We Can Be Heroes (14 page)

‘Yeah. Pretty much. I just remember him saying to my mum, “We can't let them beat us every time, can we, Karen?”'

There's a pause and then Priti says, ‘So your mum used to live with you.'

‘Yup.' Jed picks up the binoculars.

‘When did she stop living with you then?'

‘Last year. When she walked out.'

‘Just like that? Up and went?'

‘She said she was going to come back for me as soon as she was on her feet.' Jed is staring hard at the bushes.

‘And did she?'

‘Yeah, but my dad said she couldn't just pick and choose when she wants to be a mum.'

‘I thought kids always got to stay with their mums when their folks split up,' says Priti.

‘Well, I said I didn't want to, didn't I?' says Jed, putting down the binoculars and flicking the hair out of his face.

‘Why not?'

‘Can't trust her, can I?' he says, not looking at
either of us. ‘Like my dad said, she walked out on me once; who's to say she won't do it again? Why do you care anyway?'

‘I don't,' says Priti. ‘So do you see her?'

‘Not if I can help it.' Jed is staring down at the tree trunk, flicking off bits of bark with his finger and thumb.

‘Doesn't she want to see you?'

‘Course she does.'

‘How do you know?'

‘She stalks me. Hangs out at the school gates at home time. Comes to parents' evenings where she's not welcome. That sort of thing.'

I didn't know this. ‘What do you do?' I ask.

He looks right at me. ‘What do you think I do?'

I shrug.

‘I ignore her of course.'

‘Seriously?' says Priti. ‘What does she do then?'

‘She calls out and stuff,' he shrugs. ‘It's dead embarrassing.'

‘Is she allowed to do that?' Priti asks.

‘No.' Jed looks away and kicks at the tree trunk so
hard a big chunk of bark comes flying off. ‘This one time she was hanging outside the school gates and the headmaster came out and asked her to go away and she started screaming and they had to get the police. She's loopy tunes. A nutcase. Whenever I see her, she's crying. It's pathetic!'

He keeps kicking the tree over and over again and we all fall silent.

Then Priti says, ‘I reckon my mum would turn into a screaming banshee if she wasn't allowed to see me. She says I drive her mad, but I reckon she'd be worse if she didn't have me.'

‘Yeah, well, all women have a bit of a screw loose,' says Jed.

I doodle Priti with a loose screw twisting its way out of one of her bunches.

‘Oh, charming!' says Priti.

‘You're halfway there already,' says Jed. ‘Just wait till you get older. All women lose their marbles. Look at Ben's mum.'

I look up quickly. ‘What about my mum?'

Jed looks right at me. I stare back.

‘Has she even bothered to call you since they put her away?' he asks.

‘She's in hospital.' I can feel my face getting tight and hot. I can't believe he's going on about this again.

‘Whatever,' says Jed.

I don't know whether I want to punch him or burst into tears.

‘She's been sending him those cards though,' says Priti.

‘How do you know about the cards?' I say, turning away from Jed, shaking my head and blinking to stop myself from crying.

‘Jed told me.'

Jed just shrugs.

I blink some more. ‘Anyway, she doesn't send the cards,' I say. ‘Gary does. It's his handwriting.'

‘So she gets Gary to write them for her,' says Priti. ‘It doesn't take a detective to work that out. Why would he send you cards saying he loves you like flying pigs? It doesn't make sense.'

I glare at Jed again because he must have been reading the cards.

‘They've probably got your mum in a straightjacket in that loony hospital,' says Jed. ‘So she can't write them herself.'

I look at them both and I can feel the tears coming. ‘You don't know anything about my mum,' I say. ‘Either of you.'

‘Just don't say I didn't warn you when she buggers off forever like my mum,' says Jed. ‘Then you'll have to live with the wrinklies till they die.'

‘That'd be cool,' says Priti. Then, seeing the expression on my face, she adds quickly, ‘But I'm sure it won't happen.'

I say I'm going back inside to get a drink of water. I hear Priti tell Jed to leave off teasing me.

‘It's not my fault he's a crybaby,' Jed replies.

I let myself into the kitchen. Shakeel is there, chopping onions.

‘I'm just getting a drink,' I say, turning away so he can't see I've been crying.

‘Please, please. Help yourself,' he says. ‘Do you want tea? Juice?'

‘Just water is fine,' I say. I have my back to him as
I fill a cup with water. Looking across the garden, I can see Jed trying to push Priti off the tree house. Priti looks like she's holding her own.

‘I was sorry to hear about your father,' Shakeel says.

I hesitate. ‘Thanks,' I say, because that's what my mum always says.

‘I think I understand now why your grandfather is a little hostile to our family,' Shakeel goes on.

I don't reply. I keep staring at the tree house. Priti is hanging on by her nails, but looks like she's going to bring Jed down with her.

‘Please. Don't misunderstand me,' Shakeel goes on. ‘He has not been rude, but he is perhaps – and understandably so – ill at ease with us.'

I see Jed looking in the direction of the house, so I turn round.

Shakeel looks at me. He must notice my red eyes because he says, ‘I'm sorry, the onions are making you cry?'

‘Yes,' I say. I'm pretty sure he knows it's not the onions, but I'm grateful to him for saying it.

Then he asks me something that no one has asked
me before. ‘Do you also feel angry towards Muslims because of what happened to your father?'

The thing about having a parent who died in 9/11 is that adults never actually ask you about it. It's the kids who ask all the questions. Adults go out of their way NOT to mention it. Or they mention it and then go silent, like it's a swear word or something. Or sometimes they get really angry and use long words.

‘Abomination,' one lady said. ‘It's an abomination.' Or they talk about ‘terrorism' and ‘Islamic fundamentalism'. But they
never
ask me what I think about any of it.

Not that I know what I'd say anyway. Which is why, when Shakeel asks, I just shrug and say, ‘I'm not sure.'

Shakeel pauses for a moment. He has finished chopping the onions and he pushes them into a bowl. ‘You understand that the men who flew their planes into the towers did so because they believed they were at war. That America and the West are waging a war against Islam?'

‘And are they?' I ask. Because I don't want to go
outside. Not just yet. And because I never get to talk about any of this. Not properly.

‘That's a good question,' Shakeel says, taking a sweet potato and starting to peel it. ‘I suspect the answer depends on who you ask. I don't think that your grandfather and Osama Bin Laden would see eye to eye for example!' he laughs.

‘Does it make any difference anyway?' I ask.

‘Whether we see 9/11 as an act of war or an act of terrorism? I think so, don't you?'

I shrug again.

‘Collateral damage is considered an unavoidable – even a necessary – element of modern war,' says Shakeel, talking like a teacher now. Priti tells me he is always doing this to her. ‘Did you know that US drone strikes in Afghanistan kill an average of fifty innocent citizens to every legitimate militant target?'

He turns to me as he asks this. I shake my head.

‘No. Very few people do,' says Shakeel. I watch his sharp knife moving swiftly over the sweet potato, revealing the bright orange flesh beneath the muddy brown exterior. ‘Why? Because the US is at war in
Afghanistan. These civilian deaths are therefore simply considered unfortunate casualties in a time of war – but whether in reality that label makes the death of civilians any less terrorising is open to debate.'

‘I suppose so,' I say.

‘So the labels matter, you see.'

Neither of us speaks for a few moments. I watch Shakeel chop the bright orange flesh into cubes, his knife moving rhythmically over the chopping board. Outside, I hear Priti shrieking, Jed shouting something I can't make out.

‘So if it
is
a war,' I say, ‘then who started it?'

‘That is another good question.' Shakeel laughs, looking up from what he's doing. ‘I suppose some might say the war started thousands of years ago, when Christians first embarked on the crusades. Others say it started on 9/11.'

‘But if the war didn't start till after the planes hit the buildings then it can't have been an act of war, can it?' I say. ‘That means it was terrorism.'

‘Which is why definitions are so divisive,' he says.

Just then there is a crash from outside, followed by
a lot of shouting. Shakeel looks up. ‘I think that an act of terror has just been committed on my sister. Now I suspect there will be out-and-out war.'

He grins. And so do I.

Jed has to go to court today because his mum wants to see him and his dad won't let her – or Jed won't let her – I'm not sure which any more. Anyway, Uncle Ian arrives dressed in a suit to take Jed to the hearing. Jed is being really manic and he manages to break Grandad's TV remote control by playing keepy-uppies with it in the kitchen and smashing it into the sink.

Grandad can't get mad with him while Uncle Ian is around, but after they've gone, he's in a foul mood. He refuses to take his de-stress tablets or even eat the biscuits Granny offers him. (She normally won't let him eat snacks between meals as he's supposed to be on a low-cholesterol diet.)

And then Gary turns up at just the wrong time. Apparently, he called and left a message with Grandad to say he was coming, but Grandad didn't pass it on. This means that Granny is all flustered because she hasn't cleaned the kitchen floor and she hasn't got anything in to offer him. (She usually makes cakes and
scones and stuff for guests, but today she's only got garibaldi biscuits.)

Gary thinks this is really funny. ‘After all I am follicly challenged!' he says, patting the top of his head where the hair is thinning. ‘Gary-baldy! I like it!' He laughs. Grandad and I laugh too, but Granny looks mortified.

Gary is sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, with a framed wedding photo of mum and dad on the mantelpiece next to him.

It's good to see him.

‘How you doing, mate?' he says when he sees me.

‘Good,' I say. I want to give him a hug, but I don't.

‘Your mum thought you might be missing some of your things,' he says, indicating a big black hold-all on the floor. ‘She gave me a list of things to pick up for you.'

‘Thanks,' I say.

I open the bag and inside I can see some more of my manga books and my football boots. There are also lots more clothes, some drawing pencils and a new notebook.

‘How is Hannah?' asks Granny.

‘She's OK,' says Gary, glancing at me.

‘Just OK?' says Grandad.

I pull out the new notebook and get a pencil from my pocket. I start to doodle leaves which quickly turn into slippery fish. I don't look up.

‘She's doing her best, but it's hard for her,' says Gary.

‘I thought this place she's gone to was the best?' says Grandad.

‘It takes time,' says Granny. ‘Remember last time.'

The slippery fish turn into birds with sharp, pecking beaks.

‘I remember it only too well,' Grandad snaps. ‘I just can't believe we're here all over again.'

‘I think that it's harder second time round,' says Gary. ‘That's what the doctors say. But I'm sure she'll beat it.'

‘With all due respect, Gareth –' I'm sure Grandad mispronounces his name on purpose – ‘you weren't here the first time. We were the ones who'd just lost our son and then had to pick up the pieces when she couldn't cope.'

‘I imagine that was very hard for you,' says Gary. I look up again. He seems uncomfortable, but he's obviously trying his best to be polite. I want to tell him that Grandad can be like this to everyone.

‘It wasn't as if she was the only person who lost someone she loved,' says Grandad.

The birds turn into aeroplanes with feathers on their wings.

‘I don't think it's something she's done deliberately,' says Gary.

‘I mean, aren't there just some drugs they can give her?' asks Grandad.

‘I don't think it's quite like that, Barry,' says Granny softly. ‘More tea, Gary?' she asks. I realise that their names rhyme and I doodle ‘Gary' and ‘Barry' in different fonts in the corner of the page, next to the aeroplanes.

Then I realise Gary is looking at me.

‘Glad to see you're still drawing.'

I look up and half smile.

‘Done any good comic strips?'

‘Not really,' I say. ‘Just doodles.'

‘You should keep going with those strips. You're really good,' he says. I feel myself blushing. ‘Blythe misses the cartoons you do of her.'

‘How is she?' I ask.

‘Having a great time with her mum,' he says.

‘Do you miss her?'

‘Like mad.' He smiles at me and I smile back. But then I become conscious of my grandparents watching. Do I have to choose – my dad or Gary?

It's only when it's time to go and Gary goes to get his coat that I ask him what I really want to know. ‘Will she call, Gary?'

‘She wants to,' he replies. ‘But she doesn't seem to be able to.'

‘Aren't there any phones there?' I say, knowing this isn't really what he means.