Almost True (28 page)

DI Morris is asking my mum how she is, how the pregnancy's going, how she's managing. So far, so boring. I fill my head with good stuff, like Meg's soft fur and
The Simpsons
and the feeling you get when you pass the only other runner ahead of you in the race and you know you've got the power to beat him.

He's explaining about Jukes's dad being arrested. He's saying that lots of his associates are also in custody. They've done a clean sweep, he says. They think that I can feel much safer now, and so can my dad and his flatmates, because they'll be witnesses when Jukes goes on trial for stabbing me.

It's a shame I've stopped believing anything the police say. And now, presumably, they've stopped believing anything I say. Which makes us kind of even.

‘Now then,' says DI Morris. ‘I have something to read to you, Ty, and then some questions to ask. And he pulls a piece of paper out of his briefcase.

‘Hey Claire, my Claire,
' he reads.

I imagine I'm at my gran's flat in London, eating shepherd's pie and watching
EastEnders.

‘
I've been thinking a lot about why we got so close so quickly, and it's still a mystery. One minute I was being mean to you – and I am so sorry, you know, don't you – and we were fighting, and the next I just felt this incredible closeness and trust
.'

DC Bettany coughs. My mum says, ‘What the
hell
?' Mr Armstrong mutters to her, and I think he's telling her to shut up.

I think about watching DVDs with Patrick and talking to him about it afterwards. In French. With an excellent accent.

DI Morris says, ‘Just let me finish, please, Miss Lewis. I think you'll see the relevance. Where was I? Ah, yes,
I always will, even if you never want to speak to me again when I've told you this. I have to be honest with you. It's what we're about.'

My mum reaches over and tries to take my hand.
I brush her away, hunching my shoulders. There's a thick, fleshy bit inside my cheek and I bite on it hard. No one can see.

‘
I'm a liar, Claire
,' says DI Morris, and my mum gasps. ‘
I'm lying to the police and if I get into court as a witness I'm going to lie there too. I'm not just a liar, I'm someone who did something terrible. I hurt someone. I've never admitted it to anyone before.
'

I'm trying very hard to remember what colour we painted the walls of my room in our old flat in Hackney. I know they were blue, but what blue? I can see all the tester pot patches up on the wall, but I can't quite get which one we chose. I feel sick. How could I have forgotten?

‘
It's up to you what you want to do,
' says DI Morris. ‘
You could ask me lots of questions, and I will answer them all. I'll tell you anything. Maybe you will understand why I did it and forgive me.
'

I think about my mum saying, ‘One of your sessions at the Priory.' I remember one early morning in Mr Patel's newsagent's shop, looking at the
News of the World
before it went into my paper round bag. A story about a model with a drug problem. She'd gone for treatment at a place called The Priory.

Oh my God.

DI Morris is still reading. ‘
You could never contact me again, and I will understand. Or you could pretend you never
got this email. It's your choice. Whatever you do, take care of yourself. I'm trusting in your strength.
'

He pauses. Looks at me. I stare back. I yawn. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of thinking that I'm upset.

‘
I love you,
' he says, looking straight at me, and there's something hard and cruel in his voice.

Mr Armstrong says, ‘I need to ask you about the provenance of this document.'

DI Morris says, ‘I'm nearly finished.
I love you. I always will. You are my best friend. I know you think of me as Joe, but it was Tyler who did this and that's who I want you to love or hate or forget.
'

There's complete silence. I sneak a glance at my mum and look away as fast as I can. Two black stripes of mascara are running down her face.

‘So, Tyler,' says DI Morris. ‘Let's make a start. Can you confirm that you wrote this email?'

It's like he's playing darts in the pub, except words are his arrows and I'm the bullseye. The only way I can make his questions bounce away is silence. So I say nothing as he asks me: did I write it? What did I mean? How am I lying? Who did I hurt?

Mr Armstrong asks him lots of questions about where the email came from and how he got it. When it comes out that Claire handed it over to the police I think my mum's going to scream. She nearly jumps out of her chair and her mouth is wide open.

And then the questions start again: what, where, how, why?

And eventually my mum says to Mr Armstrong in a loud whisper, ‘Can't you get them to stop? He's crying. He's been through a very hard time.'

I hate her and I hate the police and I hate Arron most of all. I'm absolutely not crying. She's stupid.

DI Morris says, ‘Ty's facing very serious charges here. Perverting the course of justice, just for starters. I don't need to tell you he's rendered himself worthless as a witness.'

That word –
worthless
– buzzes in my ear like a wasp drunk on Dr Pepper.

‘I may not know right now what he did to Rio, but I certainly intend to find out. This email is pretty damn near a confession.'

‘It wasn't
Rio
,' I say. I'm not crying. I'm really not.

‘So who did you hurt?' asks DI Morris, and his voice is suddenly a million times kinder.

I don't care any more. So what if I go to prison? I've hardly had a lot of freedom since Alistair was shot, anyway. This hospital room feels like a cell. Maybe prison is the right place for someone like me. Maybe that's where I belong. I'm worthless. He just said so. No one disagreed.

So I tell how I pulled my knife out of my pocket and waved it at Arron, with Rio's dead body lying at our feet. I tell them I wanted to help him, save him. I say I was scared, panicking, out of control. I describe the downwards swoop of the blade and the way it cut into his arm – and I can see it now, the blood that ran along
his arm and dripped onto the ground.

It wasn't just a scratch.

I don't tell them that Arron promised to keep quiet. I don't tell them how great it felt when I saw respect in his eyes. I don't tell them how scared I was after Arron's mum took him to the hospital, or how I threw up in their loo, again and again, crying like a little girl.

I just tell them enough. I don't want to lie any more. But I don't really believe that anything can ever be the whole truth. There's always another bit of the story, something deeper. I keep on finding out things that were part of the whole story.

Who knows what else there is?

‘That's it.' I say. ‘That's what happened. That's all.'

They're looking through their files and they pull out a photograph of Arron stripped to his boxers, showing the scars on his legs and his chest and his arms. And they make me point out the one that I did, and I'm still not absolutely sure.

I look at his angry dark eyes and his curly hair, the face I know better than my own. I know why I needed him to be my friend, but what did he get from me?

And I wonder if he thought he was looking after me, like I wanted to look after Claire – although not like
that
, obviously. . . Just . . . just . . . it makes you feel good if there's someone around who's weaker
than you. That's all.

They take the photograph away. They say they'll have a statement ready for me by tomorrow. And DI Morris says they will have to conduct other interviews and look at the forensic evidence and I think it's all over when he says there's just one more thing he wants to ask me about.

My mind is blank. I can't think what it can be.

And he pulls a plastic bag out of his briefcase and puts it down in front of me. And I let out a little ‘Oh!' of surprise, because it's something I'd forgotten all about. It's the flick knife. The one from the bus. The one I threw away in the park.

And we're off again: do I recognise this? Where did I get it? Did I use it? Why did I run away from the police? Did I know my fingerprints were all over the knife and the bin?

And Mr Armstrong does his bit, but I'm not too bothered because it wasn't even mine, that knife, and it wasn't really anything to do with me, and I'm actually quite proud of how responsibly I disposed of it.

So I answer all their questions.

And DI Morris says that's two counts of possessing an offensive weapon that I'm looking at, a possible charge of GBH or even attempted murder relating to Arron, and perverting the course of justice as well. Mr Armstrong is
scribbling in his notebook and he doesn't look too happy.

Then DI Morris says he's arresting me. There's complete silence in the room. Then my mum's wobbly voice asks, ‘Are you going to take him away?' and they say no, I'll be on police bail and I'll have to report every month to a police station until the Crown Prosecution Service can consider the case, and they will be in touch and let us know what comes next.

And they chat for a bit and I work out all by myself that I won't be going to France.

The cops leave. There's no sound in the room except my mum's choking sobs. I'm reaching for my manga book, but she's in the way and I don't think I can ask her to pass it.

My dad comes back. Mr Armstrong tells him what they said and what I said and what might happen to me, which turns out to be quite a long time in a Young Offender Institution if the worst comes to the worst. ‘But of course they might not charge him with anything. A lot will depend on what Arron has to say – it's notable that he has made no accusations against Tyler up until now.'

‘I can't believe this,' says my mum. ‘We've put our lives on hold for months. My baby's father . . . a totally innocent man . . . he's, he's dead – a young man, an innocent man. My boy, my son . . . he nearly died.
And they're talking about charging him? Sending him to prison? They ought to be ashamed.'

‘The problem is that once a piece of evidence like this comes along, they can't exactly ignore it,' says Mr Armstrong. ‘I should warn you, Tyler, that when you come to give evidence at Arron's forthcoming murder trial, the defence lawyers will tear you apart.'

Wow. That'll be fun. I'm really looking forward to it.

Mum says, ‘I want to sue the police. They didn't look after us properly. We're lucky it was just one person that got killed. There could've been a massacre.'

And then she's crying, and my dad virtually jumps over the bed to hug her and she's weeping into his chest and he's kissing her hair and her eyebrows and Mr Armstrong and I are trying not to stare. I guess they're over their argument. It's totally embarrassing.

Mr Armstrong leaves and my dad says, ‘Nicki, you look shattered. Why don't you get a taxi back to Pen's house?'

And my mum says that yes, she will, and she's not even really looking at me when she kisses me goodbye and as she goes off I can see she's crying again.

It's just my dad and me. He looks at me, and he opens his mouth, and I think about prison and then I remember The Priory and I wonder how I'm going to ask him about it. I'm waiting for him to start going on about
the knife and the email and the rest of it.

But he asks, ‘Where's the remote?' and he switches on the telly and we watch
Top Gear
and
The Simpsons
and
Who Wants to be a Millionaire
. And when the nurse comes to say that visiting time is over and it's time to go, he goes out into the corridor with her, and then he comes back and sits down again and we watch
EastEnders
. We only switch off when
Holby City
comes on, but then he shows me some games on his BlackBerry and we see who can get the best score and I beat him every time.

And when I'm eating my supper – macaroni cheese, revolting – he tells me a bit about being in a band, and how he never thought it would be more than just messing around with some friends, but suddenly they had a manager and a recording contract and they were on the festival circuit.

I don't think I'd like his band very much. He asks me if I like indie rock and when I say no, commercial hip hop, he looks pretty snooty and says, ‘I'll have to educate you.' Yeah, right, I think not. He describes their sound as being highly influenced by The Pixies and Nirvana – ‘some guy at
The Guardian
called us the British Pearl Jam.'

‘Why did you stop?' I ask politely, wondering how anything which sounds so rubbish ever got off the ground. He says, really offhand, ‘Oh you know . . . the lifestyle. It didn't really suit me.'

‘Oh, right,' I say, feeling like an idiot, and he says, ‘I thought I could handle it, but I was wrong. I've learned my lesson. Nicki was right to keep you away from me. I didn't really accept it at the time, but I wouldn't have been good for you. I'm so sorry. I'm going to try and make it up to you now.'

‘Oh, right, OK,' I say.

The nurse comes in to take the plate away and says I need to get ready for bed. ‘Big day tomorrow,' she says. ‘You're going home.'

‘Yeah, right,' I say, and I think I'm OK, but when she's gone I begin thinking what it would be like to be really going home, back to our little flat and seeing Mr Patel and none of this had happened at all.

But then I'd never have met Claire or been Joe. I still wouldn't know that I could run. And I'd never have met Patrick and Helen, and Archie and Meg.

And I still wouldn't know my indie rocker dad. He's watching me, and asks, ‘Are you all right?' and I'm taking off my T-shirt so I can say, ‘Yup,' without him seeing my face.