Another Life (13 page)

There’s no point saying anything. I actually had no idea that this was how he felt about me.

The way I’m sitting there, trying not to laugh, seems to make him even angrier. And the angrier he gets, the more I want to laugh. And when I do, he gets even louder.

Haven’t I got anything to say for myself? Why am I giggling like an idiot? What stunt am I going to pull next? Don’t I realise that life is hard and there’s lots of competition
out there and you can’t just dick around?

My eyes are stinging. It’s probably the smoke.

Do I understand? Do I get it? It’s not all about getting stoned and sleeping around and going to parties. It’s about hard work. It’s about making your fortune. It’s about
taking on the world and winning.

‘I don’t need to make my fortune,’ I say. ‘You’ve already done that for me.’

It’s meant to be a joke – because I’m good at them – but he doesn’t get it. That’s
exactly
what pisses him off. My sense of
entitlement.
I’m so
spoilt.
I’ve been spoon-fed all my bleeding life. I have no idea at all how it is in the real world.

‘It’s not my fault if you spoiled me,’ I point out.

He shakes his head. ‘You don’t even understand what I’m talking about, do you?’

Actually I do. I get it completely. And I’m angry.

‘If you wanted me to be just like you, then you should’ve brought me up like you were,’ I say, ‘instead of pushing me off to boarding school, and buying me off with
tennis camp and PlayStation and all that, so that you could go away all the time and leave me with an au pair.’

He doesn’t say anything, just starts opening more windows. I spy a colossal gap in his armour.

‘Why did you both have to work, anyway? Haven’t you got enough money? You care about your work and your bonuses more than you care about me! You and Mum, you’re both as bad as
each other! I don’t know why you bothered to have me!’

‘You have no bloody clue what you’re talking about,’ he says, but I have the advantage.

‘You care more about money than you do about me!

If you don’t like me, then it’s all your own fault!’

His mouth is open, but he has nothing to say, which means it’s true. I take the opportunity to escape, and I have the satisfaction of having won. He booms after me, ‘We’ve got
more to discuss in the morning!’ but he doesn’t try to follow me.

We’ve got nothing to discuss. I lie in bed, full of fury and hurt and determined to show him that he’s wrong, he’s unfair, he’s stupid and everything is his fault.

Boxing lessons seem like a good place to start.

M
y alarm goes off 8 am the next morning. I stare at it for a bit . . . WTF? 8 am? And then I remember where I’m going and just about why, and
I drag myself out of bed. I choose my clothes with care: trackie bottoms – I never wear them, but we had to have them at school for PE – a plain white T, a black hoodie.

It’s OK, but not nearly chavvy enough. I’m going to have to visit somewhere like JD Sports to put the Kyle Stone look together if I’m going on with this.

My dad’s in the kitchen when I go downstairs, wearing shorts and a T-shirt which reads ‘New York Marathon 2009’. He’s wet with sweat and a bit red in the face. He’s
making himself an energy shake.

He puts on his friendliest face. Clearly we’re meant to forget last night. What a fake.

‘Want some?’ he asks as I lace up my trainers.

‘You must be joking,’ I say in my iciest voice. Those shakes are made with soy milk, peanut butter and protein powder. They smell like cat vomit.

‘Going out for a run?’ he asks. ‘Shame, you could’ve come with me. I’ve done ten miles already. I’m going for a bike ride later. You can come with, if you
want.’

When I was about ten my dad and I used to go on bike rides together. In fact, the best holiday I ever had was in the Netherlands, when we took the bikes over on the ferry and did miles every
day, counting windmills and cows as we whizzed past on wide, flat bike lanes. Dad and I got on really well.

But then he started pressurising me to go faster and further, and I went away to school and lost the cycling habit, and I used to come home for the holidays and just want to chill, not struggle
up hills and get either a) wet, cold and muddy or b) hot, sweaty and dusty.

So I stopped, although Dad tried to tempt me back last birthday by buying me an amazing mountain bike with twenty-seven gears – awesome in theory, exhausting in practice. I’ve hardly
touched it.

‘No thanks,’ I say, with (hopefully) biting sarcasm.

‘Look, Archie,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry I went over the top yesterday. I’m pitching for a big deal. It’s very stressful.’

‘Oh, right.’

My dad is always either pitching for deals – ‘Very stressful, don’t talk to me, Archie, I’m busy. How dare those bastards offer that price,’ etc. Or he’s
working on deals – ‘Every bloody detail has to be absolutely right, I’m not letting those bastards on the other team take us apart because of a stupid error,’ etc. Or
he’s trapped in meetings where the deal actually happens, which can go on and on for days and nights and more days. Very occasionally he’s between deals, when he mostly sleeps. The rest
of the time he keeps himself going with an insane amount of exercise.

I have occasionally wondered if it’s all a big con and actually he spends half the time with a lover or two, but I’ve never found any real proof to back that theory.

He takes a big gulp of his shake and makes a face.

‘Tastes like hell, but it’s great for performance. Sure you won’t have any?’

‘You can keep it.’

‘You should use the new bike for college,’ he says. ‘My commute’s much easier by bike.’

‘Sure, can you ask Jeff to take my books and stuff as well as yours?’

Jeff is Dad’s personal driver. When Dad cycles to work, Jeff comes and picks up his briefcase and suit and delivers them to the office for him. Then Dad has a shower and gets changed, and
quite often Jeff drives him to an appointment at a client’s office. That’s how people cycle to work in London.

‘You can manage,’ he says. ‘Archie, about last night. . .’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘We’ll talk later,’ he says, and I vow silently that we won’t.

And then he stomps off to get changed into his cycling gear, and I crash out of the front door.

I’ve worked it all out – Tube and bus. I’m at Rodney Road just before 10 am. I’m shivering, but that’s probably because it’s icy cold and spitting with
rain.

Obviously I’m not scared. Ty grew up round here. So did my dad. They walked these streets every day. Only a complete soft wuss would be scared. I just keep alert, that’s all, and try
and look well hard. I’m not sure my face can do it, but I’ve got a good swagger.

The gym’s much fuller than it was the other day. The punchbags are swinging wildly, the air’s full of bangs and thwacks and grunts. Sylvia takes my money – ‘Hello,
dearie! Wasn’t sure you’d actually turn up!’ – and introduces me to a grizzled old guy with a nose that goes in two directions at once.

‘This is Benny,’ she says. ‘He’s going to be teaching you. Kyle Stone, Benny.’

‘Kyle Stone, eh?’ says Benny. ‘Any relation?’

‘To what?’ I say, and he says, ‘Obviously not. Let’s see what you’re made of, young Kyle.’

Benny’s about ninety, as far as I can tell, and he’s shorter than me, and I’m sure that if I punched him he’d just fall over. He’s not all that impressed with me,
either. He gets me to hold my arms out in front of me.

‘Weak,’ he says, poking at my muscles. ‘Ever done any upper body work? You’re going to have to get your act together.’

I feel a bit sick. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘tell me what to do.’

Benny cackles, hands me some gloves. ‘Put these on,’ he says, ‘and we’ll see how you go.’

Oh my God. This has to be the most humiliating experience of my life. I’m trying to land a punch on a midget pensioner, and he keeps dodging out of my way, and I’m like those Dutch
windmills, arms flailing everywhere. By the time he stops – it feels like hours, but it’s only twenty minutes – I’m red in the face, breathless and (secretly) close to
tears. It doesn’t help that two or three people – young guys, a bit older than me – are watching. They’re smiling. I’m a laughing stock.

‘Ha’, he says, ‘not so easy, eh? Let’s see how you get on with someone younger.’

The boy he pulls over to fight with me is only about eleven, but he’s built like a small tank and he’s clearly been doing this for ages. I chew on the mouthguard, prance around on
the balls of my feet, and swing wildly at him. By sheer fluke I make contact – thwack, on his jaw.

The old man cackles and says, ‘Well done,’ and the boy narrows his eyes and puts up his fists.

We dance around each other for a bit. He attacks my body with short, stabbing punches. I jump and dance, step backwards, right, to the side and . . . wham! I’ve got him! He goes staggering
backwards, glove to his face, and spits out the mouthguard, swearing at me, saying I cheated.

I feel triumphant –
Ha, Dad, you should have seen that!
– and then the old guy says, ‘You’ve got a long way to go, but I think we’ll make a fighter of you.
Maybe next time you can try one of the twelve-year-olds.’

And I remember that people are watching, and I go all hot, but pleased with myself, all the same.

So I pull out my mouthguard and say, ‘Bring ‘em on,’ and he shows me a punchbag and says, ‘Give it a good forty minutes. You need to build up your upper body
strength.’

When I leave – I have a shower, get changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, make sure my hair is just right – the boy is standing outside. He’s with two girls, one about my
age, one much younger. They’ve got one of those scary dogs – the ones with big teeth and ugly faces – and they’re eating Cornettos . . . in November. Bizarre.

He glowers at me. ‘You think you’re so cool. But you ain’t nothing.’

‘Nuffink,’ I say, genuinely trying to work out what he’s saying, and the older girl says, ‘You taking the piss?’

‘No . . . nah . . . sorry. . .’

‘That’s OK. He’s gotta learn to lose. Hear that, Billy?

You can’t win all the time.’

‘It was just beginner’s luck,’ I say, and Billy scowls.

‘Bye, then,’ I say, and the girl says, ‘Hang on. We’re taking Stan for a walk. You wanna come?’

Who’s Stan?’ I say, playing for time, and she nods her head towards the dog and says, ‘Stan’s our Staffie. He’s gentle as a lamb, really – as long as
you’re nice to us.’

This is easy. She’s so flirting with me. She’s true chav – huge gold hoop earrings, tight ponytail, fine-plucked eyebrows, fake tan and pale pink trackies – but
she’s really attractive too.

‘I’ll be nice to
you
,’ I say, and we walk along Rodney Road, along the High Street, down a side road and past a block of grotty council flats.

‘Here we go,’ she says, and lets the dog off its lead, even though there’s a big sign up which says ‘KEEP DOGS ON LEAD’.

‘Go on, Billy, Marie . . . run with him. Give Stan a good run.’

‘Run yourself,’ says Billy, and he turns back towards the flats.

But Marie says, ‘Come on, Stan,’ and they run down the path together.

‘So,’ says my new friend. ‘Got rid of them. I’ve not seen you around before. What’s your name?’

‘I’m Kyle,’ I say. ‘I don’t live so far away – down Islington.’

‘Oh yeah, whereabouts?’

My mind goes blank. I’m scanning the streets near where my uncle and aunt live, the expensive Georgian squares, trying to think of somewhere horrible. . .

‘Down the Caledonian Road,’ I say, and she says, ‘All the way over here from the Cally? You’d best keep that quiet.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, wanting to kick myself. Of course people call it the Cally. I knew that. Even my aunt calls it the Cally.

We’re walking towards a little playground. There’s a wooden fort, some swings and a slide. Marie’s trying to haul Stan up the stairs to the slide, but he’s barking in
angry protest.

‘What’s your name, anyway?’ I ask.

‘I’m Shannon,’ she says.

‘That’s a pretty name,’ I say, and she slides her eyes over to me. Her lips sparkle with gloss, and her lashes have little beads of mascara at the ends.

‘Why, thank you, Kyle,’ she says.

Marie’s got Stan up to the top of the slide, and now they’re flying down the other side.

‘Quit that, Marie!’ yells Shannon. ‘He’ll turn and then you’ll be sorry!’

She turns to me, ‘That’s the thing about Staffies. One minute they’re lovely, the next they’re chewing your leg off. You never know when they’re going to
turn.’

Stan the Staffie reminds me of Ty. Ty’s better looking, obviously.

There’s a tree at the end of the playground area which has a load of flowers around it – dead flowers, brown and smelly. Some are in jam jars, some mouldering in cellophane.
There’s a girl too, a black girl. She’s kneeling among the flowers, her face in her hands.

‘What’s that, then?’ I ask Shannon, trying my best to slur the words together, lose my consonants.

Shannon’s eyes are wide. ‘There was a murder in this park, don’t you know that?’

‘A murder? When?’

‘Over a year now.’ She jerks her head at the black girl. ‘That’s his sister. She’s here all the time. Everyone just leaves her alone. They know she’s not
going to make trouble.’

Oh my God. This must be it. This is the park where Ty saw someone killed, and the person who got stabbed, he was that girl’s brother.

On the other hand, maybe they have loads of murders around here. Just walking along the High Street I saw another pile of dead flowers, just like these.

‘What actually happened?’ I ask. ‘Did they catch the people who did it?’

‘Oh they caught them all right,’ she says. ‘Put them away. Put them in prison and threw away the key.’

‘Do you know any details?’ I ask. Get me, the big detective!

But Marie’s calling her. ‘Shannon! Stan’s run off! He’s chasing a little puppy! Shannon!’

‘Sorry,’ says Shannon, ‘I’d better go. See you around, Kyle from the Cally.’