Drive By

by Jim Carrington

  They told me that I was being interviewed under caution, that I wasn’t under arrest and that I was free to leave whenever I wanted. Then they asked me what happened.

  I told them the truth. At least, a version of the truth. I left out the fact that there were three other people involved in the drive-by soaking. Neither the police, the solicitor nor Dad seemed to doubt what I said. The police just asked me a few questions, picked up on a few details, asked whether I’d shot at other people with the water pistol. I told them the whole truth then. And as I spoke, I kept watching their faces for a reaction, to see what they thought of me. There was no reaction though. I could’ve been ordering a burger and chips for all the emotion on their faces. When the interview was over, I went back to the front office and waited. And waited.

  And then, suddenly, the solicitor is in front of me, talking, telling me that the police aren’t bringing any charges against me, that it isn’t in the public interest to investigate it further. I listen and nod and struggle to take it in. This is meant to be good news.

  The sergeant speaks to me before they hand all my things back. He gives me a telling off, like I’m back at school and I’ve thrown a rubber at a teacher or something. I stand and listen, wanting to be anywhere else but here. The last thing he says is, ‘I don’t think you’ll be doing anything stupid like that again, will you?’

  He sounds really patronising, but he’s right. I won’t.

  I guess I should be feeling relieved. But I’m not. I feel hollow.

  Dad thanks the police, looking about as embarrassed as me. Then we walk through the front door of the station, out into bright daylight. The rest of the world is going on as normal, oblivious to what I’ve done. It feels like the world should have stopped turning, like there should be TV cameras thrust into my face, broadcasting my guilt around the globe. Everyone should know what I’ve done. I shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. But everything is as it always was.

  We walk in silence down the steps to the car. We drive home in silence. No radio. No talking. Just the hum of the engine as we drive through Wimbledon and into Raynes Park.

  As we pass the big houses along Worple Road, I will Dad to say something. To start shouting at me. To call me an idiot. To tell me I’m grounded for the rest of my life. To get angry or upset. Anything. But he doesn’t.

  We cruise through Raynes Park and he doesn’t say a word. I feel like I’m in a dream. Nothing feels the way it should.

  We take a left at the lights at the end of the high street. I look out of the window. The parade of shops is just up ahead. There are no cars parked out there today. No silver car. As we get closer, I notice two people come out of the shop and grab their bikes. Jake and Drac. They look up as the car approaches. I see the look of recognition as Jake works out whose car it is. And then he spots me. He sits on his bike and stares at me, a look of disdain. He shakes his head slowly.

  We turn right and then on to Exminster Avenue. We go past the Poisoned Dwarf’s house, past the parked silver car. I imagine her husband inside the house, sitting in his chair with his broken ankle. I wonder whether he knows what I’ve done. I wonder whether Summer told him, whether she’s there now.

  In a second the house is behind us and we’re into Sidmouth Avenue. Dad pulls into the parking space outside our house and switches the engine off. He undoes his seatbelt, but he doesn’t move to open his door. So neither do I. I can feel it in the air – a lecture is close.

  ‘We need to talk about this.’

  I nod my head.

  ‘But not right now – you need to get some rest,’ he says. ‘When we get inside, you do need to apologise to Mikey though. Do you understand?’

  I nod again.

  There’s a long moment when neither of us does or says anything. Then Dad opens his door.

  As soon as we get inside the house, we go through to the lounge. Mikey’s not there for a change. Mum is, though. She looks at me and then at Dad. Her face is a mixture of sympathy, concern and disappointment.

  ‘Are you OK, Johnny?’

  I nod. It’s easier than telling the truth.

  Mum gives me a hug. And when that’s done, I stand there, not sure what to say, where to look, what to do.

  Dad tells me to sit down on the sofa, so I do.

  ‘Mikey, come down here, please,’ Dad calls up the stairs.

  Moments later he clumps down the stairs and comes into the lounge. He looks shamefaced. He has cuts around his mouth and his right eye has swelled and closed up a little. As he sits down in a chair, he feels his side, like he’s in pain. I get the impression he’s acting a bit. But I feel bad. I feel embarrassed. I did that to him. I lost control.

  ‘Mikey?’ Dad starts, standing in front of the TV. ‘I think you have something to say to Johnny . . .’

  I feel confused. This isn’t what I expected. Why am I getting an apology?

  Mikey folds his arms. He doesn’t look at me. He has a look of contempt on his face. He shakes his head.

  Dad shifts on his feet. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m not apologising to him,’ Mikey says. ‘He’s a psycho.’ He points to his face, then lifts up his jumper and points to some marks on his side. ‘Look at what he did to me.’

  Dad sighs. He shifts on his feet again. ‘Look, Mikey,’ he says, ‘Johnny will apologise to you. He knows that what he did to you was wrong, don’t you, Johnny?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that you were also in the wrong,’ Dad says.

  Mikey huffs in his seat. He turns his body away from me.

  There’s silence. Dad stares at Mikey. Mikey stares at the fingernails on his left hand. Mum stares at Dad.

  ‘Well, Mikey?’

  Mikey takes a deep breath. Then, in the most reluctant voice I’ve ever heard, he mumbles, ‘Sorry.’

  Dad nods. He looks relieved. ‘Johnny?’

  I look down at the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’

  And that’s it. The end of the conversation. It doesn’t feel like any kind of closure to me, but it’s as good as we’re gonna get.

  We don’t sit around in the lounge for much longer. As soon as I can, I come up here to my room and lie on my bed. I feel tired, but I don’t feel sleepy. I still feel wired and weird and uncomfortable. I take my mobile phone from my pocket and switch it on.

  A flurry of messages come through. From Mum and Dad and Jake and Drac and Badger. I don’t read any of them. I don’t know if I ever want to know what they were thinking of me this morning. Maybe I’ll delete them.

  But I look through the contacts instead. Sure enough, there’s the Poisoned Dwarf. I open the contact and look at the details. It’s Mikey’s mobile number. I delete the entry from my phone.

  Another text message comes through. From Summer. I stare at my phone for ages. I don’t know whether I want to read it or not. My thumb hovers over the buttons. Read or ignore? Read? Ignore? Do I want to know what she thinks of me? Don’t I know already?

  I press read.

  Hope u r OK. I read ur letter. I think we need to meet. I have something to explain to u. S

  I’m about to reply, when my bedroom door opens. I put my phone on my bed and look up. Mikey comes into my room.

  ‘What do you want?’ I say.

  Mikey doesn’t say anything. He comes over and lies down on the floor next to my bed. He reaches his arm out underneath my bed and rummages around.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say. Ordinarily I’d get up and drag him out of my room, but that obviously isn’t the right thing to do at this moment. So I just watch what he does.

  ‘Got it,’ he says a couple of seconds later. He pulls his arm out from under my bed, then sits up on his knees. In his hand he has a digital watch. ‘Whoops. The alarm’s been on all the time it’s been under here. Hope it hasn’t disturbed you.’

  He stands up and walks towards the door. As he leaves my room, he turns and winks at me.

  I lie back on the bed, roll ov
er and shut my eyes.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to my contact in the Met, Linda Kernot, for her expert legal knowledge and for helping me find my way round a police station.

  Apologies to the Timpsons and Browns for borrowing and changing stories here and there.

  My Inspiration for DRIVE BY

  In my first summer at sixth form, I remember an urban legend going around the common room. During a free period, a group of lads was messing about, soaking each other with pump-action water guns on the school field, when they had a bright idea. One of them had recently passed his driving test and they all got in his car and cruised around the sleepy streets of the small market town where our college was as though they were gangsters, soaking bystanders with their water pistols. A drive-by soaking. The story went that a police car (it must have been the only one in town) happened to be watching the boys as they brandished their water gun at their car window. The police thought it was a real gun and immediately gave chase, with their lights flashing and the siren shattering the peace. The car chase didn’t last long. As soon as they realised the police were after them, the boys pulled over. Needless to say, the police weren’t too happy when they searched them and discovered that the ‘weapon’ was a water pistol. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed. Whether that story has any basis in truth is debatable, but it has stayed with me all these years.

  I wondered what might happen if somebody were to do something seemingly innocuous but the consequences turned out to be tragic. What if you shot at someone with a water pistol and instead of simply getting a bit wet, they had a heart attack and died? Would you own up or keep quiet? Would it be manslaughter, murder or just a tragic accident?

  That’s how Drive By started. However, while the book originally grew from that urban legend, new characters turned up to complicate things, most notably Summer, who brought along her own tragic back story. Much of Summer’s story – deaths, spiritualists and all – was inspired by real-life events. If you’d like to read more about my inspiration for the book, be sure to stop by my website – www.JimCarrington.co.uk.

  I hope you enjoyed the book.

  Jim Carrington

  Check out the Jim Carrington Fan Page on Facebook

  Read on for a taster of Inside My Head

  also by Jim Carrington . . .

  PAUL KNAGGS looks forward to school.

  Because at school he can rip Gary Wood to shreds.

  And GARY just takes it – usually.

  DAVID is Knaggs’s friend.

  He does what Knaggs says – usually.

  ZOË has moved from London to the middle of nowhere.

  As far as she’s concerned, life is over.

  And then she meets the school loner, Gary.

  GARY – KNAGGS – DAVID – ZOË.

  When their stories collide, things get messy.

  David

  I’m already on question four as the bell goes.

  ‘Hand in your books when you’ve finished,’ Mr H calls over the noise. ‘Then you can leave.’

  Mills and me hand our books in and walk out of the lab, to the cloakroom.

  About thirty seconds later, Knaggs joins us. ‘D’you see Wood?’ he says. ‘I thought he was gonna start blubbing!’

  I nod my head. ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say. ‘He looked like he was gonna explode.’

  ‘Leave it now, though,’ Mills says. ‘You know what he’s like.’

  I nod.

  Knaggs shrugs. ‘He won’t do anything.’

  No one answers him. I avoid Knaggs’s eyes.

  We all set about looking for our blazers and bags on the floor of the cloakroom. I find my blazer, brush the dust off it and start looking for my bag.

  Then there’s a noise. SMACK! Loud and shocking.

  The whole place goes silent and we all turn to look. Knaggs is lying on the floor of the cloakroom, holding the side of his face. His mouth is open. He looks stunned. For a second, I’m confused. But then my brain starts to fill in the missing parts and I look around for Wood. But he’s not there. The door out of the cloakroom swings shut.

  We all crowd round Knaggs.

  Mr Moore comes and gets me out of literacy, next lesson. He doesn’t say what it’s about. He just walks me through the empty corridors in silence. But it’s obvious what he wants me for.

  When we get to his office, I expect to see Knaggs sitting there. But he isn’t. Neither’s Wood.

  ‘Take a seat, David,’ Mr Moore says. He points at a comfy green chair.

  I sit down in it and sink back. But I feel awkward, so I sit up straight instead. My hands are sweaty. My heart’s pounding.

  Mr Moore starts off, going on about how I’m a responsible boy and that he trusts me to tell the truth and all that stuff. I just sit there feeling weird. See, I know what he’s gonna ask me to do. He wants me to point the finger. He wants me to grass someone up. Knaggs or Wood. It’s what teachers always want – some mug like me to make their job easier. I have a decision to make, I know. I can tell him the truth and keep the teachers’ rules. But the thing is, then I’d be breaking the kid rules. I’d be breaking the biggest kid rule of all: grassing up my best mate. Or I can lie. It’s the kind of choice where I have no choice.

  ‘Tell me what happened in the science lab, David,’ Mr Moore says.

  I sit and think for a moment. The truth’s easy. I know exactly what happened. We were messing about all lesson, like normal, and Knaggs started taking the mick out of Wood. The rest of us just encouraged him to do it. But Knaggs pushed it too far. Anyone could see how angry Wood was getting – he was about to explode. And then Wood went mental. But I can’t say any of that, not the stuff that actually happened. Knaggs would get into trouble. I’m gonna have to lie, bend the truth a little. Otherwise my life won’t be worth living. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’ve got a nervous guilty feeling in my stomach and I haven’t even started lying yet.

  ‘Was there an argument, David?’ Mr Moore says. ‘Tell me what you remember . . .’

  I look up at him. He’s looking straight at me, almost smiling but not quite. I take a deep breath. ‘It started when Gary came into science late, sir,’ I say. No lies yet but my heart’s still beating like crazy. ‘Gary and Knaggs – I mean, Paul Knaggs – well, they were having a laugh, taking the mickey out of each other, just winding each other up.’ My voice is shaking slightly. It doesn’t sound like me talking.

  Mr Moore picks a notebook up off his desk and then a pen. He writes something down. And then he stops and looks up at me again. He smiles. ‘It was both of them, you say?’

  I nod.

  Mr Moore makes more notes. Then he looks up at me. ‘OK. How were they winding each other up, David?’

  I look down at my feet. ‘Don’t know. Just the usual, really. They always do it. Just calling each other names and that. It was nothing serious, sir. It was just a bit of give and take.’

  I look up. Mr Moore’s writing more things in his notebook and nodding his head. Over his shoulder I can see a signed cricket bat and an old photo of the school team. I stare at them. God, I wish I was outside playing cricket instead of sitting here.

  ‘Go on,’ Mr Moore says.

  I look back at him with a start. I must look guilty as hell. So I look at my shoes again. See, I’m a rubbish liar. People can see it in my eyes straight away. I can’t hide it. ‘Well, then we all got on with our work. Tried to get it all finished before the end of the lesson. Except Gary. He just sort of sat there and stared at the desk. He looked angry. And then he tried to start it all up again,’ I say. And I hate myself for saying it. I think of Wood sitting there in the lab, with that angry face, taking it all. I should be telling Mr Moore about that. But I can’t. I can’t grass on Knaggs. That’s the rules. The kid rules. He’s my mate. I have to stick up for him. ‘Gary kept trying to start it all off again, calling Paul short and that. And so Paul took the mickey back a bit. And that’s when Gary started to look really angry, like he co
uldn’t handle it any more.’

  Mr Moore raises his eyebrows. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘Can you remember exactly what was said?’

  I stare back at him. The ‘sort of’ smile has gone from his face. He looks serious now. I feel like he’s about to rumble me. I shake my head. ‘Not exactly, sir,’ I say. I look up at the cricket bat again, to avoid looking in his eyes. ‘Gary was taking the mickey out of Paul for being short. And Paul was taking the mickey back, saying Gary’s head looks like a cheese puff. And then Gary just got really angry. He said he was gonna kill Paul – that sort of stuff.’

  Mr Moore raises his eyebrows again and notes something else down in his book. He underlines it three times, then looks back at me. ‘You’re sure that’s what he said, David . . . ?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’ My heart’s thumping so hard I can hear it in my ears. I feel sick. I want to be out of this room.

  ‘Absolutely sure . . . ?’

  I take a breath. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, David,’ Mr Moore says. And then he shows me to the door.

  CONTAINS STRONG

  LANGUAGE

  AVAILABLE NOW

  www.JimCarrington.co.uk

  Also by Jim Carrington

  Inside My Head

  In the Bag

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in March 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  This electronic edition published in March 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

  Text copyright © Jim Carrington 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted