The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Not with his dick, Michael. He raped me with a billiard cue.’ His mouth was twisted in an ugly grimace. ‘And when he was finished, Reader held my hands behind my back, while Malloy smashed the cue into my mouth. That’s what those bastards did to me, Michael.’

  I had no words to comfort him. We walked back to the senior block in silence and went to bed without another word. I didn’t sleep that night. I kept imagining what had happened to Liam, over and over, running around my head like a hamster’s treadmill. I didn’t think I would ever sleep again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We planned our escape for the last weekend of February, Friday 27th, the last day of school. Well, I say planned, but it wasn’t much of a plan. We stole as much food as we could from Woodside, added some from kids’ packed lunches at school, and didn’t bother catching the bus back to Woodside.

  Liam’s physical injuries had healed reasonably well, and he’d even glued his lost tooth back in place with chewing gum. It looked comical, but the circumstance in which he’d lost it killed any humour. I was the only one he’d told, but other kids had some idea. A kid with injuries was a kid who’d been caught on the wrong side of Woodside’s special brand of punishment. Injuries were worn like a macabre badge of honour, and no one, other than McCree, would taunt another kid carrying fresh wounds.

  Birth defects didn’t escape the merciless mickey taking. But, no one ever mentioned Liam’s wonky tooth. Not once. But, my bucked front teeth? Fair game. Anything from Bugs Bunny to Ratty. I didn’t mind. It was a way of letting off steam, and God knew we had to have some way of doing so.

  My escape technique from the everyday horrors of Woodside was to lose myself in imaginary worlds. Worlds where I was King. Even the superintendent of Woodside. I would give all the boys special privileges, choice of the best cuts of meat, any toy they wanted, any game, roast beef on Sunday.

  I’d got to know one or two other boys by now. One that me and Liam were particularly friendly with was Reggie. I don’t think that was his real name. He was from London, reckoned he was related to the Kray twins. I very much doubted that, but he used to spin us some stories, and act like he was this big deal gangster called Reggie.

  Quite a weedy looking kid, but no pushover. What he lacked in physique he made up for in stubbornness. I never once saw any kid beat him at arm wrestling. Good with his fists, too. Fast. Bam, bam, bam. Few kids took the piss out of him. Me and Liam had a row over whether Reggie should come with us. I wanted him to. Reckoned he’d be handy to have around, if we got any bother from anyone, but Liam thought we’d be better on our own.

  ‘Three’s a crowd, Mikey.’ Yes, he was calling me Mikey by then. Like I said, all right for my mother and close friends. ‘It’ll mean having three different ideas on everything. Three mouths to feed. I like Reggie, but I don’t want to sleep with him.’

  I roared with laughter. Discussion over. Me and Liam would go it alone. My overactive imagination conjured up a picture of me and Liam coming back to Woodside one day, and rescuing Reggie and all the kids from that prison. We would be like the Three Musketeers, with Reggie on the inside, and me and Liam storming the outer walls.

  There was also another lad, called Chris. Nearly six feet tall, and still only fifteen. Strong as an ox. Even McCree didn’t bother with him. Me, Liam, Reggie, and Chris would sometimes go to the groundsman’s shed, which was almost as big as one of Finley’s barns. We would sit with Hodges and listen to his wartime tales. Chris had this nasty habit of spitting on the ground. Everywhere he went, a puddle of spit was sure to follow. Hodges once told him not to do it, it was bad manners, but Chris just looked at him with his dopey brown eyes, spat on the ground, and said it was better out than in.

  The hardest thing for me at Woodside was seeing the young children from the junior block. There were about fifteen of them, ages ranging from four to eleven. The young ones always looked so lost, so abandoned, as if they’d been ripped away from their mothers at birth and thrown to lions.

  Kraft made a big deal of public punishments. Bible readings were a part of every assembly. Even the big kids struggled with some of the words, so it was virtually impossible for the juniors to read the more difficult text. I always used to think it ironic children were forced to read from a book supposedly dedicated to righteousness, and then, they were publicly humiliated for getting something wrong.

  I once heard a kid of about six mispronounce the word bosom. He called it bossom, like blossom. Kraft made that boy come onto the stage. He asked him to read the word again. I could see the boy’s lower lip trembling. ‘Bossom, sir.’

  Kraft laughed, cane held stiff and straight by his side. ‘Tell the assembly what a bossom is, Coates.’

  The boy seemed confused by Kraft’s laughter. He grinned.

  ‘What’s funny, boy?’

  The smile slipped away, like grease off a griddle. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Kraft swished the cane in the air. ‘What’s a bossom?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Really, Coates? Are you standing there telling me a word printed in the Holy Bible is nothing?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Read it again.’

  The kid held his Bible with shaking hands. ‘She held him close to her bossom.’

  Kraft whacked the kid’s hands with his cane. The Bible clattered to the floor. ‘It’s bosom, you stupid, illiterate spawn of the devil. “She held him close to her bosom.” Say it.’

  Coates tried to, but his words were gobbled up by sobs.

  Kraft whacked him once on the back of his knees. ‘Say it.’

  Coates never said it. He stood on that stage, in front of about thirty other children, and pissed his pants. A puddle formed at his feet, frothy and steaming in the freezing cold hall.

  If I ever got the chance, I’d let Coates take a cane to Kraft, and hit the bastard as many times as he liked. Make him piss his pants.

  Me and Liam had managed to steer clear of trouble since the barbaric rape with the billiard cue, but that hadn’t diminished our hatred of Woodside. If anything, it had increased. Festered. We stood in the playground after school and watched the other kids hurry off to catch the bus.

  ‘What if someone sees us?’

  Liam laughed, but he sounded nervous. ‘Like who? The teachers don’t give a toss about us. They don’t care if we catch the bus or jump in front of it.’

  I wished I felt reassured by that.

  He opened his rucksack. ‘I’ve got some goodies.’

  I peered inside. Sandwiches, two bottles of coke, three Bounty bars, four or five squashed cakes, and a purse.

  ‘Whose purse is it?’

  He grinned. ‘Miss Parsons left her bag in the classroom at lunchtime, so I helped myself. God helps those who help themselves, so they say.’

  I grinned, even though I wasn’t very comfortable with him stealing a purse, even if it was a teacher’s.

  ‘There’s over a fiver in there. Plus, I got about thirty pence out of Martin Makins.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I told him we were going on an expedition for the BBC. Said if he made a donation, we’d make sure we gave him a mention.’

  ‘And he swallowed that?’

  ‘He’d believe I was his own brother, if I kept a straight face. What did you manage?’

  ‘Not a lot. I’ve got a pound. And some Weetabix.’

  ‘Weetabix? What the fuck are we supposed to do with Weetabix? Ask someone for some milk and a bowl?’

  ‘I risked my neck going into the kitchen for those.’

  ‘I don’t even like Weetabix. It’s like eating dried grass.’

  ‘That’s Shredded Wheat.’

  ‘Same fucking thing, ain’t it?’

  We walked out of school and headed towards Oxford city centre. A sign said five miles. No way I could walk that far in my worn-out shoes. My feet were already frozen.

  ‘So, where are we going?’ I asked, as we walked along
a tree-lined street, with neat, semi-detached houses set back from the road. ‘Did you get hold of your uncle in Bournemouth?’

  Liam looked momentarily confused, and then it seemed to register. ‘Nah. He’s moved.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t know. When I phoned, they said he didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

  ‘Why not?’

  His good mood seemed to slide. ‘How should I know? No one ever tells me anything.’

  I dropped it. We walked on. Past a pub called the Jolly Miller. More houses. Such neat suburban lives. I wondered what went on behind all those closed doors, if there were kids just like me and Liam, living in fear every night, in case the likes of Mr. Davies came sneaking into their bedrooms with dirty hands and dirty thoughts.

  I tried again. ‘Do you still fancy the coast?’

  ‘Too far, Mikey. We’ll spend all our money just getting there. I reckon we ought to find a derelict house and set up home.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? I haven’t got a map of derelict homes.’

  He grinned, revealing that lone tooth hanging by its chewing gum thread. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the tooth would rot with no gums to sustain it. It was his little victory. His two fingers up to Malloy. You might be able to smash me in the mouth with a billiard cue, but I’ve still got my tooth, so fuck you.

  We rested on a bench about a mile out of Oxford city centre. Liam pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A full pack, filched from the staff quarters at Woodside. That kid was braver than I’d ever be. Marlboros. Filter tips. Absolute luxury after Hodges’ Woodbines.

  We lit up. The smoke felt harsh, but at least my throat was no longer inflamed. To be honest, I was starting to lose my enthusiasm for this adventure already. Darkness was erasing what little colour remained in the sky, my feet throbbed, and the hideous duffel coat barely kept out the cold.

  But, that wasn’t the main reason why my spirits felt as damp as the weather. We still didn’t have a clue where we were heading. Every time we’d talked about it before leaving, Liam had said we were going to his uncle’s. Now, that just seemed like a fanciful idea. The colder I got, the more I doubted he even had an uncle in Bournemouth.

  To make matters worse, I was hungry, and, apart from my useless pack of dried Weetabix, Liam had all the food. I would have to stay hungry, or ask him to share. We finished our cigarettes, and ground them out on the floor.

  ‘We could get a room,’ I suggested. ‘Have a bath and a proper bed for the night.’

  Liam looked at me as if I’d just suggested hijacking a witch’s broomstick. ‘And then what?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do we do tomorrow?’

  I seriously wished we’d worked this out better. We’d only been gone a few hours, and it was already beginning to look like the biggest mistake ever. We had nowhere to stay, no proper clothes, crap shoes, not to mention the shit we’d be in if we ever got caught and had to go back to Woodside.

  Liam broke into my thoughts. ‘Do you see what I see?’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed across the road at a white rendered building.

  ‘A pub?’

  He nodded like a cat that had just discovered a dairy. ‘Not just a pub, Mikey. It’s boarded up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, no one’s living there. We can break in and set up camp.’

  ‘How we gonna get in?’

  He stood up. ‘I don’t know. Come on, let’s get over there before it gets too dark.’

  We crossed the road. A rusty sign read: The Dolphin. Names and symbols were sprayed on the boards. Declarations of love. Declarations of hate. And other shit that meant zip to me. I followed Liam around the back. Rubbish filled the garden. A huge white bath, rotting kitchen cupboards, two dark red, leather sofas, a fridge, a cooker, tyres, wooden crates. The windows and the glass in the back door were also boarded up. There was an outbuilding, but I wasn’t sleeping in there. No way. Apart from being freezing cold, there would be spiders, and I had a pathological hatred of spiders.

  ‘We’re in luck,’ Liam said.

  I could think of better words to describe the place. Shithole, sprang to mind. ‘What?’

  He pointed at a small plastic square set in the bottom of the door. ‘It’s got a cat-flap.’

  I was about to remind him we weren’t cats, when he unhooked his rucksack, dropped onto his knees, and tugged at the flap. Within a few seconds, it came free. He held up a hand triumphantly, and then pushed his way inside.

  I wouldn’t say it was a tight squeeze, but it had probably been easier for his mother to give birth to him. He pushed and grunted, shoes scrabbling on the ground for a foothold. Eventually, he popped through the hole.

  A few seconds later, he poked his head back through the hole. ‘Come on, Mikey. Pass your bag and my rucksack through. Then, come in.’

  He looked so happy, as if, for the first time in his life, he’d played a game and won. I didn’t fancy my chances of getting through there. I was slightly bulkier than him, and a damn sight less enthusiastic. But, it was better than nothing, and nothing was all we had right now. I passed the rucksack and my small canvas bag through.

  ‘Careful. You’ll squish the cakes,’ he said, grinning like a clown.

  I suppose it was inevitable. I got stuck halfway through. To tell the truth and shame the devil, as my Aunt Jean used to say before she got her loyalties all muddled up, my arse got stuck. And then one of my shoes fell off.

  It’s hard to explain the panic that sets in when you can’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I felt dizzy. Liam grew two grinning heads. He tried to pull me through the flap, but the harder he pulled, the more I flapped (no pun intended). To make matters worse, I caught my knackers on the metal rim of the blasted thing. Searing pain ripped up into my belly.

  ‘Can’t you push with your feet at the same time as I pull?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Well try harder.’

  ‘You pull harder.’

  He did. And virtually castrated me. ‘YOW! My nuts. My fucking nuts.’

  He stopped pulling. ‘How am I supposed to help you if you keep squealing like a girl about your bollocks?’

  ‘Girls haven’t got bollocks,’ I shouted.

  ‘I doubt they’d make as much fuss as you if they did.’

  ‘Seriously, Liam. They feel as if they’re in my guts.’

  He laughed. ‘Watch you don’t get yourself pregnant.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very—’

  Without warning, he yanked again. Harder. Short sharp jerks, like Oxo on his lead when he saw a cat. And then I was through. Lying on a filthy kitchen floor, with my chin resting on a large coconut mat.

  ‘What a girl.’

  I was off that mat and up in an instant. I think Liam thought I was going to hit him. I never told him the real reason for my sudden burst of energy: a spider. More related to a money-spider than a tarantula, but a spider all the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  To say that the place was a bit creepy was like saying the Second World War was a bit dangerous. That pub held court to three of my worst fears: spiders, the dark, and ghosts. Yes, you heard me right. Ghosts.

  After rescuing my shoe from outside, we went into the lounge bar. Liam was hopeful of finding booze. Broken glass crunched beneath our feet. I stayed a good way behind him, the coward in me letting him test the water first.

  He flipped his Zippo into life, found a light switch, tested it. Dead. ‘We need to light a fire.’

  Now, I was getting worried. Even a dumb idiot like me knew the dangers of lighting fires in derelict buildings. I didn’t fancy trying to get back through that cat-flap in a hurry, with flames licking my arse.

  ‘What are we going to use to make a fire?’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. We could use some of that crap in the garden.’

  Who’s going to go back outside to get it? ‘Oh.’

>   ‘Hey, we’re in luck.’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed to one side of the room. ‘There’s a fireplace over there.’

  I brightened. At least that wouldn’t be as dangerous as lighting a fire on the floor.

  ‘And it’s got logs and newspapers in it, as if it was about to be lit.’

  Before the deadly plague wiped everyone out, I thought, scaring myself a little more than I’d intended. Or before the landlord poisoned all his customers. This really creeped me out. I moved closer to Liam and the relative safety of the light from his Zippo.

  Within half an hour, we had a decent fire going in the grate. We crouched in front of it like two cowboys around a campfire. It was the best I’d felt in ages. Getting warm, having a smoke, as far away from Woodside as two boys could get with only feet for transport.

  I flicked my butt into the flames. ‘What if someone sees the smoke coming out of the chimney?’

  Liam shrugged. ‘So what? That’s what smoke’s supposed to do.’

  ‘But, the place is derelict. What if the cops see it?’

  ‘Relax, Mikey. No copper will be suspicious of a bit of smoke coming out of a chimney in the winter, will he?’

  I sincerely hoped not. I didn’t want anyone, or anything, to spoil this. I knew it sounded daft, because we didn’t have the means to stay there forever, but I wanted that moment to stretch on for the rest of my life.

  We had no idea of the time. A clock on the wall behind the bar was as dead as the pub itself. Forever stuck at half past nine. Liam found two crates to use as makeshift stools. We sat in front of the fire, basking in our newfound freedom.

  ‘At least there won’t be any lights out tonight,’ Liam said.

  ‘Ain’t no lights to put out.’

  He laughed. And then, his face straightened almost instantly. ‘I hate that fucking place.’

  ‘Try not to think about it.’

  He spat into the fire. ‘Easier said than done.’

  True enough. I half-expected Malloy to bang on the front door any minute, demanding we get back to Woodside. ‘What are we going to sleep on?’