Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,5

suggested. Spider shrugged and sniffed. Even his movements were subdued today, like the weather had sapped his energy.

“Got no money. Anyway, those security guys are on my case.”

“I’m not staying here. It’s cold and rank and boring.”

Spider caught my eye. “But apart from that?”

“It’s crap.”

He snorted in appreciation, then spun ’round and started off down the path. “Come on, let’s go to mine. It’s only my nan there, and she’s OK.”

I hesitated. We’d kind of drifted into hanging out together, after school and on the weekends, since Karen had loosened the reins a bit. Not all the time — Spider sometimes went ’round with a gang of lads from school instead. From what I could tell, he’d run with them until they had a row, or even a fight, then he’d keep clear for a bit. There’s always something going on with boys. It’s like animals, isn’t it, monkeys or lions, sorting out the pecking order, who’s the boss? Anyway, for whatever reason, he wasn’t with them this Saturday, he was with me, and we were bored as hell. There was nothing for us to do.

Going to someone’s house was a big deal for me. I’d never been asked before. Even when I was little, I was never one of those girls who skipped out of the classroom in pairs, holding hands sometimes, giggling, excited. Having friends over for tea parties didn’t fit in with Mum’s lifestyle.

“I dunno,” I said reluctantly. Like usual, I was worried about meeting anyone new, not knowing whether to look at them or not. People think I’m shifty because I don’t like looking at them, but really I’m just trying to keep out of their lives — TMI.

“Suit yourself,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and setting off on his own.

The rain was getting in my face, annoying me now. “No, hold up!” I shouted, and ran to catch him up, and we walked along together, hoods up, heads down, in the filthy London drizzle.

It took about five minutes to get to his place, one of those maisonettes at the front of the Park Estate projects. It was in the middle of a row, on the ground floor, with a little square of garden at the front. The garden was something else — some grass and a few flowers and that — but the great thing was all these little statues and things: gnomes, animals. It was hilarious.

“Cool garden,” I said, half taking the piss, half meaning it. Spider made a face.

“It’s my nan,” he said. “She’s crazy.” He vaulted over the low wall and picked his way through the concrete crowd. He swung his leg at the head of a particularly ugly gnome.

“No, don’t,” I called out.

He stopped midkick.

“They’re nice. Don’t hurt them.”

“Oh, God. Not you as well.” He shook his head and waited while I opened the peeling tubular metal gate and walked up the path. Then he pushed in the front door — it must have already been open — and shouted out, “Only me, Nan. I’ve brought a mate.”

Nervous as I was, I clocked that, him using the word mate. And I liked it.

There was a narrow hallway and then straight into the front room. Every shelf, every surface was covered with stuff: little china animals, plates, vases. Think of every garage sale you’ve ever been to, all the stuff left over at the end that no one wants, and you’ll get the picture. The overpowering smell of cigarette smoke made the air thick. No windows open, obviously. A plume of it wafted through from the next room, and I followed Spider through there. His nan was perched on a stool at a breakfast bar, newspaper in front of her, cup of tea at hand, ciggy lit. She didn’t look nothing like her grandson. She was small, white, like me, with short spiky hair dyed a dark shade of purple. Her face was lined, hard-looking. I watched as he stooped to peck her cheek, and thought that if you saw them in the street you’d never know they were family. But that’s the way now, isn’t it? The days of family photographs — Mum, Dad, two kids, all dressed up, all looking the same — did that ever happen? Is there anywhere that still happens? Not here, anyway. Families ’round here are what they are — just your nan, like Spider, or no one, like me — black, white, brown, yellow, whatever. That’s how it is.

As Spider stood back