The Dead of Summer. Camilla Way

      

       CAMILLA WAY

       The Dead of Summer

       For Dave Holloway, with love. And in memory of Peter Way, my dad.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

one

two

three

four

       five

       six

       seven

       eight

       nine

       ten

       eleven

       twelve

       thirteen

       fourteen

       fifteen

       sixteen

       seventeen

       eighteen

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Copyright

      About the Publisher

one

       Along the back streets, down to the river he took me. Through the wastelands filled with those white flowers, the ones that smell of cats’ piss, of summer. Past our hideout, past the warehouses and the factories, almost to the gasworks. Into a scrapyard, not the one we used to play in. And there it was.

      By the end of that summer three of us were dead. Tell me, does your pulse quicken when you see those headlines? You know the type: ‘Murder Spree of Schoolgirl Loner’; ‘Boy, 13, Rapes Classmate’; ‘Child, 10, Stabs Pensioner’. Mine too, I’ve collected them all, over the years. And when you pass those gangs of half-grown ghouls that haunt the streets in the half-light, does your pace quicken just a bit? Do you walk a little faster? It’s understandable. Mugging, fighting, raping, killing – kids today, they’re animals.

      But of all the world’s mini-monsters making headlines, wreaking havoc, my friend Kyle was the most famous of all. And I was there. I loved him. Take a seat, Doctor Barton, I’ll tell you everything. It’s time to tell you everything.

      We moved to Myre Street in 1986. I remember I was embarrassed by our crappy furniture. We were so obviously the skint Paki family without a pot to piss in, moving it all in by ourselves. So predictable were we with our brown flowery sofa and rubbish telly, sat there in the middle of the street. Plus I was humiliated by my dad’s manky old cardi and my sisters’ miniskirts and my Auntie Jam in a sari, for Christ’s sake.

      I knew all the neighbours were watching from their windows. Knew they were saying, ‘Family moving into 36, dear. Asians by the looks of things. Don’t think much of their sofa.’ Knew that somewhere, behind one of those nets, someone was laughing at my hair.

      I sat on the kerb behind a smashed-up car and willed my brother Push to drop our sofa on his feet while those grand-but-fucked south-London houses crowded and jeered over our row of council homes like playground bullies. I watched my family traipse back and forth with the card-board boxes that contained our lives and turned away just in time to see Kyle walk out of his gate.

      No. 33 Myre Street. ‘The House of Horrors’. Big black windows and peeling paint, a roll of carpet rotting amongst the weeds outside. The newspaper men must have been chuffed to bits when they first saw those pictures – the place had ‘creepy’ written all over it.

      And what did I think of Kyle that first day? Not much. I just thought he looked stupid. It was boiling hot and he had an anorak on, zipped right up to his scrawny, birdy neck. And his trousers were too short for his legs. He didn’t look at any of us as he walked off down the street but that was the first time I saw Kyle – if that’s the sort of thing you’re after. He walked off down the street and I didn’t see him again until I started school.

      The thing you have to remember here is that to everyone else this is a horror story. ‘The Events’. ‘The Truth Behind The Mines Murders!’ But to me it was life. It was just my life. Do you know what I mean? Things happened. Things went wrong. OK, things went very, very, wrong. But at the time it was just us kids – me, Kyle and Denis – just kids knocking about. Because after the questions; after the whats, the whys, the whens, after the outrage and the disbelief, I’m just me, here, without anything I used to have.

      My brother Push and I started school the following Monday. Lewisham High was pretty much just like any other shit-hole south-London comprehensive in the eighties: concrete and kids, wired glass and pissed-off teachers. A forecourt with a broken fountain full of empty crisp bags out front.

      When I was introduced to my class and told to take a seat the only place left was next to this fat black kid called Denis. He was the sort of kid who sits alone for good reason. You know when you can just tell without even having to talk to someone, that they’re a bit simple? He was the special needs kid, every class has got one. He had National Health glasses thick as car lights and his school uniform was spic and span, his tie too perfectly tied right up to his chin to have done it himself.

      I sat down next to him and he turned around, took his specs off, and did this weird thing with his eyes. He sort of peeled the top lid over until the pink under-lid was left so it was just the bloody film. Then he grinned at me like he expected a biscuit or something. I just smiled politely and hoped he’d leave me the fuck alone.

      No such luck. I was obviously the only person who had sat next to him in years. I was his new special pal. I was stuck with him. He knew it, the other kids knew it, and after my first long day with him trailing around after me like my big, fat, black retarded shadow, I knew it too. I didn’t really care. I guess I thought that even Denis was better than nothing. I am not someone who makes friends easily either.

      Denis wasn’t much of a conversationalist. That first day’s efforts pretty