Something Wicked. Sherry Ashworth

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СКАЧАТЬ Like, what’s the point?”

      I was stunned. I’d never heard Ritchie utter so many words in all the few days I’d known him. I’d got him down as one of those inarticulate yobs you get (even in our school) but he wasn’t, exactly. I mean, how often do you meet a bloke who actually talks to you about his life, and not just the football?

      “Look, I’ll lend you the twenty quid. I really don’t mind. And school’s not too bad.”

      “You’re the only person who bothers to talk to me there. Other people just look straight through me. I don’t think I’m going to go back. What good is an education going to do me? I’ll end up working in some factory or behind a counter – like I said, it all stinks.”

      “What do you want to be?” I asked him, intrigued. Even though in a lot of ways he was very different from me, I could see we thought in the same way. I felt things were pretty rotten most of the time too.

      “What do I want to be? OK, then, how about Prime Minister for a start? Then I’d raze this town to the ground and start all over again, and I’d build houses that people wanted to live in, with gardens and that.”

      I couldn’t help it – I laughed. I didn’t expect him to talk like that. But my laughter didn’t stop him. He seemed filled with a kind of fury and just carried on.

      “Yeah – there’d be no more high-rise flats. You wouldn’t have to go to school unless you wanted to, and if you did, you could do what you wanted: paint, or play the guitar, or swim. Yeah, there’d be pools everywhere – free, of course, and free gigs every weekend. And free stuff for kids – shows, and that.”

      I tried not to show my surprise at his words. I came over all cynical instead. “Yeah, right,” I said. “But first you’ve got to pay off your debts. I’ll lend you the money.”

      “Yeah, but I have to meet this guy tomorrow, and I won’t see you till Monday.”

      “Tell me where you live and I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

      “Why are you doing this for me?” he asked.

      I thought to myself, because I feel sorry for you, because I can relate to you, because by trying to mug me you’ve pulled me into the drama of your life, whether you wanted to or not. Because even though you sound crazy, I agree with a lot of what you’re saying. And because, in a funny sort of way, your life seems more exciting than mine. You take risks, you’re brave. And honest.

      I said, “Why am I doing this for you? Because I want to. The end.”

      “I’ll meet you outside the Fairfield community centre at one o’clock tomorrow?”

      “Yeah – text me when you’re on your way there.”

      His silence was eloquent. I understood immediately he didn’t have a mobile.

      “I’ll be there at one,” I said.

      He stood up then and our eyes met. “Thanks, Anna,” he said. “And sorry.”

      “Don’t mention it,” I said.

      I watched him go. He walked quickly, his shoulders slightly stooped, in the way blokes do, the ones who’ve shot up too quickly. I wondered what he was going home to, and what his life was like outside school. Normally the petty criminals, the kids who get into trouble, go around in gangs. What Ritchie did – mugging me – was well unusual. But then he was unusual too. Saying all that stuff about how he’d change the world. You wouldn’t think someone like him would think in that way. Have all those dreams.

      You should never judge by appearances.

      Fairfield looked better than I thought it would, but I guess that was because the sun was shining. It was still a bit chilly – I had my charcoal-grey fleece on. It’s sad, in a way, that I don’t even have to describe Fairfield to you. Not because it’s notorious, but because you’ve seen so many places like it. Assemble in your mind’s eye a few lines of maisonettes with women hanging around outside, two or three grey stone high-rises, and pubs with fat blokes sitting outside on wooden tables, supping beer. But funnily enough, there’s a kind of village atmosphere there, because Fairfield is a place a short distance from the centre of town, the nearest we have to a no-go area. So once you’re there, it encloses you. You feel part of it. I felt part of it, anyway. I didn’t even mind the women eyeing me.

      I knew the community centre was a bit further down the road, a one-storey breeze-block building with bars over the windows. As I approached it, I was surprised to see stacks of withered Cellophane-wrapped bouquets of flowers and a couple of damp-looking teddy bears on the pavement outside it. I was trying to read the names on the cards inside the flowers when I heard Ritchie’s voice.

      “Hi.”

      I turned. “Hi. What happened here?”

      “Some kids crashed a car last month. A couple of them snuffed it.”

      “Oh.” I didn’t know what to say.

      Ritchie was dressed in an olive-green hooded fleece and jeans. Standing there by all the dead flowers made me feel very alive, spared from something. Almost invulnerable.

      “Did you know those kids?” I asked Ritchie.

      “No. They weren’t from round here.”

      I put my hand in my jeans pocket then and gave him two ten-pound notes. He took them and muttered some thanks. I tried to make light of it.

      “No sweat. I’m always borrowing money off my mum.”

      “I’ll pay you back,” he said.

      “Whenever.”

      There was a moment of awkwardness. I thought I ought to go back home but I didn’t want to. Ritchie looked different in the sunshine. His shaved head made him look hard, accentuated his jawline and cheekbones. But his eyes – soft, brown eyes – almost seemed to belong to a different person – a shy, uncertain one.

      Just at that moment two lads arrived on mountain bikes. One leapt off his bike and stood in front of Ritchie, as if he was barring his way. Ritchie thrust the two tenners at him and he grabbed them. In a second he was back on his bike – it was all over so quickly that if you’d asked me to pick him out from an identity parade, I couldn’t have done it.

      “I feel shit about taking that money off you,” Ritchie murmured.

      “Why should you? You were going to rob me of it last night.”

      “Yeah – but that wasn’t personal. Now it is.”

      For some reason, I liked the way he said the word “personal”. I smiled, and still put off saying goodbye. I noticed he wasn’t moving either. I wondered if I should suggest we do something. Though God knew what. He didn’t have any money and neither did I.

      And then the guys on the bikes returned. This time, СКАЧАТЬ