Since You've Been Gone (10 page)

“O
uch
!” I cry out as the bus lurches sharply to the right, sending me to the left, causing my elbow to connect hard with a metal railing. Navigating the stairs of the bus is more difficult than I expected. I mean, I know I'm a klutz at the best of times, but come on! It's like trying to dance on the deck of a ship in the middle of a stormy sea.

Jermaine keeps laughing even after we reach two seats at the front of the upper deck of the bus and sit down. “Haven't you ever been at the top of a bus before?” he asks.

I rub my elbow. “We don't have stupid, two-storey buses in Toronto. At least not ones for regular people; they're only for tourists.”

“Blimey,” Jermaine says, still laughing. “You'll get your legs for it soon enough. And since you're still a bit of a tourist, you'll get the best view of London from here.”

The view from the top floor of the bus is pretty amazing. The streets of London stretch out in front of us, bustling with people and activity. Leaning forward, I rest my arms on railing and my chin on my hands. I think about what Jermaine said about the likelihood of Dad actually being in London. I desperately want to believe he's right; that the probability of Dad coming here of all the places in the world is next to nothing. But I can't shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach. When it comes to controlling and destroying my life and Mom's, if the past is anything to go by, the probability that he's here is actually very, very good.

As the bus pulls away from the curb once more, fat raindrops begin to splatter onto the windows. The smell of French fries, vinegar, and ketchup fills the air and I instinctively turn to see where the smell is coming from. My stomach rumbles uneasily as two guys around our age walk onto the upper deck with soggy cardboard takeout boxes. One boy, who's built like a tree stump, surveys all the passengers, a smirk plastered across his acne-riddled face.

“Shut yer pie hole, ya bleedin' poof!” the other boy shouts back down the stairs at someone. He's wearing a red Arsenal football jersey and his hair looks like it's taking a vacation from water and shampoo.

They jostle into seats a few rows behind us. I roll my eyes at Jermaine. The smell of the fries is making my stomach do hungry somersaults and that's when I make the mistake of turning around again to glance at the two of them.

The shorter one, with the raised blotches of acne running along both cheeks and across the width of his forehead, notices me first. Nudging his friend, he stuffs a massive wad of fries into his mouth, smiles grotesquely, and winks at me. It isn't a friendly wink, but more of a suggestive smirk. I feel my face flush hotly in embarrassment and annoyance. I quickly turn back around.

“I think we're getting close to Leicester Square. It's where all the big movie openings are held and all the actors come and walk along the red carpet giving out autographs and stuff. See?” Jermaine moves closer to me and points out the window.

I look out the window to where he's pointing. There are loads of people and restaurants, including the biggest Burger King I've ever seen. But it's pretty hard to concentrate on anything outside the bus for too long with Jermaine so close to me. He reaches over and takes my hand. The feeling of his skin touching mine sends tiny shocks through my body. Every cell in my body is warm and tingly.

And that's when I hear it.

“Oi, beautiful!”

I know it's one of those idiots behind us and am not about to give them the satisfaction of me turning around and showing them that I heard or cared.

But the atmosphere in the bus seems to have changed; the air has thickened with tension like a well-cooked pudding. Several passengers suddenly become more interested in their newspapers and novels.

“Oi, lovely! Come on back here and give us a cuddle and squeeze, rather than wasting yer time with that jungle monkey.”

The woman across from us draws in a sharp breath and Jermaine's hand tenses against mine. I don't believe in God, but find myself pleading with whatever higher power might be up there to make the two idiots spontaneously combust. If this were Toronto, lots of passengers would've said something by now, but no one on this bus is reacting at all, aside from one woman who hurriedly gathers her shopping bags, grabs her daughter's hand, and retreats downstairs. Everyone else continues to ignore the situation like turtles retreating into their shells.

“Let's get off,” I whisper to Jermaine. The feeling of dread I've been experiencing on and off since Mom's disappearance is intensifying.

“Yeah, let's. 'Cos that's just what those tossers want, innit?” Jermaine shoots back, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Before I can even reply, something hits the back of my head. It doesn't hurt and the impact is hardly enough to even startle me. I reach back. Whatever it is, it's soggy and warm and stuck in my hair. Gross. I pull it out. A French fry dangles limply between my thumb and index finger, its greasy surface still coated in ketchup.

From behind me, raucous hoots of laughter ring out.

My face is hot with anger. I'm as furious with myself for not saying anything to the idiots as I am with this whole, stupid situation. Our bus rolls past the entrance for the National Portrait Gallery and then we're in Trafalgar Square. I recognize the gunmetal grey lion statues and long, fingerlike column from photos and movies. Masses of tourists are milling around in the square, some taking photographs, others perching on the edge of the fountains or feeding the pigeons.

“Next stop, we're off,” Jermaine says, getting out of his seat. He's still holding on to my hand, but now it feels like a gesture of defiance more than anything else.

There's a flash of red and suddenly the boy in the Arsenal jersey is standing in front of us.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, spittle flying from his bottom lip as he speaks.

“We don't want any trouble,” Jermaine begins, but the boy cuts him off.

“Nice one. You lot have brought us nothing but trouble. Maybe you should've thought about not wanting trouble before you left your own country, yeah?”

“I'm British,” Jermaine says, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “South London born and bred.”

The boy reaches behind his back and pulls something out of his back pocket. All I see is a flash of sliver. It's a knife. I freeze behind Jermaine.

“Like I said, I don't want any trouble,” Jermaine repeats. This time his voice is low and even. He grasps my hand tightly as he speaks. The bus lurches away from Trafalgar Square. We've missed our stop. The world suddenly seems to be moving in slow motion.

The boy smirks, drawing his lips back from his yellow teeth like a rabid dog. He looks Jermaine right in the eye.

“Blacks ain't British,” he says. “You was brought here to serve us.”

The crown of Jermaine's head connects with the boy's chest with an audible, cracking thud. A surprised and enraged roar emits from the boy in response to the attack.

“Look here!” shouts an elderly man in a well-worn brown suit who just neatly folded his newspaper in half in preparation for getting off the bus.

Seconds later, I'm being pulled along the aisle and down the stairs to the lower platform of the bus. I don't dare look back, though several people are yelling down to the driver.

“Don't stop if the driver comes out,” Jermaine shouts over his shoulder to me. The panic in his voice sends shivers through my body. “That prat isn't going to care if he kills me right here. And I don't fancy ending up being another Stephen Lawrence.”

We land on the lower level of the bus with a thud and dash toward the open back exit. Though the bus isn't moving very quickly, I can't believe it when Jermaine lets go of my hand and leaps out of the bus and onto the sidewalk with the fluidity and grace of a cat.

He looks back at me and waves frantically, signalling to me to jump. I stand, frozen.

“Edie! Jump!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice propels me into action. I hold my breath as if I'm about to leap from a high diving board and throw myself toward him.

I slam into Jermaine and we fall together onto the pavement in a heap. The bus rounds the corner and continues out of sight.

He helps me up. “You okay?” he asks. Several people stare at us disapprovingly as they pass by.

Embarrassed, I wipe at my jeans. “That was totally terrifying. I thought he was going to kill you back there.”

“Yeah. I can't say I'm not relieved myself,” he says. “There's no doubt, given the chance, he'd have slit me open like a pig.”

“Shouldn't we tell someone? Go to the police or something?”

“Wouldn't do any good, Edie. If I tell them some bloke was after me with a knife on a bus, they'll just think it was some kind of gang thing and that I done something to deserve it.” He laughs.

“It's not funny,” I say. “How can you not be furious? I mean that guy was a total racist pig.”

Jermaine shrugs. “If I got mad every time somebody was racist against me, I'd be fighting every day of my life. I've managed to stay out of gangs this long 'cos I don't want to have one foot in the grave every day. I pick my battles. If I don't, I might end up like Stephen Lawrence or Anthony Walker or one of them lot.”

“Who are they?' I ask, as we begin walking back toward Trafalgar Square.

“Some black blokes who got murdered 'cos of their colour,” he says matter-of-factly.

We walk along without speaking for a few moments. The more I find out about London, the less I like it. Racially motivated murders, knife-wielding psychopaths on buses … not to mention people who decided to blow themselves and everyone around them up on the subway.

“I'll tell you what though,” Jermaine says.

“What?”

“You make London exciting. Escaping from the lady your mum used to work for and getting attacked by racist wanks with knives. What's next?”

I don't answer. All I can think about was how he just used the past tense when speaking about Mom.

I
'm
beginning to realize that finding Mom in a city as massive as London is going to be impossible without some sort of miracle. Going to the police is starting to look like the only choice I have left. The charity money isn't going to last forever and I'll need a place to live, even if that means having Children's Aid involved.

“Hungry?” Jermaine asks.

Despite the craziness of the bus ride and not being any closer to finding Mom, I am feeling hungry.

“Yeah, I could eat. Want to grab some fries or something?”

“I thought we could spend some of that money on a meal that was a bit more posh. Seeing how I'm taking the rap for stealing it and everything.”

I think about it. There's still a decent amount of money left, but I already decided if there was any remaining when I found Mom, it should be given back to the school or donated to a charity. It seems wrong to spend it on a dinner for me and Jermaine and at a restaurant. But the idea of having a nice meal with him sends shivers through me.

“Where did you want to go?” I ask.

“Greenwich? Maybe Pizza Express or something like that. I can show you the
Cutty Sark
, like I promised.”

I smile. “Sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to remember how originally Jermaine promised to show me the
Cutty Sark
after we found Mom.

The restaurant is packed by the time we get to Greenwich. That doesn't matter because it's just nice to be on a date. Moving nearly every year has been disastrous for my love life. I'll start to get to know a guy and maybe have a chance to mess around a few times with him at a party or something and then Mom and I leave again. Because of that, I've never really had a boyfriend.

Jermaine holds open the glass door to the restaurant for me as I step inside. Harried-looking waiters and waitresses rush by us without a passing glance and for a moment I wonder if we'll be ignored until we give up and leave.

Finally, a red-faced waitress stops in front of us. “Table for two?” she asks, straining her voice above the noise coming from several nearby tables with young children. A transparent bead of sweat trickles slowly down her right temple.

I nod. As she leads us to our table, I look around at the polished wooden floors and tiny vases, each holding one red flower, on the tables. This is nicer than any restaurant I've been to since we left Dad. When Mom and I were first on the run, she'd take me to Swiss Chalet for a chicken dinner whenever there was a little money to spare. After a couple of years of running, there never seemed to be any extra money.

The waitress seats us at a table in the corner near the open kitchen where we can watch the pizzas being made. A tiny candle flickers and splutters in the middle of the table as if desperately trying to stay lit.

“I think I need to go to the police,” I say as soon as we sit down. I keep my voice low. The table next to us is close enough to reach out and touch.

Jermaine's eyes widen. “Why would you want to do that?'

“I can't go on like this, that's why. Plus, what if my dad is here and is holding Mom hostage or something?”

“There's already been community officers around yours,” he says, his face darkening. “You might end up with him or in care. Besides, the police around here don't always help.”

A different waitress appears at our table, forcing us to end the conversation. She is very beautiful, with dark hair and full lips the colour of the wine. I feel a twinge of jealousy as she smiles at Jermaine.

“Anything to drink? Coke? Fizzy water?”

“I'll have a Coke, yeah,” Jermaine says. “And an American Hot Pizza.”

“Me too,” I say. “I mean I'll have a Coke. But diet.” I quickly scan the menu. The waitress puts a hand on her hip. I can feel her impatience radiating in waves toward me.

“And, um, I'll have the Four Seasons pizza,” I say, deciding on the first pizza that is easy to pronounce. I don't want to look like a fool in front of Jermaine.

The waitress nods curtly, scribbles down a few words on her little pad of paper, and sweeps the menus off our table.

Once she's out of earshot, Jermaine leans forward, elbows on the table.

“The police will ring council services straightaway and they'll put you in a care home until they find out what's happening with your mum, you know.”

“I know,” I say, trying to sound determined.

“They might even deport you. Without your mum, how can you stay? And if your dad is just on holiday, they'll likely ring him and have you sent straight back to Canada to live with him.”

I chew nervously on my bottom lip. I hadn't thought of that. If there's no proof Dad is involved in Mom's disappearance, and, let's face it — the police aren't exactly going to be suspecting one of “their own” could do such a thing, then he'll likely be the first person granted custody of me. There's no way that's happening; I'll live on the streets of Toronto before living with him again.

“Let's make a deal. Give it one more day of searching,” Jermaine says. “And tonight you can stay at mine.”

I stare at Jermaine, eyes wide. Did he just ask me to sleep over?

“So you're not alone. And my mum will be there, of course,” he quickly adds.

The waitress arrives at that moment and unceremoniously plunks two glasses of Coke onto the table before dashing away.

I think about it. On one hand, I really don't want to spend another night alone in that apartment, even though being around familiar things makes me feel closer to Mom. And I have to admit the idea of staying with Jermaine overnight — even if we weren't going to be sleeping in the same room — was exciting. The downside is that I don't want to get a reputation. Jermaine's not my boyfriend. Not that I'm going to have sex with him. But if it gets around that I stayed the night at his place, that's what everyone will assume. And the last thing I want is to be known as a slut.

“Won't your mom mind?” I ask, bending over to take a sip of my Coke.

“She won't think it's safe for you to be going into that empty flat every night. You never know who might be watching and noticing that there's no adult living there right now.”

I swallow the Coke, the bubbles burning the back of my throat. What Jermaine says makes sense: I haven't been thinking enough about my personal safety these past few days. My whole focus has been on finding Mom. But if Dad is involved in this somehow, then he's likely looking for me as well.

“Thanks,” I say. “You know, not just for inviting me to stay at your place but … for everything.” I pause for a moment, wanting to choose my words carefully. “It was really hard to leave Toronto and Canada and all my friends and stuff. And then Mom …” I trail off, tears blurring my vision. I hate being so weak; being all emotional isn't going to help bring Mom back.

“You best thank me,” Jermaine says. “Now that I'm an accessory after the fact because you told me about the charity money.”

I can't contain my tears any longer. They slide down my cheeks in salty rivulets. Even though I feel like a coward for crying, another part of me is glad to finally let out all the fear and sadness I've been bottling up for so long.

Jermaine looks alarmed. “I'm just taking the piss. After all, I'm helping you spend the money right now, aren't I?”

I begin to laugh and cry at the same time, causing the family at the table next to us to glance over. Our waitress arrives at the table with our pizzas. She looks quizzically at us before setting our plates down.

“I'm fine,” I say. I use a napkin to wipe my eyes and then pick up my knife and fork. I start to cut my pizza, trying to act as normal as possible. The little boy at the table next to us is still staring at me. I stick my tongue out at him as I stuff a forkful of pizza into my mouth.