Max Kowalski Didn't Mean It Read online

‘Look what you did!’ shouted Louise.

  ‘I’m all wet,’ whimpered Ripley, sitting in a puddle on the sofa.

  It was too loud, and too much. Max put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tightly, turning to the wall. It was quiet there. It was away. He went away, in his head.

  The girls were upset. He was in charge, and the girls were upset.

  He felt buzzy, as if something was drumming in his blood.

  ‘Max!’ said Louise sharply.

  He kept his eyes shut.

  ‘Max, look!’

  When he opened his eyes, she was beside him, thrusting Dad’s mobile phone under his nose. At the top of the screen there was a small symbol: two circles on a line.

  Voicemail.

  ‘Why didn’t it ring?’

  ‘You had it on silent, Max,’ Louise said quietly.

  Max couldn’t have felt worse if she’d yelled it. He’d missed the call. He’d kept the phone charged, but somehow he’d turned off the ringer. Max Kowalski, the idiot king.

  Max snatched the phone and dialled for the message at once, heart in his mouth.

  You have one new message.

  ‘Hiya, kids. Guess who?’

  It was Dad. Dad’s warm voice, full of laughs. His dad.

  Max held his hand up, telling them to stay quiet. He needed to listen. He pressed the phone tight to his ear.

  ‘Reckoned this was the best way to catch up, yeah? Just checking in. I’m away a bit longer than I thought, but it’s all OK, right? Back soon. I promise. Max: you keep looking after those girls, big man. Step up, yeah? I’m counting on you. Angels: behave yourselves. Princess: love you, baby, be good. Oh – and don’t call back, you hear? Not on this number. It’s important, Max. Don’t call me back on this number. I’ll call you. Soon. Right –’

  There was a noise of another voice, far off, and Dad shouting something back, his mouth turned away. Then the call ended.

  Max put it on speaker and played it again, so they could all hear.

  Dad was OK. Dad was OK, and coming back in a few days.

  Max’s finger hovered over the stored number, the one he was not meant to call back. He longed to press it. To tell him about the fish fingers, and the police, and hear his dad tell him how proud he was.

  But there wasn’t time. He had to get Ripley changed. He had to be nice to Thelma on the way to school, while Louise babbled on about checking people for head wounds and the signs of concussion.

  Back at the flat, he had to mop up all the mess.

  The sofa wasn’t ever going to be the same again. But the girls were happy. That was all that mattered.

  Dad didn’t come back on Thursday, or on Friday.

  On Friday, before he picked up the girls, Max dipped into the yucca plant pot again, taking the lot with him. Then he took them all shopping at Fallowfield, like he’d promised.

  ‘It’s early Christmas!’ said Ripley.

  ‘Christmas is cancelled,’ grumped Thelma, kicking a bin.

  It wasn’t. The estate had seemed so brightly Christmassy. But at Fallowfield, Christmas seemed to vibrate in the air, across the walls in glitter and fluff, in sparkle and sticky-fingered desire. The walkways were hung with golden trees and giant baubles, gently buffeted by the air conditioning. The air echoed with Christmas songs. And there were people, so many people: carrying six bags in each hand, clutching lists, tugging on the arms of wailing children with smeary faces.

  Max shuddered as the noise built in his ears. He hated busy places. He’d got lost once, when he was little, in among the long skirts and shiny rails and hundreds of people. Mum had been by his side and then suddenly she was gone. Just gone.

  He felt it sometimes, when he woke up, and remembered: that same lost boy’s panic.

  But he had his white trainers, and he’d promised.

  Thelma bought a flamingo backpack, on which all the flamingos were wearing Santa hats.

  Louise got a fountain pen, the kind with a gold nib, and a box of ink cartridges, ‘because real writers don’t use biros’.

  Ripley spent what seemed like an hour by the rabbits, pining for the now-adopted Blueberry Muffins for the briefest of moments before falling in love with a runty lop she named Buttery Toast. Then she bought a silver plastic tiara with yellow and blue jewels on it, and wore it out of the shop.

  After, they went to the beach, and braved the brutal cold wind while they had chips on the wall again. Chips, and doughnuts, and two goes each on whatever they wanted, and everyone was happy, so happy, so like he wanted them all to be. Like Dad would want.

  When they got home, Max sat on the sofa by himself and emptied out the money that was left.

  It wasn’t healthy and fat and fed by the soil.

  It wasn’t a roll at all.

  It was six pounds and seven p.

  That was it. That was all they had in the whole world. They’d been rich, and now they weren’t.

  Max wiggled his toes in his pure white trainers and felt a glow of shame come to his cheeks.

  He was in charge.

  And he’d messed up.

  8

  The problem with sisters, Max thought, was that if there was a thing you didn’t want them to know, you had no chance.

  ‘Max! There’s no milk!’

  ‘There’s no Krispies left either.’

  ‘Or bread.’

  ‘Or butter.’

  ‘Can I have new trainers?’

  That was Ripley, wearing his and walking like a penguin.

  ‘No,’ said Max, pulling the pillow over his head.

  He knew why Dad liked his Saturday morning lie-ins now.

  ‘Max. Max. Max. Maaaax!’

  That was Thelma, poking his pillow with a flamingo pencil.

  He managed to ignore them for most of the morning. Until Thelma reappeared, having taken their last six pounds and seven p to the One Stop, and spent most of it on a magazine that had free plastic flamingo sunglasses stuck to the front.

  Max shouted at her, and threw his pillow at her, and Potato, and he would’ve thrown something else too if it had been handy.

  ‘But we’re rich!’ Thelma shouted back, readjusting her flamingo sunglasses.

  ‘No, we’re not!’

  And then it all came out.

  ‘I thought you were spending too much money,’ said Louise, looking up from her book, ‘when you were spending it. I just didn’t like to say.’

  They had the rest of Thelma’s shopping: milk, a box of Krispies, and some midget gems.

  A tin of beans in the cupboard.

  A scrape of margarine in the fridge.

  And nothing else.

  Nothing, till Dad came home.

  Max put the TV on, and let them each have a turn of the remote to watch whatever they wanted.

  They had Krispies for lunch. Small bowls.

  They watched more TV, until it grew dark outside.

  They had Krispies for dinner too.

  ‘What are we going to do now, Max?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Eat the midget gems?’ said Ripley. ‘To make us feel better?’

  ‘I ate them already,’ said Thelma. ‘Sorry.’

  Louise fixed Max with serious eyes. ‘Max. I think – I think we need to call someone. We need help.’

  Kowalskis never asked for help.

  You looked after yourself. You looked after your family. And you didn’t need anything or anyone else.

  ‘No,’ said Max. ‘Dad’ll come.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’ whispered Louise, putting her hands over Ripley’s ears.

  Thelma looked grim. ‘Then we’ll be stuck in some children’s home forever.’

  ‘We won’t,’ said Max, at once.

  ‘We will. We’ll go to school on Monday, all sad and starved, and they’ll call the police, and we’ll go into care. We’ll be those sad children on adverts who need to get adopted, only we’re too old and no one’ll want us. And we’ll probably all be sent to live in different places b
ecause there’s four of us, and four is loads, and we’ll never see each other again until we’re reunited when we’re really ancient and crinkly on Long Lost Family with Davina.’

  ‘No, we won’t!’ wailed Ripley. ‘Will we? At Christmas?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Thelma. ‘Christmas is cancelled.’

  ‘That won’t happen!’ said Louise. ‘Will it, Max?’

  She knotted her hands in her hair and Max realized she wasn’t asking for Ripley. She was asking for herself.

  Max thought of the handful of coins they had left now, and felt sick.

  He thought of school too, and felt stupid. They didn’t like it if you were off for more than three days without a note. He’d called in sick every day, putting on his deep voice, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough.

  There was probably a social worker assigned to their case already. And if they came round now …

  Max looked around the flat.

  There was the empty fish-finger packet on top of the bin, because the bin itself was full of pizza boxes and Max hated taking it out because the big bin was tall, and Max was not tall, not yet; he would be but not yet. There was the grill pan on the oven, covered in burnt crumbs, and all their plates with smeary ketchup. Dirty breakfast bowls in an uneven tower. That load of washing he’d put on, still in the machine.

  Suddenly he was glad Dad wasn’t here to see it.

  Thelma was right: if anyone came to check on them now, they’d be packed off to some care home for children. Babcia and Dziadek had died before the twins were born. They’d only met Uncle Tomasz once, and he lived in Gdansk. Mum didn’t have a family; not the kind she’d chosen to share with the one she’d made. There was no one but Dad.

  There was a tap at the front door.

  They all fell still.

  Then there was the scrape of a key in the lock.

  Max’s heart gave a mighty leap in his chest.

  ‘Hello hello, anyone at home?’

  It dropped like a stone.

  Not Big Pete Kowalski, home at last.

  It was Nice Jackie, letting herself in with a key Max didn’t know she had.

  ‘All right, my sweeties?’

  She appeared in a haze of sweet vanilla perfume. She was younger than Dad even though he worked for her, and delicate: small hands with pink nails, a slight frame. She wore an oversized and expensive-looking white coat with fluff at the collar and cuffs, white boots and a pink dress that stopped above her knee. Her hair was honey blonde and shiny. Her eyes were painted all round in black, with long dark lashes.

  Nice Jackie gave Max a glossy pink smile, rolling a bright pink suitcase on wheels into view.

  ‘Auntie Jackie’s here!’

  Ripley climbed behind Max in his armchair. ‘Who’s Auntie Jackie?’

  Max had never heard her called that before, to be honest. But he remembered the glass of Coke with the ice and the straw, and he got up so she could have the best chair.

  ‘Your daddy works for me, sweetheart,’ said Nice Jackie, giving Ripley’s cheek a pinch as she sat down. ‘I gave him a job, when he was struggling. He’s like family now. Which means you are too. Got to look after each other, don’t we? Pete asked me to check up on you, make sure you were doing OK.’

  She looked round the room, her nose crinkling faintly in distaste at the bin smell.

  ‘When?’ asked Max.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Thelma.

  Nice Jackie smiled again, smoothing her skirt. ‘Away,’ she said sweetly, not looking at Thelma. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble. At work. So he’s lying low. Visiting friends, till it cools off.’

  Max frowned. He knew all Dad’s friends. Paul from the factory. Radek and Abdi from the club. Anna and her daughter Katya, who babysat them once and only once. They all lived in Southend. They were all just around the corner. And Dad was … somewhere else.

  ‘Mistaken identity, you said,’ whispered Louise, looking at Max.

  ‘But he’s OK?’ demanded Thelma again.

  ‘He isn’t in a hole?’ asked Ripley.

  Nice Jackie laughed, a high tinkling sound. ‘No. He’s fine.’ She drummed her nails on the hard plastic of the suitcase.

  ‘Have you come to stay with us?’ asked Louise, in a small voice.

  Max felt a moment’s guilty relief at the thought. A grown-up, to help him out. Not to take over. Just to help.

  Nice Jackie laughed thinly. ‘No, sweetheart.’

  ‘Then what’s the suitcase for?’

  Nice Jackie smiled at Max again.

  ‘Max is going to look after it for me, aren’t you, sweetie?’

  She stood up, and wheeled the case over to him, bumping it up against his feet.

  ‘Pete always talks about you. All of you: his princess, his angels, his big man – just like his dad. Now’s your chance to prove it, eh, Max?’

  Max liked the sound of that.

  ‘How?’ he said.

  Nice Jackie nodded at the pink suitcase.

  ‘You’re going to look after my stuff for a few days; just till things quiet down a bit. My boys will be along to pick the case up. Like before, Max. You remember? You’ll be paid, of course. I always pay my boys well.’

  It was as if she knew what they needed, Max thought. As if the whole universe knew, and for once had decided to be on his side.

  ‘Course,’ said Max, squaring his shoulders, all business, as if he did this kind of thing all the time.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Nice Jackie, cupping his cheek.

  She dipped into her bag, and pulled out a few notes, tucking them into his jeans.

  ‘More where that came from,’ she cooed.

  Then she clicked away, banging the door closed behind her.

  The sweetness of vanilla hung in the air.

  The pink suitcase stood at Max’s feet. Its brightness looked odd and out of place in their scruffy front room: a hard plastic case on wheels, with clips to hold it shut.

  ‘What do you think’s in it?’ asked Thelma.

  ‘More rabbits?’ asked Ripley hopefully.

  ‘None of our business,’ said Louise. ‘You can’t go opening other people’s bags.’

  ‘You can if they tell you to look after them,’ said Thelma. ‘Cos it could be anything. There might be a bomb in it.’

  ‘Max?’ asked Ripley.

  ‘There isn’t a bomb in it, Ripley.’

  ‘Are you sure, though?’ asked Thelma, grinning.

  That was that, then. Now he had to check or he’d never get any peace.

  Max laid the case down on its back, unclipped the catches, then sat on the sofa staring at the contents with his mouth open.

  Not rabbits.

  Not bottles of vodka or packets of cigarettes.

  Money.

  Cash.

  Used bank notes, thousands of them, in neat fat stacks.

  9

  ‘Are we rich again?’ asked Ripley.

  ‘Yes!’ said Thelma.

  ‘No!’ said Louise. ‘It’s not ours!’

  It wasn’t theirs. It was Nice Jackie’s.

  Nice Jackie’s suitcase full of money, in their front room.

  ‘Why would she give it to us?’ asked Ripley, reaching one licked finger out to touch the money.

  Max slapped her hand away and flipped the suitcase closed, hard.

  He knew why.

  This wasn’t the sort of money you put in a bank. This was the sort of money you got from boxes you took away in the night; boxes filled with bottles of vodka and cigarettes with unfamiliar names. And the police had already searched the flat. So now it would be safe here.

  Max swallowed. He was used to being in trouble: the Reflection Room, and detentions, and having to say sorry to Elis Evans’s mum. But this was different. This was the real kind of trouble. The kind where people get hurt. The kind that Dad had run away from.

  And now Max had opened the lid on a whole lot more.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘Go. Now. No arguments
. Just go to bed. I need to think.’

  Max sat quietly on the sofa for a time, listening to Ripley’s light snores; wondering how many times Dad had sat awake here doing just the same.

  He should be here. He’d know what to do. He wouldn’t be scared; not Big Pete Kowalski. He’d be brave and bold.

  Max felt anything but.

  He could still see the edge of the case, peeping from behind the chair.

  He escaped outside, on to the third-floor passage running along past all the front doors. He breathed in the sharp cold of the night, welcoming the chill on his skin.

  He looked out across the tall blocks of flats and the squat rows of houses, all fighting to win the Christmas contest. The dazzle and flash of Merry Christmas from one house with every window framed in lights and a Santa up a ladder climbing on the roof. The inflatable snowman on Seaview Tower, which was losing its puff, its top hat sagging.

  He tried calling the forbidden number, but hung up after one ring, too scared of who might answer.

  ‘I need you, Dad,’ he said into the darkness. He let the words out softly, like a message that might carry. ‘I need some help.’

  He caught a snatch of ‘Fairytale of New York’ as big kids in Santa hats sang and laughed as they ran past the One Stop, wearing tinsel for scarves.

  He wished he was down there with them, mucking about. He wanted their flat to be all lights and snowmen and looking forward to Christmas.

  But he couldn’t have that.

  And he couldn’t keep waiting for his dad.

  So he had to make what he did have work.

  Max didn’t sleep.

  On Sunday morning, he went round to Elis Evans’s house.

  ‘Hello, love, you’re early,’ said Elis Evans’s mum. Then she took one look at Max’s top, sighed, and pulled it right off him. ‘Men. Honestly.’

  Max stood bare-chested in Elis Evans’s kitchen, crossing his arms over his front awkwardly as she threw it into the machine. He was going to be big, he was going to be six foot three; he wasn’t yet, though, so she might not know. She turned, her face softening.

  ‘I’m putting a wash on anyway, Max. Could put the rest in too …?’

  Max looked down at his socks – the same ones he’d worn since Wednesday, were they? – and at his jeans, but shook his head.