Drive By Read online

  For Sonja

  Contents

  Summer 1

  Johnny 1

  Summer 2

  Johnny 2

  Summer 3

  Johnny 3

  Summer 4

  Johnny 4

  Summer 5

  Johnny 5

  Summer 6

  Johnny 6

  Summer 7

  Johnny 7

  Summer 8

  Johnny 8

  Summer 9

  Johnny 9

  Summer 10

  Johnny 10

  Summer 11

  Johnny 11

  Summer 12

  Johnny 12

  Summer 13

  Johnny 13

  Summer 14

  Johnny 14

  Summer 15

  Johnny 15

  Summer 16

  Johnny 16

  Summer 17

  Johnny 17

  Summer 18

  Johnny 18

  Summer 19

  Johnny 19

  Summer 20

  Johnny 20

  Summer 21

  Johnny 21

  Summer 22

  Johnny 22

  Summer 23

  Johnny 23

  Summer 24

  Johnny 24

  Summer 25

  Johnny 25

  Summer 26

  Johnny 26

  Summer 27

  Johnny 27

  Summer 28

  Johnny 28

  Summer 29

  Johnny 29

  Summer 30

  Johnny 30

  Summer 31

  Johnny 31

  Summer 32

  Johnny 32

  Summer 33

  Johnny 33

  Summer 34

  Johnny 34

  Summer 35

  Johnny 35

  Summer 36

  Johnny 36

  Summer 37

  Johnny 37

  Summer 38

  Johnny 38

  Summer 39

  Johnny 39

  Acknowledgements

  My Inspiration for DRIVE BY

  Read on for a taster of Inside My Head

  David

  Also by Jim Carrington

  Summer

  The top deck of a London bus is definitely not the most pleasant place I could be right now. It’s hot, it’s crowded, it’s noisy and it stinks of sweat and burgers and cigarette smoke. I’m struggling to find a seat, but I choose one over on the left-hand side, as far away from all the other passengers as I can manage.

  I reach into my bag, grab my earphones and put them in. I get my book, take the bookmark out from where I’m up to and lodge it in the back of the book. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. My dad’s favourite book. Mine too. I’m on to my third copy. I’ve read it loads of times – probably more than a hundred. I used to know exactly how many times I’d read it, but when I reached the fiftieth time, I decided not to keep count any more.

  I start reading. And as soon as I do, I’m no longer on the bus. I’m somewhere else. The place in my head that I go to when I’m reading. Away from the rest of this world, where no one can get to me. Mum calls it my safety blanket. It annoys me when she says that, but I guess there’s a bit of truth in it. Some days I’d like to be able to actually crawl inside a book and live there.

  I’ve read The Catcher in the Rye enough times that I know exactly what each character is gonna say and what they’re gonna do and how it’s all gonna end up before it happens. I like it that way. I like knowing which word is coming next. I like knowing the characters so well they could be my friends. Rereading the book is like getting to hang out with them. Holden Caulfield’s pretty good company too. I know he’s messed up and he can be a total plum sometimes, but he’s fun. He’s complicated and interesting. He’s the kind of guy I’d go for.

  I feel the bus slow down at a stop. I look up from my book for a second. We’re in Colliers Wood. I stare out of the window at the tube station. I hear the beep from downstairs as the bus doors shut. Then we’re moving again. I reach into my bag and get myself some gum and then I look back at the book.

  As I’m reading, I hear footsteps clomping up the stairs. I can vaguely see someone out of the corner of my eyes as I read. They walk up the bus and sit right next to me. Or, should I say, right on me. I put my book down and look across. It’s a big guy in a grey T-shirt with big sweat rings spreading out from his armpits. I’m not sizeist or anything, but I hate the way his leg touches mine. Also, the way he talks loudly on his phone. I move up towards the window, so our legs don’t touch any more. I turn my music up, bury my head in my book and try not to breathe in through my nose.

  But I can’t get back into it. Not with the guy sitting beside me, sweating all over me, basically shouting into his phone. So I put my bookmark back in and I look out of the window. I stare dumbly at nothing much, at the buildings and the people, as the bus flies along the roads towards Wimbledon, and ignore the guy next to me for all I’m worth.

  Then, when we reach the other side of Wimbledon, I press the bell, say ‘excuse me’ and walk down the steps. I’m nearly a mile away from where I want to go, but so what? It’s a sunny day. Mum’s always telling me how I should get more sun on my face. A walk will be nice. Nicer than sitting next to the Before Guy in a deodorant advert anyway.

  Johnny

  At this very moment, at 3.23 p.m. on Tuesday 31st July, I’m lying, totally exhausted, on the playing field, checking my watch. I tug a tuft of parched grass from the field and let it fall to the ground. Even that feels kind of like an effort. It’s way too hot today. My face feels like it’s melting. I lie back on the grass and look up at the sky. It’s perfectly blue, not a wisp of cloud in sight. The only blemish is a white vapour trail, high up in the atmosphere, left by an aeroplane. I close my eyes for a few seconds, feel the heat of the sun on my skin. I take a few deep breaths and get my puff back. Then I sit up and look at the others. Drac, Jake and Badger. Their faces are flushed and beaded with sweat, and their T-shirts cling to them, soaked through.

  Drac sits on top of the ball. His ball. ‘So, what was the final score, then?’

  ‘Fifty-seven – forty-eight,’ Jake says, leaning up on his elbow, ‘to J and me.’

  Badger, who’s been leaning on his elbows up till now, sits up. ‘No way,’ he says. ‘You never got fifty-seven.’

  ‘Did,’ Jake says. ‘We kicked your sorry behinds.’

  And they go on and on, arguing about the score of a meaningless kickabout on the playing field like it’s the World Cup final or something. Ordinarily I’d join in, you understand, but it’s way too hot and I’m way too exhausted.

  ‘Who cares what the score was?’ I say.

  The three of them look at me blankly.

  I get to my feet. My legs feel like they’re filled with concrete. ‘I need something to drink.’

  Jake gets up as well. ‘Good call,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to the shop.’

  We grab our stuff from inside the goal frame and walk slowly across the parched grass, past the rickety old pavilion and on to the little tarmacked road that leads out of the playing field to Exminster Avenue.

  We walk down the centre of Exminster Avenue, not because we’re trying to be clever or because we think we’re hard or anything like that, but because the pavements are too narrow for the four of us to walk side by side. None of us says a word as we walk. Drac lazily bounces his football against the tarmac. The sound echoes back off the surrounding houses and cars. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. As we walk, I watch Drac bouncing the ball and I have an idea. I smile and, as Drac bounces his ball again, I dart forward, get my foot in the way and poke the ball away.

  Drac sighs. ‘J! Don’t be annoying.’

  But
I’m already dribbling the ball away from him, along the middle of the road. Badger and Jake laugh. They jog up to join me as though we’re all still on the football pitch and not in the middle of the road.

  ‘J, over here,’ Jake calls.

  I look up and pass the ball to him. He controls it with his first touch and then flicks it up into the air, starts playing keepie-uppie with it. He gets to about fifteen without the ball touching the ground before Badger nips in and knocks it off him. Badger tries some keepie-uppies himself, but seeing as he’s hopeless at football, he loses control after three and smacks it as hard as he can instead. The ball flies like a cannonball towards a silver car parked by the side of the road. I try to get my leg in the way to deflect it, but I’m not quick enough. The ball hits the driver’s door with a shallow thunk sound and immediately the car alarm goes off.

  HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK.

  I grab the ball and put it under my T-shirt, hiding the evidence. Then I look up cos I recognise the car. It belongs to the old woman with the screwed-up face and her husband. They live at number fifteen. I look up at their house just in time to see the blinds in the front room twitch. A couple of seconds later, their front door opens and the man comes out into the little glass porch. He unlocks the porch door and then steps outside in his vest and trackie bottoms, his white comb-over flapping as he moves. He opens the gate, but doesn’t look at us, just marches over to his car and points his key at it. There’s an electric clunk and a beep and then the alarm stops.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to him. ‘It was an accident.’

  He looks at me and nods his head, as if to say, ‘OK’. But he doesn’t actually say anything. He marches back to his house, brushing his hair back over to the side as he goes. He locks the porch door behind him and then goes inside, leaving the front door open.

  As soon as he’s gone inside the four of us look at each other and laugh guiltily. I take the ball back out from under my T-shirt and chest pass it as hard as I can to Badger, trying to take him by surprise. He fumbles and it drops to the ground.

  ‘You clumsy donkey,’ I say.

  Badger smiles. He controls the ball with his right foot though and starts dribbling it along the road, trying to do all the tricks. Jake robs it off his toes, flicks it up again and starts doing more keepie-uppies. He’s a total show-off. He thinks that because he had a trial at a football club once, he’s pretty much Pelé and Lionel Messi all rolled into one.

  I glance over at the house. The old lady with the screwed-up face is standing in the porch. The Poisoned Dwarf, my mum calls her. She stands there, arms crossed. I’d say that she was scowling, but I don’t remember ever seeing her without a scowl on her face – I think that’s just the way her face is.

  I think about grabbing the ball and walking away, but the others are well into it now. Drac’s on the ball, dribbling it up the road. He controls the ball and looks up as though he’s waiting to cross it. Jake’s hand goes up straight away.

  ‘On the volley, Drac,’ he says.

  Drac smiles. He takes a couple of paces back, then runs up to the ball and crosses it. We all watch the ball sail through the air. It comes down perfectly for Jake. He launches himself through the air and then volleys it. But he miskicks the ball and it flies high up into the air towards the Poisoned Dwarf’s house, over her back gate, into her garden. It’s gone.

  ‘Jake!’ Drac calls. ‘That’s my ball!’

  Jake holds his hands up, protesting his innocence. ‘It’s not my fault. It was your lame cross that made me shin it!’

  I look over at the Poisoned Dwarf’s porch. She catches my eye and scowls even more than usual. She shakes her head, unfolds her arms and then disappears inside her house, shutting the door behind her.

  ‘I’m not gonna get it back now, am I?’ Drac says to Jake. ‘That cost me ten quid. Idiot.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it back,’ I say.

  I walk over to the pavement and through the front gate of the Poisoned Dwarf’s house. The others stand in the road, waiting, staring. I go up to the porch, ring the doorbell and stare through the glass at the front door. It stays shut. I think about how I’m gonna ask for the ball back if anyone answers. Should I apologise first or just ask for it back straight away? I hope the husband answers rather than the Poisoned Dwarf. I don’t want to have to ask her.

  But nobody answers the door. I ring the doorbell again, take a step back and peer through the blinds of their bay window. I can’t see a thing though. I sigh. They’re not gonna answer, are they? Drac’s ball is gone. I knock on the glass part of the door just in case they didn’t hear the bell. Still no one answers.

  I turn and head back over to the others, who are standing on the pavement now. ‘They’re not answering. Sorry, Drac.’

  Drac rolls his eyes. ‘Thanks a lot, Jake.’

  ‘You crossed it. It was your fault as well.’

  Drac shakes his head and looks down at the ground. ‘You should go and get it back,’ he says to Jake.

  Jake rolls his eyes. ‘What? Why me?’

  ‘Just go over the fence and get it,’ Drac says.

  Jake sighs, but he doesn’t complain. Instead he looks around to check nobody’s walking down the street or anything like that, then he walks over to the fence.

  ‘Give me a leg up, then.’

  I hold his right shoe, give him a boost. He gets up on to the top of the gate and drops down on the other side. I hear him land. Then we stand and wait. I take a turn back towards the road and keep an eye out, sneak a look into the porch. No one’s there though.

  I turn and walk back over when I hear the fence rattle. The whole thing wobbles as Jake’s head appears at the top. He swings himself over and lands. The football is in his right hand. It’s completely deflated. He shows us a large slit in the side of the ball.

  ‘That witch has knifed the ball,’ he says, passing it to Drac.

  Drac looks at the ball for a second and then kicks the ground in frustration. ‘Jesus,’ he says. He makes a kind of growling noise in his throat. ‘It’s ruined. You can buy me a new one.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jake says.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to the shop.’

  Summer

  It took way longer to walk here than I thought it would. Maybe I should have stayed on the bus. I’m now as sweaty as the blob that sat down next to me on the bus and my feet hurt like hell.

  As I get to the turning towards Nan and Grandad’s house, I get a text. I take my phone out and read it.

  When you go to Nan’s cld you stop and get her some flowers. I’ll give you the money when I get home. Mum x

  I sigh. Why did she have to send me the text now, when I’ve already walked along the high street, past two florists and a supermarket? Still, I send her a reply to say I’ll do it. Then I look at the little parade of shops that’s just opposite. There’s a general store. They might do flowers in there. Maybe. It would save me walking all the way back down the high street.

  I’m about to push the door open when someone opens it from inside. A group of boys stand in the doorway. They look at me for a second. The one who’s in front smiles kind of smarmily. He’s holding a burst football. He turns to the others.

  ‘Make way for the beautiful lady,’ he says. And he holds the door open for me in a really exaggerated way.

  I look at him for a second, trying to work out whether he’s being kind or just taking the mickey out of me. I can’t decide which it is. Both, I think. I raise an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

  ‘Are you coming in or what?’ he says.

  I nod and walk in. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he says. Then he leaves the shop with the other three boys.

  I smile to myself. And then I go and look for the flowers.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing outside Nan and Grandad’s with a lame-looking bunch of flowers. I get the key out of my bag and open the porch door. I shut it and lock it behind me. The front door’s already open, so I go
in.

  ‘Hello? Nan? Grandad?’ I call. ‘It’s me, Summer.’

  As I walk through the hallway, Nan comes out of the kitchen. She gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Hello, Summer,’ she says. ‘How are you?’

  I smile. ‘Good, thanks, Nan.’ I hold out the flowers for her. ‘These are for you from Mum,’ I say. ‘Happy birthday.’

  There’s a sparkle in her eyes. ‘For me? Thank you, love,’ she says. And she gives me another kiss on the cheek. ‘Grandad’s in the dining room,’ she says. ‘Go on through. I’ll just put these in water and then I’ll be in.’

  I walk into the dining room and Grandad’s sitting at the table, his toolkit spread out.

  ‘Hello, Grandad.’ I walk round to where he’s sitting and give him a kiss.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  I sit down at the table and put my bag on the floor.

  ‘What brings you out this way?’ Grandad says.

  I raise an eyebrow. Grandad is the king of asking stupid questions with blindingly obvious answers.

  ‘Nan’s birthday, of course,’ I say. ‘I wanted to see her.’

  ‘Oh,’ Grandad says, like he hadn’t thought of that. ‘Yes.’ He goes back to fiddling about with his tools and the bits of wood in front of him.

  ‘Do you want some lemonade, Summer?’ Nan calls through from the kitchen.

  I smile to myself. Lemonade. I love the fact that Nan hasn’t come to terms with the fact that I’m no longer six years old. It’s sweet. Besides, I do like lemonade. ‘Yes, please.’

  I sit and watch Grandad as he peers through his reading glasses at a sheet of instructions, shakes his head and then screws two bits of wood together. I can tell he’s concentrating hard from the way his brow furrows and his tongue rests between his lips.

  ‘What are you making?’

  He doesn’t answer right away. He waits until he’s finished screwing the two bits of wood. ‘Your great-aunt June bought your nan a bird table and some bird seed for her birthday,’ he says. He studies the instructions again and he searches the table for the right pieces. ‘Trouble is, these instructions are about as much use as a paper umbrella.’

  I smile.

  Nan comes in with the flowers in a vase. ‘There. They look lovely. Thanks for bringing them, Summer.’