In the Bag by Jim Carrington

argument with Mum.

Joe
    When I go downstairs for breakfast, Mum and Dad are both in the living room watching TV. I stand by the door, looking in at what they’re watching. It’s the news. It’s about the fire at the flats. My curiosity gets the better of me and I walk in.
    Mum turns round. ‘Oh, morning, love,’ she says.
    Dad’s still watching the TV. He points at the screen. ‘Hey, Joe, have you seen this?’
    I read the rolling news bar at the bottom of the screen: DORSET POLICE CONFIRM THAT THEY HAVE LAUNCHED A MURDER INQUIRY FOLLOWING THE DISCOVERY OF A BODY IN A BURNED-OUT BLOCK OF FLATS .
    I’m not sure what to say. This is weird. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in Fayrewood. It’s not that kind of place.
    ‘They’re doing a post-mortem as we speak,’ Dad says, still watching the screen.
    ‘It’s horrible,’ Mum says.
    I nod.
    Dad puts the TV on standby with the remote and then goes and switches it off at the wall. He turns to me and Mum. ‘There’s a press conference this afternoon,’ he says. He shakes his head and sighs in disbelief. ‘Come on, then, let’s get some breakfast.’

Ash
    I’ve been thinking. About what Joe was saying at the rec. About karma. About how we can do some good with the money. It took me ages to think of it, but it’s obvious really. Right under my nose.
    Which is why, instead of getting ready for school right now, I’m sitting on my bed counting the money. Mum and Dad have already had a row and both left for work.
    I count out twenties. A hundred of them. Two thousand pounds. Then I put them in a big brown envelope, lick the sticky bit and seal it. I pick up a pen, hold it in my left hand and write the name and address. Back in middle school I broke my arm playing football and I had to learn to write with my left hand for a while. I haven’t written with my left hand for years. My writing looks uneven and spidery. Which is just how I want it to look. No one will be able to trace it to me.
    When I’m done writing the address, I stick a stamp on the front and stare at it for ages, wondering if this is the right thing to do. And then I get ready for school.

Joe
    It’s all anyone’s talking about at the bus stop. The fire. The body. The murder inquiry. Everyone has their own theory about what happened and who was in the fire. There’s even a rumour that it was our head teacher, Mr Watts.
    About quarter past eight, which is when the bus is due, Ash walks up the road towards the bus stop, carrying a brown envelope. As he goes past the postbox, he puts it in and then comes over and stands next to me.
    ‘Last week of school!’ he says. He lets his bag slide off his shoulder and fall on the ground.
    I smile. ‘I know. I can’t believe it. We’re nearly free men.’
    ‘About bloody time,’ Ash says. ‘I can’t wait for this week to end. Actually, to tell you the truth, I can’t wait for the next two years to be over. I’m gonna get my A levels and then get out of this dump for ever.’
    I nod. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Hey, you hear about the flats?’ Ash says.
    ‘Course,’ I say. ‘It’s mad, isn’t it? Murder in Fayrewood.’
    Ash laughs. ‘It’s like the hood in Fayrewood nowadays.’
    ‘Like New York or something. The Bronx.’
    Ash smiles. ‘Too right. I can just imagine it,’ he says. ‘Old Mrs Reilly from down my street, cruising down Marshland Road on her mobility scooter.’ He starts miming driving a mobility scooter. ‘She sees someone from a rival gang – Mrs Webster from the WI. She reaches into the basket of her scooter and pulls her piece. AK47!’ Ash mimes an old lady pulling out a gun in slow motion.
    I can’t help but laugh.
    ‘Bang, bang, bang!’ he says. He blows the smoke away from the top of the imaginary weapon. Then he laughs.
    As we’re messing around, the bus pulls into the stop. The brakes hiss and the door swings open. The Year Eights get on first. Me and Ash wait and get on last. Ash goes right up the bus to where a couple