By Any Other Name (18 page)

I
lie in bed later that night thinking about what Joe said and wondering why I care what some skinny Emo boy thinks. And I tell myself I
shouldn’t.

I get the laptop out and flick to my Facebook profile to read the last message Tasha sent me again:

Hardly.

I haven’t answered her yet. What do I do about her asking where I am? That was the strictest instruction of all from Tim W-P – never get in touch with anyone and tell them where I
am. Never. Ever.

But they don’t know Tasha. She’s a hundred per cent safe.

Still, it’s not just my safety I’m gambling with.

But I know what I do want to ask her right now so I start typing:

I power off the laptop and close my eyes. After a second, I reach to turn off the light. For a few moments in Joe’s orchard, I’d felt at peace, but that never lasts, does it? Now
I’m back to that constant, nagging ache of worry always prowling in the corners of my mind, waiting to pounce. I wonder if I’ll ever truly be happy or feel safe again.

This is why I hate thinking about who Lou was, even though I can’t stay away from it, like a scab you have to pick at. Because thinking of who I was inevitably brings all the other
memories flooding back, of Katya, of the night they tried to kill me. Which still makes me choke and struggle for breath even though it was so many months ago and we’re so far away. The fear
never, never goes. Just lies waiting to rise up and catch me again.

T
he footsteps splish-sploshed faster behind me and I sped up, running faster. Car tyres hissed . . . I glanced back – he was closer, a silver
car cruising beside him.

I dropped everything and ran, fighting the pain in my ankle. Splashing through puddles, swallowing rain in with air.

The slap of trainers gaining on me . . . the hiss of tyres on the road . . .

Then a hand at my neck, one over my mouth, jerking me to a stop.

I tried to scream . . .

But his hand was too tight on my mouth. He lifted me off my feet as if I was no weight at all and bundled me into the back of the car. I reached immediately for the opposite door handle, but it
wouldn’t open and I only had a second before he was in beside me, pinning me down.

I screamed out, but he’d slammed the door shut and the driver was already accelerating away. He shoved my face hard into the seat so I couldn’t breathe. I thrashed and fought until
he caught my arms securely behind my back. When I tried to buck against him, he forced my arms upwards and the pain made me scream into the seat cushions.

‘Shut her up!’ a voice snapped from the front. ‘I’m trying to drive.’

‘Bullet?’ the voice above me asked.

‘Jesus, man, how many more times? Not yet! Where we planned. Can you not just keep her quiet until then?’

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . they were going to kill me. This was it. I couldn’t fight off the bulk of the man holding me down. Whenever they got where they were going, my life was
over.

I couldn’t grasp what that even meant.

Except it meant fight to be free.

I went limp under him, pretending I’d passed out. He didn’t relax his grip on me even slightly. Did he know I was faking? Was he good enough at his job to tell?

The car seats smelled of synthetic fabric and cigarettes. Another voice, deeper and more authoritative than the other two, spoke from the front passenger seat. I didn’t recognise it.
‘Keep calm, please, both of you. Everything is going to plan. We will be at our destination in twenty minutes. We can deal with our little problem there and still be home for a late supper,
eh?’

Oh, nice. His words stopped my panic as if I’d been dunked in cold water. After he killed me, he’d be back in time for tea. I was so pleased for him.

Now I was angry. Call me insane, but it was the complete
rudeness
of what he said. That my life was worth less than getting his meal on time. Against all logic and normal behaviour, that
made me really mad.

And mad made me determined. And focused. I was going to ruin his supper if it was the last thing I did.

I wake shivering. I hate the dreams, but they won’t stop. I sometimes get a few nights’ break, but then they’re back. And they’re not like normal dreams
full of crazy, random stuff. These are exact recalls of what happened. I never knew dreams could be like that.

My pyjamas are clammy and I get up and change them before going back to bed with the light on. I read for a while. I’ll have eye bags like suitcases in the morning.

I must drift off eventually because the alarm wakes me at half seven. I hit snooze at first and then drag myself to the shower.

I can’t manage more than a slice of toast for breakfast and I nibble it slowly. I’m swallowing the last of my coffee when the doorbell rings. Dad’s in the
bathroom and Mum’s trying to persuade Katie to eat cereal so she looks up at me. ‘Can you get it, please?’

I walk down the hall, but the view through the glass door tells me who it is before I open it. The build and the shock of dark hair are familiar. After yesterday, I don’t want to see him.
I can feel myself flushing red already.

‘Hi,’ he says when I open the door. Nothing more – he just looks at me solemnly.

‘What do you want?’ I didn’t mean to sound unfriendly, but my discomfort level is mountain-high right now.

‘Seeing if you’d left yet, as I was going right past.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘I can see that.’

We stare at each other. His face is as solemn as anything, but as I search over it, I find laughter lurking in his eyes. It makes my lips twitch too and I want to laugh at the absurdity of
us.

‘So, you ready?’

‘One minute?’

He nods and I scoot off to get my coat and schoolbag and say goodbye to Katie.

We walk down the hill some way before Joe speaks. ‘I told you you wouldn’t like it. Are you still mad at me?’

‘I’m not mad at you.’

‘Could have fooled me.’

I deliberately don’t look at him. ‘I’m not, but I might be mad at me. I haven’t decided yet.’

‘I didn’t think you were just being snobby with me. I guessed you thought I was a dick because of how I dress. Some girls do.’

I do look at him then. ‘Emo’s not my favourite look, it’s true. But no.’

‘I’m not Emo.’

‘You so are.’

He growls at me through bared teeth, which startles a giggle from me.

‘Anyway it wasn’t your Emo-ness. It was that you looked at me like you hated me.’

I’m not absolutely convinced but I think he goes a bit red. ‘Yeah, like I said – bad day. I didn’t mean it.’

‘But you were like that in school too, much later on.’

‘Yeah, cos I did think you were being snotty with me by then.’

I sigh in exasperation at how we can so misread messages. ‘I was just having trouble settling in and I didn’t know anyone. If I looked snotty I was probably feeling
uncomfortable.’

‘Oh. I never thought of that. Makes sense.’ He bit his lip. ‘I feel stupid now.’

‘Don’t. You’re a boy. You can’t help it.’

He does the infectious chuckle and shoves me gently off the kerb into the empty road.

‘So what changed your mind? Why did you talk to me that day?’

‘I dunno really. You looked really miserable in school when they started bitching about you. I felt sorry for you.’

I don’t like that, someone feeling sorry for me. I should be tougher and cooler than that. But I don’t think he’s the type to gloat so maybe it’s not so bad. ‘Why
were you having a bad day that time I first saw you?’

He shakes his head like before. ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

I remember how red his eyes were that time he came over by the brook and perhaps it’s better not to push him. It might be something awful, and we’re nearly at the school gates. There
are certainly too many people around for a private conversation. I remember something suddenly. ‘Hey, you’re not suspended.’

‘No. They just rang my dad in the end and gave me a warning.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘I’m going up the field for a smoke at break.’

He doesn’t invite me to go too but I can’t see any other reason for telling me. ‘Same place as before? I’ll meet you up there.’

‘If you want.’ He locates a Coke can on the pavement and begins kicking it along. I bite my tongue – he really can be totally charmless when he wants to be.
Why
he wants that is a different puzzle I’ve yet to solve, or even find a clue to.

We get to the gate. ‘See you later then,’ he says and he slopes off round the side of the building. I feel as if I’ve been dismissed.

The morning is the usual round of being pointedly ignored by Camilla’s Cronies. Thank God she doesn’t come to school here or it’d be even worse. I can’t quite explain the
difference between being genuinely ignored because people don’t realise you’re there and being deliberately ignored, but there definitely is one and you can feel it on the skin on the
back of your neck.

At break, I scramble over the hedge to find Joe already under the oak tree, smoking. ‘That’s bad for you, you know.’

‘Yeah.’

‘When did you start?’

‘Couple of years ago. Bad habit I picked up from my brother.’

And then he clams up, turning subtly away from me to look out over the farmland beyond us.

I contemplate saying something, but I’m quite engrossed in watching his reaction and seeing where this is going.

Nowhere is the answer. He carries on smoking as if I’m not there, just staring at the bare fields.

‘How come you never hang out with anyone in school?’

The answer isn’t what I’m expecting. ‘I used to, but they’ve all left now.’

‘Do you still see them?’

‘Yeah, when they have time. They’re all working though. All my mates here were off farms too and they’re either at college over in Colwich – you know, the agricultural
college? – or they’re working full time on the farm. And the lads at college all have part-time farm jobs so they’re too knackered to do much else when they’re done for the
day.’

‘Is that what you’re going to do – agricultural college, or work on the farm?’

He gets rid of his cigarette. ‘Bell’s going in a minute. You ready?’

So that’s another thing he doesn’t like talking about.

Later, we eat lunch together in the canteen. Silently because he wolfs his food down without speaking. I pick my way through an unappetising jacket potato loaded with plastic cheese, surrounded
by salad that looks as if it’s crawling with caterpillars. We are observed, both by Camilla’s Cronies and practically every other group or clique in the year group. He’s
oblivious, or pretends to be. I feel each and every gaze of surprise between my shoulder blades.