Another Life (17 page)

‘What’s going on?’ Patrick’s voice. He’s alive. He’s not burnt. I look around for him in the billowing smoke. He’s there in the doorway, silhouetted
against the flames – I stumble towards him.

‘Get Meg! Get Helen! We can still get out!’

‘Ty! Calm down! Everyone is fine. Nothing is happening!’

I stare at him. What does he mean? All around me the flames crackle and dance. But the heat – it’s dying down. The smoke is clearing. I’m not hot any more. I’m as cold as
ice, shaking, confused.

Mum grabs Alyssa. ‘Come on, darling, it’s OK. He didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘I was . . . I was saving her.’

Mum just says, ‘From what, Ty?’ and Patrick switches on the light. I look around, puzzled – no smouldering blankets, no lingering smoke.

‘Where did it go?’

Mum goes bonkers. ‘Where did what go, Ty? What are you talking about? Every night you’re waking us up, trying to evacuate us, and I can’t take it any more! I can’t! It
took me an hour to settle Alyssa this evening! You’ve got to stop! You’ve got to get a grip!’

Patrick’s hand is on my shoulder. ‘Come on, Ty. Let’s go downstairs, let Nicki and Alyssa get back to sleep.’

I’m still confused. ‘There was a fire . . . there was—’

‘All gone now,’ says Patrick, and he manoeuvres me out of the room. I look back and I see my mum sitting on the side of her bed, rocking Alyssa. They’re both crying. I look
away quickly.

We go downstairs. Meg raises her head and wags her tail at me. There’s no fire. There never was a fire. Everything’s OK.

It’s just that I feel as shaken and shattered as though the fire had eaten up every inch of the house and every person in it, and I’d been left staring at a blackened heap of
ashes.

‘Cocoa,’ says Patrick, steering me towards the kitchen table. ‘And I think we’ve got some biscuits somewhere.’

I’m not a big fan of cocoa, but the biscuits he finds are stem ginger covered with dark chocolate, and I eat four to help the cocoa go down. I feel a lot better afterwards.

Patrick’s poured himself a whisky. ‘This can’t go on,’ he says.

‘I can’t help it.’ Now I’ve woken up properly I remember that this has happened every night this week. Once there was a gunman taking pot-shots at the windows. The house
has been on fire twice. Once – most terrifyingly – the house was filled with a toxic gas that would kill you after ten minutes. It took ages for Patrick to persuade me that it was fine
– about two hours, with me out in the front drive in the pouring rain, shouting at them to come out, watching Patrick through the window, dying of gas . . . dying . . . not dying. . .

‘Something has to change. We have to get you some help, and take you somewhere you feel safer.’

How can I explain to him that I’m never going to feel safe?

‘Aberdeen—’ he says, but I shake my head, and he says, ‘Well, OK, how about France, then? We have our house in Provence. It’s very quiet, very beautiful.
You’d like it.’

I’ve seen pictures of this house. The walls are honey-coloured, there are rusty red floors and white-painted furniture. It’s peaceful and soothing and beautiful.

Every time I look at it I see bloody corpses sprawled by the Aga, blood pooled on the floor tiles. And not just any bodies – people I care about, people I love, even Meg.

‘There’s nowhere,’ I say, hopelessly, and he says, ‘We need to take you to a doctor. You need something to help you sleep.’

I shake my head.

‘I’d like you to see a psychiatrist.’

I freeze.

‘You’re displaying signs of paranoia. You’re hallucinating. When we talked to a psychiatrist before we got a tentative diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. .
.’

When my mum and dad lived together, when he was nineteen and she was seventeen and I was just over one, she stopped eating. He talked to a psychiatrist. He got her sectioned, got her taken to a
loony bin. He thinks he saved her life. She’s never forgiven him.

No one’s doing that to me.

I like Patrick a lot. I feel safe with him, I trust him, I’m glad he’s in my life. But I’m seeing more clearly than he is at the moment. The car accident – that was no
accident, that was a warning.

They’re going to kill me. They’re going to play with me first. I don’t want drugs. I don’t want to talk to a psychiatrist. I have to stay alert and ready for the next
real attack.

It’d help if I stopped imagining other stuff as well.

I finish the cocoa. My eyes are blinking. I can hardly keep them open. For a moment I wonder if he’s slipped in some sort of a sleeping pill. I thought I could trust Patrick. But what if .
. . what if he’s really not my grandad, after all? What if this whole Tyler family stuff is all a big charade . . . a trick . . . a set-up? Look at Archie’s dad. When the mask slipped,
he turned into a street fighter, just like Chris, the guy who used to hit me, hit my mum – Chris, whose brother is Tommy White, head of the gangster clan. What if he’s one of them? What
if they all are? What if they’re going to kill me when I’m . . . when I’m. . .

‘Back to bed,’ says Patrick, and when I shake my head, he says, ‘OK, just come and sit in the living room, in the armchair. Stretch your legs out . . . that’s good.
I’ll sit over here. Nothing’s going to happen. It’s fine. I’ll put on a DVD.’

I’m not going to sleep. I’m concentrating on the French film he chooses, keeping my eye on him . . . but it’s slow and the sound’s on low and my eyes are hurting and. .
.

I only realise that he tricked me into sleeping when Meg nudges my hand to wake me up in the morning.

Nicki’s sitting next to me. She’s looking tired and a lot older.

‘Ty,’ she says – kind and sweet, but not to be argued with – ‘Ty, things can’t go on like this.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s not good for anyone. That’s why I’ve made a decision. We can’t stay here. We’re going to Aberdeen.’

I
f there’s anything more humiliating than getting punched, it’s telling people about it. The whole family knows. So do all my friends.
They’re OK – I just told them I was mugged. They were awed, sympathetic, caring.

My mum and aunts can’t be fobbed off with that story, though. They’re horrified. They think Ty and I had a big fight because Ty told his mum that I gave him the black eye. She told
his dad in New York, he told my mum, chat, chat, worry, worry.

My dad flew off to Brazil to pitch for a contract. He left me with the lies and stories, the swollen nose and the purple and black bruises.

My grandpa – completely fine, just a cut on his head and a night under observation in the hospital – isn’t sympathetic.

‘Let them fight things out between them,’ he told my mum. ‘Danny and you worrying about it won’t help either of them. I gather Archie punched Ty. Good for him –
becoming a man at last. We shouldn’t interfere in their fights. It’s normal.’

‘He’s a dinosaur,’ says my mum on the phone to Danny. ‘You can’t blame him for that, Dan, he’s from a different generation. Archie won’t talk about it
to me. Can you find out any more from Ty? No? Maybe when you’re home. Another fortnight? That’s a shame.’

Now – my face still bruised, faded to green and yellow – I’m at the station in Claire’s home town, looking around for her as I go through the ticket barrier. She said
she’d be here to meet me. Please don’t let her pull a stunt and send Zoe in her place.

‘Archie!’ Thank God, it’s Claire. No sign of an angry ex-girlfriend. ‘Oh my God! What happened to your face?’

I’ve spent the entire journey thinking about what to say. Do you tell a girl – a nice, sweet girl like Claire – that her boyfriend has an uncontrollable temper, can be goaded
to violence, just like that? Or do you spare her? What if he got angry with her? Isn’t it kinder in the long run – safer – to tell her the truth?

‘I got mugged,’ I say. ‘It’s OK, really.’

‘Oh Archie. That’s awful.’ She’s inspecting the bruises, really concerned, really caring. ‘Poor you. And what on earth happened with Zoe?’

‘Oh, it was just a mistake . . . a friend mucking around . . . Zoe got the wrong idea. But maybe it was for the best, anyway.’

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘I think there’s another guy that Zoe’s got her eye on. She did like you, though.’

‘I don’t think we’ve got loads in common,’ I say. ‘Did you tell her I was coming?’

‘I thought I’d leave that up to you.’

‘Oh, thanks. I can’t quite face her right now – too awkward.’

‘You’re safe,’ she says. ‘She’s at an athletics training thing today. She’s very into her running – like Joe.’

‘Who?’

‘Joe – Ty. . .’

‘Oh, Ty,’ I say. ‘Right. I always forget he was called Joe here.’

I wonder what it was like for Ty, having a new name and being a different person. I wonder if he felt free of the bad stuff he’d done – might have done – in London. Maybe he
felt like he’d got a second chance, a new start, a clean slate. Now he knows that wasn’t true. His past has caught up with him, trapped him, branded him. It can’t be a good
feeling.

How can I tell Claire what I’ve found out? How can I take her away from him? Will she hate me if I do?

We’re walking down the High Street, past charity shops and WH Smith, a Starbucks, an estate agent.

‘It’s not very exciting here,’ says Claire, ‘there’s a shopping mall – that’s where the good shops are – but my whole school will be there. And
it’s a bit cold for the park. But we could have a coffee, if you want. I really want to hear about how you’re doing at your new school – is it as good as you thought? – and
anything you can tell me about Ty, of course.’

It’s only the way her voice shakes when she says his name that makes me realise that Claire’s actually a really good actress. I thought she was really interested in me there, just
for a minute.

She points out a health food café. ‘Let’s go in there. It’s quiet, and I won’t see many people I know. They all hang out at the mall and in Starbucks.’

She’s right, it is quiet. We’re the only people there. She orders fruit tea and I dither a bit (no Frappuccino on the menu) and then ask for orange juice – which I hate.
What’s wrong with me?

Claire’s wearing a blue top, exactly the colour of her eyes. She’s got a cute denim skirt, black tights, lace-up boots. She’s grown her hair a bit, pulled it back from her face
with a flowery clip. There’s something very clean about Claire. She’s not like Lily, wild and brave. She’s not like Shannon, sharp, hard and bright. Claire kind of reminds me of
the old-fashioned toys my grandma has in her house. They always seemed so strange compared to the plastics and electronics I was used to, but you know what? I liked them better. I think I liked
them best.

Claire asks me all about Butler’s. She tells me about her drama club.

‘Do they have after school clubs and things at your school?’ she asks. ‘I think you’d really enjoy something like that.’

‘Not really – it’s not really a school like that. Maybe I can find something.’

There’s loads of stuff for kids to do where we live. And there’s something called the National Youth Theatre – I googled it the other day. I’m thinking of auditioning.
Even Lily and Oscar would be impressed by that, wouldn’t they?

Funnily enough, I don’t really care.

‘So, what do you do when you’re not at school?’ She smiles, ‘I bet you’re not doing homework all the time.’

I grin back – God, I love her smile – ‘I’ve been to a few parties. I hang out with my friends. And I’ve actually been working out a bit, learning to box.’

‘You’ve been learning to box? Like Joe?’

Oh bum. I’d almost forgotten that I was here to talk about him.

‘Yeah. I found the place where he learned – thought I could maybe find out a bit more about him.’

‘Isn’t it horrible learning to box? Do people hit you?’

Huh. She thinks I’m a wimp.

‘It’s fine – quite fun, actually. I’m getting a lot better at it. The coach says I might be naturally talented.’

That’s not quite what he said. ‘We’ll make a fighter of you yet,’ were the exact words. He seemed quite impressed by my bruises. ‘Been practising?’ he asked,
with a wink.

‘It’d be good if you were acting a fight scene. You’d look the part,’ she says. ‘Did you meet anyone who knew Ty?’

‘Only the admin lady. Sylvia. She thought I looked like him.’

‘You do sort of. You’re a bit shorter, and your eyes are a different colour. Mind you, when I first knew Ty, his hair was really dark and his eyes were dark brown. It was really a
shock to find out that he doesn’t really look like that. Actually, your hair is more like his was then . . . when he was Joe, you know. . .’

When I first met Ty, his hair was dyed black, but you could really easily see his mousey roots. It looked completely rubbish. His new look works much better. I don’t tell her that.

She swallows. ‘Archie, it was the weirdest thing. Zoe asked me to go and watch her compete in this race. . .’

Oh yeah. She asked me too.

‘And there was this boy who broke a UK record. She thought it was Joe. But they’d never have let him out of prison, would they? I said it couldn’t be him.’

‘It was him,’ I say. ‘They let him out for a day.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘I’m sorry.’

Stupid Ty
, I think.
If you’d just write to Claire, or ring her, you could have told her yourself you were going to be there
.

‘He did write me this letter,’ she says, ‘but he didn’t say anything . . . it was all a bit vague . . . and so cold. . .’

‘Oh right.’

‘I showed it to Max and he thought maybe it was heavily censored.’

‘Who’s Max?’ I ask, and she says, ‘Just a mate. He’s great. Very into politics and human rights stuff. He’s just set up a branch of Amnesty at school.
He’s brave as well.’

‘Oh really?’ I say, jealous as hell, and she says, ‘He’s the only openly gay person in our school. He came out last year, said he was fed up with lying all the time,
pretending to be interested in girls when he wasn’t. He’s got a boyfriend at the boy’s grammar and they’re going to come to our prom at the end of year eleven as a
couple.’