by Kim Slater
‘There are always two sides to any debate, and I always try and find out what they are before making my own mind up.’ Freya smiles.
I consider this. It sounds a sensible approach.
‘So, are you looking forward to the summer break?’ She claps her hands in front of her and sits back.
I shrug.
‘What’ve you got planned?’
‘Maybe working away with my dad,’ I say, taking a sip of water.
It might be fun to pretend the summer is going to be exciting, with lots of activities and things to do. Give us something to talk about.
‘Sounds interesting,’ she says, smiling.
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to do but it might not happen now.’ I snap my mouth shut before anything else can spill out.
‘R-i-i-ight.’ Freya says it slowly and watches me. It feels like I’m supposed to say more.
‘Dad’s got a new girlfriend and she’s just moved in.’ I’m trying to act as if I’m cool about it all, but I can feel my jaw clenching. ‘Her son has moved in as well.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘I don’t like it,’ I say quickly, looking at my hands. ‘But nobody listens to what I want.’
‘It’s hard when other people seem to make all the decisions in our lives,’ Freya offers. ‘Frustrating.’
I nod.
‘I’ve got to share my bedroom with her son.’ I bite down on my tongue to try and shut myself up, but the words just keep on spitting out like bitter pips. ‘He thinks he knows everything about everything, but really he knows nothing.’
‘I see,’ Freya says.
I’m not going to tell her it’s Sergei Zurakowski. For all I know, he’s probably already told her all about it in his own counselling sessions. Made it all my fault, so she feels sorry for him.
‘Maybe you should tell your new room-mate some things that you know about, Calum. Even things up a bit.’
I let out a short, hard laugh. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, I’m sure you write very well and I know you’re interested in crafting screenplays.’
A flush of heat encircles my neck.
‘Did you manage to watch the film I gave you?’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble. I reach into my rucksack and hand it to her. ‘Thanks.’
She takes the film but keeps her eyes on me.
‘And what did you think of it, the film?’
‘’S’all right,’ I say.
She doesn’t say anything.
I can hear the clock ticking on the wall above me and a telephone starts ringing in the reception area outside.
‘It was good,’ I add. ‘Really good.’
She perks up. ‘I’m so pleased. It’s one of my favourites.’
Her face looks alive. She’s thinking about the scenes in Kes.
‘I like it when Billy writes that piece in class,’ I say, rubbing at a mark on my trousers. ‘And when he flies the kestrel in the field and his teacher comes to watch. I like that scene, too.’
‘So do I, Calum.’ Freya nods. ‘Is it the first independent film you’ve watched?’
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I usually watch thrillers and stuff with car chases in.’
‘I like those too.’ Freya smiles. ‘But a film like Kes, well, it goes a bit deeper, you know?’
‘It makes you feel stuff inside,’ I murmur.
‘Exactly. It stirs the emotions. What did you think of the characters?’
‘Dunno really, they’re just ordinary, like the people on our estate, I suppose. They’ve got real-life problems and most of them haven’t got much money.’
‘Spot on.’ Freya nudges forward on her seat and clasps her hands together. ‘See, Calum, that’s what makes a film like Kes so powerful. Its authenticity.’
‘Yeah.’ I look down at my hands again. ‘It feels real. Like the stories my grandad used to tell me about his life. They were always about ordinary, everyday things, but I loved hearing them.’
Freya nods slowly.
‘So, when we have a conversation about writing something for the Expressions competition and you tell me that nobody would be interested in the people or the things that happen around here, I think about a film like Kes, or your grandad’s stories, and it blows your argument right out of the water.’
‘Yeah . . .’ I look up and give her a little smile.
‘You’ve got a lot to say Calum, a lot to offer.’ She taps her chest. ‘If you can get what you feel in here down on paper, you will have something very special indeed. Something worthwhile.’
‘I might give it a go then,’ I say, and at least for the short time I’m in Freya’s office, entering the competition actually feels like it might be achievable.
For the first time ever since I started this school, I spend my lunch hour in the library.
We have regular study sessions in here with Mr Ahmed, but I know Jack and Harry never come in during their own time unless they’re forced, so I should be able to keep out of their way for a short time.
I spot Sergei sitting at a table alone in the History section. He raises his hand and nods at the spare chair on his table to indicate it’s free.
This is where he must have been coming every day after the lunch hall – the one place he can be sure of not bumping into Linford, Jack or Harry. Or me, I suppose.
I shake my head and move over to the Fiction section and sit on a stool at the long, narrow bench that runs along the wall. I’m still miffed at him for pulling that stunt with the dog this morning. And I feel uncomfortable facing what it taught me about myself.
Mr Ahmed, the librarian, walks by, carrying a stack of books and does a double-take.
‘Nice to see you in here, Calum,’ he says, coming over. He glances at the bare desk in front of me. ‘Looking for a good read?’
‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to do a bit of homework in here, thanks, sir.’
‘OK, are you reading anything interesting at the moment?’
I shake my head. I wish he’d just leave me alone.
‘Well, be sure to give me a shout if you want any recommendations. I’ve just had a batch of new releases in.’
He’s already moving away when a thought pops in my head.
‘Have you got a copy of Kes in here, sir?’
He turns round and smiles.
‘Ah, a classic film. The original book is called A Kestrel for a Knave, written by Barry Hines. Did you know that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Wait here a moment,’ he says.
Two minutes later Mr Ahmed is back and hands me a paperback with a photo of Billy Casper on the cover. Except in this picture he’s not sticking two fingers up; he is holding his kestrel. Billy looks fierce and proud, just like his bird, Kes.
‘Make sure you sign it out before you take it, and don’t forget, I’m opening up the library to students on Tuesday and Thursday lunchtimes during the holidays, so feel free to pop in at any time.’
‘Yes, sir, thanks.’
‘Lots more books here like that one if you enjoy it,’ he says before walking away.
I trace my finger over the title letters before I open the book and read a bit about the author.
Barry Hines was born in a mining village near Barnsley in Yorkshire. His first job was as an apprentice mining surveyor.
I’m stunned he wasn’t a posh, educated writer from London. No mention of Hollywood or his parents being publishers or professors. He sounds just like an ordinary bloke.
‘Calum!’
I jump up and snap the book closed.
Sergei glances at it and then sits down on the stool next to me.
‘What do you want?’ I scowl, annoyed at the interruption.
‘I wondered if you would like to walk home together after school,’ he says. ‘I know you are angry about the dog. But I would never have kicked him, you know.’
‘You shouldn’t have even faked it,’ I say.
‘I wanted to show
you, to make you see—’
‘Yes. I know,’ I snap, sliding off the stool. ‘I know what you were telling me, OK? I get it.’ I walk towards the library desk and look back at him. ‘I’ll meet you at the school gates, end of school, OK?’
Sergei nods and grins and heads off.
‘So, have you seen the film adaptation of this book, Calum?’ Mr Ahmed asks as he scans its bar code.
‘Yes, sir, and I really enjoyed it.’
‘I might just watch it myself again over the summer. It brings back many happy memories of Yorkshire for me.’
‘Did you used to live in Yorkshire then, sir?’
‘Oh yes, I grew up in Barnsley, where Kes is set.’ He looks at the book cover and smiles to himself. ‘That’s where we settled when I came to the UK from Pakistan with my parents. I was just three years old. I came to Nottingham to do my university degree and I’ve stayed here ever since.’
So, that makes Mr Ahmed . . . an immigrant?
‘Don’t look so surprised, Calum,’ he says with a grin.
‘I’m not, sir. I mean, I just thought you were born here, I didn’t know that you were . . .’
I don’t want to upset Mr Ahmed, so I just shut up. I feel my cheeks heat up and he smiles as if he somehow knows what I’m thinking.
‘I’m glad you’re here, anyway, sir,’ I manage. ‘We wouldn’t have such a good library here if you weren’t.’
Mr Ahmed laughs.
‘I like to think of this country as a giant library.’ He sweeps his arm to take in the shelves of books surrounding us. ‘Lots of different genres and stories make for an interesting place to be. Not so much fun if we only stocked one sort of book. Don’t you agree?’ He smiles and holds out A Kestrel for a Knave.
‘Yes, sir, I suppose you’re right. I’ve never thought of it like that.’ I take the book and push it into my rucksack.
It’s mine now for the whole summer.
After school I hang around a bit near the gates, waiting for Sergei to appear.
Part of me hopes to catch Jack and Harry before they leave, too. It’s my last chance to see them before the holidays.
I want to try explaining my side of things again in the hope we might patch things up, arrange to play footie on the field at the weekend or something.
I stand behind the gatepost, just out of the crush of the crowds that surge forward. Year Eleven leavers, their shirts covered in coloured pen marks and signatures of students and staff, lope past me, excited to be walking out of the gates for the last time as schoolkids.
A group of girls shuffle past, arms around each other like a giant rugby tackle. Some are crying, but some have sparkling, hopeful eyes at the thought of being free of this place.
The crowds thin out into narrow streams of regular students and then, finally, just a few stragglers and people waiting for lifts.
No Sergei. No Jack or Harry.
I walk home the long way even though it feels like it might rain. Part of me would quite like to get soaked to the skin just to feel fresh again. But deep down, I know it’ll take more than a few raindrops to wash away my problems.
When I reach the bottom of the hill and turn into the estate, I stop outside the Expressions building.
The shutters are down but details of the competition are still fixed to the fancy railings. I peek behind the poster at the plastic wallet and see that most of the copies giving entry details have gone. Probably loads of people will enter it, people who are really good writers and watch all the right sort of films.
A sharp movement near the bins grabs my attention and instead of pressing my face to the railings to see more, I step back to the edge of the pavement so I can see past the bins that are clustered together.
‘Hey!’ I call. ‘Who’s there?’
And that’s when I hear it.
The growl of a souped-up engine, and loud, thumping music with a heavy bass beat.
I look up and down the road to see where the noise is coming from but can’t see anything. I hear shouting voices, like an argument. Someone sounds really angry.
Then I hear doors slamming.
I step back off the pavement and into the road so I can see around the slight bend at the end of the street.
For a few seconds, the road goes quiet again, with just the faint hum of traffic on Huntingdon Street behind me. Next thing, there’s an excruciating screech of tyres, powerful engine revs, and a blur of black metal hurtles towards me.
In that split-second I register that I need to move, and I throw myself back on to the pavement, thinking I’ve just managed to make it before the vehicle reaches me.
That’s when I feel an immense jolt and a searing pain that envelops my legs and hips. Loud, thumping music fills my ears and I squeeze my eyes shut as a massive silver grille screeches to a halt, level with my face.
I open my eyes.
My cheek presses against the rough, cool surface of the pavement.
The vibration of feet pounds nearby and a tall shadow looms over me. I look at the trainer that is right next to my face. Something glistens on the leather but I can’t keep my eyes focused long enough to process what I’m looking at.
Sounds, colours, smells . . . they’re all merging into a senseless fog of nothingness.
Someone gasps out loud.
I hear people talking, then shouting, but the words float by just out of my grasp and I can’t understand anything that is being said.
Then . . . quick movements.
Feet scuffle close to my head, car doors slam. An engine roars, and suddenly I am alone and it is deathly quiet and the daylight seems too searingly bright.
I close my eyes and the bass beat fades away, far into the distance.
I am lost in a blanket of silence.
And then the whole world turns black.
When I open my eyes, Dad is sitting next to me. I’m in a strange bed.
The unfamiliar room is sparse and painted white. I can smell disinfectant and cooked cabbage.
‘Calum!’ Dad jumps up and presses a buzzer. I grimace as the sound reverberates in my ears. ‘Thank God you’re OK.’
I open my mouth to speak but my throat is so dry and my lips feel so cracked, the only sound that comes out is a croaking noise.
I remember lying in the road and the feeling of a cool roughness under my cheek.
I remember the booming bass beat.
I remember the sound of scuffling feet.
Of people running.
My legs pulse with a dull, throbbing pain that feels like the worse toothache ever, but deep down in my all bones.
‘You got knocked down in the street, Calum; it was a hit-and-run,’ Dad says softly. ‘The bloody cowards mounted the pavement. If I could get my hands on them I’d—’
‘I’ll just take his blood pressure, Mr Brooks,’ a nurse says brightly, wheeling a tall contraption over to the bed. ‘Glad you’re back with us, Calum. You gave us all quite a scare.’
The croaking noise escapes my mouth again.
‘You can give him a sip of water if you like,’ she says to Dad, and straps a black padded cuff to my upper arm.
Dad looks pleased to be given a job to do. He jumps up and picks up the water jug and pours some into a plastic cup. He supports the back of my head and I manage to take a couple of tiny sips.
The water is warm and I can taste chlorine, but at least it’s wet and trickles down the back of my throat, easing the dry soreness a little.
I point to the cup again and Dad helps me take another few sips.
‘Thanks.’ A raspy voice emerges from my throat.
‘Do you know why you’re in hospital, Calum?’ the nurse asks. The black cuff inflates and tightens, pinching at my arm. ‘Can you remember what happened yesterday?’
Yesterday? It feels like I just closed my eyes in the road a few seconds ago and woke up again here.
Dad’s already told me about the hit-and-run but I can remember bits of it myself.
�
�Knocked over,’ I manage to whisper. ‘Loud music.’
‘The police want to speak to you as soon as you feel up to it,’ Dad says, watching my face. ‘Nothing to worry about, but these people need catching before they mow down anyone else. Did you see who was driving the car?’
The nurse holds up a hand. ‘Go easy on him, Mr Brooks. It’s a lot to take in when he’s only just opened his eyes.’
Dad looks sheepish and shuts up.
I can’t remember the car hitting me and I can’t remember seeing the driver.
I only remember the sounds and how it felt to be lying as weak as a kitten, in the gutter, all alone.
Dad stays with me all day.
He keeps nipping down to the hospital cafe and bringing food back up, which he eats in my room. I can’t eat the hospital food but Dad seems to love it.
I nibble a couple of bits of dry toast but I don’t feel hungry at all.
Everything disappears behind the ceaseless throbbing in my hips, thighs and even my feet. It’s all I can think about. I feel smaller, somehow. Smaller and quieter, as if I’m taking up less space in the world and life is carrying on all around me.
‘You’ve got to eat, Calum,’ Dad says, his mouth full of ham and cheese sandwich. ‘You’ve got to keep up your strength.’
It doesn’t feel like there is any strength left in my body to keep up.
After tea, the doctor does his rounds. The nurse says I’m one of the first patients on his list.
Another nurse comes to the door and makes a sign to Dad. He steps out of the room for a minute and then he is back. With two policemen.
‘These officers want a really quick word, Calum,’ Dad says. ‘Nowt to worry about, lad.’
The officers’ uniformed importance seems to fill the whole room. It feels like I’m the one that did something wrong.
‘Hello, Calum,’ the bald one says. ‘I’m PC Bolton and this is my colleague, PC Channer.’
PC Channer has bright red hair and a face so full of freckles I can hardly see any plain skin. He nods to me.
‘Hello,’ I croak.
‘We need to catch these lowlife wasters,’ Dad rages. ‘We can’t have our kids being mowed down in the street outside the place that’s supposed to be the safe heart of our community. I feel like finding them myself and—’