stood Harry. We rushed past as he pointed at the smoke spilling from the front door and whispered in awe, ‘So not lame.’
In 1814, British soldiers burnt down the White House. It must have looked like this. But bigger. And with fewer Nissan Qashqais parked outside.
That very afternoon, Beth’s house, Pringles, scented candle, posters of Andrew Garfield, Lionel Messi and all, burnt away to nothing but ashes and twisted metal. The destruction was complete.
And my thumb and forefinger hurt for days.
Remember: There’s No ‘I’ in ‘Team’ But There is in ‘Win’
A few days after the fire, I saw Beth walking through the rec with a thick black sports bag over her shoulder. Harry trailed close behind, pulling a grey wheeled suitcase. It bounced across the uneven turf. He raised two fingers at me. I didn’t know where they were going or where they’d been.
I’d called out. ‘Do you want a hand?’
I wanted to say more, to apologise to Beth, but didn’t know which words to use. They all seemed wrong. And I had no idea how much Harry knew. I didn’t want to mug myself off.
‘Sorry for burning down your house, yo!’ would be a stupid thing to shout, however much I wanted to.
Beth stopped. She smiled as if a dentist had asked her to show off her gums, i.e. not very convincingly.
‘Really?’ I called, jogging to catch up.
‘It’s all good,’ she said. ‘We’re in a sweet flat with views across London.’
Harry stood at her shoulder, nodding like a broken doll.
Her home, the burnt one, had gone viral. Images of the tiny, fiery White House had swept through Twitter, with jokes about Trump and everything.
‘Tell him about your stuff,’ said Harry.
He’d swapped his nodding for a pulling-legs-off-a-spider grin.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Beth.
She dropped the sports bag. It wheezed as it hit the grass.
‘What about your stuff? Did you manage to save anything?’
Beth squinted but it may have been because of the sun. And the water in her eyes was probably due to hay fever too. Not that she ever got hay fever.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all gone. My clothes. My books. My stuff. But, you know, someone said your possessions end up possessing you, so …’
Her voice tailed off. I felt that churning in my stomach, a Vindaloo guilt like I’d eaten a secret curry the night before.
‘At least you’ve got your phone,’ I said, because of all the things to lose, your phone’s got to be the worst.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘At least you’ve got your phone, Beth. Everything else is up in smoke, but you can still Instagram.’
Beth shushed Harry. Not only did it stop him talking but it also stopped him smiling.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I said because that’s what you say when bad things have happened. ‘Your mum and dad will work something out.’
(They had money, after all.)
‘Yeah,’ said Beth. ‘And it’s sunny out and the end of the summer is, like, weeks away and we’ve got sick views and I can always buy new clothes, so …’
But her heart wasn’t in her words.
I watched them fade from the rec, a panting Harry following like a squire to his knight. Why’d I mention her phone? How was that any help? The word on the street was that faulty wiring was the cause of the fire but my scented candle had so burnt down Beth’s house. I mean, the wick was still smoking when I’d thrown it in the bin. It was the cause of the fire, for sure. So sure that I’d spent the time between being picked up from the blazing home (a crowd had formed outside pointing at the flames licking up from the windows) and seeing Beth in the park expecting a knock at the door from the police or, worse, Beth’s angry dad. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even focus on Football Manager.
I’d destroyed Beth’s house and everything in it.
(But if she’d lost all her possessions, what was in the bags? I bet Harry was sucking up and, like, offering to lend her towels and all sorts.)
Does Robbing a Bank Suit Your Needs?
On the way home from the rec I stopped at the corner shop to buy a Lion Bar in the desperate hope that sugar would make things better. I told myself the whole faulty wiring thing was reason to be happy, even if it weren’t true. It’s a post-fact world, I thought. I still felt supernova guilty, but at least I wasn’t going to prison. Prison would be bad for a boy of my imagination and size. And, anyway, houses have insurance, Mum said, and Beth’s family would be able to claim expensive things had been destroyed, so—
‘It’s not all bad,’ Mum had said last night, sipping wine. ‘Remember the time we were broken into and you claimed for a Blu-ray, Kay?’
Dad did not remember.
‘Must have been another husband,’ he’d said from the sofa.
Stepping from the corner shop, my world focused on unwrapping the Lion Bar, I heard a voice.
‘Buy us a …’ it began.
It was a voice wavering from high to low, a voice unsure whether to commit to adulthood. It was Dave’s voice. Dave Royston. The biggest melt in the neighbourhood. He hung about on the corner, smoking cigarettes and thinking he was a gangster. His cronies, Adam and Ben, like gophers on alert, stood at either shoulder. I don’t think I’d ever heard Adam or Ben speak, only their high-pitched laughter like hyenas on helium.
I took a bite from the Lion Bar. If I should die, it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach.
It tasted of heaven and caramel.
‘Dylan!’ he said. ‘You muppet! What you doing? Buying poetry?’
I stepped to the side. He did the same to stop me passing.
‘No,’ I said quietly, chewing. ‘They don’t sell poetry here.’
‘Give us your Lion Bar. Nobody eats chocolate on this corner without my say.’
He snatched the Lion Bar from my hand. I couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it, only hoping there was a terrible disease in my saliva that would make his testicles fall off. He took a bite and chewed with his mouth open. His privates weren’t obviously affected.
‘Just saw your girlfriend. In the rec. High-rise Beth. Shame. I thought they were loaded.’
‘What?’
Dave laughed and it sounded like a theremin.
‘You don’t know? Her, her mum, her dad, all moving to a tiny flat in one of the high-rises. Serves her right. Llama’s a bitch.’
‘Karma,’ I said, dropping a shoulder left, then moving right. My