Blood Donors

by Steve Tasane

  Another time, same teacher said I’m sure to go to jail, I hear him tellin’ another teacher that Mustaph is a retard. That ain’t right. It is a fact that retard is a hate word that teachers are not allowed to use. I hear other teachers say that Mus have special needs, but that ain’t right either. Ain’t nothin’ special about Mustapha’s needs. His needs are simple and straight.

  After that day, next time I see Mustaph strollin’ down the street I introduce myself. We been besties ever since.

  He loyal, for sure. I never have no need to bunch my fists when Mustaph is aroun’, ’cos he don’ do nothin’ to wind me up. He always seem to know ’zackly what I’m thinkin’ or feelin’ and, man, when we have a laugh, we laugh till we break all our ribs, get me?

  He shuffles to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. So whassup, man? How comes you ain’t in school?

  I could ask him the same thing, but what’s the point? I tell him what went down between me and fool Ashley, gettin’ hit with a suspension and all. Me and Mustaph we don’ have no secrets. All sudden, I tell him about the bug crawlin’ outta my ear and how I’m mad with it.

  He shrugs again. He rolls the duvet up, barin’ the inside of his forearm. We all got it, man, why be stressin’ so?

  Like Sis say, if the upstairs people got it bad, the downstairs people got it bad also. And the people downstairs of them too. We all got it. There are three or four red raw bumps on Mus’s skin, where them little devils been picnickin’ offa him. It make me feel a bit less sore.

  Told you. Sis and Mustaph both have a real easy way of makin’ the rough stuff feel nice and smooth.

  Mustaph squeezin’ a teabag into his mug. Once he gone got ’nuff tea from it he dunk it in the mug for me, weak as kitten wee. Thing with Mustaph, he don’ even know it that he bein’ the selfish one, ’cos his mind jus’ don’ think that way. He jus’ savin’ teabags, is all. He still got that dirty ol’ duvet wrapped aroun’ him, despite the heat. I wonder if he actually awake or jus’ sleepwalkin’.

  I been waitin’ for the right moment to tell him about seein’ the dead body. Seem like that moment ain’t gonna come, so I jus’ blurt it. Hey, man, guess what I jus’ seen? Go on. Have a guess. You’ll never guess.

  He shrug. I dunno. A tiger and a rat, playin’ cards.

  I’m serious, boy! A dead body.

  He sip from his tea, like I jus’ said it a bit overcast today.

  On the floor above Sis. A druggie. Gone and overdosed.

  He nod, sagely, and sip more tea.

  Yo, boy I say, they took him away on a stretcher, blanket over his head and all.

  He blink.

  Throw my arms up in despair. Is there even any point in tellin’ him about Soft Stuart’s face? How it looked like he bein’ shanked by a murderous mob, not fallen into endless sleepiness from extra-strength smack? Thing with Mustaph is, he believe anything you tell him. He got no concept of lies. You tell him pink elephants servin’ behind the counter in the corner shop, he gonna say Oh yeah like he seen ’em already. Only thing is, he ain’t gonna have no comment to make on it. Jus’ blink, look wise. Boy a fool.

  Awww. I give up. I’m gettin’ outta here. But where am I goin’ to go? Back to mine and sit and wait for Mum to come home, so I can tell her I got myself another suspension?

  Always overreact she gonna say. Think with your fists. Like your—

  Like my dad.

  When Marshall O’Connor leaves school, he will go to prison say those idiot teachers.

  I stride over to Mustaph’s door and pick up his satchel. It’s packed full of spray cans.

  Mus, let’s go and do somethin’. Let’s go do some decoratin’.

  Mustaph the mos’ talented graffiti artist I ever seen. It’s the only thing keep that boy awake. All of the best walls in our postcode are his work. He famous for it.

  He sighs and shrugs. I’ll get dressed.

  While I’m waitin’ for him, I catch one of them bugs crawlin’ roun’ my hips. I dunno whether it’s one of Mustaph’s or one of mine. I squish it. Pop like bubble-wrap. Sploosh. Sniff my finger. It stinks. Same stink as Soft Stuart’s flat when the meat men carried him out feet first.

  Five minutes later, we’re outta there.

  Can You Tell What It Is Yet?

  We walk down, seven floors. Even when not workin’, the lift is foul. By the lift door on the ground floor it smell like the last person to use it dropped their kebab, vomitted, and did both kinds of toilet, before the door jammed shut behind them.

  Strike that. Before the door jammed shut with them STILL inside.

  Bins ain’t much better. We got rubbish chutes blocked for as long as I can remember, and the metal communal bins never get emptied on time. If I let Sabre loose round here, in ten minutes he come back with a rat in his jaws.

  We stroll through the small playground next to The Finger. The swings have all been torn off their frames, and the slide been uprooted and pushed over so it lyin’ on its side. Someone taken an axe to the roundabout. Whole place look like some fool’s mouth after they had their teeth smashed in.

  Not all the neighbourhood be a bombsite. We stroll five minutes further till we get to the playground on the other side of the infant school, near the big park. We go pass through it, fillin’ up with littl’uns from the school, swarmin’ over all the rope swings and slides, makin’ the most of the neverendin’ summer. Hearin’ their laughin’ and screechin’ bring back good vibes straight away. I can see even Mustapha losin’ himself in a dopey grin. The toddlers are clamberin’ over the rope frame like mini Spider-Men. The mums and dads are all chillin’ on the benches, chattin’ and swappin’ gossip.

  Even though there are a zillion kids aroun’ I don’ have Sabre on no lead, on account of him bein’ so well-trained. He always come when called, and if I’m clickin’ him to heel he sticks close as a stalker. When I have to, I hook him onto the extendable leash, so he can run wild and free. Only problem is, he so excitable he ties people up, runnin’ all aroun’ them. Once he went chasin’ a squirrel and ended up tyin’ himself in knots roun’ a bunch of trees. He fed me that dumb googie-eyed look dogs get when they remember how titchy their brains are. Stick out his tongue and pant.

  We stroll past a poster tacked to a tree, one of them LOST DOG appeals. Jimbob. Family pit bull. Pure bred. Will come if you call his name or offer crisps. Generous reward.

  Dogs and cats been goin’ missin’ a lot these days. Sis reckon thieves are temptin’ them into the backs of vans, sellin’ them for big profit. People will steal anythin’ round these parts, even your dog. Anybody try and take Sabes goin’ to have me to mess with.

  School chuckin’ out time is safest time for a spot of graffitiin’ ’cos this is when you is most invisible. Think about it. Imagine you are a officer of the law, yeah? It midnight, streets is empty, and you see two youth with hoods up, skulkin’ along with backpacks. Up to no good business, for sure. Least you goin’ to do is a Stop and Search. Three thirty, four in the afternoon, streets is teemin’ with kids, ain’t no one gonna take no notice, long as there’s no gang fights breakin’ out. Safe, yeah?

  So we’s headin’ for a big communal wall far side of the playin’ fields. Anybody gon’ see us sprayin’ there, they jus’ think we got official permission. High visibility less arrestibility, right?

  First up, we pass by our friendly neighbourhood Community Police. They always stop and say hello, like they part of your innermost crew. One big fat man we call Compo (Community Police, get me?) on account of him havin’ a stinkin’ attitude and all. Don’t get me wrong, some of them are all right, jus’ wanna make sure the littl’uns are safe on the street and ain’t no old ladies gettin’ their bags snatched, but Compo one of these wannabe Robocops, swaggerin’ in body armour and jackboots. Compo always fidgetin’ with his extendable baton like he gonna make himself blind. Wishin’ he have can of pepper spray tucked into his utility belt, when it jus’ be aluminium water bottle, on account of protectin’ the community
bein’ such thirsty work. Lucky for us, you can’t buy pepper spray on eBay – which I’m certain is where he gets his other gear from. I mean, what kind of sane person goin’ to equip a fat fool like Compo with a extendable baton?

  Man, Compo always wantin’ to keep a close eye on the likes of me and Mus.

  Poo! I’m holdin’ my nose as we walk past. Someone gone and let one off!

  Mustaph waftin’ the air in front of us, like he dispersin’ the stink. Nahh, that just ol’ Compo. Always smell like that, get me?

  Compo hate it when we do this. But in public ain’t nothin’ he can do to us, jus’ fidget with his utilities like he the cock of the walk. Compo once tried to cuff Big Auntie for bein’ too loud when she was cussin’ some perv who’d been followin’ young girls back from school. Ain’t nobody goin’ to cuff Big Auntie, not least in the name of safeguardin’ the neighbourhood. Compo soon enough uncuffed her and was apologizin’ big time to the family and friends who was mobbin’ him on all sides.

  We snigger past him. Hey, Compo, found any of them stolen dogs?

  We goin’ past a bench in front of the bushes and see a beast. First up, I’m thinkin’ maybe it a Rottweiler, crippled by a speedin’ car, limpin’ along in the shade. We get closer, curiosity leadin’ our feet when our brains oughta know better. It ain’t no dog. Is a man, hunched up, lookin’ sick as a puddle of vomit, face like a walkin’ dead, jaw hangin’ loose and spit droolin’ down. He’s on his hands and knees. He is white as snow. White and sick. We stop to look. One arm ain’t bein’ used to crawl, just hangin’ limp, and he got a bloodstain seepin’ through his shirt sleeve. He lifts his head and gives a feeble shriek. Like he’s terrified, but exhausted with it.

  Mustapha goes Mr Bush? All surprised, like he never recognized this man until the last second. His face says he still ain’t too certain. Mr Bush?

  Figure whimper, like he ain’t got no words inside of him. I’m rememberin’ everythin’ Sis said about hard drugs and Soft Stuart and thinkin’ to myself Oh dear. I’m squintin’ down at the blood stainin’ his shirt sleeve. Like he had a needle stuck in there. Tug at Mustaph’s arm to keep movin’, sayin’ Druggie and lookin’ disgusted.

  Mustaph shake off my grip. Naah he says. Mr Bush?

  But Mr Bush ain’t got nothin’ to say and I repeat He’s a druggie. Come on, let’s go.

  My mutt is sniffin’ round druggie man’s feet and whinin’. I’m clickin’ my fingers at him, get him move away. I don’ wan’ my dog puttin’ his paws on no needles.

  But Mustaph say Mr Bush ain’t no druggie. He lives on the floor below. He works for the church. He’s always comin’ roun’, pesterin’ about jumble sales and tombolas and sponsored walks when I’m tryin’ to get me some sleep. The dude’s a Christian. Christians don’ do no drugs.

  Hmm. Maybe he just had a epiphany, ya get me?

  Mustaph frowns and says all dry Yo’ a funny man, Marshmallow, ain’t ya?

  Mr Bush looks like he’s made a long crawl from The Finger all the way to the park in a desperate effort to get some clean air. His breathin’ all weird like he risen up half drowned from a swamp.

  I’m thinkin’ what Sis would do right now. Mebbe we should help him home?

  Mustaph shrugs. Havin’ dragged himself all the way over here, he ain’t gonna thank us for draggin’ him back to our stinkhole. Man needs a hospital.

  Let’s at least lift him up onto the bench, yeah?

  Mus shrug, bend down and get a grip under Mr Bush’s armpit. I ain’t so keen to stick my fingers into his drug-sweaty pits. His arm hangin’ limp like all the blood in it turned from blood to drug. Sick. I grab his collar instead, and together we yank him up.

  On the bench we got a better view of his face. Drugs mess you up. His eyes look like the eyes of pig in a slaughterhouse. His mouth hangin’ open, like he forgotten how to use his jaw muscles. Droolin’.

  Out the corner of my eye I clock Compo headin’ our way. He seein’ we huddled over old man on a bench, thinkin’ we up to mischief. Mustaph hates Compo more than I do. Let’s split. Let ol’ Compo do his community business.

  I ain’t happy. Mebbe we can help more?

  Mallow, what you gonna do, give him the kiss of life?

  Gross. Community Police best equipped to deal with this. See us hangin’ around, they goin’ to try and pin a ABC on us – Assault ’n’ Battery Charge, yeah? Like we get our kicks from bashin’ up the elderly and sick.

  So we split, nice and calm, leavin’ Mr Bush and Compo to discuss religion together down the local A&E. I ain’t gettin’ involved. I’m rememberin’ Soft Stuart with his toes stickin’ outta the blanket, tryin’ to twitch themselves back to life. Today startin’ to freak me.

  I say So if Mr B ain’t no druggie, what do you reckon made those marks on his arm?

  Dunno. Maybe a vampire been snackin’ on him? Come on, let’s do some decoratin’.

  Boy can’t hold no topic of conversation for more than five seconds.

  Behind us, I see Compo doin’ his Good Samaritan bit with Mr Bush. He got him on his feet, half carryin’ him, half draggin’ him back in the direction of The Finger.

  Look at that. Idiot Compo takin’ poor fool straight back to where he crawled from.

  As we walk away, I hear Mr Bush squealin’ and tryin’ to pull away. But only half of him seems to have any movement, and bullyboy Compo ain’t havin’ none of it. Probably figured his community responsibility is to stick the druggies back inside their drug dens, where they ain’t harmin’ no one but themselves. He take no notice of Mr Bush screamin’ and hollerin’ like he bein’ led to his doom. Compo hates druggies. Compo hates everyone, but he hates druggies most of all. Removin’ him from the park, and stickin’ him back in The Finger is just like stickin’ litter in the bin.

  Mustaph don’ say a word. But his eyes is followin’ the scene, and his Musty brain is listenin’ to his eyes. Finally he say Come, let’s find our wall.

  After a while we find it, and Mustaph sets to work. Thing is, he got this joke that only he get, jus’ sprayin’ his wild lines and spots of colour and shadow and mutterin’ Can you tell what it is yet? Can you tell what it is yet? like a broken parrot. He don’ give away no clues, he jus’ wave his arms like a windmill and squirts, and every now and again he hands me back a can and says emerald or liquid blue or deep turmeric or whatever crazy colour he wants. Then all of a sudden he steps back, and bam! just like that you know what it is.

  Mustapha workin’ away for twenty minutes mumblin’ his catchphrase. All I’m seein’ is a mess of sick colours around a big white splodge like a clean white T-shirt surrounded by piles of unwashed sports gear. Don’t make no sense. Then flash! a vision shoots through my mind like I’m havin’ a epiphany of my own. I know what it is.

  You know, I shoulda jus’ gone on back to my space and played Xbox with little Connor O’Connor, ’cos big bro always beats little bro. I could wind him up till he gets mad and then I could tickle him till he gets all giggly. We could grab some ice pops from the freezer. Mum’d come home and I’d ’fess up to her what I gone and done at school, and that be the worst of my worries. She be sulky with me, and I have to try and sweet-talk her, do chores and whatever.

  Anything but this.

  Mustaph steps back and holds out his arms like he’s admirin’ his own genius. I step back too, ’cos you gotta step back from a picture to get perspective, yeah? I look up and my knees go all wobbly.

  What Mustaph has painted is not a white T-shirt. It is a white face with mad boogly eyes and a gapin’ mouth screamin’. It is Ghostface from the Scream films. Surroundin’ Ghostface isn’t dirty soccer kit. It’s junk. Junk scattered around the bins outside The Finger, fast-food cartons, rats. It’s kids in hoods wavin’ knives. Used condoms. Bloody syringes. It’s smashed TVs, burnin’ sofas. It’s bugs. Bugs crawlin’ all around that junk surroundin’ Ghostface.

  Home sweet home.

  No wonder Ghostface got a rictus scream and eyes wide with horror, j
us’ like Mr Bush.

  Jus’ like Soft Stuart.

  They both got the same look, and it ain’t druggie bliss-out. They are starin’ at death.

  Mustaph turn around and stare at me, his eyes all glazed over like he on a trip. He seen what comin’ to us, and it is one antisociable, apocalyptic breakdown.

  Man, what you gone and drawn somethin’ like that for?

  He don’t answer me. Mustaph paints what he sees.

  I can see The Finger loomin’ over the tops of the trees. Shadows gettin’ longer and the air coolin’. I do not wanna go home.

  Mr Bush got the right idea. Crawl away, as far as you can get.

  Couch Potatoes

  But I got the baddest feelin’. I need to be with my bro, and with Mum. They need me to be with them. Mum is goin’ to give me major grief, but that don’ seem so important all of a sudden. We head back.

  Sabre give a whine as he slink past Mr Bush’s empty bench, his fur standin’ to attention on his back, and he give me a look that say Oh, this ain’t good, ain’t good at all. All reproachful, like I’m the one responsible for anythin’ bad comin’ down.

  I’m askin’ Mustaph a heap of questions, like What you doin’ freakin’ me out drawin’ horrible pictures for?

  He don’t answer.

  What gave you the idea that drawin’ Ghostface surrounded by bugs and drugs and junk was goin’ to be a fun mural for all the kids in the park?

  But Muskrat ain’t interested in answerin’ questions at the best of times. He jus’ get a glaze across his eyes like he totally inscrewable. He splits at the corner, sayin’ he needin’ to buy more colour for his art.

  Sabreboy and me race up to our flat on the tenth floor. The forever busted lift gives me opportunity to give my dog his exercise. Today it feel like we runnin’ off the stench of Soft Stuart and Mr Bush and his gurgly epiphanies, and Mustaph’s stupid paintin’.

  But in my head, I’m seein’ Con-Con, home alone, fingertips on his cheekbones, howlin’ the long, silent scream of … what exactly?