by Keren David
Mr Jordan – who clearly needs anger management classes – grabs his ear too and marches the two of us to the front gate. “Get lost!” he shouts. “And never come back!”
12: THINK THROUGH YOUR LIES BEFOREHAND IF POSSIBLE
That was some encounter. We try to make sense of it on the way home. Was it a case of mistaken identity? Or did Mr and Mrs Jordan think we were trying to con them?
Or had my dad done something so awful that they’d totally disowned him?
Something to do with criminal gangs?
Something to do with protesting against animal testing, nuclear weapons and global warming?
Kai has some useless theories. Maybe my grandad is actually the boss of a massive company that pumped chemicals into the air and my dad protested against it for so long that it went bust?
“He was a bus driver,” I say.
“Oh. OK.” Even Kai’s dad thinks buses are a good thing, especially the electric ones.
“Maybe he stole his dad’s bus?”
“Shut up, Kai. It was more than that.” I remember the old lady’s face. Like we’d cursed her, spat in her face, peed on the gnomes. “Maybe he murdered someone,” I say.
“Your dad, a murderer? That’s mind-blowing – even for you.”
“Maybe I should write to them … Explain …” I’m feeling bad about Mrs Jordan.
“Nah,” Kai says. “We’re playing the Barbarians again tomorrow. Let’s see if Ball Dropper’s dad turns up.”
“Hagrid,” I say.
“Butter Fingers.”
End of conversation. Huh.
I get back home to find Mum and Jason in the kitchen. Waiting for me. Looking serious.
“River, have you been messing with Jason’s files?” Mum starts.
I can’t think what to say. This isn’t like me.
“It wasn’t me,” I say. Lame.
“Then who was it?” Jason’s voice is all calm and friendly, which is pretty freaky seeing as he thinks I’ve been snooping around his secrets. It’s freaky and sinister.
I shrug. “Maybe a burglar?”
“A burglar?” Mum says. “But we’ve been here all day.”
“I haven’t,” I say. I think about where I have been, and I feel sad and confused, all over again.
“Last night,” Jason says. “When me and your mum went for a drink. Did you go through my stuff then?”
I get angry. “Look, I said it was a burglar, right? I was on the phone to Kai, and then I hear this noise. This thud, thud, thud noise. Someone coming up the stairs. And I assume it’s you, OK? So I don’t do anything. And then I hear someone on the landing. And there’s this huge guy, really ugly, with a massive knife, OK? But he’s got his back to me, and I just watch him go downstairs. Thud, thud, thud. And he lets himself out and I watch him run away. And I feel bad that I didn’t stop him. But the knife was nasty.”
“So,” Jason says, still freakily calm. “He came into our house and looked in my files and then put everything back a bit mixed up but quite tidy? And he didn’t bother to steal anything?”
“Look, I didn’t ask him what he was doing, OK?” I say. “I didn’t want him to carve me up. I don’t expect you to care about that, but Mum might.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And you never said anything about this last night or this morning?”
I think about telling her what I found out. How Jason is super rich. How he’s got a file full of stuff about my dad.
I don’t. I need to protect her.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you might be scared.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you, River.” She sighs. “I was on your side with that teacher, but this is ridiculous. I’m not standing for your lies any more.”
I wish Jason would go away. This isn’t a spectator sport. I don’t need him to hear Mum getting angry at me.
“I used to think it was cute when you made up stories.” Mum is almost ranting now. “I thought you had a good imagination. But now! You should know better, River. You’re making a fool of yourself!”
“Look, Tanya –” Jason says.
Mum holds up a hand to stop him. “This is between me and River!” she shouts. “I have a right to a new life, River. I have a right to a new partner. You’re nearly grown up. You’re going to leave home one day. Can’t you accept it? Jason’s part of our family now!”
Jason tries again. “If I can just –”
I could have told him not to bother. When Mum explodes it’s fireworks night.
“So, River,” she yells, “you don’t nose through Jason’s stuff, you don’t use his computer and you stop telling your stupid lies about everything! Got it?”
“All right!” I shout. “Leave me alone! I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all! Next time some guy with a knife breaks in, don’t come crying to me!”
“Do you think we should call the police?” Jason says when at last I shut up.
Silence.
“There might be fingerprints,” he adds.
“Whatever,” I say.
“Jason …” says Mum.
“It’s OK,” he says. “River, if you want to know about me or my work or if you want to use the computer, just check first, OK?”
“Call the police,” I say. “Fingerprint away. I don’t care.”
13: THE TRUTH HURTS AS MUCH AS SOME LIES
Of course Jason insists on coming with me to football the next day. As he does every week. It’s getting really annoying how Marcus lets him do the team talk and everyone laughs at his stupid jokes, soaks up his made-up facts and listens to his pathetic tactics.
I don’t. I do everything the opposite of what Jason says. Which means that my team mates start swearing at me, and the Barbarians score two goals in the first ten minutes. And then Marcus subs me out.
“It wasn’t my fault!” I rage, furious. “It was Jason’s tactics!”
Marcus sighs. “I can’t have my team wrecked because you’re finding it difficult to accept your step-dad, River.”
I go all cold inside. “What? Who said that?”
“It’s obvious, River. He says go wide, you stay in the centre. He says send crosses over to Raffi, you keep the ball to yourself. I know it’s not easy when your family changes, but he’s a nice guy and he’s making an effort. You’re fifteen, not five. Grow up a bit, son. Now, shut up, watch and learn, and maybe I’ll put you back on after half time.”
I feel like Marcus has punched me in the gut. How dare he assume he knows about me and my family? He knows nothing. I walk as far away as I can from him and the other dads – Jason’s running the line again – but not as far as the other team’s supporters. Near enough to see them and near enough to hear them. Near enough to spot Hagrid’s dad, and see his tattoo and listen to him chat to another Barbarian father.
“How’s it going, Steve?” the other dad says. “Ollie like being in goal?”
So, his name is Steve. I think about going back to the old couple in Ilford.
Have you got another son called Steve? What’s he like?
“Yeah, he does,” my possible Uncle Steve says. “He’s having a great time.”
“He’s certainly built for the job!” The other dad laughs, and after a pause Steve joins in.
“He’s done OK so far,” he says. “It’s nice to be a winner.”
I get the feeling that Hagrid the Hulk hasn’t been a winner in many things.
“Too right,” the other dad says. “This lot aren’t causing much trouble, are they? Apparently they’ve got a new assistant manager who’s shaken things up.”
I look away. We’ve won every game since Jason got involved, but I’ll never give him credit for that. In fact, if he hadn’t interfered, we’d probably have an even better goal difference.
“I heard they won seven–nil last week,” the bloke-who-might-be-my-uncle-Steve says.
“So,” the other dad says, “how’s life at the yard? Still making life safer for the rest of us?”
Th
e yard? Is it some sort of scrap yard? But how would that make life safer for anyone?
“I’m mostly at a desk now,” Steve says. “Boring stuff. Admin. Nothing interesting. Suits me just fine.”
“River!” Marcus is calling me. I can see Raffi on the ground, holding his ankle, looking like he’s about to be sick.
I jog back onto the pitch, trying to get my head back into the game. I don’t even know what the score is.
But my brain is buzzing with new information.
Then it comes to me like a lightning strike.
The Yard is Scotland Yard.
Scotland Yard is the HQ of the Metropolitan Police. It’s the home of London’s police force.
My possible Uncle Steve could be a cop. A boring, desk-based cop, but still a cop.
So what does that make my dad?
14: SOMETIMES THINGS THAT SOUND LIKE LIES ARE TRUE
In the car on the way back, Jason drones on about the match. Who played well, who was poor, how did I think the Barbarians shaped up? It was a cup match and the score was 3–3, so we’ll have to play them again. And again in the league too.
“Their goalie is good, isn’t he?” Jason says. “He’s got elastic arms. Couldn’t believe it when he saved that shot of yours.”
This is fake nice Jason, because my shot was rubbish and we both know it. Hagrid plucked it out of the air in his meaty paw no problem at all.
Ten awkward minutes later, and we’re almost home when Jason’s phone rings. He looks down to see who it is, says, “I need to take this,” and switches on the hands-free.
“Sean! Hi!”
“Hey, Jason. Can you talk?”
Jason looks at me. “Yeah, yeah sure. Just driving River home from football.”
“OK. Well. Those people I was telling you about? They’re on for a meeting. Call me later and I’ll give you the details.”
“How about you message me?”
“Nah. Better in person. Why don’t we have a pint later? Meet you at the Lion and Unicorn? Eight-ish?”
“Sure. See you then.”
I sit there, thinking.
“What do you and Kai reckon to Sean?” Jason asks.
“He’s one of my mum’s oldest friends,” I reply. “Unlike you.”
“So, you think he’s a good guy?”
“What do you care?” I remember the file on my dad. “Why are you snooping around, asking questions?”
“I thought you liked people asking questions.”
“What makes you think that?” I say.
“Because you come up with great answers, River. Go on, tell me that Sean’s really a brain surgeon, but he’s not working right now because he’s been accused of sleeping on the job.”
“That’s so crap,” I mutter.
“You can do better, I’m sure.”
“Are you saying I make things up?” As I say it, I realise how stupid I sound.
“I think that sometimes, when we’re desperate for answers, we fill in the gaps for ourselves,” Jason says. “I always used to. Like, when I missed people I would imagine what they were doing, what they were up to.”
I’m saying nothing. No words, true or false, are coming out of my mouth.
“You know, you didn’t have to go snooping in my office to find out about me,” Jason says. “We could talk.”
I want to get out of the car. But we’re going quite fast.
“I didn’t go snooping,” I say. “It was a burglar.”
“OK,” says Jason. “But the police haven’t caught him yet, so I’m putting extra bolts on the front and back doors.” He turns to look at me. “You can help if you want.”
“Nah, you’re all right.”
“Sure you trust me to do it?”
He has a point.
“I’ll check your work afterwards,” I say.
“OK,” Jason says. “It’s important we all feel safe at home.”
I don’t say anything in the hope he’ll shut up. But no, nothing stops him.
“I think the burglar had a good look at my bank details,” he says. “I’m a bit worried he might steal my identity. Take money out of my account.”
“Are you calling him a thief?” I burst out.
“Well, he is just a random burglar.”
“Well, actually, maybe he’s not so random,” I say. “Maybe he’s investigating you. Maybe he’s investigating why you say you’re a journalist when you don’t have a job. He’s investigating where your money comes from. And why you’re living in a crappy little house with me and my mum, when you own a flat in a dead posh area.”
Jason whistles. “Do you think so? Well, maybe you’re right. I am quite mysterious, after all. Secretive even.”
I can’t help but wonder where he’s going with this. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“My work, it’s not easy to explain,” he says. “I’m a freelance investigative journalist for all sorts of newspapers and websites and magazines. Sometimes I don’t use my own name.”
“What? Why?”
“So I can find out the truth about people who have got something to hide, River.”
“Is that why you’ve got so much money?” I ask him. “Enough to take five people to Costa Rica?”
“No,” Jason says. “Have you ever thought about why I wanted to get married a long way from London?”
No. Of course I haven’t.
“I have no family, River,” he tells me. “My parents and my sister were killed in a car crash when I was twelve. My grandparents adopted me, but they’re dead now. I was alone in the world, until I met your mum. And that’s why I have money, that’s why you and your mum mean so much to me, and that’s why I’ve moved out of my flat and in with you two. If you see the burglar again, you can tell him that.”
I’m shocked to find that I have a massive lump in my throat. If he’s telling the truth, then I almost feel sorry for him. If he’s lying – but who would tell lies like that?
And I remember him at the fake beach wedding. Making his stupid, boring speech. Talking about the people who couldn’t be there. Saying, “Mum and Dad, Georgia, Gran and Grandpa. I miss you very much. I know you’d be so happy if you were here today.”
At the time, I’d wondered why they hadn’t flown out to Costa Rica as well.
Maybe Jason’s not so fake after all?
Or has he made up this whole story to try and make me like him?
15: SOME TRUTHS ARE AS HARD TO SWALLOW AS LIES
Monday morning, I set off for school as usual. But I don’t go to Kai’s house. Instead I head for the tube station. It’s like I’m in a trance. Before I know it I’m on the Central Line heading for Ilford.
Jason’s story made me realise I haven’t got any family either. Mum’s only relatives are in New Zealand, and she doesn’t keep in touch with them. And I don’t know any of my dad’s family. For obvious reasons.
Mr and Mrs Jordan could be my actual grandparents. I need to give them another chance.
So if I go by myself, and if I’m smart in school uniform, and if I’m very polite and the old lady is by herself, maybe she’ll let me in. Maybe she’ll talk to me.
I get all the way to the red front door and then my nerve fails me. So I sit down on the doorstep instead. She almost falls over me when she opens the door an hour later to let in the cat, a fat grey and black tabby who curls himself around my legs.
“He likes you,” she says. “What are you doing, sitting on my step?”
I stand up.
“I came to say sorry for upsetting you the other day. And I wanted to explain, and show you something.”
She looks me up and down. “Well,” she says. “I suppose you could come in. Just for five minutes.”
Their house isn’t much bigger than ours, but it’s so different. We have walls painted red, orange, pink and green. Big bold paintings that Mum did, wall hangings from India, painted bowls from Morocco. A squashy sofa, covered with throws. Bare wooden floorboards and a rag rug made f
rom old jeans.
The Jordans’ house has flowery wallpaper and a swirly carpet. The sofa and armchairs match and are a soft green. There’s a fireplace and a shelf with some framed photos. Mr and Mrs Jordan all dressed up at a party. Mr Jordan holding a small gold clock.
Mrs Jordan nods at that picture.
“My Peter,” she says. “Thirty-five years’ service on the buses. They gave him that clock on the mantelpiece.”
“It’s a very nice clock,” I say, a bit helplessly.
“It is. It’d be a family heirloom if we had any family.”
I spot my chance. “Mrs Jordan,” I say. “I’m sorry I upset you the other day. Can I explain?”
“Go ahead,” she says. “I’m listening.”
“My name is River Jones. I’ve never met my dad. He left my mum before she knew she was pregnant.”
“That’s an unusual name,” she says. “River.”
I tell most people that I was named after the River Thames because my dad holds the world record for canoeing down it. But this time I tell the truth.
“My mum likes a song. It’s called ‘Cry Me a River’. I think she chose my name because she was kind of sad once my dad left.”
“I know that song,” says Mrs Jordan. “It’s a favourite of mine too. Your poor mother, she must have had a hard time.”
“No one knows why he left,” I tell her. “They didn’t row or anything, and she says he would have been happy about me if he’d known. But he didn’t. He never came back. He even left his passport behind.”
“That’s strange,” she says. “But what has this got to do with me?”
I take a breath. “His name was Matthew Peter Jordan,” I tell her. “He was born on the 7th of March 1973. I sent away for a copy of his birth certificate. Look.”
I pull my dad’s birth certificate and passport out of my bag and hand them to her.
She looks at them in silence.
“So, you think this man is my son, Matthew, and that he’s your dad. You think I’m your grandmother?”
I look at her, trying to see if she’s like me at all. Her eyes are pale blue and her nose is long and thin. But there’s something about the way she looks at me that’s kind, and I like the way the cat rubs against her, confident that it’s loved and welcome. It gives me hope.