Dare Game Read online

  ‘Solid gold!’ Alexander whispered.

  ‘Well. Plated. Still cost a fortune. It’s my dad’s most precious possession. His mates gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday. He’s never without it, my dad.’

  ‘He seems to be without it now,’ I chipped in.

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Football. ‘He’s given it to me.’ He flicked it on and off, on and off, on and off. It was like watching those flashing Christmas tree lights.

  ‘You’ll be waving it around at a rock concert next,’ I said.

  ‘You shut your face,’ said Football, irritated that I wasn’t acting dead impressed. ‘You haven’t even got a dad.’ He kicked the ball hard. It bounced on the television set and ended up inside it.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have a dad,’ said Alexander, standing up and attempting repairs. ‘Or I wish my dad would go off with a girlfriend. I wish wishes would come true. What would you wish for?’ He looked shyly at Football. ‘That you and your dad could be together?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Football, looking amazed that Alexander could possibly have sussed this out. ‘And to play for United,’ he added.

  ‘What about you, Tracy?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘I don’t want a dad,’ I said quickly.

  ‘What about your mum?’ Alexander persisted. ‘Would you wish you and your mum could be together?’

  ‘That would be a totally wasted wish, wouldn’t it, because I’m going to be with her anyway.’

  But I’ll still wish it even so. Let me be with my mum. Let me be with my mum. I’m wishing with all my heart. And my lungs and my liver and my bones and my brains. All the strings of my intestines are tied in knots I’m wishing so hard.

  Mum’s Home

  WISHES COME TRUE. My fairy godmother has been working overtime! She made it come true. I spent the whole weekend with my mum and it was WONDERFUL and she says she wants me to go and live with her for ever and ever and ever, just as soon as Elaine gets it all sorted out officially.

  Elaine didn’t think my mum would turn up. She didn’t say anything, but I’m not daft. I could tell. Cam dumped me off at Elaine’s office. She said she would wait with me if I wanted but I didn’t want. It’s kind of weird being with Cam at the moment. She’s still not making a big fuss and begging me not to go. Though I heard her crying last night.

  I heard these little muffled under-the-duvet sobs – and I suddenly couldn’t stand it and stumbled out of bed and went running across the hall. I was all set to jump into bed with Cam and give her a big hug and tell her . . .

  Tell her what? That was the trouble. I couldn’t tell her I wouldn’t go because I’ve got to go. My mum’s my mum. Cam isn’t anybody. Not really. And I’ve known my mum all my life while I’ve only known Cam six months. You can’t compare it, can you?

  So I didn’t go and give her a cuddle. I made out I needed a wee and went to the bathroom. When I padded back the sobs had stopped. Maybe I’d imagined them anyway.

  I don’t know why I’m going on about all this sad stuff when I’m HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY. My mum didn’t let me down. She came for me at Elaine’s.

  She was a little bit late, so that I had to keep going to the toilet and Elaine’s bottom lip started bleeding because she’d nibbled it so hard with her big bunny teeth – but then suddenly this taxi drew up outside and my mum got out and she came running in on her high heels, her lovely blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, her chest bouncing too in her tight jumper, and she clutched me tight in her arms so that I breathed her wonderful warm powdery smoky smell and then she said all this stuff about over-sleeping and missed trains and I didn’t take any of it in, I was just so happy she was really there.

  Though I didn’t exactly act happy.

  ‘Hey, hey, don’t cry, kid, you’re making my jumper all soggy,’ Mum joked.

  ‘I’m not crying. I never cry. I just get this hay fever sometimes, I told you,’ I said, helping myself to Elaine’s paper hankies.

  Then Mum whisked me off and instead of bothering with boring old buses and trains we got into the taxi and drove all the way home. To Mum’s house. Only it’s going to be my house now.

  It was miles and miles and miles and it cost a mega-fortune but do you know what my mum said? ‘Never mind, darling, you’re worth it!’

  I very nearly had another attack of hay fever. And my mum didn’t just fork out for the longest taxi ride in the world. Just wait till I write about all the presents! She’s better than a fairy godmother! And her house is like a fairy palace too, even better than I ever imagined.

  OK, it’s not all that wonderful outside. Mum lives in this big block of flats on an estate and it’s all car tyres and rubbish and scraggy kids outside. Mum’s flat is right on the top floor and the lift swoops up faster than your stomach can cope. That’s why I suddenly felt so weird – that and the pee smell in the lift. I got this feeling that the walls of the lift were pressing in on me, squashing me up so small I couldn’t breathe. I wanted someone to come and hoick me out quick and tuck me up tight in my black bat cave. I didn’t give so much as a squeak but Mum saw my face.

  ‘Whatever’s up with you, Tracy? You’re not scared of a lift, are you? A big girl like you!’

  She laughed at me and I tried to laugh too but it sounded more like I was crying. Only of course I don’t ever cry. But it was all OK the minute I stepped out of the smelly old lift and into Mum’s wonderful flat.

  It’s deep red – the carpet and the velvet curtains and the cushions, just as I’d hoped. The sofa is white leather – s-o-o-o glamorous – and there’s a white fur rug in front of it. The first thing Mum made me do was take my shoes off. I didn’t notice the amazing twirly light fitting and the pictures of pretty ladies on the walls and the musical globe and the china figures at first because my eyes just got fixated on the sofa. Not because of the white leather. Because there was a pile of parcels in one corner, done up in pink paper with gold ribbon.

  ‘Presents!’ I breathed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mum.

  ‘Is it your birthday, Mum?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, silly. They’re for you!’

  ‘It’s not my birthday.’

  ‘I know when your birthday is! I’m your mum. No, these are special presents for you because you’re my own little girl.’

  ‘Oh Mum!’ I said – and I gave her this big hug. ‘Oh Mum, oh Mum, oh Mum!’

  ‘Come on then, don’t you want to open them?’

  ‘You bet I do!’ I started tearing the paper off.

  ‘Hey, hey, that cost ninety-nine pence a sheet. Careful!’

  I went carefully, my hands trembling. I opened up the first parcel. It was a designer T-shirt, specially for me! I ripped off my own boring old one and squeezed into my BEAUTIFUL new status symbol.

  ‘I could have got you a size or two bigger. I keep forgetting how big you are,’ said Mum. ‘Give it here, I’ll change it for you.’

  ‘No, no! It’s wonderful! It’s exactly the right size. Look, I can show my belly button and look dead sexy!’ I did a little dance to demonstrate and Mum creased up laughing.

  ‘You’re a right little card, Tracy! Go on then, open the rest of your pressies.’

  She gave me a fluffy pink rabbit. It’s lovely if you like cuddly toys. Elaine would die for it. I decided to call it Marshmallow. I made it talk in a shy little lispy voice and Mum laughed again and said I was as good as any kid on the telly.

  The next present was a H-U-G-E box of white chocolates. I ate two straight off, yum yum, slurp slurp. I wanted Mum to have one too but she said she was watching her figure, and they were all for me and I could eat as many as I liked. So I ate another two, yum yum, slurp slurp, same as before – but I started to feel a bit sickish again. They were WONDERFUL chocolates, and I bet they were mega-expensive, but somehow they weren’t quite the same as Smarties. I know they’ll be my favourites when I’m a bit older.

  The last present wasn’t for when I’m older. It was the biggest
and Mum had left the price on the box so I knew it was most definitely the most expensive, amazingly so.

  It was a doll. Not just any old doll, you understand. The most fantastic curly-haired Victorian doll in a flowery silk costume, with her own matching parasol clutched in her china hand.

  I looked at her, holding the box.

  ‘Well?’ said Mum.

  ‘Well. She’s lovely. The loveliest doll in the whole world,’ I said, trying to make my voice as bouncy as Football’s ball, only it kind of rolled away from me and came out flat.

  ‘You used to be such a dolly girl, even though you were a fierce little kid,’ said Mum. ‘Remember I bought you that wonderful big dolly with golden ringlets? You totally adored her. Wouldn’t let her go. What did you call her? Rose, was it? Daffodil?’

  ‘Bluebell.’

  ‘So here’s a sister for Bluebell.’

  ‘That’s great, Mum,’ I said, my stomach squeezing.

  ‘You’ve still got Bluebell, haven’t you?’ said Mum, squinting at me.

  ‘Mmm,’ I said. My tummy really hurt, as if this new doll had given it a hard poke with her pointy parasol.

  ‘So did you bring her with you?’ Mum persisted, lighting another cigarette.

  ‘Give us a fag, Mum, go on, please,’ I said, to try to divert her.

  ‘Don’t be so daft. You’re not to start smoking, Tracy, it’s a bad habit.’ She started off this really Mumsie lecture and I dared breathe out. But my mum’s not soft. ‘So where is she then? Bluebell?’ she persisted.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You see, the thing is, Mum, I had to leave her in the Children’s Home.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let you take your own dolly?’

  ‘She got a bit . . . broken.’

  ‘You broke your doll?’

  ‘No! No, it wasn’t me, Mum, I swear it. It was one of the other kids. They poked her eyes out and cut off all her ringlets and scribbled on her face.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! That place! Well, I’ll get on to Elaine the Pain straight away. That doll cost a fortune.’

  ‘It happened years ago, Mum.’

  ‘Years ago?’ Mum shook her head. It was like she couldn’t get her time scales right. She kept acting like she’d only popped me in the Children’s Home last Tuesday when I’ve actually been in and out of care since I was little. My folder’s this thick.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway. You’ve got a new dolly now. Even better than Bluebell. What are you going to call this one? Not a daft name like Marshmallow this time. She’s a beautiful doll. She needs a proper name.’

  ‘I’ll call her . . .’ I tried hard but I couldn’t come up with anything.

  ‘What’s your favourite name? You must have one,’ said Mum.

  ‘Camilla,’ I said without thinking.

  Mum stood still.

  BIG MISTAKE.

  ‘That woman’s called Camilla, isn’t she?’ said Mum, drawing hard on her cigarette.

  ‘No, no!’ I gabbled. ‘She’s Cam. She never gets called Camilla. No, Mum, I like the name Camilla because there was this little girl in the Children’s Home, she was called Camilla.’

  I was telling the truth. I used to love this little kid Camilla, and she liked me too, she really did. I could always make her laugh. I just had to pull a funny face and blow a raspberry and Camilla would gurgle with laughter and clap her pudgy little hands.

  Camilla’s been my favourite name for ages, long long before I met Cam. Cam never gets called Camilla anyway. She can’t stand it. She thinks it sounds all posh and pretentious. I tried hard to get Mum to believe me.

  ‘Camilla,’ Mum said, like it was some particularly smelly disease. ‘Your favourite name, eh? Do you like it better than Carly?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Carly’s the best ever name, obviously, because it’s yours. But I can’t call the doll Carly because you’re Carly. Hey, maybe she should be called Curly?’ I scooped the doll out of her box and shook her so that her ringlets wiggled. ‘Yeah, Curly!’

  ‘Careful! You’ll muck those eyes up too!’ Mum took the doll from me and smoothed her satin skirts.

  ‘It wasn’t me that poked her eyes out.’

  ‘Even so, you must play with her gently.’ Mum handed her back to me.

  I held her at arm’s length, not quite sure what to do with her. ‘Hello, Curly. Little girly Curly. Curlybonce!’

  ‘That’s not a very nice name. She’s a very special collector’s doll, Tracy. Don’t you like her ringlets?’

  ‘Yes, they’re lovely.’

  ‘It’s about time we tried to do something with your hair. Come here.’ She fiddled in her handbag and brought out a little hairbrush. ‘Right!’ She suddenly attacked my head.

  ‘O-w-w-w-w-w!’

  ‘Keep still!’ said Mum, giving me a little tap with the brush.

  ‘You’re pulling my head off!’

  ‘Nonsense. It seems like it hasn’t been brushed for weeks. It’s like a bird’s nest.’

  ‘O-u-c-h!’

  ‘Do you make this fuss when Cam does your hair?’

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  Mum sighed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know, she’s being paid a fortune, and yet she lets you wander round like a ragamuffin.’

  ‘Cam’s not really into how you look,’ I said, trying really hard to hold my head still though it felt like she was raking grooves in my scalp.

  ‘Typical,’ said Mum. ‘Well, I care how you look.’

  ‘I care too, Mum,’ I said. ‘Ouch! No, it’s OK, don’t stop. We women have to suffer for our beauty, eh?’

  Mum creased up laughing though I hadn’t meant it as a joke. ‘You’re a funny little thing,’ she said. She paused, tapping the back of her hairbrush on her palm. ‘You do love me, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘Ever so much,’ I shouted.

  It still didn’t sound loud enough to Mum. ‘More than anyone else?’

  ‘Yes!’ I insisted, though my throat ached as I said it. ‘Yes. You bet. You’re my mum.’

  She reached out and patted my face, cupping my chin. ‘And you’re my little girl,’ she said. ‘Though you’re getting to be such a big girl now.’ She fingered my lips. ‘They’re all chapped. You need a spot of lip balm. Half a tick.’ She rooted in her handbag amongst her make-up.

  ‘Oh, Mum, make me up properly, eh?’

  Mum put her head on one side, looking amused. ‘It might help give you a bit more colour, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah, I want to look all colourful like you, Mum.’

  She laughed. ‘We’ve got different skin tones, pet. But I can certainly liven you up a bit. You’ve got quite a nice little face, though you must watch it when you scowl. You don’t want to be all wrinkly when you’re my age. Smile, Tracy.’

  I smiled until my ears waggled.

  ‘Maybe you could get away with a pale pink lipstick and a spot of rouge on your cheeks.’

  ‘I want bright red lipstick like yours!’ I had a rootle in her bag myself.

  ‘Get out of there!’ said Mum, trying to snatch it back. ‘Tracy! You’re mucking up all my things.’

  I’d found a red mock-crocodile wallet.

  ‘You after my money?’ said Mum.

  ‘Is there a photo of me inside?’ I said, opening it.

  I peered. There was a photo but it certainly wasn’t me. ‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

  ‘Give that wallet here,’ said Mum, acting like she meant it now.

  ‘Who’s the guy?’ I asked, handing it over.

  ‘He’s no-one,’ said Mum. She took the photo out of the plastic frame. ‘This is what I think of him,’ she said, and she tore the photo into tiny little bits.

  ‘Is it my dad?’

  ‘No!’ said Mum, sounding amazed, like she’d forgotten I’d ever had a dad. ‘No, it’s my boyfriend. My ex.’

  ‘The one that went off with the young girl?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Mum. ‘The slug. Still, who nee
ds him, that’s what I say.’

  I said he’d have to be crazy to go off with anyone else when he had someone as beautiful as Mum. She liked this a lot. We sat down on the sofa together, and I put Curly carefully on my lap and tucked Marshmallow under my arm. Mum fed me another white chocolate. I didn’t really fancy it but I ate it up anyway, licking her long pointy fingers so that she squealed.

  ‘You and me will be all right, won’t we, Tracy?’ said Mum. It seemed like she was seriously asking me.

  ‘We’re going to be just great,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll stay together, yes?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  ‘It’s what you want?’ Mum persisted.

  ‘More than anything in the world,’ I said.

  We had a huge hug, Mum and me (Curly and Marshmallow got a bit squashed but Mum didn’t nag), and it was like we were spinning in our own little world, and it was whirling us all the way up into outer space.

  The Tree Home

  I GOT A bit miffed when I went back to my home. Football and Alexander were there already, playing football. Well, Football did the kicking. Maybe Alexander was meant to be the goalie. He seemed to be acting as a goalpost too.

  I didn’t think they had any right to be there. Well, not before me. I flounced back to the kitchen. Alexander had supplied the cardboard refrigerator with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. I felt this was extra mean as I’m not very keen on orange. I ate three even so, just to show him. I wanted a drink but there was just this silly cardboard cut-out kettle. I scrumpled it up. What sort of idiot was he?

  ‘It took me a long time to get the sides equal and the spout right,’ Alexander said reproachfully, standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Never mind your silly bits of cardboard! Hey, you’ll never ever guess what!’

  ‘What?’ said Alexander.

  ‘I’m going to live with my mum.’