928 Miles from Home

by Kim Slater

  You can just flash-forward to the good bits.

  ★

  EXT. NOTTINGHAM CITY CENTRE – DUSK

  Broadmarsh Bus Centre, July. City is quiet in the lull after work and before people come out to the pubs and restaurants for the night.

  BOY approaches ticket office.

  BOY

  (with confidence)

  Ticket to London please, one way.

  TICKET CLERK peers through Perspex counter screen at BOY.

  TICKET CLERK

  (suspiciously)

  How old are you?

  BOY

  Sixteen. I’m going to visit my sick nan.

  CLERK hesitates then shrugs and nods. BOY pays twenty pounds and gets a ticket. He turns to leave.

  TICKET CLERK

  (calls out)

  I hope your nan gets better soon.

  The bus is half empty. BOY chooses a seat at the back and falls asleep.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. LONDON CITY CENTRE – MIDNIGHT

  BOY stands on Tower Bridge looking down into the River Thames. The river seems alive with reflections of the coloured lights from buildings on the skyline. The boy identifies The Gherkin, The Cheesegrater, The Walkie-Talkie and The Shard.

  END SCENE.

  ★

  ‘Excuse me?’ A voice bellows in my ear.

  I jump up from the seat to find a woman wearing a very short skirt and very long earrings standing next to me with her hands on her hips. Behind her is a pushchair.

  ‘Blimey, you were in a proper trance there – we’ll never get to the park at this rate. Our Brandon’s dropped his dummy under your seat. Can you reach it?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ I reach between my feet, pick up the dummy and hand it to her.

  She gives me a funny look.

  ‘Are you all right? You were on another planet then; are you on drugs or summat?’

  I say, ‘No, I was just daydreaming.’

  She shakes her head and manoeuvres the pushchair ready to set off again. Little Brandon’s face is smeared with chocolate ice cream.

  I wonder if Mum pushed me around like that when I was a little kid, if she took me to the park and stuff.

  ‘Have a good time on the swings,’ I say to the toddler.

  He holds up his half-chewed cone, waves it at me and grins.

  When I get back on to the estate, I stop at the corner shop with my handful of coins and buy a big bottle of fizzy pop and a family-sized bar of milk chocolate.

  School has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to chips, sweets and fizzy pop. None allowed. I don’t know why they think that’s going to stop you eating and drinking junk food. In reality, it just makes you want it more.

  I don’t eat the goodies now; I take them home for later. Another five minutes and I’m turning into our street.

  St Matthias Road is buzzing. Hordes of little kids are out on their bikes and scooters, and a couple of older lads are playing football, using the road as a pitch and the gateposts either side as the goals.

  Mr Palmer stands on sentry duty at number seventeen, guarding his sweet-pea canes against their missed shots.

  Des and Sandra and their dreadlocked mates at number eleven look proper relaxed, like they’ve been out in the garden all day. They’ve made their tiny front garden into a bit of a commune. If it’s not raining, they’re out there every day, sitting among the dandelions cross-legged and drinking beer out of dented cans.

  They play this weird music that sounds a bit like a guitar but more twangy. Their old settee has been out there so long there are flowering weeds poking up through the seat cushions.

  ‘Peace, man,’ Des shouts when he sees me.

  Dad says they give our street a bad name, smoking weed and living in a doss-hole, but I raise my hand at Des.

  A bit further down at number seven, Mrs Brewster’s got the barbecue going on the scrubby patch of lawn she shares with the Patels who live in the downstairs flat.

  Dad says that when you barbecue meat, you’re supposed to wait until the flames die down and the coals turn white, but Mrs Brewster is incinerating a row of pasty sausages in a waist-high inferno.

  Her twin grandsons, Armani and Versace, are barrelling around the yard jabbing at each other with sharp sticks.

  ‘Armony! Versays!’ She screeches for them to stop and then turns to me, waving a metal spatula. ‘All right, Calum?’

  She whips a cigarette stub out from between her dry, wizened lips. ‘Nice weather for it, eh?’ The teetering ash showers the cracked concrete path as she shuffles over to the gate in her floral slippers.

  Mrs Brewster frowns at the pop and the chocolate bar that are wedged under my arm.

  ‘Plenty of sausages going if you want to stay for a bit of tea, mi duck?’

  ‘Nah thanks – me and Dad are going bowling later.’

  I try to look like someone who’s looking forward to their evening, but Mrs Brewster is not an easy woman to fool.

  She takes a drag of her cigarette and squints her eyes against the sun to look up the road at Dad’s empty parking space.

  ‘OK, lad, so long as you’re sorted.’ She leans slightly forward and peers at me, the soft loose skin of her cheeks hanging either side of her mouth like fleshy curtains. ‘I’d hate to think you’re stuck in that flat all alone on a fine night like this, mind.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I’m fine, thanks, Mrs Brewster.’

  I let out a little chuckle to show her just how fine I am, but it slips out too high and tight, like an overstretched violin string.

  Inside the cool flat, my arms prickle with goosebumps and my ears echo in the sudden silence.

  I kick the door closed behind me and walk into the living room. In here, I can still hear the muted sounds from outdoors. Squealing, laughter, the hum of an occasional car offloading guests for barbecues. But stuck in here, the party atmosphere might as well be a hundred miles away.

  I push the slotted blind aside and I look down on to the road. Dad’s empty parking space gapes up at me like a missing tooth.

  Most people are home already to enjoy the heatwave weekend that’s been forecast.

  I wonder briefly if I should go back down to Mrs Brewster’s. I could say Dad has just texted to let me know he’ll be back later now, too late to go bowling. And I can stay for a burnt sausage cob after all.

  But I imagine before long she’ll get round to noticing that Dad’s van has actually been gone all week and she’ll look at me with those X-ray boggle eyes that can detect the difference between the truth and a lie in a split-second. Mrs Brewster is wasted on looking after her grandkids; she ought to work for MI5.

  Dad’s constant warning about keeping our business private echoes in my ears. How if social workers and do-gooders get to hear about him working away as much, they’ll cause us all sorts of problems. I could get taken into care. Dad could be prosecuted. And then where will we be?

  No, it’s far better if I stay on my own here in the flat with the door shut and the TV on, well away from well-meaning Mrs Brewster and her searching questions.

  On Saturday lunchtime, I find an old instant-noodle meal at the back of the cupboard behind two rusting, out-of-date tinned peaches.

  I pour the boiling water into the plastic pot and watch as the powdery noodles and lumps of tomato swell into fat, moist tapeworm and blood clots. The morsels that were probably once fresh carrots, morph into mushy orange globs like the sort that sink to the bottom of the toilet bowl when you throw up.

  It sounds gross but tastes really nice, and it’s definitely tons better than eating an egg on mouldy toast without any butter.

  I’m a minute into the noodle waiting time when I hear the front door bang open.

  My heart nearly jumps into my mouth, but then Dad barrels through, carrying his big overnight bag in one hand and clutching a couple of carrier bags full of food shopping in the other.

  ‘You’re back!’

  I forget the noodl
es and rush over to Dad, taking the shopping bags from him before peering inside.

  Pizza. Pop. Biscuits.

  Result.

  Dad ruffles my hair with his free hand. ‘I got away a bit earlier, thought I’d surprise you.’

  ‘Great!’ I grin and start to put the shopping away.

  ‘I’d have been here sooner but I got a call on the way home. Someone’s vandalized the Expressions building again,’ Dad says grimly. ‘I called in on the way home to board up a couple of windows.’

  I put the loaf of bread back down on the worktop and look at him.

  ‘Do they know who’s doing it?’ I ask. ‘The damage.’

  ‘Probably just bored local kids, little boggers. It’s sorted now anyway.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Swine of a journey it was, another nasty accident on the M1.’

  I make Dad a hot drink while he unlaces his heavy work boots and changes into his paint-spattered tracky bottoms and a T-shirt with gaping holes under the arms.

  I think about telling him about the person I saw hanging around the Expressions building, but the fact was I didn’t actually see anything. Just the shadow of a person – a movement out of the corner of my eye and then nothing.

  Whoever it was had just seemed to disappear in front of my eyes.

  Dad comes back into the sitting room, but instead of drinking his tea in front of the telly like he usually would, he sits next to me on the settee.

  ‘Had a good week?’ He takes a noisy slurp of tea and looks straight at me.

  I think about what’s happened. Getting a one-day exclusion and registering with the school counsellor.

  ‘’S’all right.’ I shrug and leave it at that.

  Dad puts his tea on the floor and sighs. He’s got this stretched smile stuck to his face that looks out of place.

  He picks up his mug again.

  ‘Did you have a good week?’ I ask, just for something to say.

  ‘I did, lad. I did.’

  Dad keeps letting out loud sighs like he’s out of breath, but he can’t be. He’s just sitting here doing nothing.

  ‘Are you OK, Dad?’ I peer at him.

  Dad squirms in his seat. His shoulders are hunched up and his face looks flushed.

  ‘I’m fine. Couldn’t be better, to tell you the truth.’ He coughs and puts his mug down again. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘It’s just you seem a bit, I don’t know . . .’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Different.’

  Dad laughs and his shoulders drop away from his ears a bit.

  ‘Can’t get anything past you, can I?’ He clears his throat and takes a breath in. ‘Thing is, Cal, I’ve – well, I’ve met someone.’

  ‘Is it about a new building project?’

  This might be a good time to tell Dad about my idea to go out on a few jobs with him over the summer.

  ‘It’s not a job, no. No.’ Dad’s knee jiggles up and down. ‘I mean, I’ve met someone. A woman.’

  ‘A woman?’ I repeat faintly.

  Dad . . . and a woman?

  I can’t think of anything to say. My forehead feels hot and damp like it did just before I got chicken pox two years ago.

  Dad watches me and I manage to stretch a weak smile across my face.

  He shuffles to the edge of the seat cushion then and starts talking more than he’s talked to me in a year. At least, it feels that way.

  ‘She’s a bit younger than me, but then age is just a number, isn’t it? She’s brilliant, Cal. Beautiful, bright, funny, she’s everything I never thought I’d have again, after – well, you know.’

  Mum.

  ‘I wanted to tell you because Angie – that’s her name – well, she’s dying to come over. She says she wants to meet this brilliant son I’ve told her all about.’

  I get a tight feeling across my chest and back like when I had to wear a rented suit for Dad’s best mate’s wedding.

  Dad is still talking but I’ve stopped listening – I just watch him instead. He looks alive and energetic in a way I’ve never seen before. I just need to get rid of this lump in my throat and say something to show I’m happy for him.

  When it all sinks in, I know I’ll feel happy for him.

  Dad slaps his hand down on my shoulder. A splash of tea escapes his mug and scalds my thigh through my jeans.

  ‘Me and you, lad, we’re like this –’ He makes a fist in front of my face to show me just how tight we are. ‘Nothing could ever come between us. You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod and the lump in my throat dislodges a bit but then settles itself a bit higher up.

  I don’t see that much of Dad for the rest of the weekend.

  He paints his bedroom on Saturday afternoon and then goes out early on Sunday buying new towels and bedding and getting a load of posh food and booze in while I tidy round the flat.

  Usually when he gets home, Dad puts his phone on charge in the kitchen and leaves it there all weekend. But all weekend, his phone dings every few minutes with incoming texts, and every time I look at him, if he’s not reading them, he’s sending his own messages.

  ‘Angie’s coming over tomorrow night,’ Dad announces at Sunday teatime, when he finally sits down to watch the match with me. ‘We can all have a nice meal together.’

  Maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all, this Angie being around. If Dad intends keeping the cupboards and fridge stocked up.

  ‘Can we open that carrot cake you bought tonight?’ I smack my lips together, imagining the moist, spiced sponge and the buttercream icing.

  ‘Let’s wait till Angie gets here, shall we?’ Dad pulls his eyes away from the telly and looks at me as if he’s going to say something else, but then his eyes flick back to the game.

  After a bit he winks and says, ‘Angie’s bringing someone with her. I think you’ll enjoy getting to know him; in fact I’m certain of it. You two could even become great friends.’

  I reckon she’s got a dog, but he’s keeping me guessing. I’ve always wanted one but Dad says it wouldn’t be fair on an animal, stuck in the flat all day while I’m out at school and he’s working away all week.

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s his name, this someone?’ I grin, playing along.

  ‘You’ll find out when you meet him tomorrow.’ Dad takes a swig from his beer can. ‘It’ll be a nice surprise.’

  Mid-morning on Monday, I have a counselling appointment with Freya.

  If you have a ‘pastoral appointment’ – that’s what they call stuff like counselling sessions – you’re allowed to miss part of your lesson to attend.

  Luckily for me I get to skive off most of double maths, and even better, all my mates are in a lower set and in other lessons. So it should be easy to slip into Freya’s office unnoticed.

  I think about Linford’s disapproving comments and how he was adamant none of us should see the counsellor without him saying so. He reckons Freya is out to get us and can’t be trusted.

  Sometimes it feels like he’s the adult and that me, Jack and Harry are just little kids for him to order about. It never used to be like that. Once, we were all on the same level, but at some point, Linford put himself in charge without any of us noticing.

  Now it feels impossible to do anything about it.

  I can’t just not turn up for my counselling appointment today, so I’ll have to go for this one last session and then tell Freya that I can’t come any more. I’ve got no choice; it’s more than my life’s worth if Linford finds out I’m talking to her behind his back.

  I walk across the inner courtyard to Freya’s office in the Admin block. The sun throws shadows on to the smooth new flagstones the school had laid during spring half-term. The paving is arranged in alternate diamond shapes of cream and pale salmon. There are no blots of chewing gum or foaming mounds of gob decorating the new area yet.

  It reminds me that Dad was supposed to lay a little patio on our bit of scrubby lawn outside. At first, he said he’d do it in April, then it got deferred to May. And then
he had the chance of doing some well-paid work in Poland, so he reckoned he’d definitely be able to get it sorted by June. He said we might even get a small barbecue set up on there, too. Fat chance. It’s already mid-July now and we’re breaking up from school next week. Still no patio.

  I curl my fingers around my new notebook in my blazer pocket. Freya asked me to bring it with me for my next session.

  I thought I’d be full of dread at the thought of having to talk to her again but, weirdly, I feel a bit lighter inside. As if some of the dark shadows have been driven away.

  When I approach Freya’s office door, my heart starts to race. I knock and wait, like the sign says.

  The door springs open and I step back as another student emerges from her office. It’s Sergei Zurakowski. He holds the door open for me as he steps out into the corridor. I feel him watching me but I don’t meet his eyes.

  Freya’s bright freckled face and shock of short red hair appears in front of me.

  ‘See you next time, Sergei,’ she calls to his back before closing the door behind us. ‘Good morning, Calum.’

  ‘Morning,’ I mumble and shuffle into her office, standing uselessly in the middle of the room. What was Sergei Zurakowski doing in here? And what’s he been saying to Freya?

  ‘Sit anywhere you like.’ She nods towards the upholstered seats.

  I shrug off my rucksack and sink down into the chair that’s furthest away from her. I stare at the water jug and two glasses that sit on the low table in front of us.

  ‘So –’ Freya picks up the jug – ‘how have you been, Calum, had a good weekend?’

  I watch as the sparkling water tinkles into both glasses.

  I shrug. ‘’S’all right.’

  ‘Looking forward to the summer holidays?’

  I shrug again. I don’t want to think about being stuck in the flat on my own all day for six long weeks.

  ‘We can fit in one more session on Friday before we break up if you like?’ Freya smiles. ‘And through the summer, if you’re around, I do weekly sessions at the Expressions community centre on the estate.’