Pretty Twisted (16 page)

Minutes passed. I swivelled round in my chair. Why was he texting me rather than emailing or IMing? He was always online Saturday nights unless he was with Freya, which far as I knew he wasn’t.

After fifteen minutes I sent another message. He didn’t reply.

I could have just left it – he knew where I was if he wanted to talk. But I was worried now. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep until I heard from him. For the first time I felt annoyed with Jonathan: it was unfair to put me in this position. I also wasn’t sure I wanted another long conversation – Jonathan could be quite emotionally draining when he was upset. But he’d been great when I needed support, so I guessed we balanced each other out.

I could phone. I had his home number as well as his mobile. But I hate ringing people up – there’s just something about it that makes me feel uncomfortable. Jonathan wasn’t exactly a stranger, but he hadn’t heard my voice and I was nervous I’d say something stupid. Online I had a chance to think out things that would sound mature, but on the phone he might twig my real age.

‘Hi, thanks for calling.’ Jonathan’s voice came over his mobile’s answerphone. ‘I’m out zapping Daleks right now, but if I survive, I’ll be sure to give you a call when I’m back in the TARDIS.’ I couldn’t see the point in leaving a message, so I rang off Could I call him at home? It was half past ten – a little late, but I’d have to risk it.

‘Hello?’ said a female voice. Probably his mum – who didn’t even know I existed.

‘Hi,’ I mumbled. ‘Can I speak to Jonathan?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not here. Can I ask who’s calling?’

‘Just a friend,’ I said quickly. ‘Has he gone to London to see Freya?’

‘Yes . . .’ Jonathan’s mum sounded wary now and I put the phone down quickly. Sometimes I wondered if I’d got in too deep for my own good.

Come on! I thought, staring at my mobile. Please let me know you’re OK.

Jonathan

11.25 p.m.

At Leicester Square station, one thought crossed my mind: so many people. There was someone thrusting a leaflet in my face, laughing groups outside theatres and people pushing on to the road, unperturbed by the buses and taxis. A woman brushed past, almost knocking me down the station steps.

I walked to the square itself. I’d last been here a couple of years ago and it hadn’t changed – cinemas, huge neon signs and a little park in the centre. I started to feel better as I slouched around. At home a kid out alone would have attracted attention, but here no one noticed me at all. I let go of my anxiety and allowed my legs to take me where they wanted, not really thinking of anything . . .

I snapped out of it when someone banged into me. Hands clamped on my shoulders, pushing me against a wall.

‘Get out of my way, you little shit!’

I gasped, coming to with a start. A frightening-looking guy with a skull tattoo on the side of his head stood right in front of me, face twisted with anger. Survival instinct kicked in and I bolted. The man stepped forward as though he was going to pursue me, but changed his mind and shouted abuse instead. I turned a corner and weaved through some back roads until I felt safe. Panting, I found my way back to the main square, trying to catch my breath.

In just ten or fifteen minutes, everything had changed. The nicely dressed theatregoers had gone. In their place were people like the guy who’d banged into me. They hung around in groups, talking too loudly; some wore jeans that were falling apart, others had weird piercings and tattoos and one even had a dangerous-looking chain slung from his denim jacket. Their faces looked rough and hardened; I didn’t need to get close to smell the alcohol. There were also tired-looking homeless people. One, a teenager, made me feel particularly uncomfortable. She had filthy hair and lay on her side in a sleeping bag, muttering to herself. I avoided meeting her eyes. Suddenly I was all too aware people were watching me. London was theirs now, and they knew I didn’t belong . . .

Even with my coat, I was beginning to shiver. How had I thought traipsing round a city I didn’t know alone at night was clever? I headed back the way I’d come, towards the station, my heart beating faster and faster.

It was closed.

I stood looking at the mesh barrier. I felt very sick indeed.

The last tube had gone. That meant the overground trains would have finished too.

Suddenly more than anything I wanted to be home.

My first thought was to call Ros. But when I took out my phone, it was dead. The battery had been low when I’d set out, I remembered. There would be a phone booth somewhere, but I didn’t remember Ros’s number, and she’d probably be asleep anyway. For a second I considered ringing home, but – God – Mum and Dad would hit the roof if they knew I was out at this hour. I was on my own.

Where could I go? There were pubs and bars open, but they would be packed with the kind of people I wanted to avoid. Stations? I bet Liverpool Street would be open, even if no trains were running – and at least I’d be in the right place for getting home when they did start. Maybe I could get a night bus there. Freya had been enthusing about those, saying how amazing it was that in London you could go anywhere at any time. I turned to check the tube map pinned outside the station and found myself staring at the bus map next to it.

Though all I wanted was to get away, I took my time. One bus seemed to go where I needed, so I set off to find the stop, trying to look as sorted as I could. After what seemed a very long fifteen minutes, the bus arrived. I thought the driver gave me a look when I got on, but he didn’t say anything. I sat as close to the front as I could, partly because there was noise coming from the top deck and partly because I felt safer near the driver.

Liverpool Street was impossible to miss – but there was a mesh gate over the entrance. I went up and rattled it, but I could tell it wouldn’t shift. Stupid me – why the hell had I assumed it would be open? They probably had to close it for cleaning – I could vaguely hear the hum of a sweeper.

Keep calm, I told myself, though I’d never felt closer to panicking. I walked round the side of the station to see if I could get in through another entrance. They were all shut – but next to one was a 24-hour McDonald’s.

Relief flowed over me as I stepped inside and smelt the familiar frying smell. I was afraid I might attract attention, but the bored-looking man at the counter gave me a hot chocolate and burger without saying a word. I went up to the second floor. There were a couple of trampy guys picking at fries, but otherwise it was deserted. I made sure I sat as far away from them as I could. My burger was soggy but I was so hungry I didn’t care; it was gone in a couple of mouthfuls. Cupping my hands round the hot-chocolate cup and feeling the warmth returning to my fingers, I rested my head against the wall.

It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d been in Freya’s room, yelling at her. But when my mind slid back a year, and I saw all the things we’d done together and remembered the way she used to look at me, I realized that time had actually gone too quickly.

It felt as if I sat in McDonald’s forever. A few people came and went – from their clothes I guessed they’d come from clubs and bars. At about half three, when I was starting to doze off, a woman started cleaning tables. ‘You all right?’ she said as she approached me.

She was an older woman; something about her reminded me of Mum. Quickly I said, ‘Yeah, fine.’

‘Sure you’re not lost or something? You look a bit young to be here on your own.’

I shook my head. She gave me a long look, then turned and went downstairs. I hesitated a moment, then scrambled up. The woman obviously didn’t believe me – she might be calling security, even the police. I didn’t think it was a good idea to wait around and see what happened.

Outside, I saw that the grilles over the station entrances had been lifted. Cautiously I entered. It felt eerie, like a ghost station, lights on, but nobody home – no one, that was, apart from a guy slumped by WHSmith, head in a McDonald’s bag. Wonder if his burger’s soggy too, I thought, then jumped as a figure in uniform came into view. A security guard. I headed away, ducking behind pillars.

For the next hour I played cat and mouse with him. Then I found the toilets. I thought I might be able to hide until morning, but I had company. There were three guys standing by the hand dryers. Their eyes followed me as I stepped into a cubicle. I could hear someone nearby talking in a foreign language, and the air tasted stale and made me feel dizzy. I was afraid to go out so I stayed where I was, hunching on the toilet and pulling my knees to my chest.

Someone banged on the door. I jumped, almost falling off the seat, and tensed for whatever was coming next. But for some reason they lost interest in me, and I heard footsteps moving away. Deciding it was now or never, I unlocked the door and bolted out.

Once out, I slumped down in a corner. All I wanted was to go home and get out of this hell.

Sundays always seem slow to get going, but this one was something else. Sometime after seven people started trickling into the station. Thank God, I thought. Despite not sleeping, I didn’t feel tired – just empty. I wandered up and down the concourse in zombie mode until the coffee stands opened. The woman at the AMT was the same one who’d been there when I’d been waiting for Ros. She smiled at me.

‘Hey, I remember you – d’you always meet your mates here?’

I ordered a coffee and handed her a tenner.

‘Don’t have change for that. Got anything smaller?’

I shook my head. She pushed the coffee across the counter.

‘Ah, have it for free. My boss’ll never know. You look as though you could do with some caffeine.’

I took it, mumbling my thanks and turning away. I could feel moisture in my eyes.

I was the first person through the barrier when it opened for the 8.30 train to Norwich, the earliest of the day. I found a seat, leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. I’d have to phone home at the other end – Mum and Dad would know something was wrong the moment they saw me, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything . . .

Rosalind

Sunday 19 October, 5.50 p.m.

Jonathan appeared online late on Sunday afternoon.

that really u?
I asked.

Yeah.

u ok? ur txt freaked me out!

Sorry.

wot happened?!

It was Freya, of course. He was so upset, and all I wanted to say was that if she could treat him like that then he was well rid of her. I didn’t, of course. My role was to sympathize as he spewed out anger and hurt and tell him what he wanted to hear – that Freya might change her mind. He told me she was selfish and manipulative but in the same breath said he loved her. I didn’t understand. Perhaps he was in denial, maybe he was panicking, possibly he really meant it. I wasn’t sure and I don’t think he knew either.

After we’d been talking two hours, I said,
this is silly. il give u a call. promise 2 pick up the landline?

OK.

I went through to the sitting room. Dad and Olivia were out, so there was no one to overhear.

‘Hey.’ Jonathan picked up instantly.

‘Hi.’ My voice wobbled a little. ‘It’s Ros. But you knew that.’

‘Wow. You sound kinda like I expected. When you didn’t show up that time I started to wonder if you really were who you said.’

‘Then why did you keep emailing?’

I could almost see him shrug. ‘Missed you.’ And then he launched into telling me once again how he kept trying to ring Freya and apologize for shouting at her. He’d analysed every word of their argument and was even listening to a playlist that made him think of her. I started wondering if he needed proper help – something more than talking to me.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without her,’ he said. ‘She made me who I am.’

‘You’ll get past this,’ I said. ‘You’re a great guy.’

‘Doesn’t feel that way.’

‘You’re funny. You give good advice. You’re generous. You play the guitar really well –’

‘You’ve never heard me.’

‘Give me a break, Jono! Why are you always determined to look on the bad side?’

There was a pause. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry. Thing is . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I know what it’s like to have everything fall apart and blame yourself. I don’t want you to go through that.’

‘This is about your mum, right?’

‘Yeah.’ I closed my eyes. ‘She began a part-time university degree when I was in Year 5. It was something she’d always wanted to do. Mum had odd parents and had kids young because she wanted to prove to them she’d grown up and could run her own life. Dad thought the degree was great; he didn’t go to uni either, and he’s always in awe of smart people. But she got more and more into it, especially after meeting the other students, and history of art wasn’t something Dad or Olivia or me could share with her.’

‘Didn’t she make time for you?’

‘At first. But she started resenting us and feeling tied down. If she hadn’t had a family, she could have gone to uni and got a great job.’