Daz 4 Zoe Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Daz 4 Zoe

  Robert Swindells left school at the age of fifteen and joined the Royal Air Force at seventeen-and-a-half. After his discharge, he worked at a variety of jobs before training and working as a teacher. He is now a full-time writer and lives with his wife, Brenda, on the Yorkshire moors. Robert Swindells has written many books for young people, and in 1984 was the winner of the Children’s Book Award and the Other Award for his novel Brother in the Land. He won the Children’s Book Award for a second time in 1990 with Room 13, and in 1994 Stone Cold won the Carnegie Medal and the Sheffield Book Award.

  Some other books by Robert Swindells

  BROTHER IN THE LAND

  DOSH

  FOLLOW A SHADOW

  A SERPENT’S TOOTH

  SMASH!

  STONE COLD

  WRECKED

  ROBERT SWINDELLS

  Daz 4 Zoe

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pry) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Hamish Hamilton Limited 1990

  Published in Penguin Books 1992

  Published in Puffin Books 1995

  24

  Copyright © Robert Swindells, 1990

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192697-1

  A TRUE STORY

  Palm trees don’t like the cold. That’s why they don’t occur naturally in England. You see them sometimes in seaside towns but they never look right. Ragged they are, with dead bits hanging down.

  Old people occur naturally in England, but they don’t like the cold, either. Some of them are ragged too, and there are probably dead bits only you don’t see them.

  Anyway, there was this winter. It was a really cold winter – one of the coldest on record – with hard frosts every night. It was so cold that old people started dying. Daren’t have the fire on, see. Not with electricity the price it was. So they wrapped themselves up in blankets and sat shivering till they fell asleep and died, like lost explorers in the Arctic.

  And there was this seaside town that had some palm trees. Now palm trees can’t feel the cold, but it kills them just the same. It was killing these particular palm trees all right. Slowly but surely.

  Until one day the man that looked after them – the Town Gardener, I suppose – had this brilliant idea. What he did was, he got a lot of electric blankets and some very long cables and he plugged the blankets in and ran them out on the long cables and wrapped them round the palm trees. It took several blankets to wrap each tree but when he switched on, the trees were really snug.

  Every night the Town Gardener switched on, and night after night the electricity ran through the long cables, warming the blankets till the cold spell was over and the palm trees were saved.

  Afterwards it was on telly and in the papers, how the palm trees were saved. What a good idea, people said. What a clever man. Everybody was really happy.

  Well, no – not everybody. Some of the old folks – some of them that didn’t die – moaned on about the waste of electricity, but you’re going to get moaners whatever you do, and the moral of the story is you can’t please everybody.

  Or is it?

  The rest of this book is fiction but it could come true, and we wouldn’t like it if it did. You’ll see what I mean when you’ve read it. It could come true, but it won’t if we’re together. All of us.

  There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be.

  DAZ

  Daz thay call me. 2 years back wen I com 13 Del that’s my brovver thay catch im raiding wiv the Dred. Top im don’t thay, and im just gon 15.

  2 lornorders com tel our mam, 1 wumin, 1 man, nor thay don’t come til after thay dunnit neever. Our Mam been down a longtime fore then wiv the dulleye, and she just sort of stairs dont she, til thay go of, and its not til nite she crys.

  She sez dont you never go of wiv no Dred, our Daz. No Mam, I sez, but I never crost my hart. Don’t cownt less you crost yor hart, rite?

  ZOE

  Hi. I’m Zoe. Zoe May Askew. Or Zoe may not. (Joke!) I’m fourteen. My friend at school is Tabitha. Tabitha Flinders Wentworth for short. She’s fourteen too. If the name seems familiar to you it’s no big surprise. Her dad’s Paul Wentworth of Wentworth and Lodge (Developments) PLC, the outfit that shoved up practically every residential estate in practically every suburb in England. You’re bound to have seen their boards, plus their ads on T.V. He’s into about a million other things too, Tabby says. Security. Roads. Power. He’s into power all right. Chair of the Suburb Selectmen, Chair of Schools Management Committee, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Dog leaves a mess on the sidewalk, Paul Wentworth’ll make himself Chair of it.

  They’re loaded. Well, you can imagine. They live in this gorgeous architect-designed house on Wentworth Drive. That’s right – Wentworth Drive. He built the place and named it after himself, and why not?

  I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering how come Tabby Wentworth would bother with a scumbag like me, right? Sure you are. Well, my dad’s an estate agent, see, and what estate agents do is they sell houses. You probably thought they sold cheeseburgers, but they sell houses. Wentworth builds ’em, Dad sells ’em. They’re not friends, exactly, but they do a lot of business together and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

  Well, no, as a matter of fact, it’s not.

  Listen. I want to tell you a story, only I’ve got to start at the beginning, right? And that’s where Tabby Wentworth comes in. At the beginning. Because she started it. She started it because everything’s boring and fourteen’s a lousy age and chippying’s about the only way you can get a bit of excitement around here. Chippying. If you’ve never heard of it, don’t worry. You will. In fact you’re going to know all about chippying real soon.

  There’s us and there’s them, see? Subbies and Chippies. They don’t call themselves Chippies, of course. I don’t know what they call themselves, but I know they call us Subbies. That’s because we live in the suburbs. We work and take showers and have nice houses. They don’t. They hang out and live in crummy apartments and they don’t even wash, for pete’s sake. And they hate us. We’re just ordinary, decent people, doing pretty much what people ought to do, but they hate us. Dad reckons it’s envy. They envy us. They want our cars and our money and our nice houses, but they don’t want our long years in school and they don’t want to work. That’s what Dad says, anyway. I don’t know. I bet they’re the same as everybody else, really, but
I wouldn’t say that to Dad. He says they get so many hand6uts they don’t need to work. And if they want some money or a nice car, they just sneak into the nearest suburb and take it. That’s why we have fences and lights and guards. That’s how come we have to carry I.D. all the time, and why we keep moving if we go outside.

  Say you have an aunt or a cousin or somebody living in a neighbouring suburb and you want to visit with them. What you have to do is get in the car, check the tank, hit the freeway with your foot down and go like the clappers till you’re there. It’s the only way. You stop out there – you just so much as slow down and they got you. They’re watching all the time, see. All the time.

  Why Chippies, I hear you ask. Why do we call them Chippies. Well, that’s easy. It’s their favourite food, chips. They practically live on them. Everybody knows that. It’s a well-known fact. And that’s where chippying comes from. It means going out and mixing with the Chippies.

  What happens is, some kid gets fed up being cooped up. I mean all right – a suburb’s a pretty nice place. I’m not saying that. But any place with a fence around’ll get to you, eventually. So this kid gets ballsed off and he calls a couple of buddies and they get in the car and go. Not down the freeway, ’cause that only takes you to the next nice prison. No. They take one of the turnoffs the copcars use and cruise into town. I mean right down there where the streets are dark and dirty with high, crummy buildings and broken glass everywhere. Why? Because the one thing those dumb Chippies know how to do is have a good time.

  They have these clubs. Not like our clubs. I’m not talking about squash clubs or health clubs or bridge clubs, and I’m not talking about youth clubs, either, with bands that play gospel half the time. No. These clubs’re night-clubs. You know. Dim, smoky little joints with booze and dope and bands that really belt it out. All the stuff the Chippies knock off, stuff they lift in the suburbs or take from hi-jack trucks gets fenced in the clubs. You might have seen something similar in old movies, but unless you chippy you’re never gonna see one for real.

  And that’s where the kids go. Round the clubs. And if you think that’s safe you’re crazy. It’s not safe. In fact it’s downright dangerous, but that’s all part of the fun.

  The reason it’s dangerous is, two reasons. First, you’ve got money and they don’t, and they know you have it, and there’s a lot of them and only a few of you. And second, they hate you anyway ’cause you’re a Subby and they’d as soon kill a Subby as look at him.

  So yes, it’s dangerous, but you’ve got one thing going for you and it’s this. You’re here to spend money. Cash money, and cash is scarcer than hen’s teeth in Chippyville. They call it peanuts. They’ll kill for it, but killing brings the cops and they’d rather get it some other way. You spend it, they got it. You have a good time spending it, you’re gonna come back again. And again. And again. And even a dumb Chippy knows you don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. So, as long as you tread soft and don’t go looking for trouble, you should be okay.

  I say should be, because every now and then a Subby’ll disappear while chippying. Sometimes a whole earful goes out and never comes back. They’ve probably run into a Dred squad, or some guy looking for a fight. You can never be sure, see, and that’s where the kick is. Right down there where the butterflies play.

  Anyway, I’m going to tell you what happened the night Tabby and me went out. The night it all began, only Daz wants to say a bit first. It will be a bit ’cause he doesn’t write too good but I wish you could see him. Your knees’d go weak, he’s so brilliant.

  DAZ

  Don’t you never go of wiv no Dred our mam sez, but wot woud you do eh? How woud you feal if you was 1 of us.

  We do wot we can rite. We do. You cant graft if ther is non and ther is non. And its not easy to get a barf neever. Not wivout water its not, and we dont hav water a lot of the time.

  And thay sit up ther in veezavill, larfin and tellin each ovver how them Chippys never graft and them Chippys never wash and them Chippys do this and them Chippys do that and them Chippys do the ovver. Its alrite for them innit. They got graft. Water. Peanuts. Its alrite for them wiv all them fast motors and brand new doodys. They mite wel larf wiv ther hi fences and dazzlers and bouncers garding them and al that. i’d larf.

  It’d be bad enuf if thay staid behind ther fences but thay dont. Not all ov them. Sum com owt at nite, Chippying. Thats wot thay call it – Chippying. Means coming down ahrend, clubbing. Thay got clubs. Posh clubs, but thay got to come snooping in ars dont thay, giving it the la-di-la and larfin. Thay got peanuts to buy the best booze and get of wiv ar wimmin. Were dirty and funny, rite. But not ar wimmin. Thats diffrent innit.

  I hate Subbys. Hate them. Mister James up at the school sez a long time ago ther was no Subbys and fings wasnt so bad. Then Brittan rite – Brittan won the fork lands and got grate and sum people got to be Subbys and sum dint and that was us. So wot i fink is, get rid of the Subbys and fings’ll be better. Stands to reason dunnit.

  And that’s wot the Dreds all about. Killing Subbys. You cant join til 15 and now I am so watch out you basteds i’ll show you topping our Del.

  ZOE

  It was a Friday, I remember that, because when Tabby mentioned going out I thought, well, at least I won’t have to be up for school tomorrow.

  I’m not saying that was my first thought. It wasn’t. I’m not that cool. My first thought was What? Who? Me?

  It was ten to nine and we were parking our bikes. I’m fitting my front wheel in the slot and thinking about nothing in particular and she says, ‘Fancy coming out tonight?’

  ‘Huh – where?’

  ‘Out. O-U-T. You know – down town.’

  ‘Chippying?’ My voice is a sort of croak. I know kids Chippy but nobody ever asked me before. It’s a bit of a shock.

  ‘Sure, Chippying,’ she says. ‘What d’you think I meant?’

  I looked at her. ‘I didn’t know you went out.’

  ‘I don’t tell you everything I do,’ she says. ‘And anyway I only went once before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three weeks ago. Four of us, in Ned Volsted’s car. There was Ned, Tim Bixby, Sara Fanshaw and me. It was brilliant.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She shrugs, doesn’t answer. Instead she says ‘You in, or not?’

  ‘Who else is going?’

  ‘Ned, Larry Turner and me. And you, of course.’

  ‘I haven’t said I’ll come yet. What about Tim and Sara?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Why aren’t they going again?’

  ‘How do I know? Busy, I guess.’ She grins. ‘Or chicken.’

  ‘Why – did something happen? Something bad?’

  She shakes her head. We’re walking away from the bikes. ‘Nothing happened. I told you – we had a great night. You in or out? I can get somebody else.’

  ‘I don’t like Larry Turner. He’s a creep.’

  ‘So?’ She shoots me a dirty look. ‘You don’t have to marry the guy. Just sit in the same car is all.’

  It was then I had the thought about not having to get up for school. I don’t want to kid you – I was nervous. In fact I was scared. Also, I didn’t know how I’d get away. What I’d tell my parents. I mean you can’t say ‘Oh, by the way, Dad, I’m off down town tonight with some of the kids. We thought we’d get drunk, do a little coke, maybe dance with some of them husky Chippy guys. Look for me around three a.m.’

  A part of me was terrified, and yet I wanted to go. I did. I felt I should anyway, because Tabby asked me and maybe she’d cool off if I refused. Stop being my friend. I don’t make friends easily and I don’t think I could stand that. So I told myself I didn’t have to get up for school tomorrow, and then I said okay, I was in.

  And that’s how it began.

  We used my cousin as an alibi. That’s really why Tabby invited me. I knew that. Last time they used Sara Fanshaw’s sister but Sara wasn’t coming this time. Tab
by’s nice and all, but she’s a user if you know what I mean. My cousin Alice lives over in Fairlawn which is the suburb next to ours. It’s four miles. Alice and Jim have a big place with ponies on it and Tabby loves to ride. My mother has taken us over there a few times so there was no problem when I told my folks. When it was time I said ‘See you’ and walked out and Ned picked me up at the end of the street. Easy peasy.

  Ned’s eighteen. He’s in the sixth form. He’s off to university in the autumn and says he won’t be back. He’s lived in Silverdale all his life and he reckons eighteen years in Silverdale’s enough for anybody. I don’t know. Whatever he does he’s going to end up living in some suburb, and I hear they’re all the same.

  We picked up Larry next. He’s sixteen, which makes him two years older than Tabby and me. He’s a weedy little guy with snaggle teeth and zits, but his dad’s a Silverdale Selectman and he thinks that makes him a star.

  Tabby was waiting on the corner. She got in the back with me. The city’s south of Silverdale but we were supposed to be heading west for Fairlawn, so we cruised along Westgate and stopped at the barrier. Ned rolled down the window and we sat looking innocent as the bouncer on duty stuck his head in. Bouncer’s Chippy for security guard.

  ‘I.D.?’ We passed him our cards. He flicked through them and handed them back.

  ‘Destination?’

  ‘Fairlawn.’ Ned has this very open smile. ‘We’re off to ride ponies with Ms Wentworth’s friends.

  The smile cut no ice. ‘I don’t care if you’re off to ride giraffes with Dracula’s uncle, kid. Stay on the freeway and keep moving, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Got gas?’

  ‘Yessir. Full tank.’

  ‘Coming back tonight?’

  ‘Ah-ha.’