Page 4 of Pretty Mess

“Get lost.”

I step forward, my fists clenching. “I won’t tell you again,” I say slowly. “Give me that jewellery box. You’re not chucking it on a fucking bonfire.”

A shadow falls over us and I look up to find Mr Grey staring at us from the doorway. “What’s going on here?” he asks sharply.

The bloke raises his hand, showing him the small box. “The little twat’s trying to take this off me.”

“I’m nottrying,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m going to. You’ve got no fucking right to throw that on a bonfire. It’s my mum’s jewellery box.”

He puts a meaty hand on my chest and shoves me back so hard that I crash into the wall. Pain explodes in my shoulder, but I bounce back and grab his arm. “Give it to me.”

His eyes flare, but at that moment, Mr Grey intervenes.

“Stop,” he says in a quiet voice.

We both stop struggling immediately, as if he’d shouted the command.

I look at him in entreaty. “It’s all costume jewellery. It means nothing to you or Mr Jackson. It’s just rubbish to be thrown onthe tip. I want it because it’s precious to me. That doesn’t mean anything to anyone, but maybe it should.”

He stares at me for a long few seconds and then jerks his head at the man. “Give it to him.”

“Boss?”

His eyes narrow. “Have you gone deaf, or maybe you’re just stupid, Carl? You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

The man thrusts the box at me so hard that I take two steps back. Once it’s in my grip, I cradle it protectively. He marches out of the house.

“I’ve given you that,” Mr Grey says softly. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave, Wes Archer. Go and grab your clothes and whatever you can carry and fuck off.”

“Why did you help?” I whisper.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, and you remind me a bit of someone.” He lowers his sunglasses. “But that reminder only lasts for so long. Now get gone before I forget that and deal you a bit of the punishment your brother deserves.”

I swallow hard and nod and then thunder up the stairs into my bedroom. The small room has been mine since I was born, and it’s bright and warm in the sunshine. I can’t believe this is really happening to us. I should march back downstairs and demand evidence of Tyler’s debts, but Mr Grey scares me enough not to try, and somehow I know he was telling the truth.

I walk over to the window and watch the men below as they move in and out of the house tossing more stuff on the rubbish pile. Then I come to a decision. I’ll get my things and go, but Ihaveto think that I’m coming back. This can be fixed. Iknowit. I just have to talk with Tyler. Together we can figure out a way.

I grab my suitcase and begin shoving clothes and shoes into it. Mr Grey wasn’t joking, and I’m in danger the longer I stay here.

“Where’s that lad gone?” comes a shout from below, and I increase my speed.

After forcing a pair of trainers into the case, I manage to half-zip it before abandoning it to grab my toilet bag from the chest of drawers. I shove my iPad and chargers into my rucksack and the cash tin from my bedside table. The contents are worryingly low, and fear rises in my throat. What the hell am I going to do?

Footsteps thunder on the stairs, and a man appears in my doorway. “Out now,” he snaps.

“I’m coming.” I grab my suitcase handle, shoulder my rucksack, and walk towards him. My coursework and books are all in my locker at uni. I look around hopelessly at the bookshelf and single bed, the colourful posters on the wall, and the lamp we found in a neighbour’s skip. Tyler had repaired it, and it’s been sitting by my bed for years. I want to take so much stuff, but my time has run out.

The man holds the door open for me. It’s not a courtesy, but a reminder to do as I’m told.

A lingering itch in my brain tells me I’ve forgotten something. I hesitate for a moment before I exclaim, “Just one second.”

He sighs. “Hurry the fuck up.”

I dart back to the wardrobe and find the photo album on the shelf. It’s a record of my childhood and the only memories I have of my mum. I wrap it tenderly in a T-shirt and stuff it into my bag. I also take the framed photo from my chest of drawers. It’s of my mum, me, and Tyler on a rare trip outside London.

We’d visited an old aunt of hers who lived near the New Forest, and she’d taken the photo in the garden. My mum’s dark hair shines, and her thin face, which so often looked worried, wore a big smile for once. I was little, sitting on Tyler’s knee, my arms wrapped around his neck, and my face creased in a big smile, showing off my missing front teeth. Tyler is smiling too,but worry shades the grin—worry a boy his age shouldn’t have had. I think even then he’d known the world wasn’t going to be easy for us.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with a picture of him,” my companion says, nodding at the photo. “Didn’t he get you in this mess in the first place?”