Jake's Tower

by Elizabeth Laird

  There was a murderous look in Dad’s eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to go in and kill him. Kick him to death. And I wanted him to. I felt my blood boiling up, and everything went red in front of my eyes. I wanted to run in and kick and stamp and punch.

  I couldn’t have done it, though. I couldn’t have brought myself to touch him, not even with the toe of my shoe. I didn’t want to dirty myself.

  Dad backed off too, as if he was moving away from a bad smell.

  ‘I always knew you were trouble,’ he said, his voice filled with acid. ‘I knew it even when we were kids, going round together.’ He put his arm round my shoulders, and I could hear how fast he was breathing, and smell the angry sweat on him.

  ‘If you ever go near Jake again,’ he went on, ‘within five miles, you’re going to fetch up in prison. Or hospital. Or both. Come on, Jake.’

  The stillness had gone suddenly. The alley was an alley, not a canyon, and the sun was the same old sun as usual. I could hear the traffic round the front of the Odeon again, and people calling out in the street, and girls’ voices coming our way. They weren’t in sight yet, but I looked towards the sound, and there, right there by the wall, was the bucket of water that the window cleaner had left.

  I don’t know what made me do it. I didn’t have time to think. I just ran over, and picked it up. And then I chucked the water up into the air so that it streamed out in a beautiful silvery arc and landed full on him, right on Steve, drenching his head, plastering his hair down over his face, running in dirty streams down his cheeks, soaking his jacket and his trousers, dripping off his hands and feet.

  He spluttered and began cussing me, but his eyes were on Dad, and he shut up almost at once. He got to his feet and staggered off, not looking back, lurching to one side to avoid a pair of girls who had come round the corner now and were giggling behind their hands at the sight of him.

  That first game of football with my dad was the best I’d ever played. It was like I was flying. I was dribbling and shooting and tackling and swerving so brilliantly I could have been out there on the turf playing in the World Cup final. I had Dad puffing around, laughing and swearing and tying his feet in knots.

  I knew it was a one-off. I’d never play like that again. He was better than me really. Faster and with loads of technique. It was just that I’d been touched by genius for once in my life.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked Grandma when we got home.

  She jerked her chin up towards the ceiling.

  ‘Up in her room. In the dumps. Go and cheer her up, Jake. Wait, just look at you. Soaked in sweat. Get that shirt off before you catch a chill.’

  Mum was lying on her bed with a tissue in her hand. Her top was rumpled up and I could see that the baby was beginning to push her stomach out. It was embarrassing, really, so I didn’t look.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ I said.

  ‘Oh. It’s you.’ She gave a gigantic sniff. ‘Been out enjoying yourself, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Something told me I’d better not tell her about the fight with Steve, and the brilliant game of football. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘No. Don’t get her up here fussing around me either.’

  ‘Did you have words with her or something?’

  ‘Words? She had words. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. She’s like the Niagara Flaming Falls. She swamps me, Jake. I can’t be doing with it any more. I want to go home.’

  I swallowed.

  ‘Yeah, but what about—’

  ‘I told you. There’s a court injunction out on him. He’s not allowed near you. Or me. Not even allowed to be with his own baby.’

  She made a hiccuping noise.

  ‘He’s still there, though, isn’t he? In the flat.’

  ‘He’s left. I went round to – just to get a few things this afternoon when old Mrs Misery thought I was going off to Mothercare. He’s cleared all his stuff out. Left the place like a pig sty too.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘But he’s got his key still, hasn’t he, Mum? He can get back in whenever he likes.’

  She turned her back on me so she was facing the wall.

  ‘Hop it, Jake. I’ve had enough. My head’s splitting.’

  I tiptoed down the stairs. Grandma was coming out of the kitchen with a tray loaded up with a teapot, a mug, and a stack of biscuits.

  ‘Out of the way, love,’ she said. ‘I’m just taking this tea up to her.’

  ‘She doesn’t want any,’ I said quickly. ‘I asked. She said not to disturb her because she’s going to sleep. I think she’s dropped off already.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Grandma looked disappointed. She went back into the kitchen. I went after her. Dad was at the table reading the paper.

  ‘She wants to go home,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ Grandma said. ‘She told me. We had a bit of a barney about it.’

  Dad chipped in unexpectedly.

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ he said. ‘She wants to get on with her life. You’ll have to go back to the flat sometime, the two of you.’

  I felt as if I’d been standing on a platform and one of the planks had been knocked out from under my feet.

  Dad must have seen the look on my face.

  ‘It’s OK, Jake. Not without safeguards. For one thing, we’ve got to make sure he’s moved out.’

  ‘He has. She went round today to get some stuff. He’s taken all his things.’

  Grandma rolled her eyes.

  ‘Went to find him, I suppose. I knew she was up to something. The crafty—’

  ‘Stop it, Ma!’ Dad sounded quite stern. ‘Get off her back. Where’s Steve staying, Jake?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ He was tapping a finger on the table while he thought things through. ‘Next off, I’m going to change the lock. Get you some new keys so he can’t walk in and out whenever he fancies.’

  I was starting to feel a bit better. Only a bit, though.

  ‘But what if he – you know – hides around the place and catches me when I go out?’

  I didn’t want Dad to think I was chicken, but I had to get things straight.

  ‘Who’s that mate of yours you were telling me about? Kieran, isn’t it? Doesn’t he live near you? What if you go to school and come home together?’

  I thought about that for a minute. I wasn’t sure if I knew Kieran well enough yet. Then I remembered how he’d come to my rescue when Mr Grossmith was giving me the going over in the library.

  I nodded.

  ‘We could do that.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have to worry for long,’ Grandma said. ‘Steve’ll be mad as hell for a bit, then he’ll get used to things. Like I keep saying, he’s chicken, Steve is. Always has been. He picked on Jake because he was a kid, but the whistle’s been blown on him now. He’ll be running scared.’

  I remembered Steve walking off round the corner by the Odeon, beaten and dripping wet, like a dog who’s been whipped and crawled out of a puddle.

  Maybe they’re right, I thought. Maybe it will be OK.

  But in my heart of hearts I was afraid.

  In my mind, the flat’s always been a dark place. There were red-hot danger zones in it, like Steve’s chair in front of the telly, and the video shelf, and his side of the bedroom he shared with Mum. If I dared set foot in them, when he was around, that was it. That was IT.

  There were my hiding places too, places where I’d hidden my things, and sometimes hidden myself.

  But there was nowhere I’d felt safe. He’d always found me anyway, and when I’d tried to hide, it had only made things worse.

  We went back to the flat together, my mum and dad and me. When Mum opened the front door, I could smell it in the air, his smell, his sweat and his aftershave, the smell of fear.

  Dad walked from the sitting room into the kitchen and the two bedrooms, c
licking his tongue.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘He’s trashed the place. What a loser.’

  Mum seemed so depressed by it all, by the shower curtain ripped down, and the bedclothes tossed around on the floor, and the sticky stuff burnt on to the cooker in the kitchen, and the empty space where the telly and video used to be, and her little glass cat that he’d given her once, lying smashed on the floor, that she went straight to her bed and sat down on it, all limp, as if she’d been punched in the head.

  I went and looked at my own room. I hardly recognized it to be honest. Steve had turned my cupboard over and everything left in it was lying on the floor. And he’d ripped down my football poster and smashed my alarm clock. There was even a jagged hole in the window where he’d chucked something through it.

  It gave me the shivers. I could feel him, as if he was still there, doing it, his anger beating round the room like a huge, mad bird.

  Then I felt Dad’s arm round my shoulders.

  ‘A clean sweep,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That’s what we need in here. Redecoration. New curtains. I’ll put some shelves up for your stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  It sounded for one beautiful moment as if he was planning to move in with us, but then he said, ‘I’ve got a week left before I go back to work. Should be time enough to get things straight and get you two moved back in. Come on. Let’s go down the DIY shop and choose a few colours and bits and pieces. You ever tried painting, Jake? It’s fun. You can give me a hand.’

  Mum snapped at me when we asked if she wanted to come too, so we went off on our own.

  We bumped into nasty old Mrs Fletcher at the main door of the flats. She’s always been mean to us, especially since Mum complained about her cats shitting behind the door downstairs. I keep out of her way if I can.

  ‘What are you doing here, Steve?’ she said, in her whiny voice, peering at Dad through her dirty, thick glasses. ‘Thought you’d taken yourself off to Bristol.’

  ‘It’s not Steve, Mrs Fletcher.’ I was really proud of saying it, pleased to show Dad off even to her. ‘It’s my dad. My own dad.’

  ‘Your what?’ She made a kind of mumbling noise, and her chin moved up and down, so that the long black hairs sticking off it waved around like antennae.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Dad elbowed past me. ‘What was all that about Bristol? Did Steve say he was going there? Did he tell you?’

  She stared at him, then she cackled like the wicked fairy in a cartoon.

  ‘Another boyfriend, eh? Well, I never. Quite a goer, that Marie.’

  She was horrible. I was pulling at Dad’s arm to get him away, but he just went on looking at her, and said, ‘Why Bristol? Did he say?’

  ‘Got a job down there, hasn’t he? Swore at me when I asked him what it was. Nice manners, I must say. I said did he want me to send the bailiffs after him next time they came to call and he told me to go to hell.’

  ‘When did you see him, then?’ Dad was talking really nicely. He didn’t charm Mrs Fletcher, though. She looked so suspicious you’d have thought he was a cat poisoner.

  ‘What’s all this about? Done a bunk, has he? Thought as much. I never liked him. Had a shifty look in his eye.’

  ‘Bristol,’ Dad said, when we’d got rid of Mrs Fletcher and were walking back towards his car. ‘Why Bristol?’

  ‘He went there a couple of times,’ I said, trying to remember. ‘Last year.’

  I was feeling great. Bristol was miles and miles away. If Steve had gone to Bristol, I’d be fine. Just fine.

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  I frowned, dragging things back into my mind.

  ‘He had a mate there, I think. Someone he met in the pub. This guy went there and set up a garage. Steve said last year we all ought to move to Bristol. Said he was fed up with nosy neighbours. Mum wouldn’t go. She likes it round here. Do you think he’s gone, Dad? Really gone?’

  ‘Sounds like it. Typical Steve if he has. He was always one to bunk off if there was any sign of trouble. What was all that about the bailiffs? Not in debt, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was just Mrs Fletcher going on, I think. She likes stirring it. She always has.’

  Where did I get all that stuff from about living by myself at the top of a tower in the middle of an island? We’ve been working non-stop on the flat this last week, my dad and me, and the better it gets here, the weirder that other place – that dream place – seems.

  I don’t need that place now. Home is good enough for me.

  I’ve never wanted to run home from school before, but I’ve been living through the school days just waiting to get back. Every day there’s been new stuff to see.

  Dad got someone in to mend the window in my room. That was the first day. We started sploshing paint around that evening.

  I spilled a bit on the floor, but Dad didn’t shout at me or anything. He just told me to wipe it up and be more careful in future. Then he spilled some too, and we laughed, both of us together.

  When I got back the next afternoon my room was done. It was all blue, like I’d wanted. I can see a few bits we missed but I don’t mind them. I think it looks great.

  I couldn’t believe it, the day after that. He’d put up new curtains, with a black zigzag pattern on them – really cool – and some shelves. The top one wobbles a bit so you can’t put heavy stuff up there, but the others are OK. And there was a lampshade too, and a new duvet cover, that nearly goes with the curtains.

  He’d chucked out the old table, and there was a nice new one, a bit like a desk, with little drawers in it.

  ‘You can do your homework there,’ he said.

  I’ve never bothered much about homework, so I didn’t say anything. Anyway, I was too busy looking at the poster he’d stuck up on the wall beside my bed.

  It was a big picture of a gorilla, or a chimpanzee. I wasn’t sure which.

  ‘You like those big hairy guys, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You said something about them. I thought it would do till we win the lottery.’

  I couldn’t believe he’d done that. It was as if he’d known, although I’d never told him.

  It was the chimp at the zoo that sorted everything out, in a way. If he hadn’t peed all over Steve, I wouldn’t have laughed, and Steve wouldn’t have half killed me, and Mum wouldn’t have made her mind up to leave the flat. And we wouldn’t have gone to Sunnybrook Road, and got to know Grandma. And I’d never have found my dad.

  When I saw that poster, I felt that my dad and me were connected, deep, deep down.

  It was Dad’s last day today. He’s going back to work tomorrow. He’s got to go, he says, or he’ll get the sack.

  He’s been getting on Mum’s nerves.

  ‘What’s this new kettle for?’ she was saying when I got home. ‘The old one worked all right.’

  ‘The flex was fraying,’ said Dad. ‘You might have got a shock.’

  He kept going to the window and looking out.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ she said. ‘Cat on hot bricks, you are.’

  ‘I’m expecting a delivery.’ He was looking guilty.

  ‘Of what? What now?’

  ‘I couldn’t resist it, Marie. It was a fantastic bargain. I know you’ll like it. I tried it out so I could tell it was really comfortable.’

  ‘What is this? What are you up to, Danny?’

  ‘It’s a three-piece suite,’ Dad said, looking at me as if he wanted me to back him up. ‘They should be here by now. They said they’d deliver it by five.’

  ‘A what?’ Mum’s voice was rising. ‘What am I supposed to do with a flaming three-piece suite! Where do you think I’m going to put it? Hang it from the ceiling? There’s not an inch of space left in this flat.’

  ‘They said they’d take the old chairs away,’ Dad said, biting his lip. ‘Honestly, Marie. You’re going to love it. I know you are. It’s really good quality. I mean what’s so fantastic about those old chairs?
Specially that big wreck in front of the telly. It’s got stains all over it and the arms are going through.’

  ‘Are you totally off your head, Danny Judd?’ Mum demanded. ‘Whose flat is this? What gives you the right? You and your mother! Bossing everyone around! Interfering! I’ve had enough of the lot of you. You come in here and chuck out my stuff and bring in a load of tat I’ve never even seen! It’s not on, Danny.’

  She was trying to work herself up, but I could see she only half meant it. She was excited too, in a way.

  ‘But you’ve been moaning on about those old chairs for years, Mum,’ I said. ‘And you never chose them either. Steve got them off the man at the dump. You always said the smell from them turned your stomach.’

  It was lucky, really, that the door bell rang then, because there was such a business, getting the old chairs out through the door and down the stairs, and bringing up the new suite, that Mum didn’t have the chance to get going again.

  And when it was done, and they were all in, there was nothing she could say. Our sitting room was a different place.

  Before there had been Steve’s big chair stuck in front of the place where the old telly had been, and the two others had been pushed back against the wall. They’d been a horrible brown grey colour, all covered in dark blobs and shiny, greasy places. But now there was this really comfortable sofa under the window, just asking you to stretch out on it, and a couple of chairs with their arms open, begging you to curl up in them.

  They were a light pinky red. And they had cushions to match.

  ‘They’ll show the dirt,’ Mum said, looking round the room, trying to frown. ‘Can you imagine what a baby’s going to do to them?’

  ‘You can take the covers off,’ Dad said, watching her anxiously. ‘They’re washable.’

  Mum gave up all of a sudden. She sat down on the sofa and even stretched her legs out.

  ‘They’re great, Mum, aren’t they?’

  I was breathing in the lovely fresh smell of them, and just looking round the room, which was new and clean and different. Steve’s old chair had kept him in here, holding the shadow of his presence, the ghost of my fear. Now it had gone, and he’d gone too.

  Mum let out her breath in a gust. Then she threw her head back and laughed.