Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  I’m afraid of drowning.

  Always have been. I love the sea – when I’m standing on a beach. I can put up with swimming if I’m in the shallow end of the pool and within an arm’s length of the side at all times, but I hate being in water. The thought of having my head submerged makes me break out in an icy sweat.

  I don’t need a head doctor to tell me why either.

  Mum’s little game when I was a toddler.

  She used to hold me by my feet when I was in the bath and pull. She never pulled me all the way under the water, just till my chin was wet usually. Sometimes my bottom lip. Once or twice my top lip. Just enough for me to scream and panic and cry. Then just enough so I couldn’t scream. And afterwards the coughing and tears were always dismissed by Mum. After all, it was just a joke. Just for a laugh. Ha ha.

  Where’s your sense of humour, Libby?

  It drowned a long time ago.

  I have showers now. Only showers. Always showers.

  Mum has resigned herself to who and what she is. She hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve known her and she’s proud of the fact that she’ll never change. Her mind, her views, her attitudes, her few loves and many hatreds, they’ll be with her till the day she dies. And top of her hatred list is my dad. He found out she was pregnant and did a runner apparently. Mum hasn’t seen him since. And me? I know nothing about him and that’s fine by me. If he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him either. Most of Mum’s modelling and acting work dried up years ago, but we do OK, I guess. We have a roof over our heads and food in the fridge. And the bills get paid. I’m not sure how, when Mum only gets maybe one paid acting or modelling job a year as far as I can see, but somehow we get by. It’s probably thanks to the parade of boyfriends Mum has brought to the house over the years. So yeah, we manage.

  But it’s not enough.

  I push open the front door yet make no attempt to enter. Not yet. The smell of stale rubbish, even staler perfume and red wine hits me like a wrecking ball. The house stinks like a seedy wine bar.

  ‘Mum?’ I whisper.

  No reply.

  A deep breath. Louder this time. ‘Mum?’

  No reply.

  A sigh of relief. Huge and heartfelt. I shouldn’t feel this way, elated at being alone, reassured by the house being empty.

  But an empty house is the only time this place feels even remotely like home.

  Home means my music and my choice of food to eat without constant criticism.

  Home means serenity and calm.

  Home means the absence of fear.

  A home without Mum means peace.

  I glance down. A single envelope sits on the doormat. A letter addressed to me. Unusual. I never get letters. Frowning, I bend to pick it up. A white envelope, no address on the back. As I head upstairs to my bedroom, I tear open the letter and begin to read.

  What I read stops me in my tracks midway up the stairs.

  What I read sends shock waves cresting through my body.

  Time stands still as my mind races. So many pieces of the puzzle of my life with Mum begin to fall into place. My expression set, I continue up, making for her bedroom.

  I need to start digging. Mum has buried the truth and I need to find it. All of it.

  eleven. Troy

  * * *

  It’s almost midnight. A single knock, then the door swings open. My sister, Callie, stands in the doorway, framed and posing. The only thing missing is a trumpet fanfare. God, she’s so extra! Callie swans into the room, barely glancing in my direction. Suppose I’d been doing something or watching something that required more than one knock’s notice? I close the lid of my laptop.

  ‘Hey, squirt,’ says my sister. ‘I was hoping you’d still be awake.’

  ‘If I wasn’t, I would be after that entrance. And my name is Troy. It’s one syllable for God’s sake. T-R-O-Y. Troy.’ Unbidden, Libby pops into my head, scowling at me as I call her Princess Petunia. The dog of hypocrisy starts nipping at my heels. I ignore it.

  My sister’s eyebrows quirk. She looks just like Mum when she does that. ‘Someone’s in a good mood!’

  For Shaka’s sake! How hard is it to call me by my proper name? That dog is now taking chunks out of my ankles. My sister thinks I’m overreacting, and maybe I am, but – damn it! – it would be great if just one thing could go right today.

  Dinner with Sonny had been a disaster, to say the least. I’d been on my best behaviour, making an effort to get on with him for Mum’s sake, but then the topic of conversation had moved on to politics. Like most self-made rich people I’ve come across, he was of the view that, if he could make something of himself, so could and should everyone else.

  It was after he made a pointed comment about how, when he was my age, he was already out working full-time that the gloves came off.

  ‘Showing your true colours?’ I asked Sonny. ‘I never took you to be an “I’m all right, Jack, go ahead and pull the ladder up” kinda guy.’

  ‘I am not,’ Sonny said with indignation. ‘But too many people these days are looking for handouts. If I want something, I go after it and nothing gets in my way.’

  ‘Well, bully for you,’ I said with disdain. ‘Some people work just as hard if not harder than you, but simply aren’t as lucky.’

  ‘Troy …’ warned Mum.

  ‘Lucky? I make my own luck,’ Sonny told me. ‘Always have done. You wanna know some other names for luck? Bloody hard work! Dedication. Persistence.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Troy!’ said Mum.

  Sonny’s lip curls in disdain. ‘You’re here in this huge six-bedroom house surrounded by a couple of acres of manicured lawns and you’re going to lecture me about working hard for what I have? Seriously?’

  ‘Sonny!’ Mum admonished.

  ‘Mum, he’s talking out of his —’

  ‘TROY! SONNY! That’s enough. Troy – apologize at once!’ said Mum.

  ‘Pfft! For what?’

  At which point, Mum did her nut, yelling at both of us. She insisted that we change the subject, but the damage was done. Dinner after that had been uncomfortable to say the least. I said no to dessert and escaped to my room, and for once Mum was happy to let me leave the table early.

  ‘So why’re you in such a bad mood, squirt?’ asks Callie. ‘Did someone at school steal your crayons?’

  Ha bloody ha! OK, so my sister is ages older than me – well, eighteen years older to be precise – but I’m taller than her, better-looking, just as smart and not her baby brother any more. So hardly a squirt.

  ‘For all you knew, I might’ve been fast asleep,’ I point out.

  ‘Not likely.’ Callie indicates my laptop. ‘Which government institution were you hacking into?’

  ‘Was doing my Chemistry homework actually.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Callie. ‘And it says something that I think you’re hacking into somewhere you shouldn’t rather than trying to find footage of men or women displaying all they have and haven’t got.’

  ‘If I were trying to find films like that, it’d be of women, not men,’ I tell her.

  ‘Whatever,’ Callie says dismissively. ‘I couldn’t care less which way your pendulum swings.’

  I shake my head. ‘Is there something in particular you wanted or are you just here to be generally annoying?’

  ‘OK, spill, Troy. What’s biting you? We usually have to be together for a least five minutes before you try to pick a fight.’ Callie sits on the chair by my desk, only to immediately leap up again. A frown, a quick glance down and then she lets rip.

  ‘What the actual hell? Troy, I swear every time I come into your room, I feel like I need a tetanus shot.’ Callie removes a less than fresh pair of underpants from the chair. Holding them gingerly by the waistband between her index finger and thumb, and as far away from her nose as she can get them, she drops my underpants on the floor like they’re toxic. They aren’t that bad!

  ‘Troy, you are disgusting,’
Callie says with some force. ‘How are we related?’

  ‘Like this, sis.’

  ‘I’d shift your underwear into the laundry basket before Mum sees it if I were you,’ my sister warns.

  ‘Don’t nag. Damn, I get enough of that from Mum.’

  ‘Don’t be such a slob then. I was never like that,’ says my sister.

  ‘No, you were perfect in every way.’ Is that a hint of sour in my voice? Hell, yes. Though Callie’s immediate snort of self-derision makes me smile and the sour fades.

  ‘Perfect?’ Callie’s eyebrows shoot way up. ‘Boy, you have no idea what I was like when I was your age, but I was about as far removed from perfect as it’s possible to get.’

  ‘Mum’s always going on about how you knuckled down and got on with your schoolwork when you were in your late teens,’ I say, before adopting Mum’s voice and tone. ‘“Callie very rarely went out at your age. Callie focused on her studies. Your sister was determined to make something of herself. What’re you doing with your life, Troy?” And on and on ad nauseam.’

  ‘Get Mum to tell you about me and Uncle Jude some time,’ says Callie quietly.

  ‘Your dad’s brother?’

  Callie nods. My sister very rarely talks about her childhood and, every time she does, there’s a palpable sense of sadness that flows from her before she changes the subject. But now she’s actually inviting me to speak to Mum about her past? That’s a first. I open my mouth to ask more, but then I notice her expression. Whoa! From the look on my sister’s face, her thoughts have plunged her into some dark waters. Any lingering traces of resentment are banished in an instant. Callie isn’t sitting with me in my room any more. No, she’s long ago and far away. Lips pursed, eyes glistening, body absolutely still and hunched; my sister’s reminiscences aren’t exactly accompanied by joy. Was she thinking about her dad again and how she never got to meet him?

  ‘Penny for them?’ I say.

  ‘My thoughts aren’t worth that much,’ she replies, still focused on the past.

  Time to drag my sister back to the present.

  ‘Callie, what d’you think of Sonny?’ I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  My sister’s eyes snap back to mine, immediately alert. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, Callie my sister has retreated and Callie the lawyer is out and beating her wings.

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Callie, don’t go all barrister on me.’ I grimace. ‘Just give me a straight answer. What d’you think of him? D’you trust him?’

  ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  For Shaka’s sake! Getting a straight answer is like trying to get blood from a piece of flint.

  ‘Sonny loves Mum. He has done ever since I can remember,’ Callie says carefully. ‘He’ll make her happy. Don’t you think Mum deserves to be happy?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, she does.’

  ‘Troy, what’s going on in that head of yours?’ She comes over to sit next to me.

  I shrug. ‘Just worrying about nothing.’

  ‘Any worries you’d care to share?’

  ‘Nah. I’m just being silly.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ says Callie. ‘You needn’t stress about Sonny. He’d cut off all his limbs before he’d do anything to make Mum unhappy. And he’s been like the dad I never had. He’s the one who taught me the sign language that I taught you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ I fake a smile. ‘Don’t worry. Sonny is having no effect on my stress levels.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got plenty to raise your blood pressure,’ says Callie, suddenly serious. ‘I hope you’re sitting comfortably.’

  Oh hell!

  Now what?

  Already, Callie is eyeing me apologetically.

  ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ I state.

  She shakes her head. ‘Just don’t hate me, OK?’

  And what gets to me is that Callie believes whatever it is she has to tell me might make me do that.

  twelve. Libby

  * * *

  I hear her before I see her. The sound of a key scratching at the front-door lock. Mum’s obviously having trouble fitting one inside the other. At least a minute passes before the door finally opens. Not good. That’s how I judge just how wasted Mum is – by how long it takes her to open the front door. Reluctantly, I make my way downstairs. One look is enough to make my heart tumble. Mum stands at the door, swaying slightly. Her pupils are barely visible, mere pinpricks at the centre of her grey-blue irises. Her yellow blouse is dishevelled and buttoned up wrong. I’m pretty sure she didn’t leave the house that way. Mum is very careful about how she looks before she goes out anywhere. Coming back home? Not so much.

  Pete the creep, Mum’s boyfriend, slinks into view, the usual hateful, knowing smirk already on his face. He wears denim jeans, a black T-shirt decorated with the profile of a silver wolf howling and a leather jacket that’s too well worn to be fashionable. His long black hair is tied back in a ponytail. He has one hand on the front-door lintel above his head, like he’s posing for a photo shoot. No doubt he thinks he looks too cool, but he comes across as exactly what he is – a total loser. He’s over forty and trying to convince everyone he’s half that age. Pathetic. My lips press together in a bloodless line as I glare at him, unblinking.

  Creep! Loathsome, scumbag, son-of-a-bitch, low-class, bastard blanker. I don’t even feel guilty about applying that word to him. In his case, the word fits.

  ‘Hey, baby girl …’ he says.

  The expression on his face makes my stomach churn. His words make me sick, like one second away from actually heaving. I’m not a baby and I’m certainly not his girl. I bite back the curse that has sprung fully formed into my mouth.

  Ignore him, Libby. He’s not worth it.

  ‘Mum, are you OK? I need to talk to you.’

  Pete enters the house, not bothering to shut the door. He stands to one side as if inviting me to walk past and close it. I have no intention of going anywhere near him. When he sees his ploy isn’t working, he kicks the door closed. The glass panes rattle in the door. Mum doesn’t say a word.

  ‘Tonight, your mum told me all about your dad,’ Pete informs me. ‘It was a very interesting discussion.’

  That’s more than she’s ever done with me. Clenching my teeth so hard it’s a wonder my molars don’t crumble, I pin Mum with a contemptuous glare. She visibly squirms, then looks away – anywhere but at me. It doesn’t stop me scowling at her.

  ‘Mum, where’ve you been?’ I ask. ‘I was worried sick.’

  ‘Shame your mum didn’t tell me before, because then you and I would’ve had so much more to talk about,’ Pete interjects with a grin so oily I’m surprised it doesn’t just slide right off his foul face.

  Owl-like, Mum blinks at me like she’s trying to remember who I am. After so many times of this, it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. As always. Her lipstick is slightly smudged and the mascara on her left eye has run.

  A good time was had by all.

  ‘I was going out with Pete. I told you,’ Mum slurs.

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  Pete again. Always encouraging Mum to drink this and snort that. And she’s weak enough to give in to him. Mum has been going out with Pete for over six months now and the more I get to know him, the more shivers of revulsion slither over me whenever he’s nearby. The last time I found myself alone with him, he stroked one finger slowly up and down my bare arm, his finger running over the scars on my forearm. Just remembering it makes me shudder.

  ‘How did you get these scratches?’ he asked.

  ‘Next door’s cat – if it’s any of your business. And get your hand off me.’

  But he just carried on stroking up and down my arm. When I threatened to tell Mum, he laughed in my face.

  ‘Go ahead. Tell her. And I’ll tell her what a tease you’ve been, flashing me and trying to get me to dump her for you. Let’s see who she’ll believe.’

 
No contest. I already knew the answer to that question.

  ‘I dist— distinc— totally remember telling you that Pete and I were out tonight. We’re celebrating our seven-month anniversary,’ says Mum, swaying like a sapling in a high wind.

  Why bother to even argue? Mum won’t remember a word of this conversation in the morning. Hell, ten minutes from now it’ll be out of her head.

  ‘I bet your dad dotes on you, Liberty,’ says Pete softly. ‘You being his only child and all.’

  What the hell is he talking about? Didn’t Mum tell him that I’ve never even met my dad? My nails bite into my palms as I scowl at him, wishing he’d just drop down a deep hole and die.

  ‘Pete, stop it,’ Mum admonishes. ‘I need a drink.’ She weaves her way to the kitchen. ‘You want one, darling?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got plans,’ says Pete. ‘Be seeing you, Libby.’

  Not if I see you first, I think sourly.

  He blows me a kiss, chuckling at the look of utter loathing darkening my narrowed eyes. Only when he’s closed the front door firmly behind him do my fists slowly unclench. Mum brought that toad to our house again, despite the fact that I’ve told her more than once that he makes me feel uncomfortable. Tomorrow morning she’ll tell me she forgot, or she couldn’t make it home alone. Always some excuse. Much as I want to question Mum about the letter I received earlier, I know there’s no point. Not when she’s in this state. It’ll just have to wait till tomorrow. Better yet, I should gather all the information I can so Mum can’t easily lie to me any more.