Joe

It’s all anyone’s talking about at the bus stop. The fire. The body. The murder inquiry. Everyone has their own theory about what happened and who was in the fire. There’s even a rumour that it was our head teacher, Mr Watts.

About quarter past eight, which is when the bus is due, Ash walks up the road towards the bus stop, carrying a brown envelope. As he goes past the postbox, he puts it in and then comes over and stands next to me.

‘Last week of school!’ he says. He lets his bag slide off his shoulder and fall on the ground.

I smile. ‘I know. I can’t believe it. We’re nearly free men.’

‘About bloody time,’ Ash says. ‘I can’t wait for this week to end. Actually, to tell you the truth, I can’t wait for the next two years to be over. I’m gonna get my A levels and then get out of this dump for ever.’

I nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘Hey, you hear about the flats?’ Ash says.

‘Course,’ I say. ‘It’s mad, isn’t it? Murder in Fayrewood.’

Ash laughs. ‘It’s like the hood in Fayrewood nowadays.’

‘Like New York or something. The Bronx.’

Ash smiles. ‘Too right. I can just imagine it,’ he says. ‘Old Mrs Reilly from down my street, cruising down Marshland Road on her mobility scooter.’ He starts miming driving a mobility scooter. ‘She sees someone from a rival gang – Mrs Webster from the WI. She reaches into the basket of her scooter and pulls her piece. AK47!’ Ash mimes an old lady pulling out a gun in slow motion.

I can’t help but laugh.

‘Bang, bang, bang!’ he says. He blows the smoke away from the top of the imaginary weapon. Then he laughs.

As we’re messing around, the bus pulls into the stop. The brakes hiss and the door swings open. The Year Eights get on first. Me and Ash wait and get on last. Ash goes right up the bus to where a couple of Year Eight kids have sat on the back seat.

‘Shift,’ Ash says. He indicates with his thumb. ‘Down the front of the bus where you belong, little boys.’

One of the young kids makes a face at Ash and sticks up his middle finger. Ash lifts his hand as though he’s gonna slap the kid round the face. The kid laughs and gets up from the seat and so do his mates. Ash uses his hand to ruffle the kid’s head and then breaks out into a grin.

‘Gotta admire that in a kid,’ he says. ‘Takes balls to stand up to your elders and betters.’ He looks at his hand. He sniffs it. ‘He could do with washing his hair, though!’

He holds his hand out for me to smell. I turn away.

The bus moves down Marshland Road, turns right at the end and then on to the main road. It trundles along the road, through the middle of the town, stopping at the lights. The bus slows as we get near the flats. Everyone moves over to the right-hand side of the bus and looks out of the window. The block of flats is still cordoned off and it’s surrounded by police and reporters and TV cameras. There are still police standing around; some in uniform and some in suits and ties. There are others in white boiler suits as well. They must be forensics or something.

The bus moves past and everyone sits back down.

As we drive along the road out of town, Ash’s phone beeps to say he has a message. He reads it right away and sighs.

‘What’s the matter?’

He looks out of the window. ‘Nothing,’ he says.

And neither of us says another word all the way to school.