It's About Love Read online

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2015

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Copyright © Steven Camden 2015

  Steven Camden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007511242

  Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007511259

  Version: 2015-05-29

  For Birmingham,

  my heavy armour

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1: Waiting

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 2: Facing

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part 3: Changing Breaking

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part 4: Him who can’t hear, must feel. Idiot vs Maker

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 5: Part 1. Beginning. Epilogue?

  Acknowledgments

  Read an extract from Tape

  About the Author

  Books by Steven Camden

  About the Publisher

  INT. EMERGENCY ROOM – NIGHT

  Black.

  Hum of a strip light and radio static as a dial tries to find a station.

  Fade up to a face. YOUNG MAN. Wheat-coloured skin. Dark hair cropped close. Radio static settles on ‘Fly Me to the Moon’.

  Cut to wide shot. Emergency Room. Moulded red plastic chairs and cream walls. YOUNG MAN stares straight ahead, thick shoulders slumped, dark butterfly of blood spread across the chest of his white shirt. A POLICEWOMAN sits in the chair to his right, her body turned towards him.

  POLICEWOMAN: Do you understand me?

  YOUNG MAN just stares out. Circular clock on the wall above them says eleven thirty. Sinatra sings.

  POLICEWOMAN: I need you to tell me what happened.

  YOUNG MAN frowns.

  Cut to black.

  YOUNG MAN (VOICEOVER): Start where it matters, he said. Start in a moment where things hang in the balance. Start with a question. Then you can go back to wherever you like.

  That’s fine, but you show me one moment where things don’t hang in the balance. Go on. Exactly.

  So where to start?

  EXT. – DAY

  Diagonal rain.

  I’m standing under the bus shelter outside the crappy little shopping arcade. I’m wearing my battered blue hand-me-down Carhartt, but I’m gonna get soaked walking up the hill.

  It’s Friday morning, last day of my first week.

  Wait for the rain to stop and be late, or walk into the room like a drowned rat? Either way, I’m getting stared at.

  It’s been a week of sitting in circles wearing sticky labels with our names on. Most of them seem to already know each other from schools around here. Kids who look like money. Who speak with words my brain uses but my mouth runs a mile from. Kids not like me.

  “No umbrella?”

  The voice is scratchy, but well spoken. I turn.

  She’s wearing one of those long black North Face coats that cost like a hundred and fifty quid. The top half of her face is hidden by the massive white umbrella she’s holding on her shoulder, but I can see her mouth and her chin and chunky plaits of dark hair either side of her neck.

  I look over my shoulder, then back at her. “You talking to me?”

  She tilts her umbrella and I see her face properly. She’s mixed race. Dark shining eyes. Tiny freckles dot her cheeks. And she’s smiling.

  No, she’s staring.

  “Yeah, Travis, I’m talking to you.”

  Rain trickles off the edges of the umbrella, her safe and dry underneath.

  I feel to look away.

  She frowns. “Travis Bickle? Taxi Driver?”

  I know who she means, but I don’t move.

  She holds her left hand out in front of her like a gun, pointing at me. I watch the rain hit her fingers and notice a ring that looks like a mini snow-dome made of amber.

  I look down. Tight black jeans and black All Stars stick out from the bottom of her coat.

  “You’re doing film studies, right?” she says.

  I look up, turning my head slightly, trying not to seem uncomfortable.

  She’s staring.

  Her eyebrows are raised. “I saw you in the circle the other day,” she says. My stomach and shoulders tighten.

  She points at her umbrella. “You want to share?”

  I look past her, but feel her eyes on me as I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  She stares for a second, then shrugs. “OK. See you in class, Travis.”

  And she walks away.

  I watch her white umbrella float through the rain to the traffic lights, cross the road, then turn into the church graveyard and out of sight.

  Good choice. Not here for mates, remember.

  I look at my phone. 8.50 a.m., Friday 6th September. Seven sleeps left.

  What’s he doing right now?

  An old woman walks under the shelter to my right, pumping her little purple umbrella like a Super Soaker.

  “It’s not dry, is it?” she says, as she opens her bag and starts looking for something. I watch the rain fall off the edge of the shelter roof.

  “I said, it’s not dry is it, young man?” I feel her look up.

  I turn to her. Her hair is the colour of cobwebs. She s
tares at my face.

  What you looking at?

  “Strong silent type, are we?” she says, looking away.

  I don’t answer, as I walk out into the rain.

  I chose to come here.

  I chose to catch two buses to reach a college on the other side of town. Mum and Dad didn’t even make me get a job. Dad said as long as I stick it out they’re happy to give me a little allowance, and what I saved from working with Tommy over the summer should last me till Christmas, if I’m clever.

  Never had a bus pass before. Never needed one.

  They had film studies at the Community College, which I could’ve walked to. But Tommy had started working for his uncle properly as a builder’s apprentice, and Zia had to take the supermarket job to prove to his dad he’s dedicated enough to join the family business, so it’s not like I would’ve been with them anyway. Plus the film course here looked wicked. Theory stuff, but the prospectus said there’d be lots of writing and practical bits too. Maybe I’ll get to make something of all these ideas. That’s why I came. New start. Blank page.

  A place far enough away that nobody knows me.

  And a place where nobody’s heard his name.

  I walk in soaked.

  Everyone stares.

  I try to tilt my face down without making it obvious.

  Get your head up, you idiot.

  The tables are arranged in a squared horseshoe facing the front. No more circles and name badges. The teacher guy’s half sitting, half leaning on his desk. I look straight to the back of the room. The umbrella girl’s sitting in the back left-hand corner. The chair next to her is empty.

  “Is it raining?” says Teacher Guy.

  A few people laugh. I feel my face getting hot as I scan the room for another empty seat. There aren’t any.

  “Have a seat, we’re just talking favourite films.” His voice is local, with a bit of somewhere else mixed in. He’s younger than most teachers I’ve known, but what does that really mean? I avoid everyone’s eyes as I walk to the back and sit down next to Umbrella Girl. My socks are soaked and my jeans are stuck to my thighs.

  The ring on her finger has something inside the amber, and I think of the mosquito from Jurassic Park. She doesn’t look at me.

  Don’t look at her then.

  Teacher Guy carries on. “So. We’ve had Twilight, Avatar, and, what was the last one?”

  A kid with blond hair and a suntan puts his hand up. “Avengers, sir.”

  Teacher Guy points at him. “Right. The Avengers. Thank you. You can put your hand down, and less of the ‘sir’, OK? I’m Noah. We’ll stick to first names, I think.”

  Great. Another ‘cool’ teacher who wants to be friends. Call me Noah, I’m just like you, let’s be mates. Tell you what, Noah, let’s not, yeah? Hows about you just teach us a bunch of stuff about film and shove the rest of it—

  “Is there anyone here whose favourite film isn’t a huge Hollywood blockbuster? Not that there’s anything wrong with blockbusters, but something different. How about you, at the back?”

  He means me. Everyone turns to look.

  “Waterboy!” says the blond kid, staring back, and nearly everybody laughs. Hot needles prick my face and my hands ball into fists under the table. I spotted him first day. He looks like he should be in a toothpaste advert.

  Teacher Guy’s standing up now, and I can tell he takes care of himself. His hair’s the dark curly bush that mine would be if I let it grow, but he’s got that stubble I’m years away from having. He’s wearing dark jeans and a light blue linen shirt and his shoulders look strong. Noah. I dunno if I could take him, but he’d know he’d been in a fight.

  His eyes are on me. Everyone’s are. Umbrella Girl’s turned in her seat. Better choose something good. I can taste rain as I look straight ahead and say, “Leon.”

  Noah’s face flickers briefly and his expression changes, like he’s gone from just wanting my answers to trying to see behind my face. Other people in the room look confused as their eyes go from me, to him, then back to me again, and even though I don’t want to be looked at, I feel good. I’ve surprised him. The blond kid’s staring back at Umbrella Girl and I can feel her smiling. Noah’s still looking at me, his head tilted like he’s remembering something. Then he nods. “I see. Interesting choice.”

  Umbrella Girl sticks her hand up. “I love that film too, sir, I mean Noah.”

  Noah looks at her, then at me, and it’s kind of like everyone else goes out of focus.

  “All right then. You two can be partners.”

  He claps his hands and everyone’s back.

  “Right. Everybody turn to the person next to you. If you don’t know them, introduce yourself. You’ve got fifteen minutes. I want discussions – best films, worst films, important films, funniest films, films that matter. Get everything down, make notes, scribbles, doesn’t matter, no idea is stupid, get talking. Go!”

  Shuffling and chatter. The blond kid’s looking back at me again. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and cold water runs down to my elbow.

  “It’s a love story, you know. Leon,” says Umbrella Girl. She’s doodling on the cover of a new A4 lined pad.

  I peel off my jacket and let it hang inside out over the chair. My black T-shirt is dry, but my arms are cold as I take my notebook out of my bag. It’s a new one. Ring bound. I pull my biro out from the binding and open it up, tensing my bicep more than I need to. I don’t look at her. I’m glad she’s on my right. “No, it’s not.”

  I start to write the date, like we’re still in school, then scribble it out hoping she didn’t notice.

  “Course it is,” she says. “Not a conventional one, but it’s a story about love.”

  The fact that she’s even seen it makes me like her, but it’s not a love story.

  “It’s about revenge,” I say.

  My right arm is still tensed as I scribble over the date again and I can smell cucumber shampoo. Umbrella Girl stops doodling. “No, revenge is what starts it, what she thinks she wants, but it’s about sacrifice. The choice to love.”

  I look at her. Who speaks like that?

  Her skin’s the colour of wet sand, like Dad’s, and her ear has almost no lobe at the bottom, like an elf’s.

  “I guess we saw it differently,” I say.

  “Which is why it’s so good! Tragic love story. Amazing soundtrack, too. I’m Leia.”

  I blink longer than I should do. You’re kidding me.

  She drops her pen and holds out her hand.

  Leia? I look around the class. Everyone’s deep in discussion and right now, in the moment, I feel older. Like school was a long time ago.

  I shake her hand. It’s smooth and cool and only half the width of mine.

  “I’m Luke.”

  And she smiles, our hands still together.

  Whenever I go to a new place I always imagine it as a movie set. I think about how every brick and wall and door and corner and roof had to be chosen and built by somebody. How the people who move through and around the spaces are characters playing their roles and, most of all, I’m aware at all times, somebody could be watching me.

  I’m walking past the refectory to the college car park. It’s not raining any more, but the sky is still dishwater grey and my socks are still soggy. Sitting through two hours of comms & culture and then an hour of English was hard and I’m wishing I could just do film studies without the other two, but I’ll need them for the points if I’m even gonna consider getting to uni. Uni? One week at college and now you’re Stephen Hawking?

  “Later, Waterboy!” The blond kid shouts. He’s standing with a chunky rugby type and a skater-looking ginger boy outside the double doors. He raises his thumb sarcastically, flashing his grin. Prick. I stare at him as I walk, holding his eyes, face up, until the wall of the reception block cuts the shot.

  “Prick.”

  “Talking to yourself?”

  And she’s right next to me on my right, out of nowher
e, her steps matching mine. Her umbrella’s rolled up and she’s holding it like a cane. Her eyes are level with my mouth. She is so fit.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she smiles.

  “You didn’t scare me.” I stare ahead. The footpath’s made from the same red bricks as the buildings.

  “You forgot my name, didn’t you?” Her eyebrows are raised. I glance at her, then look away.

  “How could I forget your name? You’re the princess.”

  And as we walk towards the car park, I’m imagining the camera moving out and up, circling round us.

  “Where did you go to school?” she says, and the camera hits the floor like a bowling ball. My stomach knots. Tommy’s picking me up. “Not round here,” I say, as I scan the car park for a blue Peugeot 306, praying he’s not already here. Then Leia’s phone rings and saves me. We stop walking. She looks at the screen, then pushes decline.

  “Not important?” I say.

  She’s still looking at her phone. “Brothers,” she sighs, and slips it back into her pocket. “What other subjects are you doing?”

  She’s got a brother. I’m looking over her shoulder for Tommy. “Communications & Culture and English.”

  “Me too, English, I mean. We must be in different classes.”