Lucky Break

by Rob Stevens

  In all my daydream conversations, I’ve never imagined what I might say to a kid who’s feeling responsible for his mum’s depression.

  My mouth hung slightly agape for a while. I’ve learned over the last year that saying nothing to someone who’s sad is better than saying something dumb. Sometimes listening is better than talking. Most of the time actually.

  ‘She’s supposed to look after me,’ Arnold said quietly. ‘Since my dad died she’s all I have left. It doesn’t bother me if other people don’t like me or don’t want to spend time with me. They don’t get me and that’s fine. But she is my mum. It’s her job to look after me. If I was more like other kids maybe she’d love me more and we’d be happy together.’ Arnold’s voice was steady and his facial expression barely changed. He just hung his head, looking down at his tatty shoes and the foaming water below.

  ‘But she didn’t choose not to look after you, did she?’ I said. ‘You said she was too ill – too depressed – to care for you.’

  Arnold nodded. ‘I know. But I can’t help thinking she might be able to cope if I was more … normal.’

  ‘What is normal anyway?’ I said. ‘You’re special, Arnold. I’m sure your mum loves you for it.’

  Arnold sighed and stared at the ocean.

  ‘She must be in a really bad place,’ I said.

  Arnold shrugged. ‘Portsmouth’s not that bad.’

  ‘I mean she must be so unbearably sad.’

  Arnold nodded. ‘She gets so down she can’t summon up the energy to get out of bed for days. My counsellor says when people get as depressed as Mum gets, they can’t see anything other than their own pain. He said it has nothing to do with how she feels about me – she’s just sick and is struggling to get herself better.’

  ‘Does hearing that make it any easier?’

  Arnold looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It just makes me wish I could help her. I wish she’d try harder to feel happier. Sometimes I get frustrated with her and I wish I could be more understanding.’

  I didn’t have any words that could begin to address the emotions Arnold was feeling. What could I say that could make him feel better?

  Instead of speaking, I put an arm round his shoulder and squeezed gently.

  ‘What are you doing that for?’ he said.

  ‘I just want you to know I’m here.’

  ‘I know you’re here. You’re right next to me.’

  ‘I mean I’m your friend.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ he said simply. ‘As we’re friends, you ought to know I’m not really that comfortable with physical contact.’

  ‘Tough,’ I said and squeezed him tighter.

  After a while I let my arm drop and we sat in silence for a bit longer. I thought about how hard every day must be for Arnold. Sometimes when I woke up I’d feel sorry for myself. I wouldn’t be sure if I’d be able to face the day – and I still had my family to help support me. OK, they may not have been perfect. Mum and Dad hardly spoke to each other and they were both terrified of mentioning Lenny to me so they did this awkward chitchat instead of normal conversations. And we never spent any time together any more because that would have just made it too obvious that Lenny was gone. But at least we were physically close. I mean we were in the same house, not always hugging and stuff.

  Arnold was totally alone. It must have been hard enough for him to cope with his dad’s sudden death but then his mum getting sick …

  ‘Mum loved shoes,’ Arnold smiled. ‘She was always buying a new pair – drove my dad mad with them. When he complained about her spending too much money on shoes she’d just smile and quote this old Hollywood actress – Marilyn Monroe. Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.

  ‘After my dad’s heart attack she started wearing the same pair of old boots every day. She thinks you can tell a lot about someone by what they have on their feet. She used to joke that her shoes were tired and sad just like her. Sometimes she’d talk about buying a new pair when she felt better … but she still hasn’t.’

  I glanced at Arnold’s scruffy trainers and my expression must have changed somehow because Arnold said, ‘What?’

  ‘I think you deserve some new shoes,’ I said.

  Arnold gave me a serious look. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  A seagull squawked overhead and a gust of wind whistled between the pier’s wooden supports.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ I said brightly. ‘Come on, it’s much too cold for a dip today anyway. Let’s go.’ I clambered to my feet and held out a hand to Arnold. He took it firmly and pulled himself upright.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Well, we’re bandits, aren’t we?’ I said, showing him a handful of coins to emphasise the point. ‘We shouldn’t hang around the scene of the crime, should we? Let’s make our getaway and spend our loot.’

  ‘Eighty, ninety and ten makes forty pounds,’ said Arnold, stacking up the ten pence pieces on the counter.

  The army surplus store smelled musty. The shelves were crammed with piles of trousers and jackets in khaki and camouflage. There were helmets and berets and all sorts of belts and harnesses with loads of pockets for ammunition and stuff.

  The shop assistant was dressed like a commando – head to toe in camouflage gear. His big belly overhung a thick webbing belt that boasted a holstered pistol on his right hip. He wore a black woollen hat rolled up so it sat on the top of his egg-like head. He’d even smeared that black war paint over his face for extra authenticity. Either that or he’d been changing the oil in his car.

  ‘Have you two just emptied a slot machine, or something?’ he asked, sounding like a Cornish pirate. I’d been expecting some comment so I’d planned a cover story. Actually it was the same line I’d used at the ice-cream kiosk about raiding a piggy bank. I was just drawing breath when Arnold said. ‘Yes. Down at the arcade on the pier.’

  The shop assistant’s laugh was scarily loud. Then it stopped suddenly and he leaned towards us with a piratical glint in his eye. ‘I’ve often thought about going down there and making a withdrawal – if you get my drift, me hearties,’ he leered. OK, he didn’t say the me hearties bit, but he might as well have done.

  ‘Really?’ I said uncertainly.

  The assistant peered over our heads like he was making sure no one else could hear what he was about to say. ‘I’ve got it all planned out,’ he whispered. ‘I’d enter through the north entrance and make my way to the cashier’s desk. The security guard patrols in a classic five-nine pattern so when he’s at the southern corner I’d strike.’

  ‘What would you do?’ Arnold said.

  The assistant patted the weapon in his belt. ‘Tell them they’ve got twenty seconds to give me the money before it starts raining lead. I could waltz in and out of there in under a minute.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the waltzing be a bit weird?’ Arnold asked.

  The shop assistant looked confused.

  ‘He just means he’d be really quick,’ I explained to Arnold.

  ‘Is the gun real?’ I asked.

  The assistant nodded proudly. ‘It is a genuine replica of a bona fide Smith and Wesson point forty-five.’

  ‘So it’s like a toy?’ Arnold said.

  ‘It’s not a toy,’ the shop assistant said tetchily.

  ‘Does it fire bullets?’ Arnold asked.

  The shop assistant shook his head.

  ‘Sounds like a toy to me,’ Arnold said.

  The shop assistant pursed his lips. ‘I can do you a special price on one.’ He spun his pistol on one finger like a cowboy. Then he grabbed it by the barrel and offered it to me. ‘Half price.’

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ I said, gently pushing the replica gun back towards the shop assistant. ‘We really just want the blankets.’

  The shop assistant placed his gun on the counter and said, ‘OK, I understand. Not everyone can handle a piece like this anyway.’

  The assistant started rolling his beanie hat down. As
he pulled it over his face I realised it was a commando balaclava. It covered his entire head except for two elliptical holes for his eyes and a small circular hole for his mouth. It made him look instantly menacing – creepy even.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said through the round hole. ‘I’ll throw in one of these for free.’ Taking a balaclava off the shelf he tossed it onto the pile of blankets we were buying.

  ‘Thanks,’ Arnold said, snatching it up. He rolled it up into a beanie and pulled it onto his head.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Arnold was carrying a plastic bag containing a sandwich and a fizzy drink we’d bought in the newsagent’s next door. He looped the handle over his wrist then we scooped up a pile of blankets each, thanked the shop assistant and headed out. The bell above the door rang as I opened it.

  ‘If you change your mind about the point forty-five, you know where I am.’ The assistant tapped where his nose would have been if he wasn’t wearing a balaclava. ‘Mum’s the word.’

  It had grown cold outside. The wind had picked up and people were walking with their heads ducked, holding onto caps. With the blankets tucked under our chins Arnold and I headed for the bus depot. The plastic bag bounced off Arnold’s thigh with each step.

  As expected we found Mr Cheeseman round the back of the bus depot, outside the toilets. He was lying on some cardboard boxes, which he’d flattened out into a makeshift mattress. Curled up on his side like a baby, he was wearing a bin liner over his jacket and clutching an empty bottle of whiskey like it was a teddy.

  ‘Mr Cheeseman,’ I said.

  He didn’t stir – didn’t move a muscle.

  I called his name a few more times, speaking louder each time. Nothing.

  ‘Do you think he’s all right?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ Arnold shook his head. ‘I think he’s really, really drunk.’

  ‘I know he’s drunk, you doughnut,’ I said. ‘I mean, do you think he’s still alive?’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ask if I think he’s still alive then?’

  We studied him closely for any sign that he was breathing. I couldn’t see any movement of his chest. There was no telltale flaring of his nostrils, either. I could feel my pulse start to quicken. If he was dead I would never be able to forgive myself. I would always blame myself for not standing up to my parents when they said he couldn’t stay with us. His would be yet another death on my conscience – another occasion I would look back on and wish I’d acted differently. Another life I might have saved if I’d been braver and intervened sooner.

  I placed my blankets on the floor and kneeled next to Mr Cheeseman’s pathetic body. The concrete slabs were cold and hard on my knees. Slowly I reached out and touched his hands. They were like ice. Prising his fingers off the empty bottle I clasped one hand in mine.

  ‘Mr Cheeseman,’ I said gently.

  Nothing. Not even a flicker.

  I leaned towards him so that my lips were inches from his ear. A thick odour of alcohol and stale sweat and vomit filled my nostrils. Involuntarily my head recoiled and I gulped in some fresher air. Leaning in again I held my breath and spoke his name into his ear. There was no response. Releasing his hand I gripped his arm just below the shoulder. It was no thicker than a broomstick inside his jacket. I shook him gently.

  ‘Mr Cheeseman?’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Arnold asked, peering down at me over his pile of blankets.

  ‘I don’t want to startle him.’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t that exactly what you want to do?’

  I thought about this for a moment. Arnold had a point.

  Turning my head for another lungful of fresh air, I squeezed the tramp’s bony arm then leaned close to his ear and yelled his name as loud as I could.

  ‘MR CHEESEMAN!!!’

  As if he’d received a high-voltage electric shock, the old man sat bolt upright. His wide bloodshot eyes stared into mine and his awful, stale stench filled my nostrils. I had been so convinced poor Mr Cheeseman had already passed away that the sight of him sitting up was like seeing someone rise from the dead – like something from a zombie film. It scared me so much that I let out a terrified scream with my nose just inches from his. Hardly surprisingly Mr Cheeseman found the experience of being woken up and then screamed at pretty upsetting. So upsetting that he screamed back in my face, exactly as I had done but louder.

  Recoiling from his rancid scream, I toppled back onto my bum. This turned out to be a stroke of luck because Mr Cheeseman’s natural reaction to being shouted at, shaken and screamed at was to defend himself. The punch he threw would probably have landed square on my nose if I hadn’t fallen backwards.

  For a moment we just stared at each other in wide-eyed silence. Both of our ribcages were going up and down like crazy as we fought for breath and tried to make sense of the last few seconds.

  Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

  Mr Cheeseman and I both turned in the direction of the loud braying laughter. Arnold’s head was back, his mouth wide open and his eyes tightly shut. He had let his pile of blankets and the plastic bag he was carrying fall to his feet. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around his ribcage.

  Mr Cheeseman scratched his beard. ‘D’you mind telling us what’s so bloomin’ funny, sunshine?’ His speech was slow and slurred.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Cheeseman,’ I said, glaring at Arnold. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. We came to bring you some blankets and you were sleeping so soundly we weren’t sure if … I mean, well, we wondered … you know …’

  Mr Cheeseman shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re going on about, Leon.’

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ Arnold said, his broad smile contrasting with his grim statement.

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’ asked Mr Cheeseman.

  ‘It’s just that you were lying very still,’ I said quickly. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘And you’re really old,’ Arnold said helpfully. ‘And incredibly thin – do you know you look just like a skeleton when you’re sleeping? Plus there’s the damage all that alcohol must be doing to your insides and living rough can’t do your health any good at all so you probably haven’t got long left anyway.’

  ‘OK, I get it.’ Mr Cheeseman laughed, holding up a hand in surrender. ‘Although I should point out that I’m only fifty-one.’

  Arnold’s eyes ballooned with surprise. I knew what was coming next so I caught his eye and gave him a stern look to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘Fifty-one!’ Arnold exclaimed. ‘I thought you were in your seventies at least. Why are you giving me that strange look by the way, Leon?’

  ‘Never mind,’ I mumbled.

  ‘In my seventies? You cheeky ratbag.’ Mr Cheeseman’s wheezy laughter petered out and he looked at me. ‘Do I really look like I’m in my seventies?’

  My instinctive reaction was to assure him he looked much younger than Arnold had guessed. That would have been easier than telling him the truth – for both of us. It would have been really awkward to confirm how old he really looked.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  Mr Cheeseman looked relieved but I wondered if I was letting him down by lying to him. Although Arnold had a distinctly tactless approach, maybe it was actually kinder to tell the truth sometimes – even if it wasn’t good news. Perhaps if Mr Cheeseman knew how frail he’d become he might try and take better care of himself.

  ‘Although,’ I began tentatively, ‘you do look older than fifty-one. Obviously a good spruce up would do you the world of good. But I’m sure you’d look, and feel, much younger and fitter if you stopped drinking? If you sobered up you could even get your life back on track – get a job. Maybe your wife would have you back?’

  Mr Cheeseman harrumphed and shook his head.

  ‘We could help you find her,’ I suggested.

  ‘I know where she lives,’ Mr Cheeseman muttered bitterly. ‘Sometimes I wait outside her house just to s
ee her get into her car. The other day I got too close and she saw me. There wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition on her face. I was a total stranger to her. Just another tramp scavenging for food in the rubbish.’

  ‘But if you stopped drinking and took better care of yourself?’ Arnold wondered aloud.

  ‘It’s too late for that now,’ Mr Cheeseman snarled. ‘Far too much whiskey has flowed under the bridge – and into my stomach.’

  ‘But we could help you,’ I pleaded.

  ‘I said NO.’ Mr Cheeseman’s face was pink with rage and wriggly veins stood out on his temples. ‘Stop interfering in my affairs, will you? What gives you the right to tell me what to do? Why don’t you sort out your own family before you start meddling with mine? How dare you lecture me on my drinking.’

  I held Mr Cheeseman’s wild stare. His milky blue irises were swimming on wide yellow eyeballs.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said quietly.

  Mr Cheeseman exhaled and stared into his lap. Getting to my feet I picked up a few blankets and placed them next to the frail figure. ‘We brought you these to keep you warm.’

  He conveyed his gratitude with a single nod.

  ‘And we got you dinner,’ Arnold added. Next to the blankets he placed the plastic bag containing the sandwich and fizzy drink.

  ‘Much obliged,’ Mr Cheeseman mumbled into his chest.

  I kneeled down and tidied the blankets Arnold had dropped. ‘Please give the blankets you don’t want to any friends in need.’

  Again Mr Cheeseman nodded. I stood, turned and walked away.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Cheeseman,’ Arnold said before catching up with me.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ I muttered as we reached the high street. I clapped half-heartedly and gave my hands a brief shimmy.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Arnold said.

  ‘What? Made him really sad and angry?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll think about what you said. It might make a difference.’