Blood and Grit 21

by Clark, Simon

  Kenny shrugged, which he knew meant, ‘there’s so much to tell I don’t know where to begin’.

  But. ‘You must know how you got into such a state. You look as if someone’s tried to murder you! Oh … never mind that now. Michael’s coming home a day early. He’ll be here any minute so run and get cleaned up. You know what he’ll say if he sees you like that.’

  Kenny’s sister was in a swirling summer dress as red as strawberries, her face made up, and Kenny caught the smell of fresh perfume. He should have guessed. She always dressed smart when Michael came home. Michael …

  ‘What are you pulling a face for?’

  ‘M–Michael’s dead horrid,’ said Kenny.

  ‘Kenny, I can’t understand a word. Remember what Dr Sharma said. Speak slowly. Lots more slowly.’ She ruffled his thick rust-coloured hair, knocking his cap down over one ear. She straightened it. ‘Now take the potatoes to Mrs Tomlinson. And stop pulling those awful faces; people will think you’re funny.’

  Another grimace. Like biting something sour.

  ‘What’s the matter now? Aren’t you glad Michael’s coming home?’

  An emphatic shake of the head.

  ‘You really are ungrateful. You know that, don’t you, Kenny? Listen, as soon as we were married Michael said, “Sue, I don’t like the idea of Kenny living with all those strangers at that horrid Home. He can come and live here with us in the countryside.” Now wasn’t that kind?’

  Kenny pulled another face. ‘M–Michael k–kicks me.’

  His sister was surprised. ‘Yes … I expect he will kiss you. We all love you. Now hurry up. Bath time. And, Kenny, try very hard to speak properly. You know Michael gets cross when you gabble.’

  Kenny heaved the potatoes through into the hall. ‘Oh, look at the mud. This carpet cost a fortune! Hurry up, and remember to take off that silly cap.’

  Even when he was in the bathroom his sister still shouted up instructions. ‘Don’t run all the hot water … clean the bath … your new Kids From Fame T-shirt … and take off that cap.’ Now her voice was a different shape. Wobbly. Excited. Michael was coming home.

  Kenny hated Michael. He hated a lot of things. The Home, where baths had always been too hot or too cold, all those bright green tablets that made him feel queasy, Michael sending him down to the pub in Old Stavely village for matches, where men with voices shaped like mountains would laugh at him and knock off his cap. The walk down Skinner Lane as far as the stone bridge was alright, but he hated the trees. Where Skinner Lane crested the hill, the trees grew closer and closer together, arching across the lane to block out the sky completely. It was like entering a deep, dark tunnel. Kenny’s heart would beat faster. He would get sweaty, and a voice in his head always said the same word: ‘Scary.’

  Once he had counted the trees to stop the voice. He managed to reach more than a hundred before the voice returned. ‘Scary, scary.’ Kenny guessed there were less than a thousand trees but they seemed like a million.

  … One hundred and nine, one hundred and ten, ‘scary, scary!’ darkness creeping … ‘scary.’

  Then he heard them stalking him.

  Last week he was certain they were Daleks from Dr Who; this week he wasn’t so sure. Maybe they were the man-eating monsters – as big as buses – in his comic.

  Kenny whooshed the steaming water round the bath. He had been lucky that time; he had learnt his lesson. Now he always left the lane at the trees to walk through the sugar-beet field. His shoes would get muddied; today his T-shirt got torn as he climbed through the barbed wire fence, but anything was better than being caught by them.

  He wondered what they would do to him if they caught him. Something horrid, unbelievably horrid like …

  Like when Mr Tomlinson had cut up the dead rabbit right there on the kitchen table. When Mr Tomlinson had heaved at the stretchy skin it had ripped away. He hated the noise. Like a sticking plaster being torn from your leg – hairs, scab and all. Rip. Ouch!

  He hated the sight of the knife opening up all that red mess. Inside was horrid, but when Mr Tomlinson opened up the stomach that was when Kenny had seen the most horrible thing – ever. Kenny had wanted to leave the kitchen, but Michael had been there. Laughing, Michael made Kenny watch as Mr Tomlinson forced his hand through the furry slit in the rabbit’s stomach and pulled out …

  Kenny tried to wriggle free, but Michael had only tightened his grip, forcing Kenny to face the great oak table as Mr Tomlinson pulled out those things – horrible things.

  The rabbit’s stomach was packed full of snakes. Grey, slimy snakes.

  Michael’s voice was slippery smooth. ‘Sue and I are having poached egg on toast for tea. Guess what you’re having on your toast, Kenny.’

  Then both Michael and Mr Tomlinson had laughed as the grey snakes slithered out of the rabbit’s stomach, growing longer and longer and longer … ‘Nasty, nasty.’ Kenny shook his head and poured his sister’s Givenchy bath oil into the water. Now he would smell nothing like the kids at the Home. He held his breath and slid down the enamel bath until the water covered his head, washing away the Home smell wherever it might still linger after all these weeks.

  Yes. He hated that smell. He hated the big scary trees on Skinner Lane and the wet snakes in the poor rabbit’s belly. But, most of all, he hated Michael.

  * * *

  ‘Michael, I’ve missed you, love.’

  ‘Missed you too, Sue. Hey, wait till the audience’s gone.’

  Kenny was watching Top Cat. Something wriggled snakelike in his stomach. It always wriggled when he saw his sister kiss Michael. She would not kiss him if she knew what he did to Kenny.

  ‘Well hello there, old boy.’ Michael’s voice was as big and as grand as his Rolls-Royce. And when he spoke to Kenny it was as cold and as hard. ‘What’s Kenny been up to? Oh, you’re wearing your Kids From Fame T-shirt! Your favourite eh?’

  Kenny hated Kids From Fame.

  ‘I’ll just finish off in the kitchen, Michael.’

  ‘Do you want me to open the claret? It’ll need to breathe first.’

  Sue was laughing constantly now. ‘No, I managed to remember this time.’

  Michael sat next to Kenny on the settee, jabbing him with his fingers. ‘How’s life been treating you, old boy?’

  One day, thought Kenny, those sharp, stabbing fingers would go right through. ‘I–I’m alright. Thank you, M–Michael.’

  ‘Take that cap off, Kenny. You don’t want to wear it indoors. Rubs your hair off. Look what happened to mine, ha, ha!’ Michael frisbied Kenny’s army cap to the other side of the room. ‘Ah, it’s good to be home. All I’ve done is talk, talk, talk. God, old Rossington’s a blithering idiot. Easier to fork sand than get Rossington to see sense. No wonder they shunted him off to the Lords. Ah …’ Michael stood up. ‘Just time to shift some grime before dinner.’ He loosened his tie, gazed at the cartoon for a moment, then looked at Kenny intently watching Officer Dibble chasing the mischievous alley cats.

  ‘Thought you’d be watching the big fight on the other side, old boy.’ Michael’s big fingers stabbed at the controls, switching channels at random until columns of horse racing results flashed up on the screen. ‘Back in a jiffy,’ said Michael, and disappeared until dinner.

  * * *

  Dinner was uncomfortable. Kenny never enjoyed mealtimes when Michael was there. He had to use his knife; eat so carefully that all the flavour went from the food.

  Michael talked incessantly about money, his battles in the boardroom, about attacks, counter attacks, fiscal stratagems. Sue listened intently, occasionally nodding or laughing. Before, Kenny had tried to please Michael by joining in the laughter, but he had been told off so often he now kept quiet.

  Kenny’s gaze was riveted to his plate. He knew if he raised his eyes a little he could see Michael energetically slicing at his rare steak. Red raw like the rabbit. Kenny shuddered. Nasty. But it would serve Michael right if he cut it open to find it full of snakes: grey, sl
imy, wet … nasty.

  Raise his eyes a little further, and there would be Michael. Forking great chunks of red meat into his sloppy mouth, or gulping down glass after glass of blood-red wine, then smacking his lips in a way which Kenny was forbidden to do.

  Raising his eyes yet further and he would be looking out of the window, over the green expanse of neatly cut lawn; beyond, would be the fields growing dull as day imperceptibly slipped into night. Beyond the fields would be Skinner Lane snaking up the hill to vanish into the body of trees which seemed to bubble up from the hilltop like green froth.

  Kenny kept his gaze downward, watching the cheeseburger going cold on his plate. Now he never looked at the trees on Skinner Lane. They gave him feelings: bad, bad feelings.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Sue. ‘That chap’s been at it again.’

  Michael paused, the glass at his lips. ‘The maniac? Yes, the boy at the garage told me.’

  ‘I don’t understand it.’ Sue sipped her second glass of wine. ‘A small town like Upton. Surely someone must know who it is.’

  Kenny tried to be conventional in the way Dr Sharma had taught him. ‘S–Sue said it was the–the m–manager from the supermarket thar–that’d been attacked.’

  Michael suddenly looked hard at Kenny, as if trying to find something in his face. ‘Yes. Had the top of his head knocked off … as near as dammit, poor sod.’

  ‘Thar–that’s n–nasty. Nasty.’ And Kenny meant it.

  Michael had seen something in Kenny’s face – something he liked. ‘They say it was done with a spade. Blood all over the road, flies crawling in it … so they say.’

  ‘Michael, not while we’re eating, please,’ laughed Sue; then nervously: ‘Make sure you lock all the doors and windows tonight.’

  ‘Upton’s ten miles away,’ said Michael. ‘Mark my words, the maniac will stick to somewhere he knows. Anyway, Kenny’ll protect us, won’t you old boy? Ah, Sue, did you open the Bordeaux?’

  She ran lightly to the sideboard and returned with a full bottle.

  ‘Ah, good girl.’ Michael filled his glass to the brim. ‘Cheers! You don’t know how good it is to be home. All I’m going to do this weekend is relax, enjoy myself. God knows I’ve earned it.’

  * * *

  Usually, Mrs Tomlinson washed the dinner things the following morning, but when Michael was home Sue set to work: tidying the dining room, washing plates, cutlery, cleaning down the cooker.

  Michael approved. ‘Your sister makes this big old house a home; she pulls her weight.’ Michael told Kenny this often. He repeated it again as they sat down at the opposite ends of the settee watching television.

  It was nasty to have Michael with him; even worse to be alone with him, and worse still, to be so far from the kitchen that his sister could not hear what Michael said – or did.

  If only she knew … if only …

  But perhaps, thought Kenny, tonight would be different. Tonight, Michael, happy to be home, might be nice.

  For a moment Michael watched the ice skating. Then he swore, stood up, and poured himself a large brandy. ‘Ice skating. When are they going to show the fight? Ice skating isn’t sport. Just nancy boys on skates. God …’ He returned to his seat, sipping the brandy and smacking his lips.

  Two more restless minutes passed as Michael fidgeted, grunted and drank. Kenny sat impassively watching the television. Michael swore again then took out a cigar, looked at it thoughtfully, replaced it, then said conversationally: ‘Kenny. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be skinned alive?’

  Kenny’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘You know,’ continued Michael, ‘to be peeled like you were one big, ripe banana.’

  It was starting.

  Kenny tried to speak clearly so Michael would have no excuse to get angry, but it was difficult when he was nervous. ‘I–I don’t know, Michael.’

  ‘That business with the maniac. It reminded me of something.’ Michael went to refill his glass. ‘But promise you’ll tell no-one.’ Michael looked hard at him. ‘Not even Sue. We don’t want to frighten her, do we? Promise Kenny.’ Michael’s voice had changed shape. Flat and low, like something unpleasant – creeping.

  ‘I–I p–promise, Michael.’ A shiver ran up Kenny’s spine.

  Michael spoke evenly, ensuring every single word was understood. ‘You know, there was some trouble round here about thirty years ago. People disappearing, being attacked and so forth. Ah, an unpleasant business. Very unpleasant indeed.’ Michael refilled his glass; drinking faster now.

  ‘Whar–what happened?’ said Kenny, not really wanting to know, but if he kept Michael talking Sue might return before … before Michael became bored.

  ‘Every so often, people would vanish, Kenny. Out there on Skinner Lane.’

  Kenny smelt the brandy on Michael’s breath. ‘Did they c–catch him?’

  ‘Not a him, old boy. It! And no, they never did catch it. It is still out there – somewhere. Waiting.’

  Michael saw something in Kenny’s face again. That something he liked. Discomfort, uncertainty … fear.

  ‘A m–m–monster? There’s no – no such things as monsters.’

  ‘Oh, but there is, Kenny.’

  ‘Monsters d–don’t exist.’ But he had heard them, there on Skinner Lane, rustling through the trees. And didn’t Sue always say that Michael was brilliant, that he knew everything? ‘Monsters are owe–only for pretend, they’re n–not real.’

  ‘God, it’s a good thing you’re only incoherent. Incontinent, and your feet wouldn’t touch old boy. Speak clearly, for God’s sake, you sound like a barrelful of monkeys.’

  ‘A–I said … monsters are pretend … television.’

  ‘Right, Kenny. Why do you think that lane into the village is called Skinner Lane?’

  ‘I–I–I–’

  ‘See, you don’t know.’ Michael refilled his glass, hands trembling. Excited. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Skinner Lane was so named because that is where something called the Skinner lives.’

  Kenny’s voice was beginning to break up. ‘Sk–Skinner? I–I mmm …’

  ‘Yes, Kenny, old boy. The Skinner! Lived down there since – since the dawn of time itself.’

  ‘N–not true … haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Ha. That’s because it’s in hibernation somewhere up in all those trees. You see, Kenny, every thirty years or so, the Skinner wakes up. Now, just you think, how hungry you’d be if you hadn’t eaten all day. And just imagine if you hadn’t eaten for thirty years! You wouldn’t be hungry … you would be bloody ravenous. Can you picture it? The Skinner, swinging through all those trees like a ruddy great orang-utan. It’s mad with hunger, then … then it sees some poor sod walking up Skinner Lane – someone just like you, Kenny – walking all alone in the dark.’ Michael grinned easily now. This was entertainment! ‘There you are, walking along, not a care in the world then … Bang!’

  Kenny jumped.

  ‘The Skinner’s on you! Bang, bang! Hammering you on the road like an egg until your skin splits, then – whoosh! It carries you up to the treetops. There it begins to peel you …’

  Michael took out a cigar and tried the coffee table lighter. It didn’t work, but instead of the usual string of curses, Michael just smiled strangely and put it down. ‘Yes … just imagine, poor daft Kenny, skinned alive by the monster. Wonder what it’s like. Hearing your own skin being ripped off. Rip, rip, rip! Then – then it peels off your face in one piece – like a mask – and nails it to a tree.’

  ‘I don’t believe you … nasty.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, old boy. Every damn word is true. Ah, just think, then it sits down and eats you up like roast chicken. Pulling off your legs; crunching them up in its big mouth!’

  Kenny winced, the words were like blades slashing down his chest.

  ‘Once the Skinner’s got you, you’re dead meat!’

  Sharp steel blades slashing down, down, down.

  ‘Poor, poor Kenny! The Skin
ner hangs out his skin to dry, high up in the treetops. Flutter, flutter, flutter!’

  ‘N–no, no.’ Kenny was scared. Sweaty scared.

  ‘Your face peeled off. Can you picture it? Daft Kenny’s face hanging from a twig, scaring blackbirds.’

  ‘No, s–s–s–stop it! M–M … nasty Michael.’

  Michael sat back, face red, his cheeks puffing out. But he hadn’t finished yet. Kenny’s horror was like a rare old wine, and there was more to savour.

  ‘What time is it, Kenny?’

  ‘Har–half h–h …’

  ‘Well spit it out. Twenty years old and can’t speak. Christ!’

  ‘Har–half past eight.’

  ‘Mm. Dark in half an hour, Kenny. Pitch dark,’ he chuckled. ‘What do you think to the Skinner then? Just a silly old fairy tale?’

  Kenny pulled a face and nodded.

  ‘Well … we’ll have to wait and see. But once you’ve seen its nest – all those poor sods’ skins – you’ll believe. Course, it’ll be too late then. Far, far too late. Dead meat, Kenny, dead meat.’

  Then it was over. Michael sighed, seeming to deflate, his hand limply held the glass. Drained but satisfied he fixed Kenny with a strange look and smiled.

  When Sue entered the room Michael was warm, relaxed, content to watch the ice skating. Kenny, his face twisted by some strong unreadable expression, sat hunched and tense.

  ‘Stop pulling faces, Kenny, it’s not nice.’

  Kenny smiled; safe at last.

  Michael casually pulled out the cigar, peeled off the cellophane skin, and tried to light the cigar from the coffee table lighter. ‘Oh dear.’ Michael feigned surprise. ‘We’ll have to get it refilled.’ Then he half heartedly patted his pockets. ‘Kenny, old boy, seems I’m clean out of matches.’

  Kenny’s face burned, then he shivered, anticipating the words.

  ‘Be a good lad and nip down to the pub for a couple of boxes. Get yourself a bag of crisps. Money’s on the table.’

  Kenny felt it was life itself draining from him as he stood up.