He stared through the window. Nathan now seemed to be trying to stab the ball with the stick, his hand bouncing off with each strike.
Ryan thought about Nathan’s dad, thousands of miles away somewhere in America. He turned to his bed, staring at his boom box sitting on the bedside table, and imagined Mom’s voice.
Heather sits on the floor, holding the guitar like a curious chimpanzee, turning it round, staring into the belly.
— You should learn, Am.
— Yeah, maybe. Not now.
Heather looks up at Ameliah sitting on her bed.
— Was she good, your mom?
Ameliah sticks out her bottom lip, her knees up by her chest.
— Yeah. She was. I know his face.
— That’s so cool.
Heather lays the guitar across her folded legs and mimes playing, shaking her head from side to side.
— You should so learn.
She stares up at Ameliah.
— Seriously. Like her – it’s probably in your genes or whatever.
Ameliah tries to picture Mom, sitting where Heather sits now, the guitar in her lap, playing with a smile.
She stares out of the window. Heather shrugs and continues to mime playing.
— I know I’ve seen him before.
Heather stops miming.
— Who? Richard?
— Joe.
Heather lays the guitar on the floor next to her.
— Yeah, from the escalator.
Ameliah shakes her head.
— No, I mean before, in the past. I just can’t remember where. I think I remember him shouting.
— Shouting? He came to say hello, Am. If he knew your dad, it makes sense. He didn’t seem dodgy to me.
Ameliah swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Her eyes are drawn to the old stereo.
— Something’s not right. I can’t place him, but I just know it’s not a good memory.
Heather sits on the bed next to her.
— How do you know that?
— I just know, all right? You know actually I can’t believe her, carrying on with some guy, and then inviting some other random guy in, just cos he says he knew my dad.
Heather smiles.
— Am, your nan said he just moved back here. If he’s just moved back here and he knew your dad, then it makes sense to come, right? Pay respects and stuff?
— Yeah, if he did actually know him.
Ameliah stares at Heather. Heather looks back, lifting her eyebrows.
— You think maybe you just don’t want to think about your dad?
— But why now? Six months after he dies?
Heather looks at her. Ameliah can feel the inside of her throat tightening.
— Why does he show up now? Just when I start going through stuff. Just when I find the tape?
She hears the words coming out of her mouth without thinking. Heather looks confused.
— What tape?
Ameliah reaches down the side of her bed and grabs the shoebox lid. She holds it up to show Heather. Heather reads the words.
— Since he showed up, it’s different now, I miss you, Eve. What does that mean?
— You see?
— See what, Am?
Heather is still lost.
— It was on the tape. A voice said those words and now he just turns up?
— What? What voice? What tape?
Ameliah reaches out to the stereo and presses eject, pulling out the old cassette and holding it up like evidence.
— This one. Weird, no?
Heather looks at the tape then back at Ameliah.
— Whose voice?
— I don’t know, does it matter? Since he showed up, it says, and then some guy rocks up saying he knew my dad? Why now?
Heather shuffles closer to her.
— Am, are you OK?
Ameliah frowns.
— Don’t do that, Heather. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.
— I’m not.
— Yes you are.
— Am, it’s the summer holidays. If he works at the uni, he has the same calendar as us. He must’ve been working till they broke up and now he’s moved back to get ready in time for September. Yeah?
Ameliah considers mentioning the other night. Speaking to the voice through the stereo – the way it seemed to hear her and respond. That didn’t happen though. That wasn’t real.
She feels a switch flick in her head. The same switch that lets her go into autopilot whenever she gets stuck talking to someone who has to share their condolences or say they’re sorry for her loss. She looks at Heather’s open face, miles away from knowing what it feels like, but full of love. She tells herself it isn’t Heather’s fault.
Heather moves even closer to her so their knees are touching.
She lays her hand on Ameliah’s thigh with the same pressure as all the other hands from the last three years since Mom, then again for Dad. Hands that want to show concern and love and strength. Hands that feel like they could just as easily belong to mannequins.
— Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.
Heather smiles. She looks down at the shoebox lid. Ameliah watches her wait for the air to feel calm enough to carry on then her face changes.
— It said your mom’s name?
— Yeah.
— That is pretty weird, I mean timing wise, right?
Ameliah feels her lungs fill with air.
— Yeah.
Heather furrows her brow.
— What do we do?
Ameliah jumps up and bounces over to the window. She lifts up the lid of the old suitcase and starts digging through the papers as they spill out on to the carpet.
— What are you doing, Am?
Ameliah doesn’t look up, her hands burrowing into the suitcase, pushing more and more letters and photos out of her way.
— There’s a clipping, from the newspaper, from when Mom died. The accident.
— OK. And?
Ameliah turns her head and stares at Heather.
— I know I’ve seen his face before. There’s a photo, with the story, there’s people there, just standing. I’ve just got a feeling.
Heather leaves the bed and kneels down next to Ameliah.
— What are you saying, Am?
Ameliah pushes papers aside more frantically until the bottom of the suitcase comes into view.
— What if he was there?
Heather’s eyes widen.
— What do you mean? When she died?
Ameliah stops digging.
— It’s not here. Yeah. When she died. What if he was there, Heather?
She sits back on her feet and lets out a sigh. Heather crosses her legs.
— I don’t know what you’re saying. You think he knows something about the accident?
Ameliah can feel the pulse in her neck as she stares at Heather.
— I don’t know.
Ryan stared up the garden. Nathan lowered the stick in his right hand, the ball still trapped under his left. The two of them stood facing each other, a garden length apart, like cowboys ready to draw. Ryan felt his fingers twitch by his hip with a sense of purpose. Mom said doing the right thing makes you powerful.
He imagined pulling a gun at lightning speed and shooting Nathan down before he could get his pistol out of its holster.
— What do you want, weed?
The slight slope of the garden gave Nathan even more of a height advantage. His long shadow stretched out towards Ryan on the patchy lawn.
— You know you don’t always have to try and talk like a wrestler?
Ryan inflated his chest, as much for himself as for Nathan, then tucked his thumbs into the front of his baggy jeans, like he was the sheriff chatting to his townspeople.
— You OK?
Nathan looked shocked.
— What? Get lost, man.
He dropped the ball and started rolling it left and right with his foot. Ryan walked towards him.
Nathan carried on dribbling the ball as Ryan got closer.
— Last time I swore, I got grounded for a week.
He stopped spitting distance from Nathan. Nathan trapped the ball dead under his right foot and looked at him.
— It is bullshit. I’m not going. They can’t make me.
Ryan shrugged.
— They kinda can.
Nathan leaned forward and Ryan lifted his hands.
— I’m just saying. Look, I don’t want to go any more than you do, but it’s happening. Just the thought of being stuck in some crappy caravan with them makes me want to throw up.
— They make me sick. Holding hands at the table—
Nathan stopped himself, his guard still up. Ryan looked at him and for a split second thought Nathan might cry. Nathan scowled.
— Yeah, well, I’m gonna make sure that it’s the worst trip ever.
He spun round and booted the ball at the back fence. The crack of leather against the thin wooden panel rang round the garden. Ryan scratched his head.
— You know, we could make it easier for each other.
The ball trickled past Nathan as he turned back to Ryan and rolled to the right of Ryan’s feet. Nathan stared at him.
— What are you talking about?
Ryan stuck out his right foot and dragged the ball back towards him under his toes. In one move he rolled it up on to his foot and flicked it up into his hands. He stood proudly with the ball under his arm.
— I’m talking about being a little bit more clever with it.
Nathan looked surprised.
— Since when do you know how to control a ball?
Ryan smiled.
— I know a lot of stuff, Nathan.
He threw the ball at Nathan’s body with a snap of his arm. Nathan adjusted himself just in time, catching the ball against his chest with a thud. He took a step back to steady himself and smiled a reluctant smile.
— Can you keep it up?
Ryan raised his eyebrows and nodded in reply. Nathan threw the ball up in an arc towards him. Ryan positioned his feet and headed the ball back with enough power and accuracy to reach Nathan’s head perfectly. Nathan headed it back. Ryan controlled the ball on his chest and volleyed it softly. Nathan caught the ball and smiled.
— Well, who knew? How come you never play at school?
Ryan sighed.
— I used to. A lot. Just, I dunno, I stopped being into it, I guess.
— Who do you support?
Ryan shook his head.
— Nobody.
Nathan looked disappointed. Ryan tried to rescue it.
— Cantona. I like Eric Cantona.
Nathan’s face lit up.
— He’s amazing, right? My dad bought me the same boots as him when I got picked for the district. Did you see that lob the other week? When he just stood there and put his hands up.
Nathan drops the ball and sticks his arms up in the air, pulling his best nonchalant pout.
— He’s a genius.
Ryan felt a strange feeling of pride. Like he’d cracked a code or something. Then, as he smiled, his brain reminded him who he was dealing with and not to get cocky. Nathan stared into space, clearly thinking. Ryan heard a back door open somewhere along the street.
— So what’s your plan?
Ryan puffed out his cheeks.
— I don’t have a plan. I just think that if we work together a bit, we can probably both get what we want.
He stepped forward, surprised by his own confidence.
— We leave tomorrow. We get to this caravan park. We hold it down, without fighting but not overdoing it. We check the place out and we decide what to do.
— To mess it up.
— No, well, yeah, maybe. Listen, what I’m saying is we play it cool and work out what makes sense together. If we work together, we’ll be twice as powerful.
Nathan stared at him, like he was trying to see through his face into his brain. Ryan chewed the inside of his lip, waiting, unsure whether Nathan would agree or just punch him in the stomach.
— OK.
Nathan nodded. Ryan felt his eyes widen.
— OK?
— Yeah, OK. But this doesn’t change anything. You’re still a weed.
Ryan nodded.
— OK, Hulk Hogan.
Nathan tossed him the ball and started walking inside. Ryan felt the old leather against his palms. Looking down at the ball, he got a kick of nostalgia. He turned to Nathan.
— Where are you going?
Nathan turned round, walking backwards towards the house.
— If we’re gonna do this properly, we need to start level. I’m gonna say sorry. Gotta let ’em think they’re running the show, right?
He fired a pretend gun with his finger.
— Oh yeah, the other day, when you forgot your key? Your bum chum phoned. He said you should call him back.
He turned and walked into the house.
Ryan looked back at the ball in his hands. He wasn’t completely sure what had just happened. His gut told him he might have started something that would ultimately end badly, but even knowing that, he couldn’t help feeling proud to have held his own. Whatever happened, that was easily the longest interaction he’d ever had with Nathan that didn’t end up with him in a headlock.
He thought about Liam, probably phoning up to apologise for his big mouth.
He smiled to himself and let go of the ball, using his right foot to keep it up. He circled around on the grass, juggling the ball between his feet. He needed to let Liam know they were going away. Liam wasn’t going to be happy. Ryan felt the ball travelling forward, out of his control. He lunged with his left leg, trying to hook it as he fell. His weaker foot connected way too hard with the ball, sending it looping up and away from him.
He froze as he watched it fly like a cannonball diagonally over the back fence into the garden of the house next to the one opposite.
He felt his breakfast churn inside him as he stood up. Nathan’s ball was gone. Nathan would not be happy. Ryan had to get it back.
He moved to the top corner of the garden and tried to see through the crack where the fences met. Through the tiny slit he could make out long green grass, much thicker and greener than their lawn, like it hadn’t been cut for a long time. He couldn’t see the ball.
Taking a step back, he looked at the fence. It was taller than him, but he reckoned he could get his hands on to the top edge. The question was whether he could pull his own body weight up and, if he managed that, would the old fence take his weight before he jumped off?
He looked back at the house. No sign of anyone. Nathan was probably in the living room right now, standing in front of Dad and Sophia, performing his fake apology.
Ryan looked up at his bedroom window. In the shadow of the roof the glass looked lifeless. For a second he imagined himself looking down. He thought about how weird that would be, if the ghost of someone showed up before that person had even died.
He told himself that someone had already had that idea and he was just remembering a film; he knew he did that all the time.
Turning back to the fence, he breathed in deeply.
— You’re doing this. You’re doing this now.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them he was hanging from the fence, the thin edge of the wooden panel digging into the soft pads of his fingers. He felt the muscles in his stomach straining as he tried to pull his body up. A weird shooting pain shot down his legs as he strained, kicking out towards the side fence. His left foot gripped the top edge, propping him up like some badly made human suspension bridge across the corner where the two fences met.
He composed himself and shuffled his hands towards the corner, feeling his weight lighten as his legs took more of the strain.
Then he was up. Sitting on the corner. The plus sign of conjoined fences under his thighs, his right leg hanging in his garden,
his left in the garden diagonally across.
The ball was nestled in the thick grass of the other lawn two body lengths from the fence. Ryan looked down at the ground. He was sure jumping off wouldn’t be a problem, but if getting back up was going to be as much of a strain again, he’d need a minute to get ready and, if someone came to the back door or window, that was a minute he might not have.
He looked up the other garden to the back of the house. The deep red bricks lightened towards the top. He thought about those glass tubes you get from the seaside with the different coloured sand in layers.
He stared at the white back door. He couldn’t make out any activity inside.
There’s no one in. You don’t have a problem. Just do it.
He swung his right leg over so both his feet hung in the other garden. Lifting his body weight on to his hands, he saw the white back door open. Too late to stop, he felt the fence sway as he pushed off. As he jumped forward, the waistband of his jeans caught in the fence. He felt himself falling head first, the realisation dropping in his gut, his waist pinned to the wood. As the blood rushed to his head, he raised his hands and looked up, trying to brace himself for the impact. Then he saw her.
— Maybe he’ll come round again?
Heather lifts her arms above her head and moves on to her tiptoes, pretending to be a ballerina. The oversized red and black checked shirt hangs off her like a cloak. Ameliah watches her turn then give up in pain.
— Yeah. Maybe.
As she speaks, her mind tries to picture the newspaper article, the black inky type on that dirty off-white paper, the dots of the printed monochrome picture, the policemen, the tape, the witnesses. She tries to picture Joe.
Heather leans forward, her hands on her knees.
— Come on, Am, let’s do something. We can’t just stay in here all day.
Ameliah gives up on the image in her head and looks down at herself in the old chunky blue and black lumberjack shirt. She tries to picture Mom in it, younger, sitting on her bed. Heather picks up a dark blue sweater from the floor and starts pulling it on over the shirt. The thick material buries her. The words Naf Naf are emblazoned across the chest in pink and white block letters.
— This stuff is so big.
Heather sticks her arms out either side like a scarecrow.
Tape Page 9