CHASE.
By Alice Austin
The very first story I wrote was called Chase. I wrote it at my grandmas house in Barnet. I was nine at the time and it was about something that had happened to me the week previous, something that had shaken me to my core. It had made me realise that people could be bad, that the world wasn’t as safe as I thought it was. I guess the story could be described as a coming-of-age tale; a Bildungsroman if you will.
After I’d written it I gave it to my grandma. She sat and read it at her round kitchen table. The smell of chicken soup hung in the air and the French doors were open, letting the summer breeze in. I hovered nearby waiting anxiously for her feedback.
She finished reading, slowly put the paper down on the table and looked at the wall above my head. ‘The child’s a genius’. She said quietly. I turned around. There was no one behind me, she was talking to the wall. She said it again, louder. THE CHILD’S A GENIUS.
Her reaction gave me a real inflated sense of self. I walked into school that Monday with a spring in my step. I won two games of Pogs that day and hurled a particularly good insult at my arch-nemesis.
My grandma is 92 now and she thinks there’s a man living in her attic who moves and hides things from her. It’s a coping mechanism for the fact that she forgets where she puts things. It’s actually quite clever if you think about it and I don’t see why I should wait until I’m 92. Every time I mess something up from now on I’m blaming it on the man in the attic.
Anyway, thanks for the ego boosts, Nanny Rose. Here it is again, re-imagined, re-touched, totally re-written (I lost the original)…
CHASE.
“Give me your money.”
“What?”
“Give me your money.”
1999. It was a Saturday afternoon. That day I’d decided to wear my new lime green leggings with matching crop top. My mum had finally caved and bought me some purple platforms which went extremely well with the ensemble. I looked fancy that day.
More importantly, though, I had an errand to run. My big brother was going on a school trip on Monday and he needed a leaving present. Despite his stunning ability to wind me up (snot-sneezing on my head, using the elastic bands attached to his braces to ping bits of food debris at me, farting constantly in my vicinity) – I wanted to let him know I was going to miss him in our household for the week.
So I took my pocket money, put on my purple platforms and told my mum I was heading to the corner shop. It was a lovely summers day so I left the front door open and set forth.
We lived in the last house on Isis Street, back in the day when that wasn’t a politically charged name for a street. The corner shop was at the end of the road, I’d say about a 3 minute walk away. I hummed as I walked.
I surveyed the options in the shop. I had one British pound to spend. I asked myself “What would a young man who doesn’t seem to be in control of his bowel movements and dribbles a surprising amount for someone who’s had their tonsils removed want for a going away present?” [He’s 30 today and moving to Sydney next month; I find myself asking the exact same question.]
I decided on a packet of Pokemon cards and a Chomp. I handed the money over to Raj, he gave me 10p change – I could’ve bought another Chomp with that but decided to keep it.
I stepped out of the shop and back onto Isis Street. Then “OI.” I turned.
A boy. He had a rat-like face, void of kindness. Shorter than me but only because I was wearing my purple platforms. He had a gangly mate with him. They couldn’t have been more than 11 years old.
“OI.” He said again and pounded up to me. I’d never really seen a face like that before, one with so much hardness. Even me and my arch-nemesis at school had mutual respect for each other.
“Give me your money.”
“What?”
“Give me your money.”
I was shocked. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I handed over the two 5ps that were in my hand.
“And the Pokemon cards.”
My instincts kicked in. This prick could mug me of my final 10p – he could buy himself a Chomp on me, no problem. But if he thinks he can take my brother’s Pokemon cards he can go fuck himself. [Unsure if this language was in the version I handed my grandma.]
With a cry of anguish at the injustice of it all I roared “NO!!!”, turned and sprinted down the road. Why had I chosen to wear my purple platforms to the shop that day? I had to make the best of it – the added couple of inches meant that my stride was elongated and the adrenaline meant I ran faster than I’d ever run before.
The two boys sprinted after me but my purple platforms gave me wings. Without looking behind to see if they’d follow me through the open door of my house I sprinted straight into the kitchen where my mum was enjoying a cup of tea with a friend.
“AAAJAHAHHKKKKKKAKKAAAAA,” I screamed in fear and disbelief and collapsed on the floor.
I relayed what had happened to my mum, gasping in between sobs. My brother came down the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. I handed him the Chomp and the Pokemon cards with a shaking hand. “Take them Maxie…” I said as if it was my dying breath and I was handing him a family heirloom.
“Thanks Ali…” He said.
My mum gave me 20p to make up for the 10p I’d lost in the brutal mugging but – as I pointed out in a bid to get more pocket money – you can’t put a value on the loss of innocence, mum.
