Lucky Break Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Match Day

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  First published in 2018 by

  Andersen Press Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Rob Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Copyright © Rob Stevens, 2018

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Epub ISBN: 9781448188949

  For my family

  You know that feeling when you realise everything’s out of control? That sort of sickly sensation that tells you the game is up? That awful regret as you look back at a chain of events that took you from being a normal kid to one who’s, say, wanted for a bank job?

  That.

  Alarm bells started to ring when I came downstairs and saw a policeman just inside the kitchen doorway. He was holding up his hands like they do in films when they’re persuading the bad guy not to shoot. I took off my headphones and watched from the hall.

  ‘Place the weapon on the counter and put your hands on your head,’ said the policeman.

  Nobody moved.

  ‘I won’t ask again, miss,’ the policeman said sternly. ‘I said put your weapon down.’

  My sister, Olivia, glanced over her shoulder at the young officer. ‘Me?’ she said. She was gripping a French loaf in two hands like it was a baseball bat. ‘He’s the one with the knife.’

  Olivia was confronting a stocky boy who was backed up against the Italian marble work surface. He was holding a small butter knife, a blob of Lurpak balanced on its rounded blade. His other hand was gripping a triangle of toast.

  Reluctantly Olivia lowered the bread and placed it on the worktop.

  The policeman’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat. ‘Now step away from the baguette.’

  My sister took a step backwards. ‘It’s not a baguette,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s a ficelle, actually.’

  ‘You too, sonny,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s time to throw in the towel.’

  The boy frowned. ‘What towel?’

  ‘He means put your knife down,’ Olivia explained.

  ‘Oh right.’ The boy licked the blade clean and placed it on a plate behind him.

  The policeman’s top lip was glistening. ‘Right, can someone explain what’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ my sister said. ‘This kid is an intruder. He’s broken in. I just arrived home and found him robbing us.’

  ‘It looks to me like he’s making toast,’ said the officer.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Olivia. ‘In our kitchen. I’m sure after he’d finished his toast he was going to ransack the house. These criminals can be very cocky, you know.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the policeman. ‘Met lots of criminals, have you, miss?’

  I knew it was time to speak up – time to stop that runaway train in its tracks.

  ‘Come to think of it …’ The PC was studying the kid. ‘You do fit the description of one of the two juveniles who tried to hold up the Lloyds Bank on Market Street yesterday. You haven’t got a shorter, slimmer friend by any chance, have you?’

  Instinctively I stood on tiptoes and puffed out my cheeks. Maybe it wasn’t the time to pipe up after all. The boy noticed me and gave me a questioning look. I shook my head slightly. It was a gesture that meant, ‘Say nothing’. It meant, ‘I’ll sort all this out but for now the best thing would be to keep shtum.’ It meant, ‘Whatever happens we mustn’t admit to knowing each other.’

  On reflection, it was probably too much to convey with a small head movement because the kid said, ‘This is all a big misunderstanding. Tell them, Leon.’

  The policeman and my sister turned to look at me.

  ‘Le-on?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Leon,’ the officer repeated gleefully. ‘Can you confirm your whereabouts yesterday afternoon, between approximately 4.32 and 4.44 p.m.?’

  As I stood there contemplating the mess I was in I thought back to where it had all started to unravel. How had I allowed things to get this far?

  I swallowed and tried to smile brightly. ‘This is a funny story.’

  It all started on Friday. My marker pen squeaked as I crossed out the date on my England rugby calendar. Eleven months and twenty-eight days since that day. I realised I was humming the song again – ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’ by an old group called The Hollies, one of my mum’s favourite songs.

  ‘Did you hear me, Leon Copeman?’ Mum called up the stairs. ‘I asked you a question.’

  I considered the likely options – took a punt. ‘Yes please.’

  ‘I asked if you want toast or cereal.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nearly a year since that day.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m coming – I mean cereal please.’ I dropped the pen and it swung next to the calendar on a piece of frayed twine. Levering my weight onto the banister I vaulted down the stairs in two bounds.

  Our kitchen is like something from a glossy magazine. All Italian marble and shiny cabinets. Dad was sitting at the Nordic pine table watching Sky News. He was wearing a navy suit and eating marmalade on toast. He’d shaved and his hair was neatly parted and he smelled of fresh cologne and Colgate. My mother was perched at the breakfast bar, eating a bowl of Weetabix and staring at her laptop. Anyone would have thought they were a normal, happy couple.

  ‘Morning, whizz kid,’ Dad said cheerfully. He calls me that because I’m a pretty fast runner – second fastest in my year. Actually, I’m the fastest now. I have been since … well, for nearly a year. I raised a hand and smiled, sliding into a chair and reaching for the milk.

  A charity commercial about the plight of polar bears came on the TV. It said they’ll be extinct soon because the ice caps are melting.

  ‘Quick, Susan, change the channel before Leon decides to rescue a stray bear and adopt it as a pet.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said.

  Dad shook his head. ‘You won’t think it’s so funny when Snowball eats next door’s spaniel.’

  ‘I could keep it in my room,’ I said, acting excited.

  ‘Have you thought this through?’ Dad took a swig of black coffee and stood. ‘Think of the awful mess – the smell.’ He gave me a serious frown. ‘No bear should have to live in those conditions.’

  ‘You’re actually hilarious, Dad.’ I wished he could be like this all the time – normal, like he used to be. ‘Anyway, I don’t always bring strays home.’

  ‘What about that three-legged cat?’ Mum said without looking up.

  ‘Tripod was cute though.’ />
  ‘And that bird with the broken wing,’ said Dad.

  I smiled. ‘It’s not like Dodo was going to take over the house.’

  ‘No,’ said Mum, ‘but that tramp you brought home from the bus station might have done.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you turned Mr Cheeseman away.’ I shook my head disappointedly.

  ‘We gave him dinner,’ Mum sighed.

  ‘Yeah, and then kicked him out. We could at least have let him stay the night.’

  ‘What if he’d turned out to be a kidnapper, or an escaped convict or a …’

  Dad gasped theatrically. ‘Or even worse … a Kestrels fan?’

  ‘So if you’d known for sure he wasn’t a kidnapper or an escaped convict or a Kestrels fan, you’d have let him stay?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure, right, Susan?’

  ‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty, Leon,’ Mum said. ‘I do plenty to help the community thank you very much.’

  Dad looked at me and raised his eyebrows – like, you can say that again. Then he got up and put his cup into the sink. ‘I’m going to miss my train if I don’t skedaddle – see you about eightish.’

  ‘What about golf?’ I said.

  ‘What golf?’

  ‘You said we could go up the driving range tonight.’

  ‘When did I say that?’

  ‘When you came home from work the other day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Leon.’ Dad bent and squeezed my shoulder. ‘It must have slipped my mind. I’ve got this meeting arranged now – I can’t change it. It’s really important. Maybe Mum can take you?’

  I looked hopefully at her but she didn’t react.

  ‘Can you, Mum?’

  ‘What’s that?

  ‘Take me to the driving range after school?’

  ‘Not tonight, sweetheart. I’ve arranged to talk to some residents of Applewood Lane about speed bumps.’ Mum was the founder and chairperson for a local road-safety group. She spent all day every day surveying traffic speeds and campaigning for tighter limits at hotspots. ‘Couldn’t your dad change his meeting?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Leon. Mr Schultz is flying in from Frankfurt specially. Maybe Mum could meet the residents another time?’

  ‘Tell Dad I’ve had this meeting planned for weeks.’

  I shifted uncomfortably and looked at my dad. ‘Mum’s had this meeting—’

  ‘Planned for weeks, yes I heard.’ Smiling at me, he muttered, ‘The trouble is that Mum seems to think her road-safety crusade is more important than everything else.’

  Mum’s head slowly rose from behind her laptop – like the T. rex in Jurassic World. There was a rattling growl from the back of her throat before she spoke – or maybe I just imagined that part. ‘Perhaps you could ask Dad why he thinks his meeting with Mr Schultz is more important than trying to save lives on our roads?’

  Mum and Dad did this a lot. All the time in fact. Instead of actually speaking to each other, they just argued through me. It was like they were from different countries and I was a UN translator.

  Mum was glaring at me and I wasn’t sure if she expected me to pass the glare on to Dad for her.

  Instead I studied my juice. Dad sighed and picked up his briefcase. ‘We’ll go some time soon, Leon, I promise. Is that a deal?’

  ‘Sure. That’s a deal.’ I’ll add it to the list, I thought.

  ‘I’ll bring Snowball, too,’ Dad offered. ‘I heard polar bears love golf almost as much as roller-skating.’

  ‘Since when do polar bears like roller-skating?’ I laughed.

  ‘Everyone knows polar bears love roller-skating.’ Dad paused at the doorway and shook his head disappointedly. ‘Honestly, young man, if you’re serious about adopting a polar bear, you’ve got an awful lot of reading up to do.’

  He closed the door behind him and I smiled to myself as I tipped more Rice Krispies into my bowl.

  Mum went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, ‘Olivia Copeman, you’re going to be late for college!’

  ‘All right, no need to shout – I’m not deaf,’ my sister moaned, trotting down the stairs, all tight jeans and big hair. Like massive. Lenny used to say it looked like she’d been in an explosion in a hairspray factory.

  ‘I’ve been calling you for the last half hour.’

  ‘I know.’ Olivia rolled her eyes at me. ‘Like I said, I’m not deaf.’

  ‘What have you been doing up there all this time?’

  ‘Er, he-llo?’ My sister pointed a finger at her hair. ‘A masterpiece like this doesn’t just happen on its own you know.’

  ‘I imagine not,’ Mum mumbled.

  ‘What do you think, Leon?’

  It was way too crazy. Too wild.

  ‘Looks cool,’ I said.

  ‘Ah thanks.’ My sister winked at me and I smiled.

  Mum swept her eyes over Olivia’s big hair then over her elaborate make-up – bright blue and pink eye shadow and thick purple lips. ‘That’s quite a lot of effort to go to for college.’

  ‘I’m a fashion student, Mum,’ Olivia said wearily. ‘If you’re in fashion, you have to be in fashion.’

  ‘I see,’ Mum said, but her expression said the opposite. ‘I have to go. I’ve got a meeting with the council about cars speeding on Bryant Way. We clocked three cars doing sixty-plus on one morning this week – right past the Little Stars nursery. If the kids had been coming out at the time, well – it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ She shrugged on her coat. ‘Put your dishes in the dishwasher before you leave.’

  ‘Sir, yes, sir,’ Olivia said in a gruff American voice, saluting smartly. Mum gave her a withering smile, and a kiss. Then she came over to me, bent and kissed my cheek. Nodding at the window, she said, ‘Looks like it rained last night.’

  I nodded.

  ‘If the ground’s damp it’ll be slippery.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Cars take twice as long to stop in wet weather.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If there’s mist over Chambers Park it sometimes drifts onto the road so visibility could be poor – make sure you wear your hi-vis vest.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You need to leave soon,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to end up hurrying.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a kid you know.’ I’d sounded more annoyed than I’d meant to. More quietly I continued, ‘I mean, technically, I am actually a kid. But I am a kid who knows what time to leave for school.’

  Mum’s eyes met mine and she nodded. ‘OK. But be careful.’ She grabbed her bag and left.

  ‘Why does she always say that?’ I muttered into my bowl.

  ‘Sorry?’ Olivia asked, stirring honey into natural yoghurt.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said mimicking Mum, although I made her sound more naggy than she’d actually sounded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Hmm. What could that cryptic message possibly mean?’ Olivia tapped her spoon on her chin.

  ‘It’s like she’s saying that I’m not normally careful. If she thought I was careful she wouldn’t have to tell me to be careful every single day. And why does she always go on about me not hurrying? It’s like she’s saying we all remember what happened when you were hurrying. As if I could forget.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s exactly what she’s saying. Unless …’ Olivia paused, holding up her spoon. ‘This might sound crazy but maybe she’s just saying, “I love you and want you to stay safe”? What do you think? Too weird? You’re probably right. Best stick with your ominous blame-laden subtext.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, but I what was actually thinking was you’re so wrong.

  As if reading my thoughts, Olivia said, ‘Seriously, Leon – suggesting you’re not careful enough would be like saying Einstein’s not clever enough, or there aren’t enough cat videos on Facebook, or Blake Lively isn’t pretty enough.’

  I didn’t know who Blake Lively was but I wanted to join in so I said, ‘Or like saying Owen Ritchie’s kic
king isn’t accurate enough?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. Look, I don’t know who Ian Ritchie is. Sorry.’

  ‘Owen. He’s a rugby player,’ I said, wishing I’d spoken up about Blake Lively. ‘He played in the match we all went to last year. He scored the winning try.’

  ‘Sure,’ Olivia said, sliding her bowl onto the worktop. ‘Let’s go or we’ll be late.’

  I got up and put both of our bowls into the dishwasher as Olivia teased her hair in front of the mirror. We grabbed our bags – a rucksack for me and a large art folder for her – and left the house. At the end of our drive we stopped.

  When Olivia said, ‘Later, dude,’ I got this weird mental image. I saw her going off to uni and leaving me at home in a huge empty house. It was depressing and scary and something must have shown in my face because she stepped towards me and hugged me tight.

  ‘Do you think Mum and Dad are going to be OK?’ I mumbled.

  After a long pause Olivia said, ‘Of course they are.’

  I didn’t want to let go but eventually Olivia let her arms drop. I watched her walk away then I headed off in the other direction.

  It was a dank morning and the air was cold. I pulled the sleeves of my jumper over my hands, wishing I’d worn my coat. I came to a stop and pressed the button on the zebra crossing adjacent to Chambers Park. That’s how it was described in the local newspaper article the day after the accident. I remember pretty much the whole article word for word – along with the headline,

  TWIN BOY, 12, KILLED PLAYING CHASE AT ZEBRA CROSSING

  I wondered if journalists ever stop and think about bereaved relatives reading their stories the day after. Probably not. If they did, they wouldn’t use phrases like, ‘Crushed against the safety barrier’, or ‘Massive head injuries’.

  Loads of people were quoted saying how sad they were, like our headmaster and Lenny’s PE teacher. The local vicar said he was going to miss Lenny’s eager face at Sunday school, which was odd because Lenny hardly ever went to Sunday school. Everyone said how well behaved he was – and clever, but it was rubbish. Lenny was always in detention and struggled at school to be honest. It was like they’d all been given the same script.

  Nobody said he had the best imagination in the world, or that he could do a back flip from a standing start or tell rude jokes nonstop for hours. No one mentioned that he was never ever grumpy. Ever. Even on a rainy Monday morning. Even then he’d been happy. Even then he’d been trying to cheer up his grumpy brother by suggesting games they could play – like chase.