by Kim Slater
Dad heads over to me.
‘Dad! Sergei and Amelia are over there.’ I point round the side of the centre. ‘Sergei caught someone breaking in and went over. Amelia followed, and now there are loads of them. They’re outnumbered.’
In a jiffy Dad is inside the centre yard. Angie gets out of the van and runs over to me.
‘We had to come back from our shopping trip because your dad left his wallet at the flat,’ she says, manoeuvring my wheelchair around the hedge and next to the centre’s wire fence. ‘Mrs Brewster told us you and Sergei had been sitting out here for a long time.’
Thank goodness for Mrs Brewster and her MI5 eyes.
‘Oh Lord, they’re fighting!’ Mrs Brewster clutches her chest. ‘I’d better go and call the police.’
The youths split off and sprint up and over the fence.
I watch as Amelia sticks her foot out and trips someone up, and seconds later Dad has the culprit by the scruff of his neck and is pulling him away from the bins. As the figure twists round I get a full view of his face, which I recognize very well.
I’ve seen enough of him at school.
‘Get your hands off me you, you imbecile!’ Hugo Fox storms, trying to shake off Dad’s grip. ‘My father is a very important man around here and he knows some very influential people. You’re going to regret—’
‘Shut it,’ Dad growls. ‘Don’t threaten me with your toffee-nosed friends in high places. You’ll answer to the law like the rest of us, whoever your old man might be.’
‘Mr Fox is his dad,’ I say as Angie wheels my chair closer. ‘My Head Teacher at school.’
Hugo turns, his face all screwed up and ready to have a go at me, but then the strangest thing happens. When he sees me, his face drains of all colour and he swallows hard.
‘What?’ I say, but he looks quickly away.
I shrug my shoulders at Dad. I can’t figure out why Hugo is acting so weirdly all of a sudden.
‘Look, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ he starts babbling to Dad. ‘My father is a man of means. I know you people around here always need money, we can – oww!’
A muscle flexes in Dad’s jaw. He pulls Hugo over to the wire fence so he is standing next to us.
‘We mightn’t have piles of cash on this estate, but most of us know what’s right and wrong,’ he tells Hugo between gritted teeth. ‘So don’t insult me with your corrupt little offers. The police can decide what’s going to happen to you.’
My useless phone falls clean out of my hand.
As I watch Angie reach to scoop it up, Hugo shuffles his feet, and that’s when I see them.
White trainers with a broad green-and-red stripe. And in the middle of the stripe sits a perfectly embroidered little gold bee.
I sit upright in shock, grimacing as a bolt of pain shoots through both my hips.
For a few seconds, in my head, I’m back there.
Lying in the road, the booming bass beat, the voices and the white training shoe next to my face.
The glistening shape that I couldn’t process back then comes flooding back to me with crystal clarity. It was a little gold bee sitting on a green-and-red-striped trainer.
Things move fast after that.
The police arrive and I recognize one of them as being PC Bolton, who came to speak to me at the hospital. Dad explains how we caught Hugo in the act of breaking into the centre.
‘The others scarpered but I kept hold of this one,’ Dad says.
‘Get your hands off me!’ Hugo squirms.
‘We’ll take it from here, thank you, sir,’ PC Bolton says.
Dad lets go of Hugo’s arm.
‘N-now, officer,’ Hugo stammers. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. You need to arrest this thug—’
‘Just a minute, young man.’ PC Bolton frowns. ‘I’ll decide what action is taken, not you.’
Hugo closes his mouth.
And that’s when I tell them. About the trainer. The significance of the bee.
‘Rubbish,’ Hugo says, his voice lifting higher and higher as he speaks. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, this boy is deluded.’
‘There’s only one foolish boy here so far as I can see,’ PC Bolton remarks.
A week later, PC Bolton sits down in our living room and shakes his head at Dad.
‘Unbelievable. I’ll be honest, we were looking at some of the unsavoury characters who live here, on the estate,’ he says. ‘We were convinced the culprits responsible for the hit-and-run incident and the vandalism of the Expressions centre would be residents of the estate.’
‘That’s understandable.’ Dad shrugs. ‘It just proves that where you live has no bearing on knowing right from wrong.’
‘That’s true, and there’s a lesson in there somewhere,’ PC Bolton agrees. ‘The word unofficially was that the Expressions centre would secure some major funding, so Hugo decided he’d ruin its chances himself. He paid Linford Gordon to break the windows and steal essential equipment.’
‘Did Hugo admit to driving the car?’ I ask.
‘Eventually, but not until the evidence was rock solid against him. He and his father maintained his innocence all along, but fortunately, in the end, someone did come forward with information and then we knew we had the right man.’
‘So someone did see it happen!’ I gasp.
PC Bolton shakes his head. ‘This person wasn’t actually there on the day, but he heard Hugo Fox and his friends talking about what happened and decided to come forward. A very unlikely source of help, I might add.’
‘Are you allowed to tell us who it was?’ I ask.
‘Linford Gordon,’ PC Bolton replies. ‘He said you’d been friends for most of your lives until just recently. To his credit, even though Hugo and his thugs threatened him with violence to keep quiet, he decided to do the right thing by you, Calum.’
I’m dumbstruck. Linford!
‘I can’t believe Hugo Fox’s trainers gave him away,’ Dad comments.
‘Not just any trainers though, Mr Brooks,’ PC Bolton says. ‘Those trainers are a top designer brand and the little gold bee is a distinctive trademark. Nearly four hundred pounds a pair. Not your regular footwear around these parts.’
‘Blimey.’ Dad seems baffled.
‘We found minute traces of Calum’s blood on the sole of one of the trainers. We found the same on the chrome grille of Hugo Fox’s vehicle, despite it having been obviously scrubbed up and cleaned.’
‘But why?’ I say, still not fully understanding. ‘Why did they do it and why did they damage the centre?’
‘Seems Hugo wanted the centre closed so the funding went to the place where he runs classes and it was them who promised to send him to a top drama facility in London if their bid was successful. So he teamed up with a few thugs from the estate.’ PC Bolton shakes his head in disapproval. ‘Seems these thugs convinced Linford to break a few windows for cash. He said he did it because his stepdad is out of work and his little sister had no money for her school lunches or new shoes.’
‘Hugo Fox,’ I whisper. ‘Who’d have thought it.’
I’m guessing Hugo won’t be coming into school to brag at any more of our assemblies.
‘Calum, get up,’ I hear Dad call from across the hallway. ‘There’s something in here for you.’
I woke up about ten minutes ago and I’ve been just lying here, thinking. I finished reading A Kestrel for a Knave last night, and it was so good it feels like a little chunk of me is missing now. But at least I still have the new book Sergei gave me to read.
I’m going to ask Sergei if he fancies nipping into school with me to one of Mr Ahmed’s holiday library sessions. I bet he knows all about the author Alan Sillitoe.
But not today. Today we’re all going to Amelia’s for tea . . . on My Fair Lady. Amelia’s mum, Sandy, broke her foot when she slipped off the deck just as they were about to cast off and move to their next port of call. Sandy got special permission to stay longer on the canal, but they’l
l be leaving next week. She did say something about trying to get a permanent mooring, though – so maybe one day they’ll come back. I really hope they do.
Me and Sergei have strict instructions to Skype Amelia and Spike once a week without fail – providing she has an internet connection, of course. Sandy has invited us both to stay for a week on My Fair Lady on the Norfolk Broads next year. We can’t wait.
Before I leave my bedroom, there’s something I have to do. Something I’ve been putting off because he’ll probably tell me to get lost, or worse. But if he does, I reason, at least I’ll know I tried.
I pick up my phone and scroll down to Linford’s number. My finger hovers above the call button and, before I can change my mind, I press it.
He probably won’t even answer anyway when he sees my name pop up on his screen.
After two rings, he picks up.
‘Hello? Cal?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
I’d planned what to say, but now it all tumbles out anyhow and barely makes sense.
‘I . . . I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for telling the police—’
‘It wasn’t right, what they did,’ Linford says quickly. ‘Hugo and his mates. I should’ve grassed them up earlier. I came over to your flat, the day you got out of hospital, to tell you and your dad I knew who did it, but I . . . I chickened out.’
I remember him walking by when I was battling in the street with the new wheelchair for the first time.
‘Still,’ I say, ‘you didn’t have to say anything. It was brave of you.’
There are a few beats of awkward silence and then Linford speaks again, his voice quiet.
‘You were right, you know. What you said that day, I mean.’
‘Huh?’ I’ve got no idea what he’s talking about.
‘When you said I was scared. Behind the hard front I put on at school.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ I swallow, feeling bad. ‘I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone.’
‘But you were right.’ I hear him take a big breath in. ‘I went to see her, Cal, that counsellor.’
‘You went to see Freya?’ I gasp.
He laughs. ‘Yeah, I know, and I was really scared of her, too – scared she’d make me talk about stuff I didn’t want to think about. But she helped me find out why I was so angry all the time. She’s even getting Dad some help, too.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s still not exactly happy families in our house – he’s a stubborn so-and-so. Insists he doesn’t need any help. But Freya doesn’t give up on people, does she?’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ I say, but I’m not sure he hears me.
‘But he’s stopped drinking and he starts a new labouring job on a local building site next week.’
‘Mate, I hope everything works out for you,’ I say. ‘I really mean that.’
And I’m surprised to find I do. I really do mean it.
‘Yeah. Cheers.’
I hear Dad shout me again.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go, but maybe we can hang out some time, yeah?’
‘Maybe. Me and Dad have got to go to a meeting with Mr Fox and the governors. Freya’s coming with us. I don’t think they’ll let me back in school because of the trouble with the police and stuff . . .’ Linford’s voice sounds a bit hollow and lost. ‘Anyway, look after yourself, mate.’
And he ends the call.
I sit on the bed and stare at the wall for a few moments.
A lot of stuff has changed for me in the short time since I stopped hanging out with Linford. It doesn’t take long to start looking at things in a different way if you start listening to your own thoughts instead of what other people are telling you to think.
I don’t reckon me and Linford will ever be close again, but that’s OK. We don’t need to be best mates to get along.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my crutches. It’s been a month now, since the accident. I’m far from being back to normal, but I’m getting there. Slowly.
I hobble down the hallway and stop at the living-room door.
Dad’s holding up a white envelope with neat, printed handwriting.
‘It’s addressed to you,’ he says. ‘Open it.’
I never get any letters.
I look at it.
Angie and Sergei sit side by side, grinning at me. I shoot Sergei a look that says, What is it? But he just shrugs.
I sit down and Dad hands me the letter.
I open the A4 sheet folded neatly inside and read the first few lines silently.
‘Come on, then,’ Dad says with a grin. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’
‘It won.’ I gasp. ‘My screenplay, it’s won the Expressions competition.’
And then there’s all this whooping and hugging and Dad takes the letter and reads it out loud in a booming, theatrical voice.
‘It’s going to be performed,’ he announces. ‘A proper production with actors, like.’
‘I did it,’ I whisper. ‘I really did it.’
Sergei grins and high-fives me.
‘Remember, Calum? People like us can do things like that, when we believe we can.’
‘A PLACE I WANT TO GO’
by CALUM BROOKS
1. EXT. ST ANN’S HOUSING ESTATE – DAY
BOY walks down the street of the estate where he has lived all his life. He sees the same people every day. Nothing changes.
He sits on the kerbside and watches people going about their business. He feels inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a notebook and pen.
People begin coming out of their houses and walking towards him. Other kids from school, Mrs Brewster, the hippies from down the road. A posh lad and his thugs. They all crowd around him and speak in unison.
ESTATE CROWD
You were born here. You live here. You’re just a lad with silly dreams. You’re not going anywhere.
BOY stands up and opens his notebook. He begins to read from it, shouting at the top of his voice.
BOY
‘I’m me and nobody else; and whatever people think I am or say I am, that’s what I’m not, because they don’t know a thing about me.’ That’s an Alan Sillitoe quote. He was a Nottingham writer. He went somewhere.
CUT TO:
2. EXT. LONDON – DAY
The Shard. March, weak sunshine.
Noise from city below. White, fluffy clouds and sharp blue sky above.
BOY and his BEST FRIEND stand on the open-air Skydeck on Floor 72. Boy looks up with wonder at the sky through the sharp, mirrored top slice of The Shard and then down at the blue-grey Thames, weaving its way through the buildings and across London.
BOY
It feels like we could stretch up and touch the clouds.
BEST FRIEND
It does. Let’s try.
The boys stretch up as far as they can. Wriggling their fingers towards the sky.
BOY
I can’t believe I’m here. I never thought I’d actually stand this high up. It feels like a million miles from home. It feels like the top of the world.
BEST FRIEND
And now you are here, and you can see it is real.
BOY
I suppose everything starts with an idea.
He holds up his notebook and pen.
BOY
I can go anywhere I want to with these. I can tell people's stories. Write about real people from real places.
BEST FRIEND
And it all starts from home.
END SCENE.
Acknowledgements
As always, I have been really fortunate to have so many supportive and talented people around me!
I’d like to give a special thank you to Lucy Pearse at Macmillan, who has worked tirelessly with me on editing the book and has given such useful suggestions and advice. Also thanks to Rachel Kellehar, who contributed to early ideas and edit notes before heading off on her maternity leave. Now the book has arrived, and so has her gorgeous new baby son, Rory!
Huge thanks to the whole team at Macmillan Children’s Books, especially to Rachel Vale and the MCB design department, and to illustrator Helen Crawford-White for the wonderful covers that showcase my stories so beautifully. Special thanks to Marta Dziurosz, who kindly acted as my beta reader for this title and gave very useful guidance, and to Nick de Somogyi for his most excellent copy-editing skills.
Thank you to my agent, Clare Wallace, for her ongoing support and guidance in my writing career, and to everyone at Darley Anderson Children’s Agency, especially Mary Darby and Emma Winter for their work in getting my Young Adult stories out to eight foreign territories so far.
Heartfelt thanks to the wonderful librarians and booksellers who support and recommend my books, and to my young readers who are always so full of enthusiasm and amazing questions when I visit them in schools and academies!
Huge thanks as always go to all my family, and especially to my husband Mac for his constant and unswerving support in my writing career.
This book is set in Nottinghamshire, the place I was born and have lived all my life. Local readers should be aware that I sometimes take the liberty of changing street names or geographical details to suit the story!
If you would like more information about or help with any of the issues covered in the book there are many excellent resources that can be accessed by searching online or, alternatively, ask a parent, teacher or librarian for help.
Finally, thank YOU for reading 928 Miles from Home! Please see my website to keep up to speed with my latest writing news.
www.kimslater.com
About the Author
Kim Slater lives in Nottingham and takes her inspiration from everyday life. Her debut novel, Smart, won ten regional prizes and has been shortlisted for more than twenty regional and national awards, including the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize and the Federation of Children’s Book Groups Prize. It was longlisted for the Carnegie Medal, and her second novel, A Seven-Letter-Word, was also nominated for the prize.