Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

As though he was dragging his feet through mud, Henry turned around, stepped towards him. His father’s features hadn’t altered but his face looked drawn and haggard whilst his physique, once so bulky, seemed to have shrunk so that his shoulders were rounded. Thick stubble, once not tolerated as a matter of pride, grew on his chin. Henry couldn’t hide his surprise, stood there as self-conscious as a shy schoolboy.

  ‘You’ve got this far, might as well come on in,’ Fred Torrance said.

  He made a beckoning gesture and went back inside, accompanied by a coughing bout like the dogs’ barks. Bracing himself, Henry followed, tried not to think of anything except that he wasn’t here of his own volition but in consideration of other people’s welfare.

  His father was seated at a table, empty beer bottles arranged around him like a fort. He’d draped a blanket over his shoulders and it made him look like an Indian chief. Henry noticed the kitchen sink was laden with dirty dishes. The place looked like it needed a good clean and, judging by the pervading musty smell, a good airing too. This was not what he had expected, not how he remembered his old home.

  ‘Sit on those brains of yours,’ his father said, showing a flash of that patronizing attitude that was more in keeping with Henry’s memories but lacked the same edge of conviction it once had.

  Henry slid into the seat opposite, feeling like a child again. He realized he hadn’t opened his mouth yet.

  His father fixed him with his eyes. Henry couldn’t read anything in them.

  ‘Took you long enough to come visit, lad.’

  Henry’s hackles rose. Five years dismissed in one sentence. The old man had certainly changed outwardly, but his thought processes hadn’t altered; he was still selfish to the core.

  ‘You never visited me once inside,’ Henry snapped back, his bitterness spilling into his words. ‘Not once!’

  His old man surprised Henry by having the grace to look embarrassed. It only lasted a moment, though. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Had my reasons, son.’

  Son! That was an endearment Henry hadn’t heard before. Another surprise. He grew suspicious. Had age and weakness forced the old man to adopt new tactics in his dealings because the old bluntness wouldn’t work anymore? Was he going to soft soap him to get him to fight Chip Jackson? Well, whatever he tried, it wouldn’t work.

  ‘There are no reasons to excuse a father not visiting his son in five years. Shows what you thought of me, doesn’t it?’

  His father studied the bottles pensively, as though he was trying to find the right words but finding it a struggle.

  ‘Didn’t want to see you shut up like an animal,’ he said finally, not meeting Henry’s gaze. ‘Couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Poor you!’ Henry said, not believing a word of it, yet admitting to himself his father was putting on a good show of sincerity, revealing more emotion than ever he had before.

  ‘Best you were left to get on with it,’ Fred continued. ‘Seeing me would have reminded you of better days, made things worse. That’s what I decided.’

  Henry snorted. ‘Now I’ve heard everything! You were thinking of me!’

  Silence descended. Henry waited. Any minute his father would mention he’d put money on him fighting, ask him to go up against Chip Jackson. But the old man didn’t say anything. He had a guilty look about him. Henry figured it was just good acting. Deciding to push things along, he leaned towards him.

  ‘You’ve put up a stake for me to take on Chip Jackson. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Fred covered his face with his hands, drew them slowly down until he was looking at Henry over the tips of his fingers.

  ‘No fool like an old fool, I suppose. I was drunk, son.’

  There it was again, that ‘son’. As for his father being self critical — that was a new one and no doubt a sly attempt for sympathy.

  ‘Drunk, eh! So what’s new under the sun?’

  Ignoring the barb, the old man looked straight into Henry’s eyes.

  ‘Frank tells me you won’t fight; is that because it’s me asking?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Henry rasped. ‘I’ve just done five years for killing a Jackson. Now you ask me to risk the same because you’ve been stupid. When I won’t, Frank tries to mess up my life. The only reason I’m here is to ask you to call him off.’

  Fred raised his eyebrows in what looked like genuine surprise.

  ‘I didn’t know he was at it. Believe me, I didn’t. He was just going to talk to you, nothing more.’

  Henry took a deep breath. This new soft side the old man was trying to project was a little confusing, not at all what he’d expected. But he didn’t trust him.

  ‘Then call him off and prove it.’

  His father screwed his face up. ‘You think he listens to me anymore? Look at me, son. I’m a sick old man. He does his own thing, your brother. Has done for a long time.’

  Henry could see the evidence of his father’s decline. That physical presence, which he had relied on to get his way, had waned dramatically. Frank could well have taken advantage.

  Suddenly, the old man banged his fist on the table. His eyes sparked the way Henry remembered, as though inside the weaker body his younger self was trying to assert itself, beat the count.

  ‘The Torrances are fighters,’ he declaimed. ‘Always have been. It’s your birthright.’

  There it was, out in the open, the attitude Henry had expected when he’d walked in. This was his true self showing through at last. The rest had been a veneer and he’d nearly fallen for it. Now the volcano would erupt and they’d be at each other’s throats.

  ‘Like always, you weren’t listening to me,’ he snapped. ‘I tell you I won’t fight for anyone. No amount of money is enough to make me.’

  Henry prepared himself for an angry reaction. If he didn’t fight his father would have to hand over the money anyway. Those were the rules the Jacksons played by. One time, nothing could have provoked Fred Torrance more than that. Yet, the volcano didn’t show any sign of blowing. Instead his father seemed to shrink right into himself, looked defeated. When he spoke all the passion that had resurged a moment ago was gone.

  ‘I can see you’ve made up your mind. Can’t say I blame you either. I was never much of a father, especially after your mother died.’ He gave a long sigh that made his chest rattle. ‘I can’t make any claims on you, Henry. You do what you think you have to.’

  As though being too close to the old man might give him a wrong perspective, Henry leaned away from him. He was confused. He couldn’t see any sign that he was acting; there was more acceptance than artifice in his eyes.

  ‘You can at least tell Frank to stop.’

  ‘I’ll try, but he won’t listen.’ Fred hesitated, cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You’re sure you won’t fight? All that talent of yours going to waste — those preening Jacksons needing to be brought down a peg.’

  His father’s tone had been more wistful than anything, without any true conviction or aggressiveness. Henry couldn’t get angry.

  ‘Not to mention your money is involved, eh? The truth is I’m ashamed of my past. I want to better myself in other ways.’

  When the old man didn’t answer, Henry stood up and started for the door. As he’d expected, his visit had been fruitless. He thought his father would call him back, make one final appeal to get him to fight, but the only sound when he opened the door was a dog howling at some perceived injustice.

  Hand on the door handle, he turned. His father was watching him from behind the bottle fort, looking lonely and melancholy, like the last survivor of a battle who feels guilty he hasn’t gone down with his comrades. In spite of himself, Henry felt a pang of sympathy. He heard himself speak in a voice that was so dry it didn’t seem his own.

  ‘You stand to lose all your savings?’

  His father nodded. ‘Yeah! More fool me. But I’ll still have my caravan so I’ll get by — always have.’

  Henry grunted. A feeling of re
gret swept over him. He wished things could have been different between his father and him, but too much had happened, or not happened. As he started to step out, his father called after him.

  ‘Good luck with your life, Henry. You never had much going for you. I should have done better by you.’

  Henry looked back, perplexed. Was his father genuine or just a wily old fox fighting with the tricks it had left? Strangely, he thought he was being sincere. Again, he couldn’t find words. The lump rising in his throat didn’t help and he settled for a nod in his father’s direction. As he shut the door behind him it felt like closing a book with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction because it had raised questions which would remain unanswered unless he dipped into it again.

  As he headed off the site, he knew he hadn’t solved anything coming here. He believed his old man when he said he couldn’t control his brother. You just had to look at him to know he was incapable of imposing his rule. He’d accepted his refusal to fight without much of an argument. The biggest surprise, however, the one that had set Henry’s emotions swirling, were those final, humble, apologetic good wishes. That was something he hadn’t expected in a million years. And he’d called him son — twice.

  CHAPTER NINE

  John Walsh felt happier than he had for a long time. In the past fortnight, he’d had three visits to the Fairbrother farm to help Henry with the horses, enjoying the animals and the natural surroundings, the sense it gave him that there were other horizons beyond South Bank. The chestnut welcomed him like an old friend each time and the other horses were gradually losing their fear. It was a good feeling, that trust which was developing, the giving and receiving of affection with no sense of ulterior motive. The fact that Tonks and his pals knew he was trying to educate himself didn’t concern him the way it had before, seemed a triviality.

  He’d just come into the house. Henry had set him some homework and, since the place seemed quiet, he decided to take advantage, head straight upstairs to his bedroom and get on with it. Usually his books were in the bedside cabinet so he was puzzled when he couldn’t find them. Thinking he could have left them under the bed, he searched there but with no result. Now he started to panic. Had his father been in his room? Aware of noises coming from the garden, he moved to the window to investigate.

  A fire was blazing out there. His father and two of his wastrel mates were perched beside it, using beer crates for seats. A barbecue grill lay across the fire. As though a sixth sense had told him his son was watching, his father glanced up at the bedroom window, locked eyes with his son. John could have sworn he saw a smile on his lips as he reached down. The next instant his father was holding a book in his hands. With slow deliberation, as though relishing it, he tore out the pages, fed them to the flames.

  John watched in disbelief, his emotions swirling. Then those emotions condensed to a white hot fury that impelled him out of the bedroom. He galloped down the stairs, burst out of the door. Heart pounding, he stood before his father and his pals who were grinning at him inanely. Two books lay at his father’s feet. John stooped, picked them up as though they were precious gold, held them to his chest. Glancing at the fire, he saw the last vestiges of his other books consumed in the flames.

  John fought hard for self-control but bitter resentment stoked his anger. There was no doubt in his mind his father had done this deliberately. He was jealous, didn’t want him to better himself, was afraid his son might do better than him, be something he couldn’t be. How else could you explain his actions?

  ‘We’re not to be disturbed, Shakespeare. Can’t yer see we’re dining?’ his old man slurred. He bit into a bun, tomato sauce squelching out like blood from a wound.

  ‘Hark at Lord Charlie! He’s dining out tonight,’ one of the men cackled, nearly falling off his crate in the process.

  ‘Pass the port, Charlie,’ the other fellow slurred in what was meant to be a posh voice but fell way short.

  His father laughed with them, then looked at John with bleary eyes that had no merriment, only a slyness that conveyed to his son he knew exactly what he had done and didn’t give a damn.

  ‘We’re having a ceremony,’ he said. ‘It’s called the burning of the books. Hitler had one. What was good enough for Hitler —’

  John could no longer contain his fury. He swung his right boot and sent the grill flying. Pieces of meat shot through the air, landed on the grass.

  A silence heavy with implication descended on the group. His father’s pals stared at the meat sizzling in the grass as though entranced.

  ‘Yer little bastard,’ his father said, when he’d recovered from the shock. ‘That’s our grub.’

  John clutched his remaining books to his chest. ‘You couldn’t just let me be, could you?’ he yelled. ‘You had to try to keep me down, like always. Hitler? Hitler had nothing on you.’

  His father rose, took a step towards his son, his face contorted.

  ‘And who do you think you are?’ he sneered, spittle shooting from his mouth. ‘You never did nowt at school and now you waste your time with them . . . things. Get a job if anybody’ll have a useless article like you. Make some money. Yer mother spoiled yer, put ideas into that stupid head. That’s what’s wrong with you.’

  ‘You tell him, Charlie!’ one of the men called out, clapping his hands.

  The injustice of his father’s words re-kindled John’s fury. He knew it would be best to walk away as he usually did, but this time he couldn’t.

  ‘My mother was too good for you,’ he shouted. ‘She should have left you. She was the one who worked while you sat on your fat backside. You and your mates are one of a kind — ignorant wasters — kings of the slag heaps. I’d rather die than end up like you.’

  Charlie Walsh’s face was incandescent. His son was hammering him right into the ground and insulting his mates for good measure. It was too much for him to bear. Drawing back his arm, he swung a punch at John’s head. The movement was so ponderous he saw it coming, easily avoided the blow. On another day John might have let it go, but he was already furious. Now the red mist came down. He struck his father hard in the stomach. Charlie Walsh bent double, let out a groan, followed it with a volley of spew which landed in his mate’s lap. Sinking down on one knee like a holy man seeking a blessing, he looked up at his son but with nothing remotely holy in his eyes, only hatred.

  John felt guilty, yet strangely elated, all at once. It was time to make a retreat so he ran to the back gate, burst out into the back alley. He told himself he’d given his old man what he deserved, what he’d had coming for a long time. Yet he couldn’t shake off a sense of shame, because for a moment back there he’d totally lost it, had wanted to tear his old man to pieces. He’d been in another dimension where nothing mattered but doing some damage. He felt he’d let Henry down.

  An old instinct drove him through the streets and across the disused railway track to the abandoned pigeon lofts where his grandfather had once kept his birds. The lofts had long since been damaged by vandals, but his grandfather’s old loft still had half a roof, would give a bit of shelter and a place to think. He crawled through a hole in the wire, entered the ramshackle hut and lay down on the wooden floor.

  As he lay there listening to his own laboured breathing, a myriad thoughts raced through his head. There was no doubt what he had just done had changed everything, had tilted the axis of his world. With that punch, the balance of power had shifted and his old man would know it. Charlie Walsh carried grudges, was an unforgiving man, even if John wanted to be forgiven, which he didn’t. He couldn’t face living in that house with his father any longer. It would crush the life and hope out of him just when he’d started to believe. But where could he go? With no money how would he survive?

  *

  It was early morning. On the lonely streets the rain was starting to fall, at first softly, like a baby’s tears, then gathering force, as though the gods needed to remind John Walsh he was at the mercy of the power of nature and it co
uld turn on him at a whim. Stiff and miserable from a night spent in the pigeon loft, he took shelter in a shop doorway, wiped the rain from his face and hair and looked out at the wet streets of South Bank feeling like an animal without a lair to give it protection against the elements. Had he now officially joined the ranks of the homeless?

  He half turned, realized it was a butcher’s shop. So near he felt he could almost reach out and touch them, a smug looking plethora of pork pies sat in the window like squat, brown-skinned men in competition to see who had the best tone and tan. The vision set his digestive juices on the rampage. His stomach growled its discontent. It had been twelve hours since he’d eaten. Never mind a roof over his head, where would his next meal come from? Perhaps he’d watch the house, wait for his father to go out, then slip back in and help himself. Not a long term solution, not an easy manoeuvre, but a necessary one.

  His eye on the pies, he took no particular notice when a Ford Fiesta drew up at the kerb. He heard his name called. When he looked, the driver’s window was down and Barry Tonks was staring at him through the relentless sheets of rain.

  ‘Not going to rob that shop, are you, John?’

  ‘Just eyeing those pork pies,’ he answered, jerking a thumb at the window, trying valiantly to sound light-hearted.

  Tonks raised his eyes to the sky, beckoned with his hand.

  ‘Ha’way man, get yourself out of the wet for a minute.’

  John hesitated. Tonks seemed to have dismissed the edginess between them at their last meeting. He knew he didn’t have a licence and the car was likely stolen — or borrowed. But he was cold and miserable and right now any port in a storm was better than none. The warm car was tempting so he ran round to the passenger side and climbed in.

  ‘You look like death warmed up — maybe not as good as that,’ Tonks said, eyeing John as he settled into the seat. ‘What’s up with you, feller?’

  Tonks wasn’t the ideal agony aunt, far from it, but John felt like unburdening himself.

  ‘Fell out with my old man big time, didn’t I? Don’t think I can go back home.’