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  Then there is skateboarding, a bone-breaking, marginal sport that applauds the solo exhibitionist. No group hugs here. You’re on your own four wheels and you’re responsible for your own success, your own falls and failures. It was a smart move by my first therapist, MacKenzie. His rumbling Scottish accent meant I couldn’t understand him at first but I know for sure he couldn’t work me out either – occupational hazard I guess. He got the measure of me though and figured I wasn’t a hoop-shooting, cheerleading sort of someone. It was a smart move and a successful one. Far from introducing me to a “loner” sport, skateboarding opened up a whole new world to me. It also introduced me to Viv.

  Four years ago. I’d just started high school. Viv and I, however, didn’t officially meet in the classroom, we first exchanged words on the Southbank, that iconic spot along the Thames, home to the Queen Elizabeth Hall, the Purcell Room and the Hayward Gallery – a cultural mecca that perched majestically above the dark graffiti-washed underworld where I discovered that I belonged. The shining centre of a shopping mall held no appeal for me.

  Viv was sitting on a bench watching the skateboarding action wearing a hellish Victoriana headpiece complete with fringing, a lace embellishment and crystal beading.

  I swerved near her at one point, a flash of skinny jeans and Converse. She turned abruptly to look at me, which caused ripple-effect fringing across her forehead.

  “Hold onto your hat,” I joked, digging my wheels in.

  “It’s a lampshade, darling,” she corrected me, “reinvented as a hat.” Her voice, deep and syrupy, sounded older than her eleven years.

  “Interesting.”

  “Never met a hat I didn’t like,” she informed me. Then eyeballed my baseball cap and added, “Almost never.”

  “I like the baseball cap. The cap rocks.” I laughed.

  I collapsed on the bench next to her and flipped my board up onto my knees. “Can’t keep up with the competition,” I said, frustrated, biting my nails.

  We sat and watched in silence for a moment. These weren’t amateur skateboarders – they were at one with their boards. Their tricks, and their confidence, were incredible, awe-inspiring. I could dream on.

  “That’s because the competition never sits down,” snapped the lampshade.

  I glanced sideways; she was expressionless, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  “Is that so?” I said.

  “That is so.” Then she introduced herself, haughty flourish. “Vivienne Lee.”

  “Angie Anderson.”

  “And you’re an expert on skateboarding?” I teased her. Outlandish lampshade aside, she was also wrapped up in a lace skirt that reached her ankles. I’d like to see her negotiate stairs, never mind cover ground on wheels.

  “Never judge a person by her lampshade, Angie Anderson,” she reprimanded, getting up from the bench. She turned and tottered off huffily, small restricted steps in her impractical skirt, without looking back.

  It was love at first fight.

  Viv said she had me all sussed out on the Southbank. “Lost girl desperate to break in.”

  “Me lost?” I hooted. “I’m not the one trapped in the wrong era.”

  We’d talked the next morning in class. I wouldn’t go as far as saying Viv looked normal in her school uniform because it was nipped and tucked to create a bespoke finish but she seemed more accessible without the outlandish headgear. Her black hair still had impressive height though – backcombed beehive vibe. I guess we all need props – I know I felt weird without my baseball cap.

  Then we just started talking. She wasn’t a skateboarder but she knew all about it – her big brother was Rob Lee, risk-taker, artist, athlete on a skateboard. I had watched him before on the Southbank, me in awe, he in his element – an 18-year-old grand master, tearing up the concrete.

  “Rob Lee is your brother?” I questioned, admiration saturating the words.

  She nodded.

  “He is a genius,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. “I watch all his online stuff.”

  “You can call me Viv,” she said.

  We continued into our teenage years together. Now, four years on from when we first met, we were rock solid. No one knows me quite like Viv. Huckleberry friend, two drifters, hello world. No wonder she almost cracked out of her corset when I told her that I’d met Lennox’s parents the night before.

  “YOU. DID. WHAT?” she hollered.

  “I went to his house. His mother was there! His father was there! His sisters were there!” Those exclamations zinging off my tongue signified the release of pent-up adrenaline.

  “Oh, Angie, baby!”

  “I know.”

  “Is this you?”

  “I was ambushed.”

  “Survivor. You lived to tell the tale.”

  I filled her in on the details. But stopped short of rehashing the conversation I’d had with his mother. The unhappiest child confession.

  “It’s like Lennox Jones has been in love with you all his life,” observed Viv, pouting rouge-red lips.

  “You mean too much too soon?”

  “Perhaps a touch intense?”

  “I’ve never been one for romantic desperation,” I scoffed, pulling a face.

  Viv tutted. “He’s not desperate. He’s head over heels!”

  “There’s something about him,” I whispered, staring straight at Viv. I heard a wobble echo within my words.

  Viv returned the stare, more alert. “Something what?” she snapped, leaning into me. “You’re not scared of him, Angie. Are you scared of him?”

  I downplayed her concerns. Laughed it off. “No… no, nothing like that.”

  “Like what then?” persisted Viv, hound to the fox.

  “It’s me.”

  “You?”

  “Y’know what I mean. Never complain, never explain. No one is allowed in, except you, of course.” I tipped my baseball cap at her. “You would never break my heart.”

  “Lennox Jones is not going to break your heart, darling,” reassured Viv, reaching out and taking my hand. “He’s going to piece it back together again.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I had a feeling, in a weird, strange way, that somehow Lennox Jones had already broken me and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening over and over again.

  “Rob wants to compete at the 2020 Olympic Games. It’s his goal, his dream, his burning ambition,” said Viv, holding her hands to her heart in a theatrical pose. We were eating bean burgers, sitting on the hill, looking out across the sprawl of London. She turned to look at me. “He rates you, you know.” She paused, “For a kid,” she added.

  We laughed. Rob was 22 now. Proper grown up. He’d tell you he’d been there, done it all. To be fair, he had done an impressive amount. Unofficial ambassador and campaigner to get skateboarding accepted as an official sport. He had, of course, been met with resistance. Skateboarding wasn’t regarded as a sport it was seen more as a rebellion. It was frivolous, anarchistic and diagnosed as a weirdo-ism, like an affliction.

  I credit Viv for giving me the kick up the arse I needed on that first day we ever met as little eleven year olds on the periphery of the world – sitting on a bench on the outside of everything.

  Her words became my mantra: the competition never sits down.

  So wise from someone so young, but that was Viv for you. She gave the impression that she’d been here before.

  I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Rob Lee was an inspiration to me. Tony Hawk, my idol, obv, but Rob brought a sort of reckless, perfectionist rhythm to the tricks. He was bold, fearless, confident, creative and off the scale when it came to performance. He would ride pipes and make it look so beautiful, like modern dance, classical training. He would also crash and burn, the ground shifting from a ballroom to a battlefield. What I admired most, however, is that Rob didn’t give an arse when he fell down. And he fell down a lot, yes, even when everyone was watching him. He fell down so much that he made me feel
infinitely better about myself. It reminded me that hardcore flawlessness, like survival, is not talent, it is absolute perseverance – it’s about falling down and getting up again and again and again and again.

  I was reminded of Rob Lee when we went to the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden years ago. The Nutcracker at Christmas. It was a school thing – a prestigious Primrose Hill school thing. Thinking about it now, the evening was almost an Electric Cinema experience; red-velvet escapism within a lush environment that shut out the real world. I’d watched the curtains go up with low-level expectation and left the opera house with record-high feelings of inspiration. We are all choreographed in this life – some of us free-style, others by numbers, some of us stumble, some of us learn to dance, eventually, after however many rehearsals we need.

  “So what’s next with American Boy?” pressed Viv, interrupting my thoughts, wanting to know what was on the cards with Lennox. I knew I could only engage her in skateboarding talk for so long.

  “We don’t make plans,” I said with a shrug. It was the truth. Lennox and I hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers. It was taken as a given that we’d see each other again.

  “Lennox Jones is someone who always makes plans,” insisted Viv, giving me a knowing look. “Trust me. He gets what he wants.”

  “We see each other every day at school. He doesn’t need to make plans.”

  “How much does he know?”

  “He knows enough,” I replied firmly. “For now.”

  Viv persisted. “Will you be taking him home to meet Louise?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Definitely never.” I couldn’t think of anything worse than my Aunt Louise meeting Lennox Jones. She’d never played happy families with me in the past and we definitely weren’t about to start now.

  Lennox never made a big deal about me going over to his house that afternoon, which surprised me. No questions, no requests for feedback, I was surprised. What I thought about the Joneses obviously didn’t matter to him. Did it? Meet the parents, move on. I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at me. I was the one who had raised expectations – adding meaning when it was nothing more than two minutes, one Coke and, obviously, zero chance of a repeat invitation.

  He was a different person at school. For starters, he had an entourage: people who followed the rules and called him “Jones” – single syllable, knockout punch. Girls fawned over him, showered like glitter over him. It was a performance of tittering, lipsticked infatuation.

  “Jones is now running this school,” observed Viv during our lunch break. “He sure moves fast for a newbie.”

  I snorted, biting down too hard on a cheese sandwich. “Not you too. I thought we weren’t going to call him Jones?”

  “That was your decision, darling. I don’t care much what I call him – he doesn’t matter to me.”

  “He doesn’t matter to me!” I muffled the words, mouth full.

  Viv smiled. I scowled.

  “No more nights at the Electric?” asked Viv.

  “It was just one night. I told you, it was a one-off!”

  I looked down at my scuffed school shoes and Viv changed the subject. She was going to watch her brother skateboard underneath the Hammersmith flyover after school and she insisted that I come too. Rob was shooting new tricks for his online video channel.

  When we arrived, Rob was already there with his mates, cutting and turning round bollards, giant leaps and crash landings. Lennox Jones was also there, without entourage or fan club.

  “Viv,” I hissed. “Really?”

  “I swear!” she protested, holding her hand over her heart. “I didn’t know he’d be here. I didn’t even know he knew Rob.”

  I pulled my skateboard into my chest, hugging it tight. I could hear a heartbeat echoing off the wood.

  “I would never ambush you, babe,” added Viv.

  Pride kicked in. “I don’t want him to think that I’m following him around.”

  “You’re not following him,” soothed Viv. “No one knew he was going to be here. It’s more like him following you.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I said, resurrecting the old me: tough and indifferent. “Let’s watch Rob.”

  I knew he was looking at me so I deliberately focused on Rob who was performing for the video camera. Seconds later I could still feel that laser sight trained on me, red dot burning into my forehead.

  “He’s coming over,” hissed Viv. “Be cool.”

  I may not have known much about how to do relationships but I knew how to do cool. I barely acknowledged Lennox as he stood next to me.

  “Angie. Viv,” he said, greeting us smoothly.

  Viv smiled, a twitch of bee-sting lips.

  I lifted my chin, a curt nod. Narrowing my eyes to focus more closely on the action under the flyover.

  “You know my brother?” asked Viv, question, detective, action.

  “Everyone knows Rob,” replied Lennox laughing. “Bro’s a legend.”

  He nudged me. I ignored him.

  7

  Lennox: dark side

  Free diving is the only time when I can totally shut out the world. I dive into the ocean and disappear into another universe. I am in complete control of the present – whether I live or die. The deeper I go, I risk it all. The silence in the water is louder than the noises inside my head; the pressurised silence drowns out the screams and the fear. I don’t need to run or hide in the ocean, I just need to hold my breath, relax, relax, relax because a lower pulse means less oxygen is needed. I take calculated risks and think about death, just four, five, six minutes from now. I leave spontaneous perfection to the next person.

  As soon as I realised that being around Angie Anderson was like free diving to me, it totally freaked me out. It was like she had this power over me; when I was with her I could shut out the world. I could sit back on those velvet seats in the Electric Cinema without oxygen because she was right next to me, my personal stream of air. Like the ocean, Angie Anderson was also an unpredictable force; one minute I’m drowning in her and the next minute she’s hauling me up to the surface with barely a second to spare. She had this power over me that I detested. I embraced it and I rejected it. No one wants to shut down an adrenaline high but no one wants to feel weak. No one wants to depend on someone else for survival. We pack our own ammunition.

  She met the parents, which freaked her out. I think she attached some symbolic significance to the introduction – as though she was a sacrificial gift and wouldn’t get out the house alive.

  It’s true, I swear, once she was out that front door she couldn’t shake me off fast enough. Said that she didn’t want me to walk her home. There I was, still holding my breath and she was heading to the surface without me. It wasn’t without a backward glance though – she does have blood in her veins even if it does run cold. She reached out and touched me, following the break in my nose. I just stood there, the sound of the ocean roaring in my ears, no other sound to be heard. The hard brickwork of my face appeared to be a source of intrigue to her but not enough to make her want more. The moment over, she disappeared down the street, she just kept moving, around the corner and out of sight. I felt such a sense of loss that I almost hollered after her, begged her not to go.

  I gave her space the next time I saw her at school. It was difficult but not impossible – I’m used to holding my breath. I knew I could safely exhale the moment I walked into Mrs Martel’s office on the Wednesday afternoon.

  “What’s with Twitch?” I asked, intrigued by our informal arrangement during sessions.

  Mrs Martel tilted her head to one side quizzically.

  I elaborated. “Isn’t gaming corrupting our generation, teaching us how to shoot to kill? Bringing out our dark side?”

  “We all have a dark side,” she replied easily. “We also have a conscience.”

  “The voices in our head,” I joked.

  She smiled and added: “The gaming culture teaches positive aspects; strategy, technique, challenges and a
ccomplishments. It recognises goals and rewards. It records levels of achievement, progress and setbacks. There are also games that aren’t about war and combat.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t those the popular ones? The ones people really engage with most?”

  “The game culture doesn’t kill real people. People who have never known love kill real people. This comes down to one simple fact: their conscience has never been shown kindness, tolerance, respect – and because of this the conscience never knows how it should feel. It can’t recognise good because it has never experienced it.”

  “It sounds like a therapist would say that.”

  “There is an exception to the rule,” she conceded.

  “What would we call this exception?” I was humouring her now.

  “Evil,” she replied without missing a beat.

  There was a dark side in all of us.

  Angie made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me at school – under the cover of the velvet darkness was fine but under the bright lights of the classroom it was obviously too much. No place to hide. Weird but whatever. I made up the numbers elsewhere – other people were more than happy to hang with me. There were girls too and yeah, of course, I flirted. You can’t keep taking without giving back, right?

  You can’t keep asking questions without getting answers either. I knew that Angie’s parents were dead: a junkie did it. I wanted to know more. It had become an obsession of mine. When I’d gone digging for some information, Anastasia had initially said that Angie’s parents were dead. Then she’d upgraded the status to “killed” but stopped short of unveiling the brutal truth as though it might come back to haunt her. The way she lowered her voice when she said it, as though the killer suspect might be listening in. I didn’t care much for superstitions: Angie Anderson’s parents had been murdered, bang, bang.