by Mark Tilbury
Chapter Twenty-Six
The fire was out by the time I woke up. The pub was in darkness, thanks to the boarded-up windows. I crawled off the mattress and fumbled my way to the back door. I needed to pee. I stood by the cat flap, hopping from one foot to the other, remembering the struggle I’d had squeezing through the damned thing yesterday. I considered waking Liam, in case I got stuck again. In the end, I balanced on an upturned crate and pissed in the sink. It felt so good to empty my bladder.
I zipped up my fly, knelt down, and peered through the cat flap. The day looked charcoal grey. A fine mist of rain hosed down the rubbish in the back garden. It was disorientating not knowing the time after living such a regimented life at the Davieses’ house and at Woodside.
With my bladder emptied, hunger gnawed at my stomach. I imagined my mother standing at the cooker, frying bacon, fried bread and mushrooms to go with it. Huge dollops of brown sauce on the bacon.
I made my way back to the lounge bar. I didn’t fancy Weetabix without milk and sugar; my throat was as dry as a cornfield as it was. But Liam had goodies in his bag. Bounty bars. Cakes. Coke. I knelt down and opened his bag.
I swear he must have had the damned thing wired up to an alarm. ‘Whayadoin?’
I almost toppled backwards. ‘It’s morning,’ I said, as if that somehow explained why I was rummaging about in his bag.
‘Huh?’
‘It’s morning,’ I repeated. ‘You need to get up.’
He propped himself up on one elbow, only a silhouette in the near darkness. ‘I reckon we ought to take down the board at that window, let some light in. I’m going to waste all my gas messing about in the dark.’
‘What if someone notices?’
‘It’s a back window. No one will see.’
I wasn’t so sure, but he was right about the light. We couldn’t set up camp in the dark. ‘Okay, but I need something to eat first.’
He laughed. ‘So, that’s what you were up to. About to raid my bag.’
‘I’m starving.’
He grabbed his rucksack and groped inside. He pulled out a bounty bar and a bottle of coke and handed them to me. ‘We’ll get breakfast on the way to Rachel’s house. A cheese toasty and a cup of tea.’
Right now, I didn’t care about proper food. I ate the chocolate in much the same way as Oxo used to wolf down his treats. I washed it down with half the coke and belched. Gas bubbles exploded from my eyes and nose. The initial buzz was quickly replaced by queasiness.
Liam ate half a cake and finished my coke. ‘Fucking disgusting. Who puts ginger in a cake?’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘Karen Savage.’
‘Perhaps it’s to ward off vampires.’
‘That’s garlic, you dodo.’
‘Same thing, isn’t it?’
Liam laughed. ‘Let’s hope I’m not with you if Vincent Price comes knocking on the door.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A blood sucking vampire, who bites people’s necks.’
I shuddered. ‘That’s just made up shit.’
‘It’s not. There really are vampires. They start out as bats, but get stronger and stronger, and turn into vampires by sucking blood.’
‘For real?’
‘For real. Now, give me a hand to find something to pry the board off that window. I like to see who I’m sleeping with at night.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘No offence, Tate, but I’d rather sleep with Karen Savage’s mum than sleep with you.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘Karen Savage’s mum looks like a fish. She’s got big, fishy eyes and fat, puckered up lips.’
‘All the better to snog you with.’
He made a gagging noise in the back of his throat. ‘I’d rather eat cat sick.’
‘Lumps as well?’
‘You can have them.’
After searching for the best part of an hour, we finally found a long metal bar, with a two-pronged tip, lying behind the bar. Liam examined it in the flame from his lighter. ‘Bingo.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s for pulling nails and stuff out of boards. I reckon they must have used it to open beer crates.’
I followed him to the window. I still wasn’t sure about this. I didn’t want anyone to find us. Ever. I wanted this pub to be our desert island. Do it up, get a few bits and pieces, a proper bed, clean the floors, some coal for the fire. It was scary how clueless you were at that age.
The thick plywood was only held in place with nails. Liam had it off the window in about five minutes flat. I closed my eyes against the sudden flood of light. Forgetting the lighter was on full flame, I burned my thumb and forefinger, and dropped it onto the bare floorboards.
Liam pounced on it as if it was a wounded pet. ‘Watch it, Mikey. That lighter was my dad’s.’
I apologised and watched him test the mechanism. Satisfied it was still in working order, he put it in his coat pocket, and looked at me, as if inspecting a soldier on parade. ‘You look rough.’
I didn’t think he looked that clever himself, what with his missing teeth and hair spraying out in all directions.
He patted me on the shoulder. ‘We can go to the public bogs and get a wash. It’s Saturday, so no one will pay any attention to us. Then, we’ll get some breakfast and find Rachel. Where exactly does she live?’
‘It’s called Whitehead Street.’
‘Do you reckon she’ll be all right with us?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since my first spell at Woodside. To be honest, I’m more worried about seeing Oxo and leaving him again.’
‘Yeah, but we can go and visit him anytime we like. We’re not at Woodside now. We don’t have to play by their stupid rules anymore, do we? The pub’s our home. We ain’t never going back to that shithole.’
‘Unless we get caught.’
‘We won’t.’
‘You promise?’
‘We’re blood brothers, Mikey. You don’t even need to ask that.’
Getting back through the cat flap was fun. I got stuck again and had to be rescued by Liam. He nearly gave up after I farted. I thought he would never stop laughing. Even though I was stuck in that damned hole again, I liked the sound of his laughter. It was like birds singing on a winter’s day.
We had bacon butties at a little café. A pot of tea. A proper pot. I felt as if I’d won the football pools. We also finished off the chocolate and coke on the way to Rachel’s. Liam threw the rest of Karen Savage’s cakes in the bin.
Whitehead Street ended up being about three or four miles away from the pub. Possibly more, because some old codger sent us the wrong way, and we had to double back on ourselves. Walking back into that street was a really strange experience. Seeing those two rows of terraced houses, split by the road, facing each other like opposing armies, stirred something inside me. Not quite nostalgia, but close. Brightly painted rendering lending individuality. Yellows, pinks, reds, purples, creams, blues. Net curtains hanging in the windows. St. George’s flags dangling from windows like battle cries. Smoke billowing from chimneys. A funeral procession of black clouds marching across the sky.
‘Are you all right, Mikey?’
I hadn’t even realised I’d stopped walking until he spoke. Part of me wanted to turn around and run, keep going until I was back inside the pub. Safe. Just me and Liam, no adults to ruin everything with their wicked minds and wicked ways. But, a bigger part of me wanted to see Oxo again. ‘Just a bit nervous.’
Rachel opened the door after what seemed like forever. At one point, I was convinced she’d seen us on the doorstep and called Woodside. She looked at me and Liam as if we’d just hopped off the ghost train. ‘Michael?’
I nodded, trying to look past her and see where Oxo was.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’
It was at that point I realised me and Liam had made one fatal mistake. We hadn’t got a story ready. ‘I’ve come
to see Oxo.’ And then, stupidly, ‘My dog.’
Relief. She smiled. ‘I do know who Oxo is.’
I stared at the floor.
‘How did you get here?’
Liam treated her to his best toothless grin. ‘We walked. A right long way. We’d appreciate coming in, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, you would, would you?’
My heart sank for a moment.
‘You’d better step inside, then.’
We followed her along the narrow hallway and into the front room. Memories of the night my mother had died came flooding back, held in the fabric of the sofa, the colour of the bare cream walls, the dark blue carpet that didn’t quite reach the edges of the room.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Liam thanked her. I sat there as dumb as the rope which had tied Oxo up at Finley’s Farm. When she returned a few minutes later, and set down a tray on a small pine coffee table, I asked her the question which had been burning a hole in my brain. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone for a walk along the river with Don and the kids. They should be back soon.’
The mention of her husband took a swipe at my fragile confidence. I didn’t want him to grill us. Or, worse, call the cops. ‘Maybe we ought to go.’
Rachel frowned. ‘You’ve only just got here.’
I decided to come clean. ‘We’ve run away from—’
‘We’ve left Woodside,’ Liam interrupted. He looked at me as if I’d just confessed to murder. ‘We’re staying with my Aunt Cathy. But, we don’t want anyone from Woodside trying to take us back.’
‘But, you can’t just leave… can you?’
‘Strictly speaking, no,’ Liam said. ‘But, that place is a nightmare. We had to get out.’
Rachel poured the tea. ‘It seemed all right to me.’
Liam shook his head and tried to whistle through his non-existent teeth. He managed a rather long drawn out lisp. ‘You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, I’m nearly sixteen.’
‘What about school?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Liam said. ‘We still go to school. We just have to catch the bus from a different place.’
I didn’t think Rachel believed him, but, she did seem happy enough to see us. We drank tea, ate bourbon biscuits, and chatted for about half an hour, as we waited for Oxo to come home. Every time Rachel broached the subject of Woodside or school, Liam steered her onto another topic with all the skill of a seasoned politician.
It’s hard to describe how it felt seeing Oxo again after so long. He flew at me in a flurry of paws, yelps and dog spit, landing on my lap and knocking the wind out of me. He licked my face and performed his own version of doggy tap-dancing on my groin. He took a good ten minutes to settle down to mere excitement. I rubbed his ears, kissed the top of his head and closed my eyes as his tail whipped my face. And then I cried. Buried my head in his soft brown fur and blubbed like a baby.
After a few minutes’ awkward silence, Rachel’s husband buggered off to his shed with his oldest boy, Jamie. He didn’t seem comfortable with us in his house. One of Rachel’s daughters, Chloe, went upstairs to tend to the baby, who was really no longer a baby.
‘She’s two,’ Chloe said, ‘and a right bloody handful.’
Rachel wagged a finger at her. ‘Less of the language, miss. You’re not too old for a clip around the ear.’ Her voice was soft and teasing rather than threatening.
‘You’d have to catch me first.’ She darted from the room, giggling.
Rachel’s other daughter, Beth, stood by the dining table, thumb plugged into her mouth, staring at Liam with wide blue eyes. She must have been about six or seven by now. I thought it funny how quickly kids grow, how time shapes and changes them almost beyond recognition.
‘Are you hungry?’ Rachel asked.
I shook my head. ‘No. We’ve had some breakfa—’
‘Starving,’ Liam interrupted. ‘We had a sandwich earlier, but we had to walk miles.’
‘Where does your aunt live?’
Liam nearly dislodged his glasses. He looked at me for support. When he realised he wasn’t going to get any, he said, ‘Eynsham.’
‘But, that’s miles away.’
Liam looked pleased with himself. ‘That’s why we’re so hungry.’
And so, we ate jacket potatoes, with grated cheese and beans. It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. Normally, I would have saved some for Oxo, but I ate every last morsel and mopped up the bean juice with a hunk of bread. Oxo sat under the table the whole time, head resting on my knee.
When it was time to say goodbye, I kept it simple. I didn’t want to get upset. I didn’t want Oxo to remember me that way. I promised myself I would be back. No big deal. Maybe next weekend, even. I’d go to the butcher’s and get him a lamb bone. I kissed him on the top of his head and hugged him around the neck. I don’t think I’d have been half as ready to leave if I’d known I would never set eyes on him again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rachel was still waving to us halfway along the street. Liam waved back, treating the world to his toothless grin, readjusting his glasses. ‘She seems nice.’
‘Yeah. Do you really have an Aunt Cathy?’
‘Nope.’
‘How do you just make stuff up like that?’
He shrugged. ‘Needs must, Mikey. Needs must.’
We plodded on in silence. At least we’d had something to eat. Something more substantial than Bounty bars and shitty stale sandwiches. I could now understand why Rachel hadn’t wanted me to stay with them. Only two bedrooms, and four kids. God knows where she put them all. She reminded me of the old woman who lived in a shoe.
We reached the pub, knackered and hungry again. By the time we’d crawled through the cat flap and lit a fire (only two logs left in the wicker basket by the hearth), I was about ready to collapse. My feet were blistered. Both big toes and both heels. The cut on my hand stung, even though it had long since stopped bleeding. I’d washed it in a public toilet on the way to Rachel’s, but I was worried it might get infected if I left the wound open. I’d considered asking Rachel for a plaster, but she’d have only wanted to know what I’d done to my hand, and I was crap at lying off the cuff, unlike Liam, who seemed to have a natural born talent for it.
We spent the rest of the day gathering wood from the garden. Breaking up the shed was fun, even though it was mined with splinters. Liam found a sledgehammer in the cellar. I didn’t go down there with him; too much likelihood of spiders. He also found an old broom with a wonky head. We swept the floor and threw all the broken glass down into the cellar. Anything flammable went on the fire.
Liam leant on the broom, shunted his glasses up his nose. ‘You don’t reckon Rachel would loan us some money, do you?’
‘I don’t know. And before you ask, I’m not asking her.’
‘Why not? We could offer to do jobs for her, or something. Walk Oxo.’
‘Now, you’re being stupid.’
‘Am I? There’s about three quid left in the purse. That won’t keep us in food for long.’
‘I’m still not asking her. Her husband might call the cops on us if we start asking for money. He’s a miserable bugger at the best of times.’
‘So, what are we going to do, then?’
‘We could get a paper round.’
Liam laughed. ‘No newsagent’s going to let a pair of scruffy unwashed urchins deliver papers for them. Anyway, you need parents’ permission for that.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep.’ He rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out a large green bottle. ‘Maybe this will help us to think.’
‘What is it?’
‘Wine. Good stuff. French I think. I got it from the cellar. There’s a massive wine rack down there. Only about four or five bottles left, but a shame to let them go to waste.’
By the time we were halfway down the bottle, my blistered feet no longer throbbed. My fear of spiders was also gone. I didn’t c
are about what might happen tomorrow, I was just happy to be sitting in front of the fire in our very own private space, smoking fags and drinking wine. I wanted that moment to last forever.
Unfortunately, it didn’t. Liam started talking about his time at Woodside. A subject certain to dampen the best of spirits.
‘They ought to be hanged for what they’ve done, Mikey. Public gallows, like in Victorian times.’
I nodded. My head felt light enough to float. I didn’t want to talk about Woodside. I wanted to talk about my dog. Or girls.
‘You haven’t met the Doberman yet?’
‘Who’s that?’
Liam took another swig of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusted his glasses and spat into the fire. ‘He’s the biggest cunt who ever walked the Earth.’
‘Worse than Kraft?’
‘He makes Kraft look like a kitten.’
‘I’ve never seen him.’ Which was confusing, considering I’d spent five months there the first time around, and two months this time.
‘He doesn’t work at Woodside, Mikey. He’s one of the outsiders.’
The wine was doing a good job of scrambling my brain. ‘Outsiders?’
‘The Doberman’s one of the bastards who pays to abuse the kids. He’s a copper. Tall fucker. Horrible, lopsided grin.’
He still meant zip. ‘I ain’t ever seen him.’
‘You don’t want to. He’s evil. His name’s John Carver. He likes torturing kids. Taking them down into the boiler room and handcuffing them to the railings.’
I sobered slightly as a picture of a medieval torture chamber sprang to mind. ‘Sick fucker.’
‘Tell me about it. He took me down there once. About six months ago. Arrested me when I came out of Hodges’ shed.’
‘What for?’
‘Nothing. Told me to put my hands behind my back and slapped a set of cuffs on me. Marched me down to the boiler room. It was the tail end of August. Hot as hell. No windows. He told me to sit on a wooden chair. Just the sight of him made me want to puke. I asked him why he’d brought me down there. He didn’t answer, just forced my hands over the back of a chair, and started pacing about the room like a wild animal.’
