Blood Donors

by Steve Tasane

  In the stairwell on our floor we pass His Majesty the Cat. His Majesty sleep almost as much as Mustaph do, and he look like he own the whole Finger. No one oughta disturb his sleep or he give you that look like you the lowest of the low and beneath contempt. One time, Sabre go up to His Maj and dare to sniff at him while he asleep. Pow! A paw come slappin’ out, get my mutt right on his nose, so he give a yelp and leap up, all four legs off of the ground. Then His Majesty jus’ curl back up and close his eyes back to sleep. Today, Sabre change his step so he walkin’ on the other side of me, in case the big scary cat wake up. Man, I got a yellow dog.

  Connor is slumped in front of the TV with a jam sandwich. Now I see him, safe and smudgy-faced, I readjust my own face like it just a normal Monday teatime.

  Gimme a smile, bro.

  He obliges with a cakehole full of jam, do his great white shark impression. Tries to bite my ankle. I pretend to bite him back, and we have a right mess.

  It’s cool rollin’ roun’ with my little bro. It my duty, but cool all the same.

  After all the partyin’ ended when they took Dad away, it was for ever before we had a laugh again. That was when Con-Con came along. Before Con, mostly we jus’ sat roun’, starin’ into emptiness. But one day when I was aroun’ seven Mum calls me over, strokes her belly and says Marshy, you’re going to have a little brother. So I guessed she must have met someone else, someone other than Dad. But she never brought no one home. I guess it was casual.

  Anyway, when Con-Con arrived, everything brightened up. Bringin’ up babies is a messy and stinky business. Me and Mum used to roll aroun’ in hysterics at some of those dirty businesses of Connor’s. Man, that baby was exceedingly creative, get me? From every end. Mum taught me to change nappies, dodge puke, spoon-feed and sing lullababy all the same time. Con was one happy baby. I was happy enough, swayin’ him to sleep in my arms, lookin’ at his tiny face smilin’ up as his eyes fell into droopiness. Three of us would lie back on the sofa, all wrapped together, fartin’ and smilin’ and dozin’.

  Mum was runnin’ roun’ everywhere, shoppin’, cleanin’, washin’ and singin’, so life never stopped movin’ between one week and the next. Connor got his legs and we’d run roun’ makin’ riots, findin’ games in every corner and under every surface.

  Even though Mum was tired, she never snapped at us. She was doin’ part-time cleanin’ to help get by, which meant me and Con got playtime with Sis. Sis had the required skill to send Connor into fits of giggles.

  Sure, things wasn’t the same as when Dad was there. Mum would still crawl away inside her own head. I could always tell when she was no longer with us, she was with Dad again, deep inside. I went there too. I wished that Dad was aroun’ to share Con-Con with us. Dad could have had us on a shoulder each.

  But you know what? He never even wrote. Not a single letter. Connor got me to teach him all the wisdoms of life. Besides Mum, I had Sis and Big Auntie watchin’ out for me. These days, it’s me. I’m the man of the house now.

  Mum’s in the kitchen starin’ at the microwave as it counts down a box of Micro-Chips.

  Hey, son she say. How was school?

  School. I guess it’s time to give her the good news.

  I’m expectin’ her to blow, but she don’t say nothin’. She jus’ sits, watchin’ the microwave countin’ down to zero. I wonder if it’s like countin’ up to ten, so you get chance to calm down and not respond inappropriately, like they teach in Management Class. I’m tryin’ to figure Mum’s mood. She should be wild about my gettin’ the suspension, but all she says is How long?

  I say For the rest of the week.

  She put her hand up to her face and mumble Again. She don’t diss me nor nothin’. She be puttin’ two and two together. Maybe she think if she hadn’t turned her back on me in the mornin’ maybe I wouldn’t have bashed up Ashley. But her addin’ up would be all wrong, ’cos I’d have popped Ashley anyway. It wasn’t because of her, it was the damn bug crawlin’ outta my ear.

  So I says Mustapha got the bugs in his place too. And before Mum can say another word, I add And Sis. Sis say everybody got ’em.

  Mum sits in silence for a minute. She don’t wanna talk about no bugs. Her brain is thinkin’ about my future, whether or not I actually got one, the way I’m goin’ about things. What are you going to do about your exams, Marsh? Her shoulders slumped, like they bearin’ an invisible weight.

  I exhaust her.

  I change the subject. Keep changin’, don’ let her mind settle on the bad. We seen Mr Bush tryin’ crawl away from The Finger. Compo had to carry him back. Man was sick.

  She still don’ say nothin’. I’m wonderin’, should I tell her about Soft Stuart, but I don’t think she gonna want to hear about no dead druggies either.

  Since she started cleanin’ again, she ain’t been mixin’ much with other folk round The Finger. I know what it is. She stressin’ about settin’ me a bad example.

  Mum done a cleanin’ job once before, but she had to give it up, on account of the money she was makin’ bein’ more than she was allowed, because of her benefits. She’d had to do what she called community service, which was a punishment for workin’ so hard. Community service was where you do work but you don’t get paid for it. Which is one of those things I don’t understand. Mum was workin’ doin’ the cleanin’ because she didn’t have enough money. And they made her stop workin’ and do other work for no money. Which meant she had less money and had to spend more time away from me and Connor. I never saw no benefits, jus’ Con-Con wearin’ my old clothes once they was scabby and worn out.

  The local paper had her picture in it, labelled her cheat. But who been cheated?

  That was when one of the kids at school called her and I got into my first serious suspension.

  Your mum’s a sponger.

  Mum. I go and give her a hug. Don’t worry about no one from The Finger tellin’ the benefits on you. I’m thinkin’ this is what she want to hear. We ain’t got no sneaks here. You know that.

  But she stare away from me and say I’m worse than you.

  I wish she would shout at me, or bash me round the ear instead of sayin’ this nastiness.

  Con-Con don’t hear none of this, glued to the TV. Sabretooth is huntin’ crumbs offa the floor. The late sun shinin’ in from the balcony and I imagine we in a holiday apartment somewhere with a sandy beach like Tenerife or Costa Del Somethin’. But we ain’t never had no holiday for as long as I remember. Mum says we went to Jamaica when I was three. I got pictures of it in my head like an old TV programme or a dream I once had.

  I plonk myself next to Con-Con on the sofa. He’s watchin’ some rubbish, which is good with me ’cos I’ve still got Mustapha’s paintin’ floatin’ round my head, which no picture of no sandy beach managin’ to shake.

  I wanna play. I start ticklin’ Connor’s feet with my feet and punchin’ his hips. He starts punchin’ back and we havin’ a giggle. I get hold of the remote and channel-hop, faster and faster so the images all flashin’, see if we can give ourselves a fit. Con drapes himself over me and rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out, tryin’ to lick his own face, still crumby with strawberry sandwich. He makin’ zombie noises like he’s havin’ a proper fit. I join in and we rollin’ around laughin’. Sabre jumps on top of us and starts lickin’ our faces and Connor does a fart, a stinker, so Sabe slinks off ’cos my dog hates farts, even though he farts really disgustin’ himself.

  Mum comes in with a can of air freshener, aimin’ it at our bottoms, laughin’.

  Why ain’t you angry at me, Ma?

  Connor gives a girly screech and tries to dodge the airspray. He leaps off the sofa and ducks beneath the coffee table. I yell Noooo! and zigzag behind her, fleein’ for the bathroom. Connor come galumphin’ after me. In the bathroom we got more air freshener and I arm myself with that. We each got a pair of swimmin’ goggles from playin’ bath games, and we put them on. Con grabs a hold of the toilet roll and out we charge. Counter
-attack. Mum don’ stand a chance, especially with Sabreboy runnin’ roun’ and roun’ her legs, trippin’ her up. We get her on the floor and Con-Con wraps her up with toilet roll, like a proper Mummy. She picks up one of bro’s toy soldiers and aims it at us, between her finger and thumb. She machine-guns us into retreat.

  Connor rummages in the box where he store his soldiers, lookin’ for a fresh weapon. Mum flops down on the sofa and I flop next to her. She drops the soldier, strokes the back of my neck with her fingers. Truce.

  Ping!

  Sabreboy’s ears prick up and he gives a happy bark. Tea is ready.

  Pitter-pat

  While we diggin’ into our chips in front of the TV, I hear sirens again. I go look down from the balcony. Another ambulance. I ain’t never seen so much meat wagon activity round our block. Those meat men got to keep runnin’ up and down our stairwell. I bet they wishin’ them people was Oh Dearin’ on one of them nice estates with semi-detached houses and no broken lifts.

  We listen out some more and hear the clatter-clatter around the stairwell and shouted voices, up, up past our floor towards the top of the block. Sabretooth starts his whinin’. After a few minutes the meat men come back down again. Lookin’ over the balcony, I see that this time they got another stretcher with blanket coverin’ some sad head, toes stickin’ out.

  This ain’t no Mr B ’cos they took the body from a flat above ours, and he down below. All the same, I got a sick feelin’ deep inside of me, and I figure I got no choice but to do the right thing.

  Hey, bro, tell me if I miss anythin’. Back in five. I ain’t sure why, but I add Don’t go anywhere, yeah?

  Makin’ my way down to Mustaph’s I feel as if I’m turnin’ into my dog. Shiver run down my spine and I need a pee. Stairwell be unusually quiet, just a slow drip drip that don’ seem to come from nowhere. Like The Finger is countin’ itself down, like Mum’s microwave before the big ping! Everythin’ cooked through.

  Find myself slinkin’. What, am I that freaked?

  Shoulders back, chest out. I ain’t scared.

  Bang bang! go my fists on the door. Yo! Muskrat! You in?

  A few seconds later and Mustaph’s dad unbolts the door, gives me the silent nod and goes back to the family sofa. I go into Mustaph’s room, and believe me that boy is back inside his tent, lights out.

  Mus! I yell, wake my boy up. I’m hearin’ rustle of movement, and he pop his head out the tent like sleepin’ in a tent early in the evenin’ the most natural thing in the world – ’cos to this boy it certainly is. Mus, I got a bad feelin’, man. We gotta go check on yo’ friend Mr Bush.

  He frown. Aww, man, I’m busy. Thinkin’.

  What’s that then? Horizontal thinkin’?

  The best type, yeah.

  I ain’t havin’ none of it. I don’t know which flat this Christian geezer is at, but I’m sure as anythin’ – we got to check on him. Fast. Don’ care if I disturb his Bible-readin’ or what. I just wanna see him standin’.

  Mustaph yawn. What are we now – Neighbourhood Watch? But he headin’ straight for the door, wastin’ no time.

  I follow him out into the corridor. My boy still in his slippers. He the only boy I know who wander round outside still wearin’ slippers. But, you know, ain’t no fool goin’ to disrespect him. Ain’t nobody mess with Mustaph these days, not because he dangerous like me, but ’cos of that boy havin’ no fear. He don’ know the meanin’ of the word.

  So we skulk down the stairwell to the floor below Mustaph’s. Drip drip go the pipin’, and he stop outside what must be Mr Bush’s door. I am right – no police, no medics, nothin’. Dead silent.

  I’m relieved. ’Cept it dead silent.

  Mustaph stand starin’ straight at it, like he can see through. Well? Muskrat shrug, like I’m expectin’ just a little too much. I sigh and knock on the door.

  Sound like somebody shufflin’ towards us to answer, but after a few moments the door don’ do no openin’, so I knock again.

  Silence.

  Mr Bush?

  Silence. I look at Muskrat and he say Look through the letter box.

  I say You look through the letter box.

  He shake his head. Now he wide awake. Uh-uh.

  Like I always got to do absolutely everythin’ roun’ these parts. I bend down and I lift the flap of the letter box and put my mouth to it. Mr Bush?

  What you see? ask Mus.

  I see myself gettin’ in a strop with my irritatin’ friend. But I put my eye to the slot, and take a good peek.

  Through the hallway, I can see straight through into Mr Bush’s livin’ room. It still light outside, so I see his sofa nice and clear, couple of bright red cushions on it, Bible balanced on the armrest, edge of a table, bottom corner of a picture frame on the wall. Besides that, nothin’.

  What you see? ask Mus.

  I tilt my face up so I can see Mustaph’s ugly mug. Nothin’. He ain’t home.

  You sure?

  I sigh, and take another look, though it be the biggest waste of time this side of school uniform. But this second look, somethin’ wrong. Only I ain’t sure what. The scene look exactly the same, still no sign of Mr Bush. So, what wrong? I can’t tell: picture frame, table, Bible, cushion.

  Holy Mother. I got it. That cushion – one cushion.

  I stare up at Mustapha. Somebody in there, someone gone move a cushion.

  I take another look. Ohh. Now the second red cushion gone and be moved. This is weird.

  Lemme see.

  I step aside so he can see for himself.

  Well? I say.

  He look back up at me like I am some sort of simpleton. Ain’t nothin’ to see.

  Ain’t nobody in there movin’ things around? What about the cushions?

  But Mustaph jus’ repeat Ain’t nothin’ to see.

  I shove the fool aside and take another look. I almost fall backwards in shock. There ain’t no view but blackness itself, like somebody jus’ draped a curtain right across the inside of the letter box. It feels like somebody standin’ there, on the other side of the wooden door, listenin’.

  I wait. Put my head against the door, listen back. Mustaph listen too. You hear that? he whisper.

  What?

  Listen.

  I hear it. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. On the other side of the door. Against the door.

  Mustaph push me aside, put his eye to the letter box. Ohhh he say, now I can see.

  What? I push Mustaph aside. The view is back – picture frame, table, Bible … and now one of them bright red cushions lyin’ on the floor.

  I hammer on the door, hard as I can. Mr Bush! Mr Bush! Open up! Mr Bush! Mr Bush!

  A door clunk open across the way and a woman pop her head out, scowlin’. I bash harder still. He ain’t well. You boys leave him in peace. Tormentin’ him. Get on back to your own floor, stop disturbin’ the peace. Some of us tryin’ to watch the TV! Go on, scat! Scat!

  I ain’t done. Man ain’t been carried out yet by no meat men. But I remember his eyes in the park. Put my eyes to the letter box one final time.

  Mr Bush?

  Cushion come flyin’ straight up at the inside of the letter box. Aargh! I fall on my ass.

  It ain’t no cushion.

  Go on, get out of here, or I’ll call the police!

  I don’ need tellin’ twice. I’m clawin’ at Mustaph’s leg, tryin’ to get back to my feet. We’re goin’! We’re goin’! Mus tug me up. I push him over in my hurry. We scramble.

  Run! I say to Mus. Run!

  Scat! Thieves! Scat!

  We don’t look back.

  Pow! Pow!

  What happens is, we run smack-bang into guess who?

  Least, I run into him, on account of havin’ the scaredest legs. I dunno what I saw in Mr Bush’s flat, but it mos’ def’ was not a pet Chiwowow leapin’ up to amputate postman fingers. Nor no bad-attitude kitty cat after slicin’ off your fingertips. If Mr Bush got a pet, it ain’t somethin’ you buy from no pe
tshop.

  What leap up at the letter box wanted to do more than snip my fingernails. I been in battles, I ain’t scared of no boy, nor no man. But what was that?

  Aaargh! My heart freeze with fright when I turn the corner and leap straight up into Compo’s flash-buttoned jacket.

  Mustaph – who shoulda been right behind me – suddenly ain’t there. I don’ hear him turnin’ round and fleein’, don’ see him sneakin’ through into a neighbourly flat, or edgin’ all innocent roun’ the side of Compo’s fat, stairwell-blockin’ hips. Boy jus’ gone. He a genius at makin’ himself disappear.

  Compo squeezin’ my shoulders with his pudgy fingers, grippin’ like a vice. Fat man stronger than he look.

  Well he say.

  Well? I smartback.

  He squeeze a little harder, glarin’ at me. I glare back. He squeeze harder yet and I gasp. He smile, release his grip.

  I could headbutt him and he’d drop like a sack of fat. Then one kick in the gut, I stroll away easy, he wouldn’t be back on his feet for five minutes.

  Mum would love that, when the proper cops turn up half an hour later, haul me off down the station.

  I rub my shoulders. He likes that, steps forward, backs me into the corner. Well he say again, ’ticulate as well as pretty.

  Place for drawin’ water in the desert I say.

  He sighs. Once, I thought you and I might be friends.

  I ain’t that kind of boy.

  No. What kind are you? The kind that takes a keen interest in their neighbours, I hear?

  If Compo half the Great Detective he reckon, The Finger would be clean of undesirables. Sadly, he like a littl’un playin’ Piggy in the Middle, always turnin’ in time to face the direction the ball just flew from.

  He look down at my jeans. All right. What have you got?

  I get it. Fool think I been dealin’.

  Naughty. I wink at him. Gonna frisk me and find out?

  Sure he says, so you can say I touched you up. Have all the infants yelling Jimmy Savile every time I show my face. Empty them.

  I pull out my phone, hold it up, away from him. No way he’s gettin’ his stubbies on that.

  Outta the other pocket I pull a fistful of change. Open my hand, show him. Damn. I slipped one of Connor’s toy soldiers in there when we was messin’ with Mum.