When I Was Joe (15 page)

‘No, sorry, love. She's gone to a training camp for
Paralympic potentials. Her Dad's driven her and Magda, the new helper we're trying out. She won't be back until Sunday. I thought you knew she was away.'

She's right, I did know. I just didn't remember. I'm numb with disappointment. ‘Sorry to bother you,' I say.

‘It's no bother. I tell you what, why don't you come and have a cup of tea? You look like you could do with one.'

That's just what my gran would say. As I follow her into the kitchen, I realise that my eyes are filling up again. What the hell's happening to me? I bite my lip hard, but I can't speak at all as I slide into a seat at the big table.

Luckily, Ellie's mum doesn't seem to expect a lot of chat. She puts a mug of tea in front of me, and makes me a chicken sandwich. I can't remember the last time I ate anything and it doesn't last long. She follows it up with a slice of fruit cake.

Then she sits down next to me. ‘That's better. It's good to see someone who likes his food.' She pats my hand: ‘Joe, don't mind me asking but is everything OK? You seem a bit upset.'

I shake my head. Everything is not OK. Nothing is OK. Where to start?

‘My gran is in the hospital. She's been hurt.
She's in intensive care. But I can't go and see her and I don't know what's happening.'

‘But surely you can go with your mum, Joe? Maybe next week when you've got half term.'

‘I don't think they'll let me.' I say hopelessly.

‘They?'

‘Er . . . the people in the hospital. I don't know.'

‘Well, I'm sure they know what they're doing. They don't tend to like a lot of visitors in the ICU. Maybe things will look a lot brighter by next week.'

‘Maybe. And I don't think school is going to let me go on working with Ellie.'

She laughs and says, ‘I'd like to see them try and stop Ellie working with you,' which makes me feel a bit better. Then she asks, ‘But why would they want to stop you? I thought everyone was very happy with the results?'

‘I punched someone in the swimming pool. Mr Henderson said I could have killed him. I think perhaps they are going to exclude me permanently.'

‘Why did you punch him?' She sounds pretty calm.

‘He and his friends were trying to drown me . . . I thought . . . and he'd kicked me this morning.'

‘Kicked you?'

‘In the ribs.'

‘Can I have a look? I'm a nurse, you know. I work three nights a week up at the General.'

Carefully I lift up my shirt and show her the two big bruises. She puts her hand on one and I jump away. ‘Ow!' It's hurting like crazy now. Much to my shame I feel more tears running down my face. She tactfully hands me a tissue.

‘Joe, you have to go to hospital and get that looked at. I think you might have broken a rib there.'

‘But there's nothing they can do about that, is there?' It sounds like a big waste of time when I could easily take a few aspirin.

‘Let me ring Michelle. You've not got a car, have you? I could run you two up there.'

‘She's not here. She's gone to London to be with my gran.'

‘So who is staying with you?'

I shrug and she gives me another tissue.

‘Joe, she's not left you all by yourself, has she?'

‘No, there's someone staying with me. Called Maureen.'

‘Well, then. Get Maureen to take you to casualty for an X-ray. Joe, it's very important. A broken rib could puncture your lung, and that could kill you. Or at least bring your sporting career to an end.'

‘Oh.'

‘And if you have broken a rib, well, it's good for the head teacher to know that, isn't it? Fair's fair.
No good punishing you for violence if the other boy gets away with it. Look, I have to go and get the boys from school. Stay here, have some more tea, help yourself to cake and when I get back I'll take you home and talk to this Maureen.'

I'm not sure this is a good idea and it must show on my face. ‘Really, Joe, you can't be too careful about things like this. You don't want permanent lung damage.'

Left alone in the kitchen, I go over and look at the many photos of Ellie on display alongside a shelf of her trophies. She looks so happy and determined. I wonder if there's another side to Ellie, full of rage at what life's done to her. I'm very tempted to sneak a look at her room but that would seem like I'm some sort of mad stalker, which wouldn't be a great idea.

I'm just cutting myself another piece of cake – OK, it's my third – when I hear a gasp, and a small voice says, 'Wh— what are you doing here?'

It's Claire, home from school. I turn around and suddenly I'm really fed up with her constant scared rabbit expression.

‘I'm eating cake. What about you?' I say rudely, cramming it into my mouth.

‘No, I mean why you are in my house? And why . . . how . . . have your eyes gone green?'

She noticed. Damn. Bugger. I'd totally forgotten
about the stupid lenses.

I stand there for a minute and then I put down the knife and walk towards her. My side is hurting so much that I feel dizzy but I put out my hands and grip her wrists. She looks absolutely terrified. Good.

I lean towards her and shift into gangsta. Menacing. Angry. Scary. ‘You keep yer mouth shu' abou' my eyes. Forget you ever saw they was green.'

She's almost crying. I tighten my grip. She whispers, ‘No, no . . . I won't say anything.'

‘Not to Ashley or Lauren or Emily – none of dem, none of your mates.'

A blotchy red blush spreads over her face. ‘They're not my friends. I'd have thought you'd know your girlfriend has no time for me. Hasn't she told you what a stupid freak I am?'

I let go and turn away. ‘Who says she's my girlfriend?'

‘She's told everyone you belong to her.'

‘She doesn't own me. We're just messing around.'

‘Whatever.'

‘Whatever,' I echo. ‘Anyway, keep it quiet.'

She's rubbing her wrists. I must have really hurt her. What am I turning into?

‘Did you really punch Carl?' she asks in a whisper.

‘Yup.'

‘They say he's got to have plastic surgery.'

‘Do they?' This strikes me as quite funny. Maybe Carl's porky features will be transformed by my efforts. Maybe he'll end up looking like a chimp. I can't help smiling.

Claire is looking at me like I'm a psychopathic maniac. Her voice is shaky. ‘Joe, if I don't tell anyone about your eyes – and I won't, I really, really promise you – you won't tell Ashley that we talked, will you?'

Not this again. ‘What is your problem with talking to me? Most people seem to like me.'

‘Ashley doesn't like other girls talking to her boyfriend.'

I think back to Ashley telling me, ‘If I want a guy I make sure no one else goes near him.' I think back to Claire's crumpled note. And I know, deep down, that Ashley, who I want like a kid wants candyfloss, is not a nice person at all.

But I still want her.

‘Don't worry,' I say to Claire. ‘I don't tell tales if you don't. But please don't treat me like I smell or something.' It feels crazy to say this when I've just been terrorising her, but I add, ‘Right at the moment I could do with some friends.'

She gives me a little uncertain smile. ‘I think a lot of people will be your friend now that you've smashed
Carl's nose. He used to pick on the year seven boys – they were chanting your name in the playground. And Max is organising a petition to go to the head to ask that you shouldn't be punished.'

Brilliant. I am the figurehead of a popular revolution. By Friday there will probably be riots in the dining hall and book burning in the library. I can't see this working in my favour with the head teacher. And what about when he tells keep-your-head-down Doug?

There's the sound of a key in the door and Sam and Alex erupt into the room, shouting and whooping when they see me. ‘Boys, you stay here with Claire and I'll run Joe home,' says Janet. ‘Claire, is that OK?'

‘Yup.' I can sense her relief. What if she tells Ellie and her kind mum how I scared her? What have I done?

When we get to our house Maureen instantly spots my not-brown eyes and her own widen in alarm. I go upstairs to find the spare set of lenses while Janet suggests a trip to casualty. Maureen agrees right away: ‘She's absolutely right, Joe – we've got to get this checked out, especially with your mum away.'

I don't protest. The pain is getting worse and my breathing is feeling a bit difficult. But I don't say so because that would be making a fuss.

By the time we've waited for a few hours at the hospital, Maureen knows the whole story. Well,
everything except what I did to Claire. She's actually a nice lady – best police officer yet – and easy to talk to. She seems to think that I'll get away with punching Carl, although she doesn't really approve.

‘In my opinion, schools should be a lot tougher about these incidents and then we wouldn't have the problems we do out on the streets,' she says. ‘In the good old days it was zero tolerance. You and Carl, you'd have been out of that school. Nowadays it'll be a slapped wrist.'

They take the X-ray. I lie all alone on a table while a white machine clicks and whirrs above me. I wonder what it would be like if these machines could look inside your mind as well as your body and see the tangle of stories and lies and thoughts and problems inside; if they could make an image that captured the inner truth, the real person, the skeleton soul. Who would they see if they could look inside me?

We wait a bit longer and then a doctor comes and tells me that I've cracked two ribs and should take it easy for a bit. She prescribes painkillers and says, ‘No rough sport because there is a danger of puncturing a lung if you have another impact. And no alcohol while you're taking these.'

‘He's thirteen, for heaven's sake,' says Maureen, and the doctor asks, ‘Have you been here on a Saturday night?'

‘What about running?' I ask. ‘That should be fine,' she replies, ‘but if you have any trouble with your breathing, then stop right away and seek medical advice.'

We're about to leave when Carl and his mum emerge from another cubicle ahead of us. Carl's face is hideously swollen and he's holding an ice pack to his nose. His mum must have brought in some clothes because he's wearing a tracksuit. They've been here for hours.

I pull on Maureen's arm. ‘It's him. Can we wait? I don't want him to see me.'

Carl doesn't look tough and strong any more, but like a little boy who's clinging to his mum for comfort. When I see how his mum has her arm around him, I long for my gran. She's the one I need right now.

‘Come on, they're gone,' says Maureen and we walk to her car. Every step is painful and I'm sure I've screwed up my training schedule for the next few days, whether I can use the school gym or not.

Back at home, she makes me baked beans on toast. I switch on my mobile. I have eighteen texts and ten messages. Almost all the texts are from people at school sending their congratulations and pledging their support, like I'm the leader of a resistance movement under some oppressive regime. They must have got my number from
Ashley. She's sent me a text:
u r my hero. Cant w8 2 c u. park 2moro 4pm? Xxxxxx
.

And then I listen to the messages and there's a voicemail from Mum.

Maureen is buttering the toast. I go into the living room and listen to the message. Mum sounds breathy and anxious: 'Hello, Ty. I can't really talk but Gran is stable and we're all here with her. I'm sending her lots of love from you. Hope you're OK. Can't talk more. Take care, sweetheart.'

I may be wrong. Maybe Doug told her she could ring. But it doesn't seem right to me. Surely she's potentially giving away where we are? Doug said no phone calls. What if someone's monitoring calls or something? I dither for about two seconds, then, as Maureen calls, ‘Food's ready,' I make a decision.

I sit down at the table and hold out my phone. ‘Maureen. My mum left me a message. I thought maybe it wasn't such a clever thing to do.'

She takes the phone from me and listens. She shakes her head. ‘I'm not going to lie to you, Ty – I think she's done this without telling Doug. It's understandable – poor girl, she's under a lot of strain, but she shouldn't have. I'm going to have to tell him.'

I nod, although I feel I've betrayed my mum. ‘Eat up,' says Maureen. ‘None of this is easy, I know.'

‘Nope. . . Maureen, do you know a lot of families in witness protection?'

‘Quite a few,' she says. ‘I tend to get involved, as I did with you, in changing the way people look. You're unusual, though, because most of the people we deal with are criminals themselves. They're looking to escape prison by informing on their former colleagues. Complete low lives, to be honest. It's hard to be helping people you feel so little respect for. You two are different. I'm sorry it's been so hard for you.'

‘It's not all hard. Some of it's been good.'

‘I hope it stays that way,' she says, but she's being kind, I can see.

We sit and watch some stupid reality programme where two women change families and have to live in each other's houses. After about two minutes they are going crazy, shouting and sulking and threatening to leave. As I watch, I'm feeling older and older, like an ancient old man who's done it all and seen it all and all the adults are like children to me. I bet really old people feel incredibly lonely when everyone their age is dead.

I take a painkiller and go to bed. My ribs are still agony, though, and my head's full of violence – the real kind between me and Carl, and the infinitely worse sort that I'm imagining happening to Gran. But what I can't bear to think about is the way I tightened my grip on
Claire's wrists when I knew I didn't need to, and the terrified look on her face.