Someone Else's Son (3 page)

Carrie nodded, satisfied the evening was sorted. She flopped back on to her bed, smiling as she tried to imagine herself in the kitchen, jiggling plates and ingredients, making a meal.
Ridiculous
, was her last thought as she dozed off, dreaming about
Reality Check
going Stateside.

Dayna Ray doodled on the cover of her exercise book. She’d scalloped all four edges in blue, coloured them in, and now she was doing it again in green. In the middle of it all she’d drawn a heart. She thought she might write that new kid’s name inside it, but not yet. She wanted to mull him over some more first, find out who he was, where he’d come from.

The teacher was harping on about something. Stupid equations. Quadratic something or others. Who cared? She hooked her foot around the strap of her pack and slid the bag towards her. She pulled out a packet of crisps, coughing loudly as she tore it open.

‘Give me one,’ Neil whispered across the gap between their desks. Dayna pulled a face that told him to get his own, but the idiot’s hand shot up above his head. Dayna rolled her eyes and passed across the packet when whatshisface up front wasn’t looking. Denton was off sick.

‘Don’t bloody take them all,’ she spat.

‘Who’s talking back there?’ The teacher swung round to the class. None of them was paying attention or taking note of what was on the whiteboard. Most were texting under their desks, some were reading magazines, one was asleep. ‘What’s the matter with you lot?’ he barked. ‘Lazy little sods.’

Dayna glanced up. There was a knot of laughter from the kids to her left. Maybe something good was going to happen, like when the last supply teacher ran out in tears and they had the whole lesson to mess about.

She always listened in English, though. It was the only subject she liked; the only reason she bothered coming to school at all. All those stories; all those crazy lives, some even wilder than her own. ‘Give them back, you idiot.’ Dayna leant across the gap and snatched at the crisps, but her chair toppled and she ended up on the floor. The class howled and whooped. Bits of balled-up paper rained on her head.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

Dayna looked up. The teacher was looming over her. His skin was pockmarked. He had small hands. ‘Dayna, sir.’ She stood up and righted her chair. Her hip hurt. ‘Dayna Ray.’ She slung her pack over her shoulder. She’d be sent out for sure.
Good
, she thought.

‘Well, Miss Ray, you can pay a visit to the head’s office for being so stupid.’ There was a rumble of disapproval around the class. Not because the others didn’t want her to get slammed by Jack the Crack, no. They were annoyed because they knew that she’d effectively just been given the day off.

‘Not fair, sir. If we all fall off our chairs, can we go too?’

‘Silence, you idiot.’ The supply teacher scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘Take this to Mr Rushen. Let him deal with you, you stupid girl.’

‘Are you allowed to call me that, sir?’ Dayna stared up at him through eyes rimmed with kohl. What was she saying? ‘To call me stupid.’ Another ripple of laughter. A whistle. No one had ever seen Dayna cause a fuss. She reddened and distracted herself by seeking out that new boy, whatever his name was. He wasn’t joining in with the predictable catcalls. She couldn’t help it that her eyes narrowed to focus on him; to check out what he was doing over there in the corner. Reading, she thought, as she walked towards the door. He was reading a book and it didn’t look like a maths textbook. Her stare fixed on him as she turned the handle to leave the class.

At that exact moment, the boy looked up and caught Dayna’s eye. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t make any smart remarks like the others did as she left. Slowly, the new boy in the corner with his black hair and his skinny neck and his ripped jeans offered a flicker of a wink before turning back to his book.

‘Get out of my sight, stupid, stupid girl . . .’ Dayna heard the teacher say as she walked out. She had no intention of going to the head’s office, but equally she had no intention of going home or hanging out at the shops either. It was English after break and she wanted to go. She’d written an essay. Besides, she wanted to find out more about New Boy. It had been a week since term began and he hadn’t said a single word to her yet. She wasn’t sure he’d said a single word to anyone.

‘A loner,’ she said to herself in the mirror, leaning against the sink in the girls’ loos. ‘We have lots in common already.’

The door banged open. ‘Who you talking to, freak?’ said one of a pair of sixth-formers. They came up to Dayna, who was pretending to wash her hands. She’d hoped to hide out for a bit.

‘No one.’ Dayna shrugged and looked at the floor. She knew the routine. Her cheeks were burning and her mouth went dry, a bit like when she’d had to taste bleach. There were no paper towels so she wiped her hands on her school trousers. She bent down for her pack.

‘What we got in here, then?’The older girls yanked it from her and unzipped it. They rummaged through the contents.

‘Hey,’ Dayna said, lunging for it. ‘Give me that back.’

‘Uh-uh,’ the blonde one said. They disappeared into a cubicle with it, leaving Dayna kicking and thumping the door.

‘Yuk, that stinks,’ one of them said. ‘Jesus, look at that.’ Then she heard paper ripping and what sounded like the contents of her bag being emptied out. A couple of pages of a precious book fluttered out from underneath the door.

‘Just fucking stop it, will you?’ Dayna fought back the tears. Not much made her cry. She’d learnt to be tough, to hide it all away, to keep the bad stuff inside. It generally worked. She gave one extra hard kick on the door just as the girls came out.

‘Dirty little emo,’ one of them said. They left the loos arm in arm, their straightened hair falling in highlighted lines down their backs.

In the cubicle, Dayna found most of her belongings stuffed down the toilet. What wouldn’t fit was trodden into the filthy floor. She pulled her pack from the pan. It dripped on to her sweater. A couple of books – including the one she’d been decorating in maths – were sodden and fit for the bin. Her make-up bag had been emptied into the sanitary disposal unit, and the little bit of money that was in her purse was missing.

‘Bitches,’ she said. Then she felt it start – a burning in her chest, speeding through her body with every banging heartbeat. She grabbed the edge of a basin. ‘Breathe slowly,’ she told herself when her chest rose and fell in increasingly shallow bursts. The room started to spin. She dropped to the floor, anticipating the blackout that would follow. She didn’t want to smash her head on the tiles. This didn’t happen often but when it did, she knew she’d been pushed to her limits.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s all OK,’ she repeated. Everything suddenly appeared colourless, washed out, unreal. As usual, her eyes fogged and her limbs tingled. The inside of her mouth was dust and the beginnings of a migraine buzzed across her forehead. She breathed. She stared. She counted. She focused, just as the books had told her to do.

Don’t let them win
, something told her.
You’re better than they are
.

Her mouth suddenly filled with saliva.
Please don’t be sick
, she prayed. Dayna gripped on to a dusty old pipe that ran behind the basins. It was warm. It sent ripples of comfort through her hands, up her arms and down to the rest of her body. She screwed up her eyes and carried on counting – up to ten over and over again. She rocked. She nursed herself through it.

Then, as quickly as it came, the attack subsided. She’d won. It was the only thing in her life she could control.

When the bell rang, Dayna got up off the floor and left the toilets. In another thirty seconds, the break-time stampede would begin. It marked the start of half an hour’s mayhem.

She walked briskly through the building, went outside and slipped round the back of the science labs. She pulled the half-finished joint from her pocket and stared at it. She glanced around, full of the feeling that someone was watching her. They were always taking note, scrutinising her, laughing at her, telling her what a loser she was.

‘Don’t cry, you silly bitch,’ she said, digging her nails into her palms. She kicked the wall of the building, lighting the joint and sucking slowly. She wanted it to last. She’d sold the silver bracelet her real dad had given her as a baby on eBay for this hoard. It was worth it. A couple of lungfuls and she felt better. She glared at a couple of younger kids who dared come near, willing them to leave her alone. She hated them all. A chilly early autumn wind cut between the science block and the boundary fence, making her shiver.

Dayna pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and stared into its mirrored back. She licked her finger and wiped beneath her eyes, trying to get rid of the smudged make-up. She saw the black and orange streaks of her hair in the body of the phone. She thought she looked like a wildcat as she put the mobile away, disgusted with herself. She finished her smoke.

When it was time for English, she skulked back into school, eyeing groups of kids as they thickened into impenetrable packs in corridors and classrooms. She sat at her usual desk and opened the books she’d salvaged – books that the teacher had given to her because he’d said she’d got an eye for language, that she should experiment, read a lot. She got her head down to work, making character notes on
Romeo and Juliet
. She chewed her pen and glanced across at the new boy. He was working too. She wondered if he was anything like Romeo, if they would fall in love.

She went back to her books and made a list of the cast, circling her favourites in red, jotting notes across the page, highlighting the bits she loved, frowning at the bits she didn’t understand, the language that occasionally passed her by in an unintelligible string of gobbledygook.
An eye for it
. . . She pondered her teacher’s words, wondering how it was that she could understand everything about the lives of fictitious characters yet nothing about her own.

 

Carrie Kent was majorly under-impressed with the producer from the States. Was he really here to talk business? She nudged Leah’s foot under the table. Leah glanced up and scowled. Carrie scowled right back and hoped her best friend, her producer, her right-hand woman, was happy that she’d wasted an entire evening without the tiniest glimmer of a US series to be had.

The dreadful man was nothing more than a tourist with some half-bit show on an obscure cable channel. He had only come to gawp, to say he’d spent the evening with the famous Carrie Kent while visiting London. And then there was the cost of it all – the helicopter fees, the food, and, oh, the
wine
. Rich she may be, but she didn’t like wasting money. It went against every fibre of her being. Some things were genetically programmed.

‘So,’ she said, leaning forward on her arms. She might as well play him like a guest on
Reality Check
. Bob Dane or Dole or Dreary . . . she couldn’t remember which – put down his knife and fork. He virtually melted on to his rabbit fricassée at the sight of Carrie’s smile and her low-cut dress. ‘Silly old me thought you came here to talk about a US version of my show, Bob.’

He laughed and dabbed at his mouth. ‘Bill. My name’s Bill.’

Carrie glanced at the mantel clock. Nine forty-five. Would it be horribly impolite if she wrapped things up by ten thirty? She was good at wrapping things up. She did it every week on her show, usually to the detriment of her guests, right at the point of no redemption. She wondered if he would notice if she disappeared upstairs to watch a movie.

‘I’m so sorry.
Bill
.’ Carrie leant to the side while her waiter went round with the wine. ‘Don’t open any more,’ she whispered in his ear, wistfully eyeing the level of the Château Latour specially brought up from the reserve cellar for what she believed was going to be a very special occasion. Wasting such a treat with this jerk was a travesty. At best it deserved to be drunk in the company of her closest friends – three, four, five bottles of the stuff, deep into the night. At worst – better than this – she’d have settled for it on her own, crashed out on her bed, allowing the velvet of it alongside a platter of French cheese to quieten her mind.

‘So what do you think of my little show?’ Carrie noticed Leah’s raised eyebrows, the dab of her lips to cover the smirk, the jut of her angled jaw. Oh, they’d probably laugh about this later, but for now it was painful.

‘I haven’t yet had the pleasure of viewing your show, Mrs Kent.’ Bill forked up rabbit with one hand and hovered his wine glass near his lips with the other. ‘But I’ve heard so much about you, I couldn’t resist calling you up for a meet.’

Leah, what the hell were you thinking arranging this? Carrie shot a look at her friend.

‘And I’m just loving your English hospitality.’ He stuffed his mouth. Carrie looked away.

‘I’m so glad. Nathan will be in the car waiting to drive you back to London in twenty minutes. Isn’t that right, Leah? Will you call him and check he’s on schedule?’ she said pointedly. She’d be damned if she was flying him back to his hotel.

Leah gave a salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She grinned and left the table.

‘To be honest, Mrs Kent—’

‘Ms Kent.’ She couldn’t take another Mrs.

‘To be honest, since I have been in your company this evening, since I have had the pleasure of meeting you in person, since . . .’ and he shifted his chair closer to Carrie and trailed a finger along her wrist. She snapped her arm away. ‘Since I have come to know you—’

‘But you don’t know me.’ Carrie used her show voice, the one where the guest has no way out. He was messing with the wrong woman. How tiresome.

‘I would like to take you for dinner—’

‘All set with Nathan,’ Leah said. She grasped what had been going on in a second. She wheeled round behind Carrie’s chair and threw her arms around her bare shoulders. She bent down and delivered a fond kiss right on her lips. Carrie took her cue and grabbed her friend’s arms, pulling her closer. The two women eyed Bill pitifully and raised their eyebrows, smiling. He sat there for a moment, perhaps considering whether to ask them both for a date, before reddening and excusing himself.