about it. ‘He’s not quite himself though, is he?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not really.’

  Neither of us speaks for a while as Mum finishes unpacking the shopping. The kettle boils and she makes a herbal tea. While she’s doing that, I finish my juice and think about whether I should have breakfast or just go straight for lunch.

  When she’s finished, Mum sits at the table. She looks at the front page of the newspaper and snorts at the headline. ‘Stupid politicians!’ she says.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, ‘did Grandad mention the tapes to you?’

  Mum looks at me, an expression on her face that I can’t quite read. ‘Not exactly,’ she says. ‘I got the feeling he wished he’d never said anything about them.’

  ‘Did you ask him about them, then?’

  Mum nods. She takes a sip of her tea.

  ‘And?’

  She shrugs. ‘Like I said, he didn’t want to talk about them.’

  ‘So that was it?’

  ‘I asked him why they’d never told me about the tapes,’ she says, cradling her cup. ‘He said he didn’t know, but that they were your nan’s tapes anyway, not his, so it wasn’t really up to him. I asked him if we could borrow them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said no,’ Mum says. She takes another sip of her tea. ‘But I insisted. And he gave in eventually.’

  ‘Really? How did you do that?’

  Mum shrugs again. ‘Well, I pointed out that if there was anything about your dad on there, then we had a right to hear it.’

  ‘And he agreed?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Mum says.

  ‘Where are they, then?’ I ask.

  Mum looks into one of the jute bags on the table. She brings out two dusty cassette tapes and places them on the table.

  I pick one of them up and look at it. The tape is labelled with the date and the name of the spiritualist, Mrs Pam Davies, and underneath that, New Malden. All in green ink, in Nan’s capital letters. She wrote everything in capital letters. I open the box and take the cassette out. Seeing Nan’s handwriting makes me think of her. I get a slight pang as it dawns on me once more that I’ll never see her again. I imagine her at her dining-room table, writing the labels.