928 Miles from Home

by Kim Slater

  A few hands are cautiously raised. I tuck my own hands under my thighs, the cruel laughter from my imagined scene still ringing in my ears.

  Despite Mr Fox’s enthusiastic thanks to his son and trying to get us whipped up into a frenzy of admiration, there is only a smattering of applause from the teachers at the end of Hugo’s talk.

  After the last lesson of the morning we meet as usual outside the Technology block, before walking across the courtyard for lunch.

  I’m last to get there and when I follow the lads inside the building, Linford hangs back in the corridor outside the bustling dinner hall. He slings an arm across my shoulders and I sag a little under the pressing weight.

  ‘You’re not planning on going to see that counsellor like Mr Fox suggested, are you, mate?’

  I swallow hard.

  The others overhear and stop walking to listen.

  Jack’s mouth drops open. ‘You’re not going to see her, are you, Cal?’

  ‘Course not.’ I shrug.

  Linford gives a little shake of his head. ‘Course he’s not. I’m just making sure, after the Sly Old Fox tried to get us all to agree to it.’

  I wish he’d take his arm away. He’s taller and broader than me and his elbow is digging into the middle of my back. But he tightens his grip.

  ‘A little bird tells me you were over in the Admin block this morning.’ Linford’s grin fades a bit.

  ‘I saw you walk over there, Cal,’ Harry says apologetically. ‘But like I told Linford, there’s no way you’d be going to see that poxy counsellor.’

  He means without clearing it with Linford first.

  I get this feeling inside that reminds me of when I was a little kid and I’d done something wrong without realizing what.

  ‘I had to go over there to the school office to get a contact form to change my dad’s mobile number, that’s all.’ I shrug as if I don’t know what the big deal is. ‘I thought Mr Fox said we’d all got to go to see the counsellor, though.’

  ‘Did he? I thought he’d just suggested it.’ Linford pulls a cartoon frown at the others. ‘The Sly Old Fox says we should do a lot of things, but we usually ignore him – right, lads?’

  Jack and Harry nod their approval.

  ‘I just thought I’d ask, Cal, because that would be bang out of order, mate. If I found out you’d been to see her, I mean.’

  I think about my chat with Freya, how she said it was just between the two of us.

  ‘No worries.’ I drop my head forward and try to shrug him off, but he still doesn’t move his arm.

  ‘They’d love it if they got us grassing each other up. That’s why the Fox wants us all to go.’ Linford’s face hardens. ‘She’ll start off all friendly, get you to write a load of stuff down, and then turn it against you. Turn it against us.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, sensing a damp patch forming at the bottom of my back.

  At last, Linford’s arm slides off my shoulders and his lips peel back revealing two rows of neat teeth.

  ‘Cool. I knew you wouldn’t be so stupid.’

  The back of my neck prickles.

  We’re still standing in the corridor outside the dinner hall looking at each other. Someone has pulled the outer door shut and the air hangs around us, heavy and warm.

  Linford smiles then and the other lads grin. We all start walking towards the double doors of the dinner hall and finally I feel my shoulders drop a little.

  I pull open the door and a flood of noise billows out like escaping steam. I turn to look back at Linford and a brief shadow flits across his eyes, like something glossy and dark swarming underwater.

  The dinner hall is heaving, but our table remains unoccupied in the far back corner.

  We collect our loaded food trays and walk through the bustling tables. Linford leads the way and chair legs scrape the floor as other students shuffle hastily aside to let him through.

  We’re nearly at our seats when he suddenly stops walking and spins round, his face animated and split into a wide grin.

  ‘Watch this.’

  He stops at a table where three girls sit huddled together over their food at one end. At the other end, sitting alone, is the new boy who got us all excluded.

  He picks at his food with his head down, frayed blazer sleeves trailing down his fingers.

  Linford kicks the leg of his chair hard.

  The boy visibly jumps and his head jerks up. He opens his mouth to say something but swallows it back down when he sees Linford.

  ‘All right, Immi? That’s your name, isn’t it? Immi Grant?’

  The boy looks down at his food.

  ‘Maybe that should be Ignorant, not Immigrant,’ Jack hisses.

  Linford’s eyes scan the hall but the lunchtime supervisors are all busy up front, sorting out the unruly queue.

  ‘When someone asks you a question in this country, Immi, you’re supposed to answer.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s what we call manners,’ Jack adds.

  The girls have stopped eating and the people seated at nearby tables are now watching with interest.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ Linford repeats. ‘You all right, Immi Grant?’

  Snorts of laughter roll at us like a wave from surrounding tables.

  ‘My name is Sergei Zurakowski,’ the boy says quietly, his eyes cast down at his plate.

  ‘Flipping heck, that’s a bit of a mouthful.’ Linford screws his face up in distaste.

  ‘I am named after my mother’s father, who was Russian.’

  Sergei is misunderstanding. He thinks Linford is actually interested in his name.

  ‘Yeah, well, enough of the boring family history. I think we’d better just stick with Immi.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Jack agrees.

  Sergei’s long skinny legs are folded awkwardly under the table. His trouser hems are ragged and the toes of his shoes scuffed to a dirty grey against the dull black leather. One of his feet jiggles up and down as if there’s music playing in his head.

  ‘Linford, I think one of the dinner ladies is on her way over,’ I call. He never knows when to stop.

  Jack glances up the hall.

  ‘Nah, they’re all busy, Cal, stop worrying.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re enjoying your free English nosh, Immi,’ Linford continues pleasantly, as if he’s discussing the weather. ‘And I’m pleased you’re getting your free education, courtesy of the British taxpayers.’ His eyes flash dangerously. ‘Why don’t you have some free water, too?’

  Linford upends his full glass over Sergei’s meal tray and water gushes down, flooding his food. He shakes out the last few drops for good measure.

  Sergei doesn’t jump back or cry out in surprise. He stares down at his ruined food and he doesn’t move at all.

  A roar of shocked laughter rises all around us and Linford walks quickly away. I hear the dinner staff calling for calm from over the other side of the room, but by this time we’re already sitting innocently at our table.

  ‘Plans for Friday night then, lads?’ Linford announces when we sit down with our trays – as if nothing’s happened. ‘My old fella’s got me and him tickets for Forest’s home game. What’s everybody else up to?’

  ‘Cinema with my brother and his mates,’ Harry mumbles through a mouthful of food. ‘Don’t know what film we’re seeing yet though.’

  ‘We’ve got a houseful. Aunties, uncles, cousins. Flipping nightmare.’ Jack rolls his eyes. ‘It’s Mum’s birthday, so at least I should be able to smuggle a couple of beers up to my room.’

  ‘Cool.’ Linford grins.

  I glance over at Sergei. He’s trying to roll up his sopping blazer sleeves while the people around him stare on.

  ‘Cal?’ Linford looks over at Sergei and then back at me. ‘I asked what you’re up to tonight?’

  Something usually pops into my head if anyone asks, but today I can’t think – I’ve got brain freeze. The sounds of cutlery chinking and plates rattling grows louder
in my ears but there is still no answer for Linford.

  Harry and Jack look up from their food.

  ‘He’s been struck dumb.’ Jack smirks, shovelling in a forkful of pasta.

  ‘Bowling,’ I finally manage. ‘Me and Dad are going ten-pin bowling tonight.’

  Linford nods slowly, his dark eyes pinned to me.

  I look down and push my food around. The spaghetti looks like a tangle of worms on my plate.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sergei stand up and leave the dinner hall.

  I put down my fork. I don’t feel hungry any more.

  My mates get off home as soon as school finishes so they are on time for their families and the stuff they have planned.

  If Dad was home we could talk about our day and talk about what we might do at the weekend. But this morning he texted to say he won’t be back until tomorrow night, or it might even be Sunday if the job needs him to stay longer.

  I’m not sure what I’ll do all weekend.

  I decide to walk the long way home, up St Ann’s Well Road and back down Woodborough Road, the steep hill that leads into the back roads of our estate. It’s really warm and fine out. For the first time it really feels like summer is here to stay.

  There are loads of little kids scuttling around, having just been collected from the nearby primary school by their parents. Some squeal and yell, running round like they just escaped prison, but most walk nicely hand in hand with their mum or dad, the kids relaying their day at school. Looking up at the adults like they are their whole world.

  A few more years and they’ll drop into the real world, realize they’re on their own.

  In a week’s time, all the schools break up for their six weeks of summer and then it will be much quieter around here at this time of day. I’ve been trying not to think about the summer, about what I’m going to do every day, but you know what happens when you try not to think of something. Suddenly it’s all you can think about.

  I’ve had a cool idea bouncing around my head for a few days. I’ve been thinking that maybe I could convince Dad to take me with him on a couple of jobs, so I can see what he really does for a living.

  It might be interesting and I could properly help him out so he can see I’m not a kid any more. I could see some different places and I’d be able to spend time with Dad instead of being on my own in the flat for days on end.

  All I have to do is pick the right time to ask him, and to do that, he needs to be home. I dig into my pocket and peer at the scant pile of coins in my hand. Three pounds and eighty-two pence. No chance of a takeaway pizza tonight then.

  There’s half a pint of milk, a yogurt and an egg in the fridge. Plus six slices of white bread with a few dots of green on, which doesn’t bother me because I’ll be toasting it anyway. And mould is only penicillin, so it won’t kill me.

  I reach the top of St Ann’s Well Road and the steepness levels off at last, bending to the left on to Mapperley Top.

  I glance across at the big gated houses, wondering who they are trying to keep out and whether it feels different to wake up and go to bed at night when you live in a place like that. The air seems clearer up here, the sky bluer. Our flat is only about half a mile away at the bottom of the hill, but it feels like a whole world apart.

  I walk for another ten minutes and just before I turn into the estate, I pass the Expressions community building across the road. Built last year from European funding, the brickwork glows a vibrant terracotta in the sunlight.

  This is where Hugo Fox is going to be running his workshops, where film directors will come and talk to us no-hopers.

  The gates are closed and locked now, but it will be opening up soon for the Friday evening activities they run.

  Last week, the manager rang Dad to pop over and secure an outside door after an attempted break-in. Some people just can’t bear to see anything new and nice around here.

  ‘Arty types with more money than sense,’ Dad always says.

  Mr Rhodes, the drama teacher, took us down for a look at the start of the spring term. Inside it still smells new and the toilets are clean with no wee on the floor or graffiti on the walls.

  I’ve never been to any of their workshops but I like the newness of the building. It feels like someone important remembered our shoddy estate was tucked away back here and still thought we were worth investing in. It’s a cool place to hang out, nobody bothers you, and you can watch the activities even if you don’t want to take part. It’s warmer than the flat in the winter months, too.

  Since I walked to school this morning, something has been attached to the railings of the gates. A poster, or something similar, is encased in a plastic sleeve to protect it against the weather.

  I cross over the road and take a quick look round before I stop to read the sheet. I don’t want word getting back to the lads I’m interested in doing a daft drama class or something else they’d think is naff.

  When I see the sheet’s printed headline, I freeze.

  The traffic sounds from the main road, the birds tweeting in the trees, and even the bus that passes me full of tired-looking passengers – everything fades into the background.

  SEND US YOUR SCRIPT!

  A lingering buzz travels from the top of my head right down to my big toes.

  My eyes scan the poster, picking out the main bits.

  Happily we have secured European funding . . . for young people working with Expressions to make a short film, set in the Mapperley, St Ann’s or Dales wards. We are inviting local young people aged 13–18 to submit a screenplay on the subject: ‘A Place I Want to Go’ . . .

  I could write a screenplay and send it in! Instead of just doing it in my head, I could actually put something down on paper. But what would I write about that would be interesting enough to make a film about? All I really know about is life on the estate, and nobody is interested in that. St Ann’s isn’t a place anyone wants to go to or find out about.

  The buzz is replaced by a clammy crawl that slowly covers my skin.

  I enjoyed the daydream; it was nice while it lasted. Linford, Jack and Harry would fall about laughing if they knew I’d nearly been sucked in.

  Entering a competition like this is just the sort of thing that other people do. Probably someone who lives in one of those big gated houses up on Mapperley Top. Some kid who’s travelled the world and had professional training, knows how to set stuff out like a proper script. But something still makes me slide out one of the photocopies from behind the display poster, fold it up and tuck it into the side pocket of my rucksack. I might read it later, if I’ve nothing better to do.

  Just as I’m resealing the Velcro strip on my bag, I see a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. On the other side of the building someone just dashed behind the bins, I’m sure of it.

  The building itself is all locked up so I doubt it’s a member of the Expressions staff. I move away from the metal swirls of the gate and walk around the side where I can see a bit clearer through the wire fencing.

  There it is again, a flash of movement.

  And then . . . nothing.

  I stand and watch for a couple more minutes.

  The road is quiet, the birdsong uninterrupted, and everything is still and undisturbed once more.

  Whoever it was has found a way of disappearing.

  Whoever it was doesn’t want to be seen.

  I don’t turn into the estate after all. I carry on walking.

  I cross over Huntingdon Street, gridlocked with afterwork traffic and choked up with exhaust fumes, and keep going until I get to Mansfield Road.

  I head for the bench outside the big solicitor’s office on the corner and next to the Victoria Centre shopping mall.

  Lots of people are swarming out of the centre, clutching bulging shopping bags. They all look happy it’s the weekend, but maybe I just think that because I’m dreading it.

  I sit down. One of the wooden slats on the bench is broken and it sticks up lik
e a bone, frayed and splintered. I move to the other side, sitting in a little pool of afternoon sun that illuminates me in its warm spotlight.

  When Dad is working away I come here a lot after school. I can feel the buzz of other people’s lives. Everybody is too busy to notice me sitting and watching – sometimes I even pinch myself to make sure I’m not a ghost.

  A double-decker trundles past. Somebody shouts and when I look up, I recognize the three jeering Year Nine lads from school. One sticks two fingers up through the open top window, and another curls his hand into a loose fist and makes a rude gesture at me.

  When I do the same back, a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun totters by on skyscraper heels and tuts loudly.

  ‘He did it first,’ I tell her, but she sticks her nose in the air like I smell bad.

  I watch an old bloke over the street shuffling up the hill. I’ve seen him before. He’s always on his own and clutches a massive blue-and-white plastic shopping bag that’s hardly got anything in it. Every so often he stops for a breather before he takes another few steps. His body is permanently bent over in a ‘C’ shape, even when he stands still.

  I wonder what he looked like when he was younger. He might have been a soldier, stood tall with his shoulders back, striding about and giving out orders to his men.

  It’s weird to imagine it, but one day I’ll be old like him. Like my Grandad was.

  Instead of thinking about what film I’m going to watch later or counting the hours until Dad gets home, I’ll be worrying about how long it’s going to take me to get up that hill without breaking my scrawny neck.

  It makes me feel like doing something gutsy and impulsive while I’ve got the chance, while I’m still young. Like, I don’t know – going to the Broadmarsh bus station and just getting on a coach that’s going somewhere hundreds of miles away from here, away from the estate.

  If I really wanted, I could do it. I’m fourteen, not four – nobody would ask any questions.

  I haven’t got enough cash on me today to buy a ticket, but that’s not the point.

  Daydreaming is cool because you don’t have to work out a foolproof plan of how you’re going to do stuff or wrestle with the problems that might come up.