Num8ers

by Rachel Ward

  “I’ll talk to them on one condition: They must let Spider go — my mate. I need to see him. He hasn’t done anything. If they let him go, I’ll talk. You can tell them that.”

  The rector let out his breath like a burst of steam. “Must we really go backward and forward like this? You are in serious trouble, young lady. If you have done nothing wrong, if you have nothing to hide, then you should talk to the police. Nothing bad will happen to you if you tell the truth.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  His nostrils flared. “I don’t like your attitude. Appalling things have happened. Innocent people have died. We need to get to the truth. We need to find those responsible. It’s not a laughing matter.”

  “I’m not laughing,” I said, “but I’m not talking to them. I don’t trust them. Why should I? They’ve taken my friend away.”

  “He was a suspect,” he said, his mouth slowly shaping all the words like he was talking to a very young kid or a foreigner. “Of course they’ve taken him away. And if he has done nothing wrong and he tells the truth, they will let him go again. Perhaps” — his voice softened—“perhaps we sometimes don’t know people as well as we think we do. It’s possible that your…your friend didn’t tell you everything. That you got caught up in something you knew nothing about….”

  “No!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the place. “It’s not like that. You’re like the rest of them. You’re twisting things around, trying to make him into something he’s not. It wasn’t him at the London Eye. It was me.”

  They were both looking at me intently now. “Go on,” Simon said.

  “I didn’t do nothing. I just knew that something was going to happen that day. I could see that lots of people there were going to die.”

  “How did you know?” The rector was waiting for me to tell him I did it, I planted the bomb.

  “I can see the day, the date, when people are going to die.” They looked at each other quickly. “I could tell you both yours, your last days, but I never will. I never tell people, it’s not right. But when I saw that all those people had the same day, that day in London, I was scared. I didn’t want to be there, so we ran away.”

  “What do you mean, you can see the date…?”

  “If I look at someone, I see a number. It’s kind of inside my head and outside at the same time. The number is a date.”

  “How do you know what the number means?”

  “I’ve seen enough death. I know. Anyway, I was right, wasn’t I, about the London Eye? I was right to run away.”

  They looked at each other again.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police, tell them what you knew?”

  “Why do you think? It’s all so simple, isn’t it? Tell the truth and it will all be alright. Maybe it’s like that here, but it’s not where I come from. They see a black kid with some money, they see a dealer. They see a couple of kids, just chilling somewhere, hanging out, they see a couple of muggers. They need to collar someone for a crime, they collar someone — one of the usual suspects, anyone who fits the picture, doesn’t matter. Truth and lies, it all gets mixed up. No one would believe me.”

  “It’s certainly…unexpected” — the rector was picking his words carefully—“what you’re saying. But if that’s what you believe, then you should tell them. They will be able to do tests that can exonerate you, test your clothes for traces of explosives.”

  “Set me up, you mean.”

  His turn to get angry. “No!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the door. “That’s not how it works in this country. There are processes, checks and balances. You must trust the system. It’s what keeps this country civilized.”

  I closed my eyes. What can you say to people like that, part of the system themselves, or so naïve they believe all that establishment bullshit? I couldn’t argue against them, anyway. I didn’t have the words that would make them listen, respect me; didn’t know their language.

  They let the police in to see me, of course, and as usual they brought a social worker with them. The feeling that Simon and the rector might protect me from all that had faded during the lecture about our “civilized society,” but it still felt like a betrayal. I didn’t answer their questions. The only thing I said, over and over, until I thought it would drive us all mad, was, “I’ll talk when you bring my friend here. I’ll talk when I’ve seen Spider.”

  They tried all the usual stuff: good cop, bad cop; kind cop, irritated cop; sympathetic cop, threatening cop. None of it touched me — I let their voices wash over and around me, while they got more and more frustrated. They brought in a doctor, too, but I didn’t talk to him, either. I was pretty sure once I started telling him about the numbers, he’d have me in the loony bin before I could blink — carted off to a secure ward somewhere, locked up, tranquilized.

  There was the sound of movement outside. The door opened to let another woman in: Karen. To be honest, it took me a few seconds to remember where I’d seen her before. The last few days had been so intense, it was like I’d lived a whole different life since I’d left her house.

  “Jem!” she said, and half walked, half ran across the room with her arms open. She gathered me to her, and all at once I was back in her kitchen on Sherwood Road, and I was who I used to be, before all this happened. She held me for a long time. There was a lot of emotion from her, in that hug; it surprised me, kind of repulsed me, too, but I didn’t pull away. It was like she’d really missed me — I would have thought she’d be glad for the peace and quiet of the past few days.

  Eventually, she let go and moved away a little. “How are you? Are you alright? I’ve been so worried. If you’d only told me….” There was pain in her face, concern.

  “I’m alright,” I said, but I was betrayed by the wobble in my voice.

  “You look tired. You’re very pale.” She stroked my cheek with one of her pudgy hands. “It’s alright now, Jem. You can come home with me. I expect the police will want to question you again tomorrow, and I’ll be with you, but you can come home tonight.”

  Home. The thought of Sherwood Road, the projects, the twins, everything back to normal.

  “I’m not going, not without Spider.”

  “Of course you must. Jem, you’ve been through a heck of a lot. Let me look after you for a bit. Give yourself a break.”

  “I’m going to stay here.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think you can, Jem. This is not a place where people live.”

  “I can stay, and I’m going to. I’m going to stay until they bring Spider back to me. You’re not going to take me away. You can’t make me.”

  She had her hand on my arm now. “No one’s going to take you anywhere you don’t want to go. I’m just asking you — asking, Jem — that you come home.”

  I shrugged her arm away. Instantly her face crumpled with hurt feelings.

  “I’m not going, Karen. I’m staying here.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “You’re not so tough, Jem. One day you’ll realize that, and I’ll be there for you.”

  She gathered up her handbag and went to join the others outside. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t care. They could talk about me all they liked. Whether he knew it or not, Simon had given me something precious, something powerful, a silver bullet to defend myself with. One word: “sanctuary.”

  They came back in; Karen, Imogen — the social worker — Simon, and the rector.

  “We can’t leave you here on your own,” said the rector wearily.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a fifteen-year-old girl. It’s not appropriate.”

  “I’ve been on my own for days.”

  “Be reasonable, Jem,” Karen chipped in.

  “I’m not moving. I can sleep right here. It’s safer than on the street.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I need to get back,” said Karen. “I’ve got a neighbor keeping an eye on the kids, but…I suppose I could see if
she could sleep there.”

  Karen looked at Simon and the rector, who nodded. “If you can stay, Karen, we’ll make up a couple of beds for you.”

  Karen made a couple of phone calls and there was a bit more faffing about. They were doing that adult thing of talking like I wasn’t there. The rector started mouthing off about me vandalizing the place, but Karen stepped in.

  “I’ll be here. I’ll vouch for her. Anyway, she’s not a violent kid at heart. She got into trouble at school, but I think there was provocation there. She wouldn’t be destructive here.”

  I just sat still, picking at a flap of loose skin on the side of my thumb. I looked up and Karen caught my eye. She looked at me evenly, but I knew we were both thinking of my room back at her house, smashed to bits the night before I left.

  The rector’s wife, Anne, had appeared with a couple of duvets and some pillows, and she and Karen made up two beds on the floor. She’d brought some food, too: packets and parcels that she left on the table.

  Then the rector, Simon, and Anne started saying their good-byes. Simon was telling Karen about the facilities, and I tuned out for a while. When I tuned back in, he had lowered his voice, but I could still hear.

  “If you’re in trouble,” he was saying, “if you need them, there’s a spare set of keys in the vestry. In the desk drawer. The key to the side door has some yellow tape around it.”

  “OK,” Karen said. “Thanks.”

  They filed out quietly, down the abbey, leaving through the side door. Beyond them I got a glimpse of the outside world. There was quite a crowd there, and a shed load of policemen. As the door opened, a barrage of flashbulbs went off, like strobe lights at a disco. What the hell was going on? There were people shouting, it was complete pandemonium. The abbey contingent looked shaken, and I ducked back out of view behind the door.

  The last one out was Simon, the big bunch of keys jingling in his hand. He paused as he was swinging the door shut, leaving a two-inch gap. “Good night, ladies. Sleep well.” His face twitched into a smile, and he closed the door, the big metal key scraping ’round as he locked it, an oddly liquid sound.

  On the other side of the windows, the sky was flashing like fireworks, lighting up the inside of the abbey, too. I leaned against the door, listening to the noise outside.

  “Right,” said Karen. “Let’s see what Anne left us, shall we? This is going to be fun, isn’t it. Like camping! Ever been camping, Jem?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  We unwrapped the parcels of food. Anne had brought us sandwiches, homemade cake, potato chips. Karen made us both a cup of tea, and we sat on either side of the table.

  I was waiting for the probing questions, the time Karen would want it all explained to her, but for a while she was happy to chatter away about the twins and the media fuss — there’d been reporters camped outside their front door, apparently. I thought she was going to ask about the numbers, all the rumors flying around, but, of course, she asked the question a mum would ask.

  “So what’s going on with you and Terry — Spider — then? More than friends now, is it?”

  I didn’t want to talk about him, not with her, but I realized that I did want her on my side. Maybe she could help me see him again. So I didn’t tell her to mind her own business, which is what I wanted to do.

  “Just friends,” I mumbled, “good friends.” A hateful warmth was spreading into my cheeks. God, it’s hideous when your body betrays you. She saw it, and started smiling.

  “But you like him,” she said coyly.

  I was bursting inside. Yeah, I liked him. I thought about him every minute of every day. I ached without him. I loved him. All those things I could never say out loud — except, maybe, to him.

  “Yeah, I really like him,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, willing the hot skin on my face to cool down and get back to normal. “And I really need to see him again. It’s important, Karen. I need to see him.”

  She smiled at me, a twinkling, sympathetic smile. “I know what that feels like. I was young once, too, you know.” How many more middle-aged clichés was she going to roll out today? “You will see him again, Jem. The police are holding him at the moment, but nobody thinks either of you planted that bomb. They want to talk to you as witnesses. And then there’s stealing cars and whatever else you’ve been up to in the last few days. And we still haven’t heard what they want to do about you taking that knife to school….” She sighed. “I’m not saying it isn’t a mess, Jem, because it is, but we can sort it all out. You just need to cooperate with the police, and then, eventually, they’ll let you see Spider again.”

  “Eventually’s no good,” I blurted out.

  “You’ve got to learn to be patient. I know it’s difficult…”

  “We haven’t got the time to wait. It has to be before the fifteenth!”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re both fifteen. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “No, we haven’t. You don’t understand.”

  “Then you’d better tell me.”

  Faced with no alternative, I did. I told her about the numbers, like I’d told Spider, the day the London Eye was blown to bits.

  She looked uneasy all the way through, fiddling with the foil food wrappers, and when I finished, she laughed, a really nervous little whinny.

  “Come on, Jem. You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “It’s not what I believe or not. It just is.”

  She snorted and looked down at her fingers, restlessly squeezing and shaping the tinfoil.

  “That’s not real, Jem. That’s not real life.”

  “It is, Karen. It’s been my life for fifteen years.”

  “Jem, sometimes things get muddled up. I know how tough it’s been for you. You’ve been through so much unhappiness and change. I knew that when I agreed to take you on. Sometimes, when things are confusing, anyway, we try and make sense of it our own way, we find ways of coping….”

  She still didn’t understand. “I didn’t make it up! Do you think I want to live like this?”

  “Alright. Calm down. You didn’t make it up on purpose, I know. I’m just saying that sometimes the mind plays tricks on you.”

  “So I need a psychiatrist?”

  “No, you need a proper home. There is nothing wrong with you that some stability — love, even — wouldn’t cure. All things I’m trying to give you.” Her eyes flicked up to me nervously. She was used to me throwing things like this back in her face.

  The thing was, even as I was almost screaming with frustration, I could see where she was coming from. If someone else had told me my story, I’d have thought they were pulling a prank or were schizo or something. I wouldn’t have believed them. Karen’s world was one of routines and rules. She had her size-seven feet firmly on the ground. Of course this didn’t make any sense to her. She was looking at me now, just waiting to be kicked, and I would have just a few days ago, but what would be the point now?

  “I know you are, Karen,” I said. “I know.”

  And she pressed her lips together in a tight little smile, a grateful acknowledgment of the effort it had cost me to say that.

  “’Nother cup of tea, love?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll just stretch my legs while the kettle’s on.”

  “OK.”

  I got up and walked out into the abbey, surprised again at its sheer size, the space above me. All over the floor were stones with writing carved into them. I was standing on one: the marker for someone, dead for two hundred and thirty years. The walls, too, were a patchwork. Words that had lasted for hundreds of years — describing people nobody remembered anymore. I was surrounded by bones and ghosts.

  I looked around the abbey, stopping here and there to read the stones. It should have creeped me out. It didn’t. I liked it — I liked the honesty of seeing people’s numbers. The stones told the facts: birth date, death date. The numbers were fine — it was the words that were more troubling. DEPARTED; LAID TO RE
ST; TAKEN BY HER MAKER; GONE TO A BETTER PLACE. I stopped in front of this last one. Was it wishful thinking, belief, or even certainty? If I’d written that memorial, I would have rubbed out the last four words. Just GONE.

  That’s all there was, as far as I could see. How could anyone possibly know any different?

  It made me wonder where my mum was now, or where what was left of her was. What had happened to her after they’d taken me away in that car? Had she been buried somewhere, or cremated? Had there been a funeral, and had anyone gone? Or do junkies, dossers, and slags just get chucked in a ditch? All of a sudden, I really wanted there to be a grave somewhere for her. I wanted her messy, messed-up life to have ended properly.

  Then a chill ran through me. What would they do for Spider? It seemed impossible that just over twenty-four hours from now, he’d be needing a gravestone. How could someone so alive, so fizzing with energy, just stop?

  I felt a tide of panic rising up inside me. Despite what Karen thought, Spider’s life could be measured out in hours now — minutes, even. I’d seen his number so many times. It didn’t change. It was real. He would die in jail, or some police cell. Beaten up, probably. Unless he was ill. Perhaps he was ill right now, already in the grip of something that seemed trivial, that nobody knew would be fatal. I couldn’t possibly wait out these next hours until someone came to me, told me the news. I needed to step up the pressure, somehow get them to release him.

  “Tea’s ready.” Karen’s voice echoed into the church.

  I wandered back into the vestry, determined to find a way to see him again. I’d been like a cork at sea all my life, tossed around from home to home, no say in what happened to me. I had to take control.

  We had our tea and got ready for bed. Karen went on chatting away, trying to make it fun. By then I was so tired, I was nearly falling over. I let her tuck me in and then listened as, huffing and puffing, she got into her bed.

  “It’s quite comfy, isn’t it?” she said, in a cheery, making-the-best-of-things kind of voice.

  “Uh…no. But it’s better than sleeping under a hedge.”