Fifteen Days Without a Head Page 2

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

  ‘Just one more and you’re through,’ says Baz, his voice low in my ear. ‘Daniel. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Question number three.’

  A light goes on in the flat above the chip shop and I can see the flicker of the TV in the window of our front room.

  ‘What do you call the small pieces of coloured paper we throw into the air at weddings? Is it A: confetti? B: papyrus? Or C: paprika?’

  ‘Confetti. A.’

  ‘Whoa! Quick off the mark with THAT one, Daniel! Something tells ME, that YOU’VE been to a wedding recently!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re married yourself, right?’

  Just in time I remember to say ‘Yeah,’—and realize I just told the thousand or so people listening that I’m married to my own mother.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘What?’

  Baz laughs. ‘How long have you and the lovely Mrs Roach been married? Don’t tell me you’ve FORGOTTEN? I hope she’s not listening to this, Daniel, or you’re going to be in TROUBLE tonight, my friend!’

  He doesn’t know how right he is.

  ‘No, she’s not … I hope.’ That’s the first honest word I’ve said all night.

  ‘You could well be in LUCK, my friend,’ says Baz. ‘Because you are quite correct! People DO NOT throw paprika or papyrus at a wedding—at least they don’t where I come from. Rocks and bottles sometimes, but never PAPRIKA! Imagine trying to get THAT out of your frock! No, when people go to weddings, they do in fact throw CONFETTI. WHICH MEANS, Daniel my friend, that you are still in the game!’ The Baz’s Bedtime Bonanza theme music starts to play in the background. ‘SO, I’ll see YOU—HERE—TOMORROW NIGHT! SAME TIME—SAME PLACE—RADIO HAM on the medium wave …’

  I heave open the door of the phone box and take a gulp of air. I’m soaked in sweat, but I can’t help grinning. I did it. Three down, only seven more to go. If I can stay in for ten days I’ll win the holiday. If there’s anything that is going to cheer Mum up enough to stop her drinking, it’s a two week, all-expenses-paid holiday in the sun.

  A distorted blast of music wrenches me from sleep. I reach out and slam my hand down on the Scooby-Doo alarm clock beside the bed, and let the silence hang …

  The flickering red digits read 05:01 a.m. Across the room, Jay grunts and mumbles, but doesn’t wake up. The flat is silent. My eyes close for no more than a second, but somehow the clock now says 05:07 a.m. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up—still asleep, but moving.

  I switch on the light in the kitchen and the cockroaches scatter for cover. Roaches for Roaches! Mum says—she thinks it’s funny, what with our name being Roach.

  It’s a joke all right, but that doesn’t make it funny.

  I pull a cup from the dirty stack in the sink, rinse it and wait for the kettle to boil.

  As well as working at the chip shop in the Parade, Mum does a dawn shift cleaning offices on the industrial estate across town. She has to be there by six-thirty, but if she’s been drinking the night before—which is pretty much every night—she doesn’t get up. Mum needs both jobs to earn enough to pay the rent, which is why every morning I have to get up at five o’clock to make sure she gets out of bed.

  Some days she won’t get up at all and I have to do the shift for her. It doesn’t matter which one of us goes, so long as somebody swipes the little plastic card through the machine to prove she’s been there. If the offices get cleaned, Mum gets paid. So long as Mum gets paid, we have food to eat and a place to live. We all live here, so why shouldn’t we all help pay for it? Mum says, and you can’t really argue with that. But then, arguing with Mum about anything is a bad idea.

  I put two spoons of coffee powder into the mug and stir in the water: Mum likes her coffee strong. There’s no milk, so I add extra sugar and then take the cup along the hall.

  Mum’s bedroom door is shut. I knock and turn the handle.

  The smell of booze hits me like a burp.

  ‘Mum?’

  She’s asleep with her mouth open and still wearing most of her clothes.

  I weave my way through the debris on the floor and put the mug by the bed.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Mum!’

  It’s a waste of time. I know she won’t answer—there were two empty wine bottles on the kitchen table.

  I get the urge to dump the coffee over her head, but I’m not sure even that would wake her up. Instead I switch on the radio, turn up the volume and leave.

  I crawl back into bed and listen to the noise through the wall. It stops abruptly and Mum shouts something. I don’t catch exactly what she says, but the meaning is clear enough. I lie in the dark waiting, listening to Mum slam around, then finally the front door bangs shut and I can breathe again. She won’t be back until after me and Jay have left for school.

  There’s no point trying to go back to sleep, even though I’m so tired I feel sick. So I go to the kitchen, scrape the mould off another cup, and make myself a coffee with extra sugar. Then I slip out onto the roof to watch the sun come up.

  Mum’s been sick in the bath. I have to wash the dark brown ooze away before I can have a shower. The smell twists my stomach and sends the bitter sweet taste of coffee back up my throat. There’s no soap, so I wash myself in shampoo, standing under the water until it goes cold.

  When I turn off the taps I can hear the TV, which means Jay must be up. I wrap a towel around my waist and follow the sound to the front room. It’s an episode of Scooby-Doo. Cannibals are chasing Shaggy and Scooby across an island and Jay’s laughing so much he almost falls off the settee. I tell him to come and get dressed.

  We need to go to the launderette. I sniff the three school shirts strewn across the floor and choose one that doesn’t smell quite as bad as the others, then give my armpits an extra spray.

  There’s nothing to eat for breakfast, so I take two pounds from the scatter of coins on Mum’s dressing table. We can stop at the shop on the way to school.

  Nosy Nelly is waiting for us as we cross the lobby, though she pretends it’s a coincidence. She’s still wearing a dressing gown, with her ridiculous dyed-black hair smothered beneath a hairnet. Her real name is Mrs Ellison and she lives in flat number one, by the main door. Whenever you go in or out she’s there and she knows everything about everyone.

  ‘Good morning, boys!’ Nelly smiles, like a dog—all yellow teeth and gums.

  I nod and Jay just stares at her. But Nelly likes Jay—everybody does. He’s one of those blond, angelic looking kids that strangers coo over. Lots of people mistake him for a girl because he’s so pretty. That gets him mad, but it makes me laugh.

  Nelly bends down and shoves her face into his.

  ‘Aren’t you a lucky boy, having your big brother walk you to school!’

  Jay shrugs. ‘He’s not my full brother, he’s my half brother, because his dad’s not the same as my dad.’

  I wince. Nelly’s going to love that juicy piece of information. Mum’ll go ape if she finds out he told her—not that Nelly couldn’t have worked it out for herself. Jay and me look nothing alike. If Jay’s the kid people smile at in the street, I’m the one they cross the road to avoid. I’m over six feet for a start and there’s something about my face that makes people uneasy. It’s as though my features don’t quite go together, like clothes that don’t match. Imagine one of those photofits the police put out on TV, add a frame of mud-brown curly hair and you’ll get the picture.

  ‘Mummy having a lie-in is she?’ Nelly’s voice is all syrup, but I know where she’s leading.

  ‘She’s at work,’ says Jay. Of course Nelly already knows this—she’s had the front door staked out since dawn.

  ‘I hope you boys have been behaving yourselves, all on your own upstairs?’ She looks at me as she says it.

  I avoid her eyes and grab Jay’s hand, pulling him towards the door. ‘Come on, Jay,
we’re going to be late.’

  ‘You’re hurting!’

  ‘Well come on then!’

  Outside he twists himself free. ‘You didn’t have to pull my arm off!’

  I don’t answer, but when we get to the shop I let him choose what he wants for breakfast, as compensation. He grins and hands me a packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch.

  We sit on the wall at the end of the Parade and share a can of lemonade. It’s still early, but I can feel the heat closing in already, making my armpits prickle.

  A bus goes past with kids on it from my school, which means it’s time to go.

  I nudge Jay. ‘You ready, Monster Boy?’

  He scowls. ‘I’m not a monster!’

  ‘Are.’

  ‘Not! If I was, I wouldn’t be eating these.’ He waves the Monster Munch at me.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s Monster Munch. I’d be canniballing!’

  I laugh, even though he’s deadly serious.

  ‘If there’s no food again tonight, will we have to be cannibals and find somebody to eat?’ he asks, quite matter-of-fact, as we walk down the hill to school.

  ‘Maybe.’

  He thinks about this. ‘I wouldn’t like to eat Nosy Nelly.’

  I laugh, I wouldn’t want to eat her either, but I wouldn’t mind if someone else did.

  Jay’s school isn’t far. I walk him to the gate and wait until he goes inside, then I start to run. Hardacre Comprehensive is on the other side of town. If I’m lucky I’ll get there just as the bell goes. Twenty minutes flat out with a bag of books on your back is bad enough in normal weather, but in this heat!

  By the time I get to school, the playground is empty. I’ve missed registration and assembly has started, so I have to go to the office and sign the Late Book. I make it back just in time to join the queue lining up for first period—out of breath and sweating like a kebab.

  It’s so hot in here. My legs ache. I can’t keep still. At least there’s only another half an hour until hometime. I try to focus on what Mr Buchan is saying, running my finger along the words on the page, but they might as well be hieroglyphics for all they mean to me.

  The teacher’s voice is warm and rhythmic, the page soft under my fingers. I stop fighting and let my eyelids drop for a moment. This is better, I can still listen with my eyes closed, it’s no problem.

  I wake up when Mr Buchan drops the Complete Works of Shakespeare onto my desk. For a few seconds I don’t know where I am.

  ‘Glad to have you back with us, Laurence!’ Buchan’s eyebrows twitch.

  I don’t say anything, just wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth, hoping nobody noticed.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to explain why Macbeth says, Wicked dreams abuse the curtain’d sleep? Any recent dreams you’d like to share with us?’

  Somebody sniggers.

  ‘No, sir.’ I can feel all eyes in the room nudging me.

  Buchan sighs and shakes his head. ‘Try to stay with us, Laurence, at least until the end of the lesson.’

  I nod and turn my burning face back to the page, but the words still mean nothing, because now I’m thinking about The Dream. My dream—the one where the woman with the clipboard comes to take Jay away.

  It’s always the same: Jay in his Scooby-Doo pyjamas being carried down the hall. He’s screaming my name, reaching out to me, but I can’t move. Then I notice there are empty bottles all over the floor. I’m trying to walk through them, but my feet keep slipping on the glass. I realize the floor is no longer solid, but an ocean of bottles, bobbing and clanking around me. I’m sinking, drowning. A thick red sea invading my mouth and nostrils, sucking me under, until I’m trapped—helpless, as the woman with the clipboard takes Jay away.

  That’s the part when I wake up.

  Sweating.

  In the dark.

  The bell goes for the end of school but Mr Buchan asks me to stay behind. I know what’s coming, I just hope it won’t take too long because I have to collect Jay.

  ‘Looks as if you’ve been in the wars, lad!’ The teacher perches on the edge of the desk opposite and peers at me. ‘Nice shiner you’ve got there.’

  I’d forgotten about my eye.

  ‘I was fighting with my brother.’ Lying’s easy when you do it all the time.

  ‘Must be a big lad, your brother, to put one on you.’

  That’s funny, so I laugh, relax—and make a mistake.

  ‘He’s six,’ I say.

  ‘Six foot?’

  ‘Six years old.’

  Buchan laughs, so maybe it’s OK.

  ‘We were playing—he gets a bit excited sometimes.’

  Buchan nods and folds his arms. ‘I take it you’re not a fan of Mr Shakespeare then?’

  I shrug. Truth is, I don’t mind Shakespeare.

  ‘I know students get bored sometimes, but I think you’re the first who’s actually fallen asleep on me!’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ says Buchan, frowning. ‘You look awful. When was the last time you had a decent night’s rest?’

  I feel his eyes probe beyond the skin and bone of my skull, like he can see right into my head. I need to keep talking, distract him so he won’t see what’s inside—

  ‘The bloke in the flat next door, he’s always got his telly on full blast. I think he’s deaf or something.’ I shrug. ‘It’s hard to get to sleep sometimes.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Buchan strokes his chin. ‘Could your mother not have a word with him? Explain the noise is keeping you awake.’

  I nod. ‘Maybe.’ My armpits are burning. I can smell the sour stink of sweat, mixed with that stuff I sprayed on this morning.

  ‘I take it that’s why you’re missing morning registration? Struggling to get up?’ Buchan glances at a sheet of paper I didn’t notice he was holding. ‘I’ve received this memo from your Form Tutor Miss Connolly; she says you missed morning registration three times last week, and you were late again this morning.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I can’t tell him I’m late because I have to take my little brother to school.

  ‘I’m afraid sorry isn’t quite good enough, Laurence. Year Ten has a big effect on your GCSE prospects, and you don’t want to be getting into bad time-keeping habits with important exams coming up. I’m pleased to say that I’ve had no complaints about your classwork, and you seem to be getting your homework and assignments in on time, but promptness is an important part of school life, Laurence.’ Buchan sighs. ‘As for falling asleep in class—not all of my colleagues would be as understanding as I am.’

  I nod. Buchan’s OK. He’s our Head of Year, and acts like he might actually care. Trouble is, that makes him dangerous—one of those people who thinks they’re helping, when really they’re making things worse. Much better that nobody notices me. I couldn’t care less if I am invisible to most of them. Invisibility is fine, it’s the superpower I’d pick every time. Most people want strength, X-ray vision, or the ability to fly. Not me. Just to be able to fade away, how good would that be?

  ‘I’ll try to get up earlier,’ I tell him, thinking about watching the dawn come up this morning.

  Buchan smiles and waves his sheet of paper. ‘Good idea. Three more strikes on here and I’m afraid we’ll have to put you on daily report. That would mean getting a signature from Miss Connolly at registration, and from each of your subject teachers throughout the day. You’d also need to see me with the report at the end of school, and get your mother to sign the card each evening.’ He folds his arms. ‘I imagine you could do without the hassle—I know I could. So let’s see if we can avoid it, eh?’

  I nod. So much for being invisible. Plus, if I have to see Buchan before I leave, I’ll be late collecting Jay—which reminds me. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Get yourself off home. An early night perhaps?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sleep’s important, Laurence, a great healer. As Mac
beth says, it knits up the ravelled sleeve of care and is chief nourisher in life’s feast.’ He smiles and stands up. ‘Did you know they use sleep deprivation as a form of torture?’

  I shake my head. I didn’t know that.

  I can feel Buchan watching as I pack away my books, and I know the look that will be in his eyes, one that says I know there’s something you’re not telling me, and a smile offering You can talk to me. I can help. There’s a part of me that wants to tell him. Maybe he could help, make everything better? All I have to do is open my mouth …

  I make it into the corridor with my secrets intact. Sweat has glued the shirt to my skin and my heart feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest. I take a few deep breaths, then head for the exit. I’m going to have to run all the way to get Jay.

  I turn the corner and almost trip over Hanif from my English group.

  ‘Hey, Roach! You OK, man? Buchan give you a hard time?’

  I shrug then frown, trying to make my eyebrows meet in the middle like Mr Buchan’s. ‘I know students get bored sometimes,’ I say, in what is a near perfect impression of the teacher, ‘but I think you’re the first who’s actually fallen asleep on me!’

  Han’s laugh echoes down the empty corridor. He slaps me on the arm and shakes his head. ‘That’s brilliant! You should be on telly, man!’

  Or on the radio, I think.

  I feel bad making fun of Buchan, but what can you do? I’ve been the new kid in school too many times. Sometimes it helps if you can make people laugh. With a face like mine you’ve got two choices: hard man or comedian. One fighter in the family is enough.

  Han closes his locker and walks beside me. ‘I can’t stick that Shakespeare stuff though, man. I mean, what’s that all about?’

  ‘Yeah!’ We push through the doors and the heat hits us like a bus.

  ‘Man! It’s hot!’ Han yanks off his tie and stuffs it into his pocket. ‘You coming up the Arcade?’