The Other Harry #Wattys2015

Chapter 3

-Chapter 3-

I've lived in London my whole life, shuttling from council house to council house whenever Mum gets a new boyfriend or leaves an old one. The décor changes ; various shades of beige wallpapering and battered furniture but one thing always remains constant- the noise. It feels as though London never sleeps.

Parked car alarms screech and police sirens wail out into the night, drunk girls going home from a night out sing tunelessly and stagger on skyscraper heels, the sound of stilettos echoing around the high rises as their boyfriends start fights and kick over wheelie bins. . Over the years, I've adapted to it well- it's easy for me to get to sleep and when I do it's always been the heavy sleep of the dead.

But tonight is different.

I can't shake the fact that a few short hours ago this boy who says he's Harry Styles pointed a gun at my family. In the past, I've let them down a few times, but after the last I swore that I would look after them, that I'd be the big sister I'm supposed to be. Should I have let him stay the night? And if everything he says is true and he's not just some crazed look a-like then that might be even worse. I could have put us all in more danger than I can even begin to comprehend.

Lying in bed, looking up at the cracks in my ceiling, the conversation I had earlier with Joey keeps on running through my head.

*

It's after I've shut the door to my mum's bedroom, leaving Harry Styles on the other side, when I see Joey watching me from across the hall, something grey slumped over his arm.

"We shouldn't do this, Tish," he breathes out, face stony and set. Part of me agrees wholeheartedly, but when I speak it's to defend the decision.

"It's just for one night. Tomorrow I can sort out getting him home and he'll be out of our lives for good."

"Home?" Joey snorts. "And where is that exactly?"

"Ask Chantelle. She probably knows more about him than he does, poor kid,"

"Poor kid?! He pointed a gun in your face!"

"And you knocked him out before that."

"Yeah well," Joey's face darkens as he scratches his cheek. A line of acne is forming across it while his mouth, a lot like mine with a fat top lip shaped like an arched semi circle, turns down into a frown. "Allegedly."

I tip my head to one side, "What do you mean 'allegedly'? You dropped a bottle, he got hit on the head and passed out. Seems pretty clear to me."

"I didn't see him get hit, did you?"

I can see what Joey's driving at now, unable to stop a derisive chuckle from escaping my throat. "So what? He pretended to be knocked out? Don't be an idiot Joey."

We're too close to the door, I realise, and keen ears would abe able to pick up a few of our muffled words, maybe even all of them. Grabbing his arm, I pull Joey along and lead him back into the living room. The smell of smoke is thick in here, normally I don't notice it, but the events of the evening have left my nerves frayed and my senses in overdrive.

I can hear the sound of water dripping from the faucet, Chantelle shuffling her duvet as she turns in her sleep while outside the wind picks up and howls against the buildings.

"Why the hell would anyone do that?" I hiss.

"To get into the house. I'm just saying...he looks so much like that one direction guy, maybe it was to..."he struggles to phrase it.

"Maybe what, Joe?"

"To gain our trust. People don't say no to popstars. And the knocking out thing could be an act for sympathy. It might not be so unlikely that they figured out who's popular and they copied him."