Nicholas Dane

by Melvin Burgess

  ‘Friends, Ja, and weed,’ observed Shiner, who’d been thinking about the important things. He pulled the tab of his beer and tipped it down his throat. ‘I love me Jamaican beer too,' he told Nick, holding up his can. ‘Red Stripe - the best beer in all the world.’

  Nick smiled. ‘Is that why she’s called Red?’ he asked, nodding at Red. It was just a joke but to his surprise, Shiner nodded.

  Red laughed. ‘My real name’s Stella,’ she said. ‘Exactly! But Stella ain’t me drink. So I call her after me favourite beer because I couldn’t bear to call me favourite girl after anything else but me favorite beer. Eh, Red?’ Shiner hugged her till she yelped - he was more than a little rough with his affections. He lifted his beer, waved it in the air at the two boys, and they all drank.

  ‘And the other thing is, you understand that Red for no fault of her own is a cock a knee.’

  Nick stared at him, not understanding.

  ‘I’m from London,’ explained Red.

  ‘Oh! A cockney.’

  ‘ ’At’s right, a cock a knee. I haveth me a little cock, he croweth every dawn. But the main thing is, that makes her me little red rooster. Red! See!’ Sunshine curled up with laughter until he had to wipe his eyes and take a big swig of beer to calm himself down.

  After that things got squiffy. Nick had never drunk much or smoked, and of course since he’d been inside he’d had none of it, except for a couple of beers at Mr Creal’s flat. He remembered laughing a lot. He remembered drinking a few cans. He remembered playing pinball. He remembered being taken next door and finding, to his delight, a table football machine. He and Davey and Shiner and Red all played for hours. Shiner was brilliant at it - the result of endless hours of practice - and he was able to beat all three of them on his own.

  He remembered Red coming in with a mountain of takeaways, Chinese. It felt like the first time for as long as he could remember that he ate so much, he felt sick. Finally, he fell onto a pile of cushions in a corner and slept like an emperor.

  It was much, much later when he woke up, although he had no idea how late it was, since the windows were all covered in pinned up cloth that didn’t let light through. He got up and went through to the kitchen, where Shiner was sitting with Red drinking tea. She got up to make one for him, while Shiner gave him the lowdown.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘You see my friend Davey. He’s like a little ray a sunshine. Or maybe he’s like a little bird that hops out from under your feet and it’s gone. Or he’s your shadow. Here today, gone tomorrow. Now you see him, now you don’t. He knows what’s what and who’s who. You see what I mean?’ he asked, staring closely at Nick.

  ‘... no,’ said Nick, who hadn’t got a clue, except that somehow, they were talking business.

  ‘He means, he never knows where Davey’s been and he never knows where he’s going,’ translated Red. ‘And that’s how he likes it.’

  ‘Sometimes I swear he don’t know what his own shadow is doing. That’s how much I love him. That’s why he always has a place to stay here when he needs it, and he always gets a bite to eat in me house, and something to smoke. Davey is like me own son. He has a share in everything I own. Every little thing. Me weed, me food -the lot.’

  ‘And your money, eh, Shiner?’ said Red.

  ‘Now, some things are too sacred,’ he replied holding up his hand to his heart. ‘And me music. And me woman. You don’t touch those. Everything else - well - you can ask.’ He laughed. ‘But no one ever goes hungry in the house of Sunshine, isn’t that right?’ He laughed and patted Nick on the back. ‘You just got to make me love you little bit.’ He nodded sagely. Nick still hadn’t got a clue what he was on about.

  ‘Now - I have to go out. Make yourselves at home. Davey knows what to do. See you later.’

  Sunshine got up and headed for the door, patting his pockets to make sure he had his keys, his money, and his weed.

  ‘Can I give ’em a hand, Shine?’ asked Red, but he shook his head.

  ‘No, you need to man the doors. And maybe I need something to warm me up when I come home.’

  ‘You’ll be warm enough, I reckon,’ muttered Red. Shiner shot her a sharp look, but she didn’t say any more.

  ‘What was that about, then?’ asked Nick, when he’d gone.

  ‘Payback,’ said Red, and gave him a lopsided grin.

  Davey didn’t make any move to leave, so Nick stayed on with him. The three of them piled up a big bunch of cushions, made themselves comfortable, turned on the TV and did nothing.

  Red was eighteen years old, although she looked younger, she was such a skinny little thing. She’d been living with Shiner for nearly a year, ever since her previous boyfriend got put inside.

  ‘Assault, and it could have been GBH,’ she said with a sniff. ‘I’m better off without him.’

  Davey looked sideways at her. ‘’E should a gone inside for what ’e did to you long before that,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, that was nothing.’

  ‘Looked like a lot a bruises to me,’ said Davey. ‘So what’s going to happen when ’e comes out, then?’

  ‘None a my business,’ said Red, affecting a shrug.

  ‘You’re better off with Shiner a million times. He’s dangerous, is Jonesy.’

  ‘Shiner’s OK,’ admitted Stella. ‘But he won’t let me out the ’ouse. Like I’m his pet dog or something. At least life with Jonesy was a bit exciting.’

  ‘No one’s perfect,’ said Davey. He wriggled himself down deeper into the cushions. ‘Anyway, least it means we get someone to cook our bacon and eggs for us,’ he added, which made her whack him one.

  The night deepened. They sat and watched TV till late. Nick got ambushed again by the sheer exhaustion of being on the run, and fell asleep in his pile of cushions. He was shaken awake some time later, to find Davey kneeling over him.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he groaned. The room was in pitch darkness.

  ‘Dinner time, Mr Wolf,’ said Davey. ‘Come on. It’s pay day.’

  Davey handed him a little rucksack to go on his back, and led the way to the door. Red sat up to watch them go. ‘Good luck,’ she called. Davey waved, Nick nodded; and off they went, down the labyrinth of stairs and corridors, and out into the cool Manchester night.

  The Happy Hunting Grounds, Davey called them. Later, Nick was to find out that the Happy Hunting Grounds changed every time they went out - no point in making a pattern. That night they walked north, past the Oldham Road - it was too nearby and well known - and over beyond Ancoats. It was that late no one was about.

  Once they got off the main road, the work began. They walked along, peering in through the car windows and testing the doors. Occasionally they found one that was open, but usually there wasn’t anything in there to interest them. Nick began to think they were wasting their time. ‘No one’s going to leave stuff out round here,’ he said.

  ‘We got all night,’ said Davey. Sure enough, they got their first hit after about half an hour. The door opened; Davey bent down to have a nose.

  ‘There it is,’ he whispered. ‘The bread and butter. Look.’

  Nick looked inside. He couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Stereo,’ said Davey. He pulled a knife out of his pocket, leaned in and used it to lever the unit loose in the dashboard. It was tight. At last he gave it an almighty tug and it broke free with a crunch.

  Nick looked up in alarm - it had been quite a noise on the sleeping street, but no lights came on. Davey tucked the stereo in his bag. ‘First score to me,’ he said, and they carried on up the road.

  That was their game that night - lightening up the cars. Nick had done such stuff before, but not like this. Walking down the road and peering in car windows for a lucky break was one thing; this was working for a living. They spent three hours or more out on the streets that night. They brought back four more stereos, a camera that someone had left lying on the back seat, a couple of coats, a few books, a suit still on its hanger fresh from the dry clea
ners, and a scary-looking china doll in a lace frock, packed in an old box. Davey amused himself for a while pretending that the doll was alive and was going to start screaming in the bag to give them away, until Nick made him shut up; it was giving him the spooks.

  Best haul of the night was someone’s bag, a mock snakeskin handbag a woman had left behind after a late night. They had to smash the window for that one and then legged it down the road when a light went on. They went through it a couple of streets away and found a purse with twenty quid in, a few credit cards, make-up, an address book and various other bits and pieces.

  ‘Not bad, not good,’ remarked Davey. They chucked the bag, which wasn’t worth much, and pocketed the money. ‘Sunshine doesn’t have to know about everything,' said Davey.

  By this time, there was light rising on the edge of the sky, so they called it a day and went back, sticking to the back streets. It wasn’t long before they were slipping down the road to Shiner’s house with no one watching.

  Red was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. ‘How’d you do, then?’ she asked eagerly. She nodded when they showed her their haul. ‘All right, not bad,’ she said, ruffling Nick’s hair approvingly. ‘Right, you’ve earned it, I’ll cook up some eggs and I think there’s some chicken in the fridge left over.’

  She pulled a face when Nick said thanks.

  ‘I’d rather be out there with you guys than playing mumsie here with him,’ she said nodding her head in the direction of Shiner’s bedroom, not that he was in it yet. ‘I’m his personal bed-warmer and bottle-washer,’ she said. ‘Bor—ing.’

  ‘Shiner and rights for women, eh, Stella?’ said Davey. ‘So - where’s me bacon?’ And he fell around laughing at his little joke, although Stella didn’t find it so funny.

  After eating the two boys curled themselves up on a mattress on the floor in one of the other rooms, covered themselves with an old smelly duvet, and tried to get some sleep. Stella went back, as she said, to warm up Sunshine’s bed for him.

  ‘Sunshine thinks a woman’s place is in the home, cooking and cleaning and that,’ said Davey, as he and Nick settled down. ‘But her moaning about women’s rights don’t mean anything. The thing she doesn’t like is, she ain’t the only one. At least he don’t knock her about like Jonesy did.’

  He pulled the blankets over himself, and in another minute, they were both flat out.

  24

  Seville

  Michael Moberley was sitting in his kitchen in a small village near Taunton, drinking his morning coffee and reading the papers. It was the usual guff. The economy, crime, the economy, crime.

  Boring. He was thinking of going over to Spain. Many of his friends had places in the south of France, but he preferred Spain. He liked the food, he liked the sun, he liked the people. He had a nice cottage with a garden in a small town outside Seville that he just adored. As the years passed by, he was spending more and more time there. His Spanish was getting better - good enough to hold a half decent conversation these days, which was a big improvement in recent years.

  It was a bit early, though. He had English neighbours near his place, but they wouldn’t be there yet, and he had only so much in common with the local rurals. He’d be better off hanging around for a few weeks longer before flying south for the winter.

  He needed a project really - something to do. Find a new band and promote it, maybe. But he was far past that, really; he had no idea what was on the scene these days. Something though. Keep him busy.

  On the other hand, he could always hang around, be bored for a bit longer and then go to Spain and have a good time instead.

  The post arrived. He wandered through to the hall and picked it up. Circulars, crap - but what’s this? A letter from Greater Manchester Social Services. Must be about that boy...

  He opened it and read.

  The letter was from Mrs Batts, who had promised to keep him abreast of any developments with his new nephew, Nicholas Dane. And something had happened - the little beast had run away.

  ‘Finding a few new heads to break, I suppose,’ muttered Michael Moberley to himself. But as he said it, he felt wrong. In fact, Tony Creal had rather overdone it about Nick when he met Michael at the Home. Just a bit. Not enough to make Michael disbelieve him, but enough to make him feel uncomfortable that he was taking him at his word.

  He took the letter through into the kitchen and dialled the number at the top of page. He was in luck - the last time he’d tried to ring the switchboard had been jammed for hours. This time he got through to Mrs Batts at once.

  ‘So - the little thug’s out, is he?’ he said.

  ‘Oooh, well. Ah wouldn’t necessarily call him a thug, Mr Moberley,’ drawled Mrs Batts.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Michael in some surprise. He’d have thought there was little room to doubt that.

  ‘Well, he certainly has had his moments, Ah agree. But Ah always felt that Nicholas was more sinned against than sinning, reeally. Considering all the circumstances, you know.’

  Michael didn’t know. ‘That’s not what that Mr Creal led me to believe,’ he said.

  Mrs Batts shifted uneasily. She sometimes felt that Tony Creal wasn’t telling her everything that he should - to protect her from the truth, of course. She knew that some of these boys could get up to some deeply unsavoury things.

  ‘Mr Creal saw much more of him that Ah did, of course.’ she pointed out. ‘Perhaps Ah’m just bein’ a bit soft,’ she added.

  Odd, very, thought Michael. Odd enough to make him curious enough to ask a few more questions. He quickly established that nothing had been heard of the boy since he ran away some two months ago.

  ‘You took your time getting back to me about it.’ said Michael.

  ‘Ah have a lot on my plate, Mr Moberley. This is only a courtesy call.’

  ‘I see. And no one’s heard anything of him? What about that woman who knew his mum, whatsename?’

  ‘Mrs Hayes, yes. Weeell, she denies seeing anything of him, of course. But she would. These people sometimes don’t always seem to understand that we’re here to help them. Social education is one of the biggest issues in our work.’

  ‘Right.’ Already, Michael had heard enough to make him think that maybe the education didn’t need to be all on one side. ‘Any chance I could have her number? I’d like to get in touch, have a chat... you know.’

  At the other end of the phone, Mrs Batts pulled a face. One thing she hated was clients going behind her back.

  ‘Ah’m afraid Ah can’t do that,’ she said smoothly. ‘Client confidentiality forbids. Sorry.’

  In the end, Michael got her to agree to forward any letters he might send to Jenny. At least he could get in touch with her that way. And he fully meant to, as well. If he’d had her phone number, he’d have rung her on the spot. But he didn’t. Instead, he put the letter down on the table and went for a swim. Over the next few days, he put it off. As the days turned into weeks he still didn’t get round to writing the letter. Then he went to Spain and left all his cares behind him.

  25

  The Notorious Jones

  Apart from buying the things he stole, Sunshine found various other little jobs for Nick. It could be anything from popping down to the shops for supplies, to carrying letters and packages around Manchester to deliver. Shiner liked having a lad he could trust nearby. Nick was quiet, quick-witted and trustworthy, and more than happy to act as Sunshine’s unofficial servant in exchange for a place to stay.

  He had to be careful about it, though - Shiner was territorial and got irritable if he felt crowded in his own home - but the building was largely derelict and there was lots of space. Nick found himself a little room along the corridor from the flat and gradually started to fill it with cushions and bits of carpet, pinched from corners of Shiner's place, and a kettle, a radio and various other bits and pieces. He spent most of his time there, lying on his back on an old mattress he found in a skip, staring at the ceiling and feeling lonely.
He hated having so much time and not enough to do. He thought about things a lot -about his mother whom he at last had time to miss dreadfully, about Meadow Hill, and also of course, about Oliver. The fate of the little mop-haired boy was never far from Nick’s mind. He felt he’d let him down. He’d promised to get him out, and then allowed him to be captured. Worst of all, he’d lost the photos Oliver had entrusted to him.

  Then, a couple of weeks after they’d escaped, there was some news. Davey had been in and out of homes for so much of his life, and he knew so many people, it was inevitable that sooner or later he’d meet someone out of Meadow Hill. Apparently, Oliver wasn’t there anymore. He’d been put in the Secure Unit, but after that, he’d just disappeared. No one had seen him since. The story was, he’d done another runner and this time he’d got away.

  Nick was delighted. Time after time he kept underestimating Oliver. But if that was the case, if he was free, where was he now?

  Nick began to use his spare time to search for his lost friend, but Manchester was a big town and he had precious few clues. Oliver had never told him where he came from - it was like he’d always been in care. He was sure he’d mentioned his own area of Ancoats to him, so he always kept an eye out when he went back there, and asked everyone he knew if they’d seen a blond-headed lad hanging around, but no one ever had. The only other clue he’d had was when Oliver had joked about going and selling himself on Canal Street. Nick started to hang out around there, too, at all times of the day or night. He asked and asked until people got sick of him, but again, there was no sign. If Oliver ever had been here, he’d gone by now. In the end, Nick came to think that he’d been caught again and Creal was so sick of him, he sent him away.

  He just hoped he hadn’t been given too much of a hard time - not much chance of that, though. If he was in another Home, it was likely to be better than Meadow Hill, which, according to Davey, was about the worst of the lot.