by Mark Tilbury
‘What a cunt.’
‘After a while, he bent down so as his face was right up close to mine. He asked what I was doing in Hodges’ hut. I didn’t understand. I’d done all my chores. Cleaned the windows on the senior block. Emptied the rubbish. Helped Hodges with raking grass. I told him I’d been doing nothing.’
‘What sort of weirdo is he?’
‘The worst kind, Mikey. The fucking worst kind. I’d been smoking, but I didn’t tell him that. I just said I’d been helping Hodges tidy up. But he wasn’t having any of it. Threatened to chain me to the railings and beat me with a truncheon if I didn’t tell the truth. So, I opted for a half-truth, and told him Hodges had been telling me stories. Then he started going on about Hodges being full of shit. Talking a load of bollocks about being in the war. Evacuating the beaches at Dunkirk single-handedly.’
‘What the fuck would he know about it?’
Liam nodded. ‘Exactly. Then he started babbling on about no one having respect for the law. He slapped me across the front of my face with the back of his hand. He was wearing a ring with diamonds in it or something. It gouged a chunk out of my cheek. The chair almost toppled over. My face felt as if it had been ripped in two. I wanted to stand up, free my hands, relieve the stress on my shoulders, protect my face.’
‘Cunt.’
‘He fiddled with the ring for a while. Probably cleaning my skin from it. Then he crouched down, so as he was at eye level, and accused me of sucking Hodges’ dick. I had no answer to that. It was as if my head just emptied. Flushed all my thoughts down the drain. He asked me if Hodges payed me to perform oral sex. Of course, I denied it. Then he kicked me, hard in the left shin. Pain roared up my leg and into my groin.’
‘I would have told him what he wanted to hear,’ I said. ‘Just to shut him up.’
Liam shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, Mikey. He asked me my name, my age, a load of other bollocks he knew the answer to, then he asked me if I knew about the laws governing homosexuality. I mean, what sort of fucking question is that?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to say anything. He started spouting a load of shit about it being illegal to perform sexual acts with a groundsman in his place of work. It would have been almost funny if it wasn’t so fucking serious. Then he took the cuffs off and ordered me to strip. He handcuffed me to the railings by the boiler. He walked out of the room and left me standing there, naked, for what seemed like hours. When he returned, he had a truncheon. He beat me with the fucking thing until I passed out.’
I don’t know if it was the wine or Liam’s story that made me throw up. Probably a bit of both. I just made it to the grate before spilling my guts.
When I was finished, Liam said, ‘Take it you don’t want another bottle, then?’
I shook my head and plonked myself back down on the crate. I never wanted to touch alcohol again. ‘How the fuck do they get away with it?’
‘Because they have all the power.’ He rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out a large notebook. He opened, it and flicked through several pages.
I swallowed a lump of something unsavoury. ‘What’s that?’
‘My book of poems, Mikey. If anything happens to me, I want you to have it.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you.’
‘You want to hear one of my poems? It’s about Woodside.’
‘Okay.’
He opened the book, cleared his throat, and read:
‘How I wish I could feel,
The hot sun on my back,
Fresh cut grass,
Beneath my feet,
My father’s hand,
Strong upon mine,
His aftershave,
Bottled nostalgia,
Promises of tomorrow,
Safe within his smile,
But the night stalker comes,
Cloaked in shadows,
The sound of his heels,
Marking time on the floor,
His stinking breath,
Whispering threats,
You’d better not tell,
You’d better not scream,
No one can hear you,
In the Abattoir of Dreams.’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘It’s really good.’
He looked pleased. ‘Do you think?’
‘Fucking right. It’s great.’
He closed the book and put it back in his rucksack. ‘You’ve got to promise me you won’t go sneaking a look at my poems while I’m asleep or nothing.’
‘I promise.’
‘Don’t you forget. We swore blood brothers.’
‘I know.’ I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder what else was in that book, but a promise was a promise. ‘How do you even think of that stuff?’
He shrugged. ‘It just comes out that way.’
‘What is “The Abattoir of Dreams”?’
He shunted his glasses back up his nose for the umpteenth time. ‘Woodside. Like a fucking slaughterhouse for every kid’s dreams.’
We said little else that night. We bedded down in front of the fire, and fell asleep to the sounds of the wood spitting in the grate, and the rain lashing against the window.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We woke up late on Sunday morning. Perhaps it was the long walk to Rachel’s, or the booze, or both, but late it was. For once, I wasn’t hungry. Sunlight poured through the window. My stomach cramped and gurgled. I made my way to the toilet just in time. To make matters worse, there wasn’t any toilet roll. I had to use my underpants as a makeshift bog roll.
Liam didn’t seem very impressed. ‘That’s fucking gross.’
‘What else was I supposed to do? Go into the garden and wipe my arse on the grass?’
‘Yes.’
‘We need bog roll.’
Liam rolled his eyes. ‘But, the toilets don’t flush, do they? We’ll still need to go outside to take a dump.’
‘I can’t crap in the garden.’
‘Why?’
‘What if something bites my arse?’
‘What the fuck would go anywhere near your arse?’
‘I still ain’t doing it outside.’
‘Then, you’ll just have to go to the public bogs. But, you still need to fish your pants out of the pan.’
‘What shall I do with them?’
‘Throw them in the garden, or something. Anyway, I’ve had enough of talking about your pants. We need money, Mikey. If you don’t want to ask Rachel, we’ll have to pinch it.’
I wasn’t too keen on the idea of stealing. That would likely get us nicked. We’d be back at Woodside, standing in Kraft’s office, before you could say shitty pants. ‘And where exactly are we going to nick this money from?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘The church.’
My heart loop–the–looped. ‘We can’t steal from a church.’ And then, relieved, ‘They don’t even have any money.’
Liam grinned. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mikey-boy. They’ve got plenty of money on a Sunday morning, when they pass that collection plate thing around.’
‘It doesn’t seem right.’
‘What?’
‘Stealing from a church.’
‘Why? They don’t give a toss about the likes of us. Why should we care about them?’
Suddenly, I needed the toilet again.
‘Besides, it’s only like God helping us out. Making amends for all the shit we’ve been through.’
‘What if we get caught?’
‘We won’t. We’ll stay at the back. When the collection plate comes to us, we’ll grab the money, and leg it straight out the door. We’ll be gone before the vicar can say hallelujah.’
And so, the plan was set. St Mary’s Church was a small stone building, about a mile away from the pub. By the time we got there, a large clock on the facing wall read: 11:30am. But, something wasn’t right. The place d
idn’t even look as if it was open, which was odd, considering Sunday was supposed to be their best day for business.
I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter about stealing from the church; I wasn’t really religious or anything. It wasn’t as if I would need to explain myself to God. But, it still felt wrong.
Liam walked up to the door and peered inside. ‘There’s no one here.’
Good. ‘I wonder why?’
He shot me an impatient look. ‘How should I know? Let’s go have a mooch.’
Shit. ‘But, if there’s no one…’
Liam disappeared inside. Reluctantly, I followed. The place smelled of damp. Pews lined either side of the aisle, leading to an altar and a pulpit. The stained-glass windows looked beautiful. Jesus, nailed to his wooden cross, took pride of place on the wall behind the altar.
Liam walked to a pew and picked up a Bible. ‘You know what all this rubbish is, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s to keep people in their place by scaring them. If you’re afraid of God, then you won’t do anything to upset Him. But it’s crap. God’s a fairy story, just like Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy.’
A man’s deep voice rolled along the aisle. ‘Is that so?’
Liam dropped the Bible. It clattered to the floor like a guilty secret.
The vicar smiled. ‘You’re a bit late for morning service. It finished at eleven. But, we have some refreshments out the back, if you’re interested.’
‘What sort of refreshments?’ Liam asked.
‘Tea and homemade cakes.’
I tugged Liam’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
The vicar stopped a few feet away from us. ‘Everyone’s welcome in God’s house. We’re only a small church, but we’ve got a big heart.’
We could get a lump of cake and a cup of tea at Rachel’s. We didn’t need to go hobnobbing with vicars.
‘Would you like to say a prayer?’
I shook my head. The vicar’s eyes seemed to shine behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He had a kind face. His lips were curled in a permanent half-smile. There was a huge dimple in the middle of his chin. But, none of this made me want to eat cake with him. Or say stupid prayers.
He looked at Liam. ‘What about you, son? It’s good for the spirit to give thanks to the Lord for what he provides.’
Liam shrugged. ‘What happens when you pray?’
‘God listens.’
I groaned and looked at the floor. Why couldn’t Liam just leave this alone? He didn’t even believe in God.
‘But, how can He hear you?’ Liam persisted.
‘I don’t follow you, son.’
Liam seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, it stands to reason, don’t it? All those people praying, how’s he going to hear them all?’
The vicar smiled. ‘God hears everyone. We need not question how.’
Liam wasn’t deterred. ‘What about all the bad things that happen? All the kids that get killed? Wars? Diseases? Poor people?’
‘God loves them all.’
‘But, what’s He doing to help them?’
‘He’s always there for them.’
‘Horseshit.’
‘I’d thank you not to swear in God’s house.’
Liam didn’t seem about to repent. ‘All sorts of shit happens to good people. Where’s God then? On holiday?’
‘Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s—’
‘What about the kids who are abused, just because they’re kids?’
‘I’m sure—’
‘Or get a billiard cue rammed up their arse?’
‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, if you can’t control your tone.’
‘Bet you lot think you can come here on a Sunday, say a few prayers to your precious God, and then get on with your cosy lives.’
The vicar’s hands flapped in front of his black gown like two birds trying to take flight. ‘We do nothing of the sort. I care very deeply about what—’
‘We’ve got a priest who comes to Woodside. He’s—’
It was my turn to interrupt. ‘Liam, for God’s sake.’
Liam didn’t seem put off. ‘He comes in about once a month.’
‘Woodside? The children’s home?’
‘I hear he likes the young boys from the junior block.’
‘I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
Liam laughed. The sound echoed around the church. ‘Don’t you? I thought you had a personal hotline to God.’
‘I’m afraid—’
‘What do you think about a priest who likes young boys?’
The vicar didn’t answer. He clasped his hands in front of him.
‘Dirty old fucker. What do you think about that?’
If Liam had intended to get a reaction, this seemed to do the trick. ‘Get out of here, you wicked boy. Get out of here, now.’
‘How does that fit in with your fucking God?’
‘Get out.’ This time, his voice boomed around the building, and bounced off the walls like cannon fire.
Someone appeared from a side door. A short, fat man in a blue suit. My heart froze. Kraft. ‘Liam?’
‘Don’t like the fucking truth, do you?’
‘Liam! We’ve got to go.’
Liam sneered at the vicar. ‘I’ll bet you’re even good friends with the twat.’
‘You boys,’ Kraft shouted. ‘Hey, you boys.’
I moved towards the door and tried to warn Liam again.
Liam didn’t seem to see Kraft. It seemed as if he was blinded by his anger. ‘You’re all the fucking same. God this, and God that.’
Kraft marched towards us, arms swinging back and forth like a soldier on parade. ‘Truman? Tate? You stay right where you are.’
‘LIAM! For fuck’s sake. It’s Kraft!’
Liam suddenly twigged. ‘Shit.’
‘I’ll give you Kraft, you insolent little swine.’
Liam backed away towards the door. ‘Come on, then. Try to catch me, you fat little fucker.’
The vicar’s hands took flight again. Kraft broke into a trot.
Liam held up his middle finger. ‘Swivel on this, you ugly bastard.’
We were out that door, and along the street, like a pair of greyhounds out of a trap. We didn’t stop running until we were within yards of the pub. We stumbled into the back garden, panting and laughing, like the biggest jokers on the planet.
‘Did you see his face when I flicked him the bird?’
Dread stirred in my stomach. ‘Priceless.’
Liam rested on an upturned fridge. ‘I’m going to go back to Woodside one day and kill him. I swear on my mother’s life.’
‘He deserves to die.’
Liam nudged his glasses up on his nose. ‘Kill him slowly and feed him to the pigs down at Southgate’s Farm.’
‘Too right.’
‘I’ll bet that fucking vicar’s a pervert, too.’
I wanted to crawl through the cat flap and get out of sight. I felt too vulnerable standing in that back garden. Too on show. I wanted to light another fire and have a smoke, laugh about Kraft and the vicar, make it seem less serious than it was.
Liam walked over to me. He balled his right hand into a fist and held it out. ‘Blood brothers.’
I pressed my knuckles into his. ‘Blood brothers.’
We were both unaware of the massive mistake we’d just made by going to that church.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We spent our last night in front of the fire, drinking wine, and working our way through a packet of cigarettes Liam had bought from a machine outside a shop half a mile up the road. He’d also bought two chicken and mushroom pies, a big bottle of lemonade, and two bars of Cadburys Fruit and Nut with the last of our money.
I hadn’t gone with him to get the goodies. I’d made out I had a bad belly, which was partly true, but it was mostly because I hadn’t wanted to risk getting seen again. Paranoia was a f
unny thing. It crept up on you until you were convinced everyone was watching you. Even a helicopter going overhead made you think the cops were out looking for you.
With the fire lit, and another bottle of wine open – well, the cork pushed in because we didn’t have a corkscrew – Liam turned to me and grinned. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
After the church collection plate, I didn’t think I was ready for any more of his ideas right now. ‘What?’
He puffed on his fag as if it was feeding his brain ideas. ‘Next Sunday, we could go out really early and nick all the paper money. My old man used to leave it out on a Saturday night so as the paper boy wouldn’t disturb him in the morning. Loads of people do.’
As far as ideas went, it was better than trying to rob the church. ‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Too right, it is. I reckon we’ll get at least a tenner.’
I didn’t contradict him. ‘Great.’
He blew smoke rings in the air, looked at me and grinned. ‘Did you see the look on Kraft’s face?’
How could I ever forget it? I kept glancing at the window, half-expecting to see his face pressed up against the glass. ‘We’d better hope he never gets his hands on us.’
Liam shrugged. ‘He won’t.’
I wished I shared his optimism. How were we supposed to survive in a derelict pub, with no money or clothes, other than the rags we stood up in? And, to make matters worse, Kraft would have surely set the cops onto us by now. He wouldn’t just let it go.
‘Next time Kraft sees me, I’ll put a rope around his neck. I’ll kill him slowly, Mikey. Throttle him so he’s nearly dead, then throw cold water in his face, and bring him back round. Stick pins in his eyes.’
