by C. J. Tudor
I grabbed the bag of sweets. “Thank you.”
“Go on. Get out of here.”
I didn’t need telling twice. I scurried back out into the sunshine, past Jimbo, who was only just finishing his cigarette and barely gave me a second glance. I walked quickly down the street, faster and faster, the exhilaration and excitement and sense of achievement growing until I broke into a run and sprinted almost all the way back home, an insane grin plastered over my face.
I’d done it, and not for the first time. I like to think I wasn’t a bad kid in any other way. I tried to be kind, not to rat out my friends or bitch behind their backs. I even tried to listen to my mum and dad. And, in my defense, I never took money. If I found someone’s wallet on the floor, I’d give it back with all the cash inside (but maybe something like a family photo missing).
I knew it was wrong but, like I said, everyone has secrets, things they know they shouldn’t do but do anyway. Mine was taking stuff—collecting things. The crappy thing was, it was only when I tried to take something back that I really screwed up.
—
It was hot the day of the party. It seemed like every day that summer was hot. I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure a weatherman—a proper one, not like my dad—would say that there were loads of rainy, overcast and downright miserable days, too. But memory is weird and time works differently when you’re a kid. Three hot days in a row is like a month of hot days to an adult.
Fat Gav’s birthday was definitely hot. Clothes sticking to your body, car seats burning your legs, tarmac melting on the hot pavement.
“Won’t need a barbecue to cook the food at this rate,” Dad joked as we left the house.
“I’m surprised you’re not telling us to pack raincoats,” Mum said, locking the door and giving it a few hard tugs just to check.
She looked pretty that day. She was wearing a plain blue sundress and Roman sandals. Blue suited her, and she’d put a little sparkly clip in the side of her dark fringe, pulling it off her face.
Dad looked, well, like Dad, in cut-off denim shorts, a T-shirt with “Grateful Dead” scrawled across it and leather sandals on his feet. Mum had at least given his beard a trim.
Fat Gav’s house was on one of the newest estates in Anderbury. They’d only moved there last year. Before that, they’d all lived above the pub. Even though the house was almost new, Fat Gav’s dad had extended it, so it had lots of extra bits that didn’t quite match the original house and these big white pillars outside the front door, like in pictures of ancient Greece.
Today they had lots of balloons with “12” on tied to them, and there was a big, sparkly banner across the door that read, “Happy Birthday, Gavin.”
Before Mum could make a comment, snort or even ring the bell, the door swung open and Fat Gav stood there, resplendent in Hawaiian shorts, a neon-green T-shirt and a pirate’s hat. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Adams. Hi, Eddie.”
“Happy Birthday, Gavin,” we all chorused, although I had to catch myself not to say, “Fat Gav.”
“Barbecue’s out the back,” Fat Gav told Mum and Dad, and then he grabbed my arm. “Come and see the magician. He’s awesome.”
Fat Gav was right. He was awesome. The barbecue was pretty good, too. There were also loads of games and two big buckets filled with water and water pistols. After Fat Gav had opened his presents (and said the Magic 8 Ball was “ace”), we had a massive water fight with some other kids from school. It was so hot, you were dry almost as soon as you got soaked.
Halfway through, I realized I needed the loo. I padded back up the garden, dripping slightly, past the adults, who were all standing around in small groups, clutching plates and drinking beer out of bottles and wine out of plastic cups.
Nicky’s dad had come, which surprised everyone. I didn’t think vicars did things like going to parties or having fun. He was wearing his white collar. You could spot him a mile off, with it gleaming under the sun. I remember thinking he must be bloomin’ hot. Maybe that was why he was drinking so much wine.
He was talking to Mum and Dad, which also surprised me, as they weren’t really into church stuff. Mum spotted me and smiled. “You okay, Eddie?”
“Yeah, Mum. Great.”
She nodded, but she didn’t look very happy. As I wandered past, I heard my dad say, “I’m not sure this is a subject we should be discussing at a children’s party.”
Reverend Martin’s reply faded in my ears. “But it’s the lives of children we’re talking about.”
It didn’t make any sense to me; just adult stuff. Besides, I was already distracted by something else. Another familiar figure. Tall and skinny, covered up in dark clothes, despite the blistering heat, and wearing a large, floppy hat. Mr. Halloran. He stood at the far end of the garden, near a statue of a little boy peeing into a birdbath, chatting to some other mums and dads.
I thought it was a bit odd that Fat Gav’s parents had invited a teacher to his party, especially one who hadn’t even started at school yet, but maybe they were just trying to make him feel welcome. They were like that. Plus, Fat Gav once told me: “My mum makes sure she knows everyone. That way, she knows everyone’s business, too.”
In that weird way where you always feel when someone is staring at you, Mr. Halloran glanced around, saw me and raised a hand. I half raised my hand back. It was a bit awkward. We might have saved Waltzer Girl’s life together, but he was still a teacher and it wasn’t cool to be seen waving at a teacher.
Almost like he knew what I was thinking, Mr. Halloran gave a small nod and turned away again. Gratefully—and not just because of my bulging bladder—I hurried across the patio and through the French doors.
Inside the living room, it was cool and dark. I let my eyes adjust. Presents were strewn everywhere. Dozens and dozens of toys. Toys I had on my wish list for my birthday but knew I would never get. I looked around enviously…and that’s when I saw it. A medium-sized box sitting right in the center of the room, wrapped up in Transformers wrapping paper. Unopened. Someone must have arrived late and left it. No way would Fat Gav have left a present unopened otherwise.
I did what I needed to do in the bathroom then looked at the present again on my way back through the living room. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed it and took it outside with me.
Groups of kids were scattered about. Fat Gav, Nicky, Metal Mickey and Hoppo were all sitting together in a semicircle on the grass, drinking pop, looking red and sweaty and happy. Nicky’s hair was still a bit wet and tangled. Drops of water glistened on her arms. She was wearing a dress today. It suited her. It was long and had flowers on. It covered some of the bruises on her legs. Nicky always had bruises. I don’t remember ever having seen her without a brown or purple mark somewhere. Once, she even had a black eye.
“Hey, Munster!” Fat Gav said.
“Hey, guess what?”
“You’ve finally stopped being such a bender?”
“Ha ha. I found a present you haven’t opened yet.”
“No way, José. I opened everything.”
I held the box out.
Fat Gav grabbed it. “Awesome!”
“Who’s it from?” Nicky asked.
Fat Gav shook it, studied the wrapping paper. No tag.
“Who cares?” He started to rip the paper open, then his face fell. “What the hell?”
We all stared at the present. A big bucket full of multicolored chalks.
“Chalks?” Metal Mickey snickered. “Who bought you chalks?”
“Dunno. There’s no tag, genius,” Fat Gav said. He took the top off the bucket and pulled out a couple of chalks. “What am I going to do with this shit?”
“It’s not that bad,” Hoppo started to say.
“It’s a pile of stinking Buckaroo, my man.”
I thought that was a bit harsh. After all, someone had still gone to the trouble of buying the present and wrapping it and stuff. But Fat Gav was kind of hyped on sun and sugar by this point. We all were.
He threw the chalks down in disgust. “Forget it. Let’s get some more water pistols.”
We all started to get up. I let the others go first then quickly crouched down, picked up a piece of chalk and slipped it into my pocket.
I’d barely straightened when I heard a crash and a scream. I spun around. I’m not sure what I expected to see. Perhaps someone had dropped something or fallen over.
What I saw took a while to sink in. Reverend Martin lay on his back amid a scattered mess of cups, plates, broken sauce bottles and relishes. He was clutching his nose and making an odd moaning noise. A tall, disheveled figure in shorts and a torn T-shirt loomed over him, one fist raised. My dad.
Holy crap. My dad had laid out Reverend Martin.
I stood, paralyzed by shock, as he said in a harsh, guttural voice, “If you ever speak to my wife again, I swear I’ll…”
But what he swore was lost as Fat Gav’s dad pulled him away. Someone helped Reverend Martin to his feet. He was red-faced and his nose was bleeding. His white collar had spots of blood on it.
He pointed at my mum and dad. “And God will be thy judge.”
Dad started to lunge again, but Fat Gav’s dad had him in a firm grip. “Just leave it, Geoff.”
I caught a flash of yellow and realized Nicky had run past me and up to Reverend Martin. She took his arm. “C’mon, Dad. Let’s go home.”
He shrugged her off, so roughly I saw her stumble a little. Then he took out a tissue, dabbed his nose and said to Fat Gav’s mum, “Thank you for inviting me,” and walked stiffly back inside the house.
Nicky glanced back toward the garden. I like to think that her green eyes met mine, that some current of understanding flowed between us, but actually I think she was just looking to see who had noticed the commotion—everyone, of course—before she turned and followed him.
For a moment, it seemed like everything stopped. Movement, conversation. Then Fat Gav’s dad clapped his hands together and said in a big, hearty voice: “So who’s for more of my giant sausages?”
I don’t think anyone really was, but people nodded and smiled and Fat Gav’s mum turned the music up, just a touch.
Someone thumped me on the back. I jumped. It was Metal Mickey. “Whoah. I can’t believe your dad just punched a vicar.”
Neither could I. I felt my face flush fire red. I looked at Fat Gav. “I’m really sorry.”
He grinned. “You cannot be serious. That was ace. This is the best birthday party ever!”
“Eddie.” My mum walked over. She gave me an odd, strained smile. “Your dad and I are going to head home now.”
“Okay.”
“You can stay, if you want to.”
I did want to, but I also didn’t want the other kids looking at me like I was some kind of freak, and Metal Mickey going on and on about it, so I said, sulkily, “No, it’s okay.” Even though it wasn’t. “I’ll come, too.”
“Okay.” She nodded.
I had never heard my parents apologize until that day. You don’t. As a kid, you’re always the one saying sorry. But that afternoon they both said sorry lots of times to Fat Gav’s mum and dad. Fat Gav’s mum and dad were nice and all that, and told them not to worry, but I could tell they were a bit pissed off. Still, Fat Gav’s mum gave me a goodie bag, with cake and some Hubba Bubba and other sweets in it.
As soon as the front door closed behind us I turned to my dad. “What happened, Dad? Why did you hit him? What did he say to Mum?”
Dad wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Later, Eddie.”
I wanted to argue, to shout at him. After all, it was my friend’s party that had just been ruined. But I didn’t. Because, when it came down to it, I loved my mum and dad and something in their faces told me that this was not the time.
So I let Dad hug me, and Mum took my other arm, and we all walked down the street together. And when Mum said, “Fancy getting some chips for tea?” I forced a grin and said, “Yeah. Ace.”
Dad never did tell me. But I found out eventually. After the police came round to arrest him for attempted murder.
2016
“Two weeks,” I say. “He sent me an email. I’m sorry.”
Hoppo offers me his hand. I accept it and collapse heavily back down onto my stool. “Thanks.”
I should have told Gav and Hoppo that Mickey was back in Anderbury. It should have been the first thing I did. I’m not sure exactly why I didn’t. Curiosity, perhaps. Or because Mickey asked me not to. Maybe I just wanted to find out what he was up to myself.
I’d already known a little of our old friend’s backstory. I looked him up a few years ago. Boredom coupled with too much wine. His was not the only name I’d typed into Google, but it was the only one that gleaned any results.
He has done pretty well for himself. He works for an advertising agency—the type that has unnecessary umlauts in its name and an aversion to capital letters. There were pictures of him with clients, at product launches, clutching glasses of champagne, smiling the type of smile that ensures a dentist’s comfortable retirement.
None of this came as much of a surprise. Mickey was the sort of kid who would always get by on his wits. He was also good at being creative. Usually with the truth. Which must come in useful in his line of work.
His email had mentioned a project he was working on. Something that could be “mutually beneficial.” I’m pretty sure he isn’t arranging a school reunion. The fact is, I can think of only one reason why Mickey might want to talk to me after all this time. And that is because he is about to plunge a blunt knife into a rusty and buckled can of rotting worms.
I don’t say this to Gav and Hoppo. I rub at my cheek, which is throbbing, and glance around the pub. It’s only a quarter full. The few patrons glance quickly away, back into pints and newspapers. Well, who are they going to complain to? It’s not like Gav is going to throw himself out of his own pub for causing a scene.
“How did you find out?” I ask.
“Hoppo saw him,” Gav says. “On the high street, plain as day and twice as ugly.”
“Right. I see.”
“He even had the nerve to say hello. Said he was visiting you. Was surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”
I feel my own anger notch up. Good old Mickey, stirring it like he always did.
The barmaid brings my pint over and sets it down carelessly on the table. Drink sloshes over the side.
“Nice girl,” I say to Gav. “Lovely temperament.”
Gav smiles reluctantly.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him again. “I should have told you.”
“Fucking right,” he mutters. “We’re supposed to be friends.”
“Why didn’t you?” Hoppo asks.
“He asked me not to. Until we had talked.”
“And you agreed?”
“I suppose I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Gav says, and takes a sip of his Diet Coke. “I was out of order. It’s just, the thought of him being here, it brought it all back.”
I stare at him. None of us is what you would call a fan of Mickey Cooper. But Gav hates him more than any of us.
We were seventeen. There was a party. I didn’t go, or wasn’t invited. I can’t quite recall. Mickey got off with a girl Hoppo was seeing. There was an argument. Then Gav got really shitfaced and Mickey was persuaded to drive him home…except they never made it because Mickey veered off a completely straight road and crashed into a tree.
Incredibly, Mickey suffered nothing more than a concussion and some cuts and bruises. Fat Gav, well, Fat Gav crushed several vital vertebrae in his spine. Beyond repair. He’s been in the wheelchair ever since.
It turned out Mickey was over the limit, by a fair amount, despite his protestations that he’d drunk nothing but Diet Coke all night. Fat Gav and Mickey never spoke again. And both Hoppo and I knew better than to bring it up.
There are some things in life you can alter—your weight, your appea
rance, even your name—but there are others that wishing and trying and working hard can never make any difference to. Those things are the ones that shape us. Not the things we can change, but the ones we can’t.
“So,” Gav says. “Why is he back?”
“He didn’t say exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“He mentioned a project he was working on.”
“That’s all?” Hoppo asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s not the real question, though, is it?” Gav says. He looks at us both, blue eyes blazing. “The real question is, what are we going to do about it?”
—
The house is empty when I return. Chloe has either gone out to meet friends or maybe she’s at work. I lose track a little. Chloe works at some alternative clothing shop in town and her days off vary. She probably told me, but my memory is not as good as it once was. This worries me, more than it should.
My dad’s memory started to fail him in his late forties. Small things, things we all tend to dismiss. Forgetting where he had put his keys, or putting things in odd places, like the remote control in the fridge and a banana in the sideboard where we kept the remotes. Losing track of sentences halfway through or mixing words up. Sometimes I would see him struggle for the right word only to replace it with something similar.
As the Alzheimer’s got worse, he would mix up days of the week and, finally, and the one that really frightened him, he couldn’t recall what came after Thursday. The final working day of the week totally eluded him. I still remember the look of panic in his eyes. Losing something so basic, something that we all know from childhood, that was when he was finally forced to admit that he was not just absentminded. It was far more serious.
I am probably a bit of a hypochondriac about it. I read a lot to keep my mind sharp, and do sudoku, even though I do not particularly enjoy it. The fact is, Alzheimer’s is often hereditary. I have seen what the future holds, and I would do anything to avoid it, even if it means cutting my life shorter than it might otherwise be.
I throw my keys onto the rickety old hall table and glance in the small, dusty mirror hanging above it. There’s a faint bruise blooming on the left side of my face, but it’s mostly lost in the hollow of my cheek. Good. I could do without explaining that a man in a wheelchair beat me up.
