When I Was Joe (18 page)

‘No, she's fantastic,' I say, and they all laugh. I don't know why.

Ellie says, ‘Stop messing around. I really need to hear how Joe's getting on. And why on earth have you lost your access card? Did you know I had to write a letter to the head teacher to stop him kicking you out of school?'

‘I'm sure that was never going to happen, Ellie,' says Janet.

‘Oh it was,' says Ellie. ‘Mr Henderson said you smashed another boy's face in and he nearly drowned.'

‘That's not true at all,' says Claire angrily. ‘Joe was nearly drowned by him.'

Everyone looks amazed to hear her speak. She's blushing again and looks like she wishes she hadn't bothered. I feel like everyone is looking at me, and I don't like it. ‘I'm going to go,' I say. ‘Thanks for lunch. Ellie, can you let me know when you want to do more training? Good luck for the weekend.'

‘Oh, don't go, Joe,' says Ellie. ‘Come and tell us all about it.' But I shake my head and make for the back door. I'm sure that as I go I hear one of her friends say something like, ‘So that's your toy boy, Ellie.'

Claire follows me and we walk through the house together. ‘Ellie gets a bit over-excited sometimes,' she says.

‘Yeah, I'm just bored with talking about it now. And there's other stuff going on that's more important.'

‘Oh. Look, Joe, don't go. Why don't we go upstairs again? Then we could talk.'

I'm not sure. I'm kind of disappointed with Ellie and I want to get away from all those laughing strangers. I want her to stay the perfect, golden girl that I can rely on, not someone who uses me to entertain her friends. I only really like it when Ellie's attention is focused on me.

But I follow Claire up the stairs because I've found someone that I can be as near to honest with as possible.

I'm really curious to know why she wants
to cut herself. And in my most secret, secret heart – and I'm wondering how sick and twisted I really am – I'd be quite interested in watching her do it again.

The first thing she does is draw the curtains so it's dark again. The next thing is to wedge a chair against the door so no one can come in. Then she sits down on the floor, as she did before. I can see she's got some cushions down there – it's her little nest.

I sit next to her. ‘Why do you do it?' I ask.

‘I try not to,' she says. ‘I know it's a crazy thing to do. I'm really trying to stop.'

‘When I saw you, I thought you looked like a junkie, you know, an addict, shooting up.'

‘It feels like how I think an addiction must feel like,' she says. ‘It builds up, and all I can think about is cutting myself, and then I do it and I'm OK again for a while.'

‘How come no one's noticed?'

She shrugs: ‘I'm not the sort of person that anyone notices much.'

I'm not having that. ‘What about when you're in a T-shirt? What about swimming or PE?'

‘I always wear long sleeves, for PE as well. I don't know what to do about swimming. We were going to have it for the first time last week and I was so worried. I'd made up a letter from my mum, but then you punched Carl and the pool was closed for cleaning.' She chuckles. ‘I was very grateful to you.'

‘Oh. Well, glad I could help you out.'

‘That's OK.'

‘But what builds up? Why do you do it? When did it even start?'

She considers, staring into space. It's like she's never asked herself these questions before. 'I started out just scratching myself. Then one day it wasn't enough, so I used my comb. I liked the feeling and I liked seeing the marks on my skin. But it was never quite enough. And then I cut myself by accident in art when we were lino printing and I knew that's what I'd been looking for.'

‘But what is the feeling that builds up?'

She shrugs again. ‘Could be anything. I might be feeling scared, or worried or upset. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible, like I'm not as . . . as real as other people. But when I cut myself and see the blood and feel the pain I know I'm real. I can see . . . feel . . . myself better.
Does that make any sense? Probably not.'

It sort of does, in a funny way. I'm almost tempted to try it myself.

‘But you're not invisible, you just hide yourself. I mean you're really quiet all the time, and you wear those long baggy clothes, and you've always got your hair all over your face. Even your school uniform is too big.' I have an idea. ‘Why don't you stop hiding? Stop covering up who you are and what you're doing to yourself. Show me your arms.'

She blushes again, that red blotchy heat rushes into her face, and I realise what I'm suggesting. ‘I don't mean . . . I mean, umm, put a T-shirt on or something. I won't look.'

But she's unbuttoning the top buttons of her shirt which is black and about five sizes too big for her. ‘No, it's OK. . .' And she takes it off over her head.

She's sitting there in her jeans and little white bra, and all I can look at are her arms. Her poor arms. They're scratched and patched and scarred, and the new piece of plaster is already stained with blood. In between the wounds, old and new, I can see goosebumps standing up on her skin. The cuts are in a neat little line, like train tracks, with the oldest scars faded to white and the newer ones pink and shiny. It's the neatness that's the saddest thing, the way she's
tried to be good and tidy while cutting herself till the blood pours out.

She reminds me of the assembly hall at St Saviour's, the crucifix with Our Lord hanging from it, bloodied and suffering. It's not that I'm at all religious, of course, but Gran used to take me to church with her sometimes and Mum and I had to go for a full year to get me into St Saviour's. I've always gone to Catholic schools and it's given me the idea at the back of my mind that pain is somehow more than just pain, that it's got supernatural power and meaning. What the meaning is though, I'm not too sure.

How could I ever have found the idea of her hurting herself exciting? I'm disgusted with myself.

She must have seen something of that in my face and she thinks it's directed at her. She's crying silently and trying to cover up her arms. As gently as possible I take her hand. ‘No, it's OK. Look at them. Look at what you've done to yourself. Look at all that pain. You don't need to hide it from me.'

We sit there for a while, hand in hand in the near darkness. Far away I can hear the sound of people laughing and talking in the garden. Then she says, ‘You won't tell anyone, will you?'

‘I won't because I promised, but I think you should. I'm sure you can get help with this. Claire, there're
enough bad people out there in the world who can hurt you without you hurting yourself.'

‘Maybe,' she says.

‘Yes,' I say.

She leans her head against my shoulder and I stroke her long hair away from her face. ‘You can't hide away all the time, if this is what hiding does to you,' I say, and then wonder if I'm talking to her or me.

‘Tell me your story now,' she says. ‘Tell me why your eyes change colour.'

‘Claire. . .' I hesitate. I know I can trust her. But what if someone threatens her?

‘Yes?'

‘What I'm going to tell you isn't just a bit secret. It's really secret. You can't tell anyone in your family or anyone at school. But if anyone really scary tries to make you tell them. . . ‘

‘Yes?'

‘Then tell. Don't protect me and don't put yourself in danger.'

‘Danger?'

‘Yes. Look, I'm not really called Joe. We didn't move here because my mum broke up with her boyfriend. We're here because I . . . I. . .'

‘Because what? What is your name? Who are you?'

I've never seen Claire look like this. I mean apart
from the fact that she's hardly wearing anything. She's come alive, eyes shining bright blue, pink cheeks. Now I can see her face properly, she's so much prettier – but can I really tell her my story?

‘I'm called Tyler. Most people call me Ty, but it's short for Tyler. Tyler Michael Lewis.'

It feels so strange to say my full name out loud, but what a fantastic relief. ‘Tyler's after my dad and Michael's for my grandad.'

‘Tyler,' she says. ‘It's a nice name.'

‘I saw something. I saw someone get killed. And when I told the police they said it wasn't safe to stay at home. We went home anyway but there was an attack . . . a petrol bomb. . . The shop underneath our flat got bombed, it all burned up. They had to give us new identities and send us away from London and they sent us here and that's how I became Joe and my mum became Michelle. Her name's Nicki really. They changed my eye colour with contact lenses and they dyed my hair – it's light brown, a bit like yours – and they put me down a year at school. I'm fourteen, not thirteen, and I should be finishing year nine.'

‘Who did you see get killed?'

‘A . . . a boy. They tried to mug him for his iPod and he had a knife too. It was a mess. Three against one.'

‘Oh God, how terrible.'

I'm remembering the red, red blood on Arron's white shirt. ‘And I ran to get help, and I managed to stop a bus and shout to the driver to call an ambulance, but it was too late by the time they got there. Much too late.'

I should have stayed. I should have been there when the ambulance got there. But instead . . . instead . . . there are some things I'm not ready to tell. Even Claire. Even now.

‘Why wasn't it safe to stay at home?' she asks.

‘Because someone wants to . . . to shut me up so I can't give evidence at the trial. And that person, those people, are really ruthless and they might even kill me I suppose.'

‘Oh my God, Joe – oh, should I call you Tyler?'

I shake my head. ‘Too confusing. And you might forget and get it wrong at school or something.'

She laughs. ‘Oh, I'd never dare speak to you at school.'

‘Bollocks to that, Claire, you're going to stop being invisible.' I laugh too. ‘I'm meant to be being invisible and I'm doing really badly at it. But you don't have to be invisible at all.'

‘I can't believe you ever could be invisible,' she says softly and I think – aha! – you
do
have a crush on me. Obviously someone like Joe would take advantage of
the opportunity presenting itself. But I'm Ty right now. ‘You're so wrong. I was completely invisible in London. My best friend thought I was babyish and no one at my school wanted to know me because I wasn't rich and I wasn't very . . . anything really. And I was short, and a bit podgy.'

‘No!'

‘It's true.'

She's laughing at me and I'm feeling incredibly happy to have found someone that I can tell all this stuff to. It occurs to me that no one knows all this – not Mum, not Gran – only Mr Patel in the shop downstairs had any idea of how difficult I was finding St Saviour's.

‘When do you have to give evidence?' she asks.

‘They said in the autumn, probably. I don't know for sure. The police come and ask questions sometimes but they don't tell me anything. And now my gran . . . she was beaten up because they wanted her to tell them where I was. Even though she didn't know. And she's in intensive care, and my mum's there with her and I don't know if I'm ever going to see her again.'

‘That's terrible,' she says again. ‘I don't know what to say. I feel such a wimp, making a fuss when you have real problems.'

‘No, don't be daft, you have real problems too.'
I touch her arm, careful to avoid a scar. ‘What will you do about this?'

‘What can I do?'

‘Here's my mobile number.' – I'm writing it down on a scrap of paper – ‘You can call me if you feel it building up, if you feel like you're going to need to cut again.'

‘But what if . . . if it's the middle of the night or something?'

‘No problem. It's fine.'

‘Have you got an email address?'

‘I used to. . .' And I wonder if anyone's been emailing me any more on that address. How can I find out? Would it be safe to use the computers at school? But maybe it's better not to look.

‘You need a new one. Shall I make one for you?'

‘Yes, please.' I could do it myself easily but it's nice to think of Claire doing something to help me.

‘Thanks, Joe. Thanks for trusting me.'

‘Thanks for trusting me too.'

We're so close and so intent on each other, it's like the whole world's stopped. It's really easy to talk now. She tells me about the books and music she likes and I tell her about learning lots of different languages and being a football interpreter one day. She says, ‘The first time I heard you speak French I thought you were French,' which is pretty nice to hear. There's no more
noise coming from the garden and it's like we're in our own little dark cave. I lean towards her. . . Our lips brush together . . . and . . . crash! Someone's trying to open the door.

‘What's going on?' calls her mum. ‘Why have you blocked the door, Claire?'

Bugger. I was meant to have gone home hours ago and now she's going to find me barricaded into her half-naked daughter's bedroom. Maybe I can hide under the bed? Claire has the same idea and points to the floor while she whips her shirt back on.

‘It's OK, Mum – just wanted some peace and quiet. The boys came in here earlier. You know they're not meant to.' Claire moves the chair out of the way and her mum opens the door.

‘I don't know what's the matter with you, Claire. Why do you have to spend a nice sunny afternoon up here in the dark when we have guests and everything. I get no help from you at all.' Janet sounds completely fed up. ‘You could at least let some light in.' She marches across to pull the curtains and almost falls over me. I scramble up quickly. ‘Oh, sorry . . . I was just, er, having a rest on the floor.'