Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  His mum’s head didn't move, but he knew she shook her head just from how her soft brown eyes hooked into his subconscious. He risked a glance at PC Roberts. His blush squeezed out a little sweat before he met her eyes. Hers sparkled and she nodded encouragement.

  “Now, hang on a minute. Did you see them properly, love, or is it all a blur?”

  “I think I saw them clearly.”

  “You're emotional – this is all bound to mess with yer head.”

  “Please, Mrs North –”

  She puffed her cheeks. “Mrs? His father is God knows where – haven't seen him since he saw the lump in my belly.”

  The detective and PC rested their eyes on his mum’s stomach for a second, as if she had another one in there.

  “Miss North,” the detective said. “If I could just talk to your lad –”

  “I don't believe you can, no. I think he's made it clear he didn't see a thing –”

  Dean didn’t much like the iron which set in PC Roberts’ face. “With all due respect, Miss North, I don't think he said anything. These men are dangerous – they need to be found very quickly.”

  His mum’s back, already stiff as a ruler, became almost queenly in a show of resolution. “Precisely.” And there she expected an end to the matter.

  Dean prickled from his lack of input. He wanted to stand up and be counted. He'd had enough of people like those men. Poor Mr Craig dished out chips and fish and battered sausage. He didn't deserve to have his arm fried off for that, even if he ought to keep his chips in the fryer a bit longer. And maybe add a few more to a portion. And not scowl when you asked for scraps.

  He stood up to the knee-aimers when he played football, and he whacked that lad round the head with a science book after he yanked it from his grasp to in an attempt to throw it in the river.

  He wanted justice.

  His mum’s strength surprised him. She dragged him from his chair and out the door. Muttered about coppers and their so-called good intentions. He stole a last glance at PC Roberts before the door closed on them.

  3.

  “You know your problem, lad?” Mr Snidden stood as still as the King Edward statue in the town centre, but Dean could tell his feet wanted to dance and shuffle and kick him up the arse.

  Dean shook his head, half-confused, half to judder the sleep from his head. Mr Snidden’s teacher-breath, surely a week’s build-up of black coffee, almost knocked him out again. Dean stood straight. The backs of his knees rested against the wooden bench in the changing room, ready to balance him from a swoop backwards away from his PE teacher.

  “You hide – that's your problem. It drives me nuts. When you have the ball, you whizz around and do some magical things. You have clear talent. But without the ball, you just stand there and wait for things to happen. You have to make it happen. And until then, I can't have you in the school team.” He tapped the side of his head with two fingers. “Think on that.”

  Mr Snidden’s smell hung in the air for a few moments after he left. Stunk like a skip round the back of a Starbucks. Dean hung his rucksack off a shoulder and edged round the corridors away from the boys he knew waited for him. He poked his head round a corner when he heard their voices, which sounded clearer in their whispers. One of them had rolled a book into a weapon. He’d get beat round the head or choked down the throat with it. He backed into the wall and tip-toed into Mr Mentis’ empty classroom. Mr Mentis never locked the door because nobody wanted to steal his classic literature texts. Dean smacked the window lock upwards and climbed through, out to the path. Smiled all the way to Mr Breckin’s room.

  “Ah, here’s my boy.” Sultana hugged her legs, sat on the desk in front of Mr Breckin like Sir performed theatre. Mr Breckin held up a beaker, swirled it, Eureka on his lips. Lines on his forehead dipped and elevated like a stormy sea.

  “Sultana.” Sir shook his head. Wagged a finger. “Goggles. Look what I'm throwing about. If you go blind, it'll not be my fault, but I will surely bear the blame.”

  “Sorry, sir, I just got caught up in it all.” She jumped to the floor, ran to the wall hooks, grabbed a pair of goggles, and high-fived Dean on her way back. She patted the hard wood beside her and rested back on the palms of her hands. Dean laughed and took his place, careful not to brush against her. Electric shocks surged through him every time he touched a female these days.

  “A-hmmm.” Dean shifted his attention back to his hero. Mr Breckin hurled a nod to the wall hooks he had just directed Sultana to.

  She fastened his wrist as he made to get up. “Got you a pair, so stay right where you are.”

  Mr Breckin continued once Dean had his eyes covered. A fizz erupted from the beaker and a stench hit Dean’s nose and curled things up there. The students wafted the air before their noses and snorted various “blaaah” noises.

  “Some scientists you two are.” The goggles made Mr Breckin’s eyes owlish as he glared at them. They softened at Dean, turned playful. “Maybe science is not glamorous for you anymore, lad. Mr Snidden talks about you in the staff room all the time.”

  “Does he?” Dean’s smile hit lopsided, like some invasion of his face.

  “Says if you could just get the team-work part sorted, you'd have a chance at the big-time.”

  “I have good feet.”

  “Look at you, bigging yourself up.” Sultana shouldered him, like she played football.

  “But I do. It's just, I love the ball and that’s it. I don't want to defend. I don't want to make runs. I only run when I have the ball.”

  “Then Mr Snidden’s blowing hot air. He's probably desperate. I've seen the team. Bloody awful.”

  “I'll agree with that.” Sultana’s nod had all the seriousness she’d put into a scientific experiment. “They all look more like angry wasps than footballers.”

  “Since when did you watch football?” Dean wanted to shoulder her the way she had him, but ...

  “I watch. You don't pay attention.”

  They followed Mr Breckin’s lead and removed their goggles, his obscure experiment now done with.

  Sir swirled the formula. His lips twisted, disappointed at something. “And now you’re a celebrity. A local hero. Patron Saint of Fish and Chip Men.”

  “You saw that? It's embarrassing. I wish they didn't mention me.”

  “What's with the photo they printed?” Sultana pulled a face.

  “The school sent an old school team photo to the paper. Me mum refused to say anything. Told them to sod off about taking any photos of me. She's scared those men will come and get me.”

  “True, at least they don't know what you look like as you are now.”

  Mr Breckin’s voice boomed in the nearly empty classroom. “But you described them, and the newspaper printed your name for all to see.”

  “True.” Sultana hunched her shoulders for a moment, but straightened them in support of her friend. “The coppers will have them both behind bars before they hatch any revenge plan.”

  Dean scratched an imaginary itch at the tip of his nose. “They saw me. One wanted to do me in – that's what it looked like anyway. But the other one stopped him. They sodded off after that.”

  Sultana and Mr Breckin shared a glance. Their eyebrows mirrored each other's. Sultana knocked his knee with hers and fingered her fringe behind an ear. “You're invisible. Nobody sees you. Sometimes I don't even know you're there.” She laughed and slapped the table.

  Dean slipped from the desk with a shrug of his shoulders. “I think the suit is close to something.”

  “That suit is close to nothing.” Mr Breckin’s face quivered. He planted his hands on the workbench and leaned in. “It will never work. And maybe it never should.”

  “I can't help feeling it’s just one little … thing away from success. It flickered last night.”

  “Flickered?” Sultana’s face lit. “How long?”

  “A second. A microsecond.”

  “Just a flash of light hit it, that's all.” Mr Breckin
dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand.

  “No.” Dean took a step towards his teacher. “The suit flashed. It died straight away.”

  “What does a flash do?” Sultana said. “It's not what we worked on it to do.”

  He sat and folded into himself a little. “Seemed significant. It did something – at least.”

  “Don't bring it back to school. Rip it up. Bury it. Keep it away from … prying eyes.”

  “That was the plan.” Sultana narrowed her eyes at the implied insult.

  “Not funny.”

  Dean rubbed at his lip. “I don't have a computer, sir. I can't program into the suit from home.”

  “Poor pauper … you can always come to mine. We can continue to work on it.” She planted a hand on his shoulder.

  “Your house? Errr …”

  “Why not?”

  “You said the whole thing was a crock of …” Dean trailed off like Mr Breckin’s bushy eyebrows.

  “I changed my mind now you’re all gung-ho about it.”

  “You two … I'm not sure … You …”

  “I'll see you tonight, then.” She punched his shoulder and almost skipped out the room.

  4.

  Dean’s Sanskrit-lined forehead translated as Oh My God, I’m off to Sultana’s house. He pulled in a familiar breath and held it. Enjoyed the space in his lungs, a relief from the usual tightness. Earth filled his nostrils. He clocked the potato peel on the counter and the chips on the chopping board. Poor Mr Craig.

  “Where've you been?” The two Es elongated and the N capped the whine. His mum stood like a monolith by the kitchen table, though he had about three inches over her. He loved his mum, but she worried too much. Those fellas wouldn't come and get him. They had coppers on their backs.

  “I was in Mr Breckin’s class.”

  “This late? I thought you had science in the morning?”

  She planted both hands on each hip. Her elbows jutted out. Made herself bigger. She's the boss. Listen to her.

  “It's an after-school class.” The inside-ends of her eyebrows met. “I go every week. With Sultana.”

  “Who is this girl? She's always the first name on your lips these days.”

  “Sultana Brown.” He couldn’t figure out why he lied about her last name. “She likes science. Like me.”

  She turned to the cooker, dialled a ring on hot, and chopped some fish. Dean inched further into the kitchen. Didn’t’ wish to trigger further conversation. In times like this he hated the only-child life. He had no distractions. No one else around to turn the conversation. Where had dad lived his life?

  Mum huffed. “What kind of interest is that? Robots will do all that work in the future. Like everything else.”

  “How was work, mum?”

  “Bloody awful. I couldn't think of anything but those two men. And Mr Kelly … well, he just needs to keep his hands in his pockets. I don't know why he thinks being the shop manager allows him …” She shook whatever image she had away.

  She swivelled round and nearly knocked the chip pan off the cooker. “I saw a man down the street this afternoon, as I came back from work. He was sat in his car and I could tell he watched me in the side mirror – though the soft get tried to hide behind his newspaper.”

  Dean slumped into the chair by the table. Shifted the salt and pepper bottles as if he played chess. “Do you … What do you … I'm a bit scared, mum.” There. Admitted it.

  She rushed to the table and kneeled beside him, her features scrunched like acid melted them away. She thrust her face into his chest. Made Dean feel like the parent. He combed her hair with his fingers and pulled her face into him tighter.

  “You're my only child.” He felt her gulp in his chest. “My life. I can't lose you. I can't.”

  “Mummm, it's okay. He was probably a builder on a tea break. Some neighbour down there is having some work done on their roof.” She sniffed and appealed to him through watery eyes. Dean held firm. Dammed his tear-ducts.

  “You're probably right, son.” She realised a change. The confusion in her eyes sharpened to wonder. “You're a big lad, now. Look at me – I should be cuddling you.” She stood, wiped her clothes as if she cleaned away emotion. “Are you sure you want fish?”

  Dean hadn't asked for fish, but he nodded.

  “We still have Turkey Twizzlers, too.”

  ***

  His mum insisted he take a taxi to Sultana’s. Dean nodded his head at the driver’s tirade against the Premier League and its soft, pampered footballers, without commitment to an opinion of his own. He’d gripped the money mum gave him like gold, but paid the fare and hopped out. Sultana waited for him on the doorstep of her big old house. Its roof arched and a third floor made his jaw slack. The house stood alone, a few metres of separation from its neighbours. He imagined the front room inside bigger than his whole house. His hands tightened round the straps on his backpack. Would the bag’s contents net him a place like this? Such a future seemed impossible – no matter how hard he worked. It made his breath heavy. He sniffed and coughed a little at the pungent flower scent which shot up his nose. The late sun radiated all their yellows and reds, the odd purple and orange. Sensory overload. A place which only existed in a Hollywood England.

  Sultana grabbed his wrist and whispered. “Come on.” He followed in a daze. His eyes flitted between her long, jet black hair and the lush green of the plants down the side yard. Her hand slipped to his for a moment. She let go as she opened the back door.

  “Dad … This is Dean. Dean, this is my dad.”

  Dean lifted his chin. Searched up the length of this giant for the head. He found it in a forest of beard. Two exclamation marks represented his eyes.

  “Sultana.” His voice soared above mountains and forests. Might have reached the moon. “This is a boy.”

  “Yes. Yes he is.” She tugged Dean’s sleeve. “Come on.”

  “Hold right there.”

  Dean couldn't tell what made him jump first: the man’s cannon voice or the wide, sudden rabbit eyes that transformed Sultana into a girl he'd never seen before.

  “Dad …”

  “Dean, is it?”

  Dean nodded, for his throat had shut up shop.

  “Can you step out a moment?”

  He hugged his rucksack tight. Wished what lied inside could work now. How would he take on this man-mountain? He couldn't. The beard alone would strangle him into submission.

  “I'd like a very serious word with my daughter … If you don't mind.”

  “Oh.” Dean smiled, all relieved. “Right. Yeah, definitely. I’ll …” He pointed at the entrance as if Mr Singh-Cheema didn't know its whereabouts, and shuffled out. Any faster would appear rude. He sat at the patio table in their front yard. What kind of job paid for such luxury? He'd noticed her dad’s black briefcase and the black polished shoes by the doorway. What a contrast to the back yard of his house, where the sun hardly reached, and the old council fence which drooped all splintered and crooked. He could work his football skills in Sultana’s yard without slipping on moss or breaking his head in tight spots. Dean dragged air through his nose and coughed at the flower-scent which shot into his brain. Mr Singh-Cheema’s voice had started as a rumble enough to rattle the house’s foundations, but now reached high enough to crack wooden beams and concrete pillars to bring the building down round his head. Sultana raised her voice in defiance, mixed it with submission, added some tears to break the old man’s heart, and showed her strong head again with sharp words of her own. She reminded Dean of those scraggy trees which hung off a cliff’s edge. She carried on like that and she'd be lucky to cling to any freedom.

  He stared through the gate as he listened to their music. Their words clanged and sang like swords clashed against each other. He heard “boy” a few times. Why did Mr Singh-Cheema dwell on that? Half the population are boys. There's nothing he could do about it.

  The sun touched the horizon and sparked a nuclear sunset. It deepened
the red of that boy racer’s Ford Mondeo which passed by. It pumped electro-music which beat open a path as other cars gave him a wide berth. The tall, manicured privet prevented Dean tracing the car’s route, but when he glanced through the gate as a means of escape from the bickering father and daughter, he noted the car parked on the opposite side of the road. The car’s passenger side had a long stripe scraped across it and had to have had some reconstruction with a hammer. He squinted at the two men inside. They stared at him. Dean shifted and shuffled, like they had him on a weighing scale. Tapped his foot up and down. He wanted to stare back, but objects dragged his eyes away to comfort. That yellow flower with the orange centre. That cool little statue which plucked at his imagination of India. The car, an old Renault, choked and belched and spluttered away down the road. Dean edged off the chair and tip-toed to the gate to see where the men from the chippie headed. He squinted at the vehicle’s rear end. It had a broken brake light on the right. Maybe that's why they left him alive, because they might get stopped by a copper after a kill. He wrapped his arms tight round himself and hurried to Sultana’s side-door. Rapped it hard.

  Mr Singh-Cheema swung it open and almost hurled his eyeballs at Dean. “Yes?”

  Dean kept his attention on the turban which sat on the top of his head. Made Mr Singh-Cheema appear like those great Russian buildings he'd seen on TV, with the swirly roofs.

  “Well?”

  Dean coughed. Checked his shoulder for the men. He scratched at his arm as if chip fat frazzled his skin from bone. “Sir.” He puffed out his chest and latched his eyes on the man’s to reel him in. “We have a school project that we really need to finish. Sultana has the computer we need to get it finished. I don't want to end up flipping burgers in McDonald’s. Can I please come in so we can get the job done?”

  ***

  Sultana skipped up the steps ahead of him and shut her bedroom door behind them after they entered. “Wow,” sat on her lips, but scurried back inside her mouth as the door thundered back open.

  “This door stays wiiiide open.” Mr Singh-Cheema held that door handle tight. Dean stared as if it would crumble in his grip. “I don't know who you are, lad – Sultana has certainly never mentioned you, but you keep your eyes on the screen and your hands to yourself.”