Humber Boy B

by Ruth Dugdall

  It hadn’t meant to be so serious. He was a middle-aged divorcee who knew his best years were behind him and Jess was a newly promoted bright young thing, still in her twenties despite having a ten-year-old son. A woman who’d made a mistake at seventeen and was making her life count for something, and she looked up to Roger. He had supervised her final placement when she was a trainee, interviewed her for the role of teacher after she qualified. He already admired her, but hadn’t acted on it until then. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.

  But she was wrong to think she could just walk away. Jess needed an older man like him, she was frustrated with Dave, and she had so much still to learn. He enjoyed taking her to films at the art house cinema, recommending books she should read. And now she was being silly, saying she was going to stay with Dave. As if a man like that could give her what she needed. Just like Rachel, these women never knew what was good for them. And Cheryl looked in danger of going the same way, if he didn’t start to take action.

  Cheryl ran back out, dressed more suitably in denim shorts, though they were too skimpy for his liking, and there was a smattering of sequins on her vest top. She was also clutching her swimsuit and a towel. “Let’s go, Dad,” she said, as though it was she who had been waiting.

  Roger drove carefully, pausing at junctions, getting petrol even though the tank was half-full, and finally stopping at Mrs Patel’s shop for drinks and sandwiches.

  “Wait here,” he told his daughter. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Alone in the car, Cheryl reached to the driver’s side and tugged the indicator switch, then fiddled with the headlight lever, but nothing happened as the ignition was dead. She pulled down the mirror and studied her face, touched the sticky lip gloss, peeled a flake of blue mascara from her eyelash and regretted picking the spot on her chin which was now a red sore. She put her feet on the dashboard and tried to touch her toes but it made her stomach ache. Now she thought about it, her stomach had ached since she woke up. She looked out of the window and saw three boys from the rough part of the estate. Adam was in her school year, and she’d known him for years, and she also recognised his kid brother. But it was the younger boy who took her attention, Jessica’s son, Noah. Little wanker, she thought, though it was hardly his fault that his mum was a bitch.

  Her dad was stupid if he thought Cheryl hadn’t noticed what was going on, she’d known he hadn’t been to the snooker club when he came back smelling of perfume, she’d seen the way he suddenly wore trendier clothes to work. She wasn’t an idiot, and she liked Jess. Liked that her dad wasn’t on her case so much, that he had someone else to think about. This was the main reason Cheryl more than liked her, she needed her. But Jess had gone, just like her mum. Jess was a bitch.

  Noah was pushing a silver scooter, but the other boys were walking. Adam had his hands in his pockets, kicking the grass as he tagged along behind.

  She opened the car door and stood behind it, one foot stretched out like a ballerina, using the car door as a barre.

  “And where are you going?” she demanded, with the tone of a child who had been raised by a teacher.

  Adam looked up, startled, then seemed to realise she was speaking to him. He was a bit of a nothing, a gap in her knowledge, since he never went for school plays, didn’t play in the orchestra and only did the egg and spoon race on Sport’s Day. He was barely at school come to think of it. She’d heard her dad talking about his family to other teachers and knew social workers had been involved, but there her knowledge stopped. Today was the first time she’d ever spoken to him directly.

  “Answer me, then. What you lot up to?”

  “We’re having us a little holiday.” Though he was fighting it, Adam looked bored, or sad, she didn’t know him well enough to know which. “You?”

  “Nowt.” Cheryl gave up on the ballet and kicked the tyre of her dad’s car. “Fishing. Boooring.”

  Noah, who had been standing with Adam’s kid brother, both of them listening, suddenly perked up. “I love to fish. Where you going to do it?”

  The last thing Cheryl wanted was her dad’s ex-girlfriend’s son joining them so she ignored his question and said to Adam, “I’d rather go to town but he won’t let us.”

  “We can do what us likes,” said Adam. “No-one cares.”

  She was interested in this, and stepped closer to him. He was wearing a rugby top, Hull Rovers, like all the boys did. It looked like it needed a wash.

  “No-one cares what you do?”

  “That’s right.”

  Cheryl had just grabbed Noah’s scooter from him, and was scooting in perfect circles around Adam, when her dad came out of the shop carrying two bags of food. He stopped still, staring at his daughter.

  “I told you to wait in the car, girl.”

  “But you were ages.”

  Roger hadn’t noticed Noah until he said, “Hello, Mr Palmer.”

  “Oh, hello, er… ” It was awkward, seeing him like this, though of course the boy had no idea about his relationship with Jess. Until yesterday evening, Roger had hoped he would be his step-son, and now he was just another pupil. “Hello Noah.”

  Then, in a more sarcastic and definitely less reverential tone, Adam said, “Hello, Sir.”

  “Adam. How are things at high school?”

  “Pretty shite.”

  Roger looked at his daughter, “Come on, Cheryl, give the lads their scooter back. It’s fishing time,” he said sharply.

  “Where’ll you fish, sir?” asked Noah.

  “The Humber,” said Roger, warming to the idea once again, settling his purchases onto the back seat of the car where his rod and bucket waited. “Under the bridge.”

  14

  Now

  FACEBOOK PAGE: FIND HUMBER BOY B

  Noah’s mum: September is always a hard month for me. The local children have just gone back to school and it makes me think about what Noah should be doing now. He’d be nearly eighteen, probably about to start university or college. Leaving home for the first time, instead of leaving me forever when he was just ten years old. Sometimes I allow myself to think about it, how he’d look, what he’d wear. Other times it’s too painful to even remember that I had a son. People say it gets easier but it never seems to. People at church are always praying for me, and that never helps either. What would help is for HBB to be back behind bars, where he belongs. Then I could rest.

  Jenny: So sorry to read this. Sending you hugs, and a reminder that you are STRONG.

  Silent Friend: Help doesn’t come from the heavens, but from your friends. I would do anything to take your pain away. I hope one day soon I get that chance.

  15

  Cate

  “It’s so stuffy in here. Bet it’s nice outside, though.”

  Cate cracked open the window of her office and bunched her hair into her hands, lifted it from her neck and waited for a breeze. The weather showed no sign of breaking, yet Ben was wearing his jumper, the hood pulled up so it covered his head and fell on his forehead. With his pale face and wisps of blond hair he looked like a ghost. Or an angel.

  “So, you survived your first week of freedom?” As soon as she said this Cate regretted it, not meaning to remind Ben of the danger he may be in. “How’s it been?”

  “Alright.”

  Ben looked tired, there were dark shadows under his eyes and he’d lost weight – it showed in his cheeks.

  “Are you eating enough, looking after yourself?” Even as she said it, she knew she sounded like a mother. Not a probation officer.

  “Yes, I’m really fine.”

  Cate smiled at his bravado, a trait that must have helped Ben cope while locked up. No vulnerability can be shown in prison, as she well knew, and he had survived his sentence in text book style. No adjudications. No back-staging. Always returning to the prison on time after any trip out. And everyone, from the chaplain to the PE staff, had said he deserved parole.

  “You don’t need to pretend any more, Ben. It’s okay.
This room may be stuffy but it’s also a place you can be honest.”

  He blinked at her and she caught the glimmer of tears.

  “But you write everything down.” He looked at her notebook, at the tower of court papers. “Just like they all did. Assessing me, analysing.”

  Cate knew it was true, and also that some of the staff had used his story. The first social worker to meet him after Noah’s death had even published a book: The Face of Evil. She turned away from her desk and put her hands in her lap to show she had no pen. She wasn’t making notes.

  “I feel scared when I’m out of the flat. But I still went to McDonald’s. I helped a woman find the correct money.”

  Cate nodded, smiled, “That’s a great start. If you can manage the queues at McDonald’s I’d say nothing could beat you. Personally, that place brings me out in hives.” She paused. “But you haven’t spoken with anyone, no-one knows?”

  “Course not.” He looked angry, and she reminded herself that he had kept his secret for years. “I’m not stupid.” He pulled a ragged piece of skin from his thumb with his teeth. “I know I can’t tell anyone who I really am. I said goodbye to family.”

  “I’m afraid that was necessary,” Cate said, though she could hardly imagine how tough it must be. She hadn’t seen her father and sister in many years and knew how painful this sometimes felt, but at least she had Amelia. To have to say goodbye to everyone, to everything you’d ever known, and at such a young age, she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  “If anyone finds out you’d have to move me,” Ben stated in a flat passionless voice. “It’d be a lot of work.”

  “It’s not about that, Ben. You could be hurt,” Cate said, carefully. “Most people talk about Humber Boy B as evil. You’re a demon to them. There’s a Facebook page set up purely with the intention of tracking you. No-one can know who you really are. You’re Ben now. This is it, your chance to begin again.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment and Cate felt his desperation. She was Ben’s hope for a normal life, his guide in this new start.

  “Okay, Ben. We’ve got you a place to live. Now we need to move on to step two, a job.”

  Over lunch in the staff room, Cate made her announcement, gnawing on a piece of celery as she told Paul, “I’ve got Ben a work placement. Something to use his skills.”

  Paul gaped at her, reached up with one hand and closed his mouth in a mocking gesture of disbelief. “You’re utilising his skills in throwing people off bridges? Where is this job, Go Ape?”

  “Funny.” She finished her salad and closed her plastic lunch box, one of Amelia’s old ones with Hello Kitty smiling on the lid. Cate cocked her head to one side to look at her friend. “But I’m really determined to help him.”

  “Cate, this isn’t the eighties, you can’t just ‘help him’. Whatever would the parole board say? You need to address that boy’s offending.”

  “I know that, and we’ll get to it, but I need to work differently with Ben. He’s just a kid.”

  “You’ve worked with teenagers before.”

  “Not teenagers who’ve never been to the cinema, who don’t know how to open a tin of beans.”

  Paul squirted a fish-shaped carton of soya sauce onto his M&S sushi, took his mini chopsticks and tucked in. “So,” he said, chewing on raw tuna, “where’s the placement?”

  “I’ve spoken with the Community Punishment team, been through all their contacts. Ben fancied something with animals, so I found the next best thing and got him a placement at the aquarium.”

  Paul poked a chopstick into the fish. “Oh, nice. I’ve always fancied working with animals myself. Oh, wait… I do! And so do you, Cate. Remember?”

  “Thing is Paul, he’s not. I know as far as Facebook or The Mail are concerned he’s evil, but he’s just a messed-up kid. At least if the vigilantes are looking for a monster with two horns they won’t find our boy.”

  “He’s not ‘our boy’. He’s a convicted killer. Now go and see if anyone left some birthday cake in the fridge, Cate, and start focusing on that.”

  16

  Ben

  At the aquarium a man is seated behind the desk, he’s an old bloke with glasses and not much hair on his head but a bunch of it coming out of his ears. He reminds me of my old primary school teacher, Mr Palmer, so I think he’s going to be strict, but when he notices me he smiles, and his face changes. I see that to the side of the reception is a small room and the door is open so I can hear the sound of voices, chatter and laughter. I start to step away, but then I hear the jingle and realise it’s not a group of people, it’s only the TV.

  “Hello, lad. You must be Ben?”

  I jolt, eyes open and nod. To the side of reception is a tank, and inside are orange and black clown fish, prettily darting between lime green plant tentacles.

  “So, Ben, the lady from, y’know, probation, she told me you like fish?” he asks, conversationally.

  “Yes. I especially like the… ” I want to say atmosphere or peace but something tells me this is the wrong answer. “Carp.” I haven’t thought about carp in eight years, yet the word just popped out.

  “Hmm. Sullen buggers they are. Never ones to break a smile or a sweat, just bob around in their own sweet time. We’ve got a tankful of big ’uns just like them, through there.” He points with his rolled up newspaper to the lower part of the aquarium. “Moody buggers, they are.”

  This makes me smile and he grins back. I imagine he doesn’t have many people here to appreciate his humour, the place seems empty. He unrolls his paper and I look back at the clown fish, feeling more awkward now that the silence has been broken.

  “Okay, so my name’s Leon. I’ll show you round, but first do you want a cuppa?”

  “Please.” The truth is, I’m gasping for a drink. I still haven’t bought a kettle, so all I’ve had for breakfast is tap water and a chocolate bar.

  “The staff room is in there,” he jerks a thumb to the small room. “Make me one too. Milk, two sugars.”

  I realise that this means something, that he’s giving me my first job. It may mean he accepts my presence, or that he can’t be arsed to make his own tea, but either way I’m glad to once again have someone telling me what to do.

  The staff room is a cupboard with no windows. There are posters taped up, a football league table and a picture of a cat hanging from a branch by its claws. The officers in prison used to put posters in their office, the prisoners had pictures of women on their walls, but I never did. I couldn’t think about girls, not properly. Not when the last time I spoke to one was eight years ago, just moments before my life was about to change forever. That girl was with her dad, and she was doing gymnastics in the Humber. She was wearing a vest top and cut-off shorts and was every bit as pretty as the girls in the wall posters. But her face became mixed up with what came after, so I can’t stand to think of it. I fill the kettle with water, and while it boils I watch the TV.

  It’s an American show, loud voices, tanned skin, big hair. An older woman with a plunging neckline is giving three other woman, also with plunging necklines, advice on finding a man. “Don’t give it away!” the busty woman orders. “Make him wait for it.”

  I can hear the water in the kettle bubbling so I pour it into mugs, not sure whether to use one teabag or two. I opt for one, dipping it between the cups, then agonise over how much milk to add. This simple thing, another lesson I have yet to master.

  I return to reception, where Leon is reading the creased paper, and hand him his mug. He sips, then smacks his lips. “Perfect,” he says, and I feel unreasonably delighted with myself. Because I don’t want the moment to end, and I have nothing better to say, it tumbles out of me.

  “That show on the telly is weird.”

  “Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. It’s just background noise to him, and he probably doesn’t even know what’s on right now.

  “It’s dating advice. But like a quiz game too. These three women, they all wan
t to date this man who’s a millionaire.”

  The man whistles. “I wouldn’t mind advice on that, meself. Then I wouldn’t have to work in this crap-hole.”

  My mouth sags. The aquarium seems so peaceful and calm, how can it be a crap-hole? I think he sees how upset I feel and then he says, more softly, “If you like fish it’s different. Me, the only fish I like come battered with chips.” Then he shrugs. “But it pays the bills, so I shouldn’t complain.”

  Not for me, though. This job is voluntary, to get work experience that Cate said is important for my CV. Leon seems to realise his gaff.

  “One thing, Ben. I know you’re here as part of your Community Service or whatever they call it now, so you’ve done something wrong. I just want to say this: your probation officer never told me what you done and I never asked. As far as I’m concerned, you’re here on work experience and as long as you keep making tea this good you and me will get on just dandy. Okay?”

  17

  The Day Of

  The damned sun was still making its way into the room, even though Yvette had pegged the curtains together and piled two pillows over her head, which was throbbing like a swollen toe. She hadn’t even drunk that much, though the vodka bottle was empty. It was mostly Stuart, and spirits always made him angry. He shouldn’t have bought the bottle anyway, that money was meant to buy food. She had a splitting headache, but not ’cos of booze. It was stress, she probably had a brain tumour. Damn that man. Fuck him. Leaving again, just like he always did. Letting Adam down, pissing off just when she’d started to think that this time he’d stay for keeps.

  She hadn’t seen it coming. Stuart had talked about quitting the trawlers so he could be here more often. He was trying to get in at Smith and Nephew’s, knew a bloke who knew a bloke. But instead he was gone again, with his duffel bag and his all-weather kit. He couldn’t give up the sea, but he could give her up.