Blood Donors

by Steve Tasane

  6 a.m. Guzzle the last can, Blufrog. Check on Mum. Sun risin’. Sweet. No Megas. Shinin’ torch in corners, patrollin’ posters and books, pillows, mattresses – check seams, check for holes, go through clothes drawer, shake out my gear, shake out Con-Con’s socks and boxers. No more bugs. No Megabugs. Don’t sleep. Don’t.

  7 a.m. Connor saying Marsh?

  Was I asleep? Am I bit?

  Marsh?

  I nodded out, but it OK. Check myself. No Megas. Check bruv.

  Why you lookin’ at me like that, Marsh? You losin’ it, bruv.

  Maybe. But it be mornin’. We survived. We all right.

  Bullets For Breakfast

  I take a shower, wake me up, wash off my warpath smell. When I come out, Mum makin’ Con-Con toast and I can tell she got the hump big time. Maybe she mad enough over Sleepy Lady, maybe for me bangin’ on about bugs, maybe for gettin’ me another suspension, but mostly ’cos big-mouth Connor tell her I sat up all night drinkin’ pop.

  She keep glancin’ at the space on the wall where we had the picture of Dad, which I put up when we moved in. She took it down not long after. In her head the photo still there – ’cos when she’s stressed I see her lookin’ at it. At the empty space.

  She don’ know I fished that photo out of the junk drawer. My own eyes get to rest on it whenever they please.

  Con leaves the room, get ready for school. I’m butterin’ toast for me and my dog. Mum starin’ at me, dead-eyed. Sound of the knife spreadin’ marge across the toast scrapin’ across the silence, louder than it oughta, like a bug back inside my ear, scrunchin’ at my brains.

  Mum, dead-eyed.

  Like she doin’ her microwave countdown from ten so her temper don’ explode. Wait for the ping. There ain’t no ping. She get to zero. Minus one. Minus two. Scrape scrape. Minus three. Minus four. Bug chewin’ my ear. Minus five…

  What? I throw down the knife.

  She stare down at the knife. Look up from the knife to my face. From the blade to my eyes.

  What?

  Marsh… Her head still countin’. Minus six. Minus seven. Marsh … what were you looking for in Mrs Lalwani’s flat?

  Mrs Lalwani. Guess that’s Sleepy Lady.

  What am I supposed to say? I told you.

  Marshall she say, fingerin’ a tea towel in her hand, fidgetin’ like worry beads, did Mr Bush owe you money?

  What?

  She look away from me. They say it sounded like you were hassling him. Was it – was it payment?

  Mum, what are you talkin’ about?

  She won’t look at me. Can’t look at me.

  I see. Is that what Compo said?

  She reaches across the table, puts her hand over mine. Now she’s gazin’ at me proper deep. Officer Cotton told me he’s concerned about you…

  I pull away, jump to my feet. Officer Cotton. Compo don’t know jack!

  Marshall, please…

  This what I get? This my thanks? This what happens when I do what I got to do as eldest of the house?

  Marshall, Officer Cotton couldn’t do anything for Mr Bush. He was already dead…

  Already dead. The words sink in. I failed. Did too little, too late.

  It was overdose, Marshall. Bad drugs.

  Oh dear oh dear oh dear what are we goin’ to do? What? What?

  Mum is goin’ on. Why did you stay up all night? And on. If you’re on something, you can tell me – please? And on. Marsh, are you involved with dealers?

  I ain’t hearin’ this. I’m outta the room.

  In the livin’ room I’m throwin’ cushions.

  I’m starin’ at nothin’.

  Mum starin’ through me. She still holdin’ the tea towel, stop her hands doin’ what she don’ want them to.

  I’m thinkin’ about Dad.

  Connor comes through, dressed for school. Hey, Mum he say, you ain’t goin’ to believe this. We got bullet holes all across our wall.

  Nice one, cheesebag. Bro hates me and Mum diggin’ at each other. Play the joker, lighten the vibe.

  Connor, I have serious dealings with your brother. Last thing I need is you adding your own nonsense.

  But my bruv got a twisted look. Remind me of the time he wet the bed, came in lookin’ all fearful, eyes like egg yolk. It’s true he say. Come see.

  Mum toss down her tea towel and throw me a quick glance as if to say Don’t think I’ve finished with you, boy. I follow her into the bedroom.

  Sure enough – bullet holes. A wobbly line of ’em near the ceilin’, like MechAssault 2 been played out for real, in our room.

  Mum start tremblin’, real bad. I never seen this before. She start freakin’, soon as she seen the bullet holes, hand shakin’ like she been sittin’ in a deep freeze. My handbag she mutters, her voice all croaky. Marshall, my handbag – now. She don’ look at me as she gives her order – can’t take her eyes off the line of bullet holes on the wall.

  I dash to the kitchen, get her bag, but somethin’ ain’t right. I seen these bullet holes before somewhere.

  Why you need your handbag?

  She fumblin’ round in a panic, spillin’ make-up and hairbrushes and tissues. Emergency number she says, almos’ to herself. I warned them something like this would happen…

  Emergency number? Bullet holes? I am in confusion. I pull up a chair and I stand on it, stretch an arm up towards the holes.

  Behind me, Mum is sayin’ It’s why you pulled Connor in from the balcony, isn’t it? Because—

  My heart stops. These ain’t bullet holes. I scratch at one of them. It’s like black paint, same size and shape as a bullet hole. But it scrapes away under my nail. I sniff it, wrinkle my nose.

  What? say Con.

  Who are you mixed up with? say Mum.

  I know for sure Mum ain’t goin’ to take this well, but I say it anyway. What choice do I have?

  Ain’t no bullet hole.

  What? Con repeat.

  It’s giant bug poo.

  I hold out my finger, so they can take a sniff.

  Giant bugs paid us a night visit after all.

  Mum says she’s goin’ to get me to see a specialist.

  Did you paint these? she say.

  What, she think I am that twisted?

  She say How can I cope, bringing you up on half a wage, place as busted up as The Finger, worrying about your dad, and here you are with – what? With deep psychological problems.

  She turn and look at Con-Con. Please she plead at him, don’t follow your brother—

  I go ape. I ain’t got no deep psycho problems, I jus’ got eyes in my head, brain behind my eyes. You can’t admit evidence that in front of your face, you got the problem!

  Con-Con place a pile of books on top of the chair, help him reach, scratchin’ away at the holes himself. Bug poo. Sniffin’ at his fingers. Giant bug poo. Can’t keep how impressed he is out of his voice. How big are the bugs, Marsh? Are they as big as the TV? Bigger than Sabretooth?

  In the centre of us all goin’ ape and bein’ struck awesome, I got a voice in my head, askin’ me over and over Why’s she stressin’ about Dad right now? What’s she doin’ with a emergency number in her bag? Why’s she believe them was actual bullet holes?

  I didn’t mean to do no tippin’ her over the edge.

  I talk soft. I’m tryin’ to do right, Ma. Watch out for us all.

  Before she can answer me, we hear the sirens.

  Seems like the sirens comin’ straight out of her head, ’cos my own head is buzzin’ from the energy drinks and lack of sleep, and my mum is in a emergency situation. Riot squads blazin’ inside her.

  But no. Sirens are from down below. Mum jolts like a bolt of electricity shot through her. We all rush to the balcony, see what’s happenin’.

  Meat wagons. My voice say the words all flat. Tricky to be pleased with yourself when dead people happenin’ all over your zone.

  Go back inside, Connor. Mum don’t want him to see this.

  Uh-unh. He ain�
�t goin’ nowhere. We’re peerin’ over the balcony, we got police, we got ambulance. I ain’t happy to be proven right.

  Is it a dead person? Con’s eyes fix on a stretcher bein’ carried over to a meat wagon.

  It is a dead person.

  Go inside Mum insists. He pretends not to hear.

  It gets worse.

  Two more stretchers come out, followed by grievin’ grown-ups. Mr and Mrs Vertov. I know them, their kids go to Connor’s school. I notice the stretchers, each one carryin’ only half a load.

  Get inside! I snap at Connor.

  I seen these littl’uns playin’ in the park when we gone taggin’. Leo and Lola, brother and sister. They don’t even half fill the space on the stretcher, jus’ skinny things.

  Empties.

  What, now? I glare at Mum. You goin’ to be sayin’ that they done hard-druggin’ also?

  Ambulance men bring out yet another stretcher. This one give us the nastiest surprise. As they struggle to lift the stretcher into the back of the wagon after carryin’ the weight down all them stairs, one of the men slip and the stretcher tilts, almos’ drops. Death blanket falls away from the corpse’s face. Flat out on this stretcher is one Sleepy Lady. She havin’ a lot more than 40 winks. I look at Mum and she look at me, and we both thinkin’ the same thing. We thinkin’ about when we was in Sleepy Lady’s flat. Was we the last people to see her while blood still flowin’ through her veins?

  This be anywhere else in the city, all these dead bodies gettin’ carried out the same building, place’d be crawlin’ with Papa Ratzis, takin’ gruesome pics and all. But ain’t no media raisin’ an interest in a bunch of dead scuzzies like us.

  Meat wagon drive away. Sirens switched off.

  I’m thinkin’ of Con-Con. My watchin’ over him through the night. Him full of sauce those Megabugs wanna slurp up, drain right out of him.

  Meanwhile, we left Sleepy Lady alone, become Bug Supper.

  Mum lookin’ at me like it all my fault. Like I shoulda done more. But words comin’ out her mouth make no sense. Marshall, what have you got involved in?

  I blink.

  What did you do to her?

  Sleepy Lady? No. Not me. I did my best.

  You have to hand yourself in. Tear trickle down her cheek. I will come with you. To the police station.

  No.

  I turn, run out of the house.

  The Attic Office

  Think I’m gonna puke. Got the sweats. Everythin’ spinnin’. Get right away from home. How can she? Run. Air. Need to breathe. How can she think that?

  I’m runnin’. Up. Up. The only way out of here. She think I’m plannin’ a badman’s life. She think I’m runnin’ with the wrong crew. My own mum. Need air. Up, up.

  I know where to go.

  Day pass by, shadow of The Finger spread itself far as you can see. Ain’t no escapin’ it. Only way to be not touched by it, and that to rise above. So I run, up, faster than my stomach can rise up to my throat, keepin’ the sickness down. Spinnin’ round and round the stairwell. Dizzy. East and west, left and right. Higher and higher. Round and round. Marsh, are you – my own mum – you are, Marsh – round and round – involved with dealers?

  Me and Con and Mus and Sis, we don’ go up the top floor of The Finger too much. The top floor flats are empty, desolated, on account of the damp. Windows up top drippin’, like eyes been bitter weepin’. Few times we adventured up there recent months, we seen people sexin’ each other, seen people wild on illegals, one time even dog-fightin’. So we don’ go up, not too often now. Top of the block is the pits, if that make enough sense for you.

  But we know a space on top of all those ruined flats. Secret space. You go round a little corner, see what look like a cleaner’s cupboard. Always shut, but not locked. You go through it, climb more steps, and you in the Attic Office.

  Only me and Con and Mus and Sis know about the Attic Office. Made a vow, keep it close.

  Between friends. Family.

  Must have been some storage room, or insulation or whatever. We call it the Attic Office on account of the big desk sits there, legs all swollen with damp like old folks’. Back in the day, before the older kids started usin’ the wrecks beneath it for their dirty business, me and Con used to play there. Con would sit behind the mouldy ol’ desk and I’d come up them last few steps and I’d go Knock knock?

  Come in says Con. I can hear him now. What can I do for you today?

  Got any jobs?

  Let me see. He glance down at imaginary papers on his desk. Ah, yes, we have here a vacancy for a job as fireman—

  Cool. Cool.

  But be quick! Run! Run! There’s a fire started at The Finger! Young lady need savin’!

  Sis be lyin’ across the room, placed herself underneath discarded mattress. Aaaargh! she yell. The smoke! The flames!

  Don’t just stand there, man I say to Con-Con. Help me!

  And we throw the old three-legged chairs and wall panels aside, smash them and kick them, and all the while Sis screamin’ Help! Help! And we have to carry her out to safety.

  I laugh and I say Got any jobs? and Connor say Yes, we got a dancin’ vacancy.

  I can dance. I show some fancy moves. Con-Con say Not that kind of dancin’ – dancin’ like this. He show me his own freaky moves – like a skeleton doin’ a waltz – and Sis come and breakdance. Three of us, struttin’ through the debris, like a ecstasy of corpses.

  Back in the day.

  But the best bit I save all for myself. Not even Sis know about this. Sis think she Queen of the World, perchin’ herself on her balcony ledge like she on mountaintops. Ain’t nothin’ compared to this.

  I stomp through the wreckage. See sad loser’s used works. Pathetic druggie found our Attic Office, been injectin’. Blood stains on beddin’.

  No matter. I clamber on top of the desk, push my arms up. Up. Reach for a rectangular hatch like you get if you goin’ up into a loft. But this ain’t no loft.

  This is the sky.

  Soon as I push the hatch over on its hinge, the wind whooshin’ at me. Howlin’ like rage.

  I always think to myself, if The Finger got a voice, this is it. I pull myself up. Climb through to another world. Wind whips around my head, like The Finger in foulest mood today. Even when it bright and sunny down on the ground, The Finger always ragin’ a gale up top. I’m with it. Huffin’ and puffin’ up into a stormin’ temper. The tempest.

  On the roof, I’m crawlin’ on my hands and knees, so’s I don’ get blown away. Like I’m lookin’ for lost coins. Crawl to the middle, wind roarin’ in my ears. It ain’t got no secret to share with me. No Who? or Why? or What? demand the wind. Just one word, whole lungful of it. Yell it over and over, louder than the world.

  No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!

  This is me. Deepest tempest of all.

  I lie on my back. There ain’t nothin’ but concrete beneath me, cloud above. Honest sky. Nothin’ but Heaven. The Finger is beneath me now. Every beef, every grief, every punch, kick, battle, all blasted clean away by the wind.

  No suspension.

  No shamin’ Mum.

  No missin’ Dad.

  No cheatin’, scroungin’, name-callin’.

  No meat men.

  No Finger, with no suckin’ bugs. No bullet-hole poo. No crawlin’ out your ear. No battle.

  Marsh, are you involved with dealers?

  No.

  Floatin’ through the clouds.

  A Conversation I Have Set to Memory

  Beginnin’ of summer I gave my brother a lesson in self-defence. Mum found out, threatened to throw me out the house. On account of Dad.

  Like I said, I ain’t gettin’ with kids runnin’ with gangs, carryin’ blades, taxin’ other kids or whatever. It’s a fool’s game. But Con-Con, he only a little kid, as likely get taxed as any others.

  See, someone come at you with a blade, you need the knowledge to disarm them.

&nbs
p; Mum say don’ fight. Mum say give the fools what they askin’, walk away. What Mum don’ get is that you can never walk away.

  You walk away one time, they gon’ get you a second time.

  You walk away the second time, they gon’ get you a third.

  Disarm them once, with efficiency, they gon’ leave you be.

  So how do you go about disarmin’ a kid with a blade when you ain’t carryin’ one yourself?

  Self-Defence Technique Number One: you kick the knife out of their hand. Sweet. But remember, you gotta be enough distance from them get your angle right, and out of stab reach. Geometrics, right?

  Self-Defence Technique Number Two: grab the wrist, twist the arm round the back. This a riskier strategy.

  Same goes for Number Three: throw your mobile in their face – impressive results but not healthy for your phone.

  Number Four: we won’t even go into.

  That day I was teachin’ my brother Self-Defence Technique Number One: The Kick. My boy got a fine kick. Problem is, he ain’t so keen on utilizin’ the power he born with. Con-Con would rather turn tail, run as fast as you can. This itself is a successful technique, but only has short-term impact. Fools goin’ to come back at you nex’ day, and the day after.

  Day gonna come when you ain’t nowhere to run.

  It got to be The Kick.

  We in the livin’ room experiencin’ this lesson. Sabretooth shut out on the balcony on account of usin’ Mum’s knife from the kitchen – only a knife for butterin’ toast, no deadliness. In practice it better to be hundred per cent authentical – so you get no unexpected surprises in the reality. But blunt knife probably wiser when practisin’ with little brothers.

  What happen? Mum comes home early.

  She is far from impressed.

  The reason my dad was sent to prison was because he killed a man. I suppose this is why he in prison such a long time. He jailed for manslaughter. He not jailed for murder on account of him actin’ in self-defence.

  Dad put into action a technique that involved takin’ the fool’s knife and turnin’ it on the fool. Fool died. Because of that, I been growin’ up without no dad. Because of that, Mum in permanent stress.

  But what if Dad hadn’t taken the fool’s knife? Dad would be the dead one. You want to live, you got to fight.

  Mum flip.