Almost True Read Online Free Page B

4
Dirty Laundry
    Alistair is dressed in black denims and a white T-shirt and his hair is gelled into its usual ridiculous style and he looks nothing like someone who was shot in the head less than twenty-four hours ago. I’m definitely awake, so he must be a ghost. But I don’t believe in ghosts. What’s going on?
    All I can hear is my breath, which is getting faster and sounds a lot like someone who’s about to start whimpering or something. My heart is bashing against the sides of my chest, like it’s a cat trying to escape from the cage that’s taking it to the vet.
    â€˜What . . . what do you want?’ I whisper.
    He leans towards me. I edge backwards until I’m crushed up against the iron bed. There’s cold metal on my back. I can hear him when he speaks. I’m awake, I swear.
    â€˜You killed me, didn’t you, mate?’
    â€˜No . . . no I didn’t, I didn’t – it wasn’t me. . . ’ I bleat. I must be awake. I’m digging my nails into my arm and it hurts. But how can I be awake? He’s dead. Could I be dead?
    He’s staring at me. ‘Don’t deny it. I died because of you. So you have to do what I say.’
    Alistair always looked like a nice guy before, but now his smile is really twisted.
    â€˜You . . . you what?’
    â€˜What’s so special about you, eh? Why do people have to die for you? These old people, they’re risking their necks to look after you. You’ve been useless so far. Ungrateful little whinger,’ he says.
    â€˜I don’t . . . I didn’t. . .’ What does he want from me?
    â€˜I want to see you work hard for them,’ he says.
    â€˜What . . . what do you mean?’
    â€˜You show them why they should keep you alive. Because, right now, I’m wondering,’ he says.
    Then his head explodes and I’m covered with blood and brains and splinters of skull – soft, wet, hot crap all over my face and hands and body.
    â€˜Aaaaaaarghh. . . ’ It would be a scream, but luckily I have no sound in me. He’s gone, but the mess is still there, I’m choking and coughing and I don’t know where the light is and I’m too scared to move because of what I might see.
    And then I sniff an unmistakable smell and I realise that I’m covered in my own vomit.
    A light goes on downstairs and I hear Helen’s voice call, ‘Ty . . . Ty . . . was that you?’ I don’t answer, I can’t speak, and after a bit the light goes off. I can see a bit more now and I move to the door and feel around for a light switch. I can hear snatches of the conversation downstairs.
    â€˜. . . just a thug,’ Patrick is saying. ‘Well, what did we expect? Louise has obviously been dressing up the truth about him for a long time.’
    â€˜Oh, come on, we can’t judge that yet,’ says Helen. ‘Give him a chance, the poor boy.’
    Then the voices turn into a mumble and I switch on the light. There’s no one here. There can’t have been anyone here. It must have been a dream – but I’m certain I was awake.
    I creep into the bathroom and finally have the shower I’ve been longing for all day. Wrapped in a huge towel – actually the nicest towel I’ve ever felt – I investigate my bag. Doug has made a crappy job of packing. He’s managed to ignore my pyjamas and – typical – has packed nothing from my underwear drawer at all. So, nothing to sleep in or put on tomorrow. I have four pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, three hoodies, some running gear and no socks. No toothbrush even, although the hair dye fromwhen I was Joe is still there, because I never unpacked it in the first place. I hunt around the bathroom and find a child-size toothbrush and some disgusting bubblegum flavoured toothpaste. As I scrub with pink foam, I wonder which child left them there.
    Luckily I had my iPod in my pocket, and Doug did pack the