by Ian Black
Once clear of the alley he stops and stands on the path, looking at the wide frontage of the same establishment; staring mesmerised at the large illuminated sign, with its distinctive golden arches. Gazing in through the extra-large windows, he watches the people inside: families and friends… happy people, enjoying their happy meals.
At thirteen, George has only eaten McDonald’s food from a bin. Though, on one occasion, he had actually plucked up the courage and entered the restaurant; he was so desperate to see what it was like, he’d sneaked in on his own, and kept a low profile while observing what went on. From a discrete distance he watched a children’s birthday party, and really wished he could have participated. It looked such fun. The adults just kept feeding them with food, drinks, presents… and love.
On that occasion, after a while, he sussed out the layout and protocol inside the restaurant, and realised that the condiments area offered diners free accompaniments. This seemed too good to be true; but it was – true, as he found out by sneaking over and feasting from complimentary sachets of tomato ketchup and sugar, and drinking milk from countless tiny sealed plastic containers. It was free! He thought it was brilliant, until the management realised he was a penniless urchin and politely asked him to leave.
So he did. George never intentionally provokes trouble, having learned that it often leads to a reprimand from someone in authority. It seems to him that the world is overflowing with overzealous people just itching to hand out a bollocking… like Maurice; so the boy goes out of his way to avoid trouble, if he can.
And now, standing outside staring in, he remembers warmly that one-and-only time he’d been inside. He did like that taste: the explosive combination of ketchup and sugar, washed down by milk miniatures.
Hearing and feeling his stomach rumble, George’s mind returns to the harsh reality of finding food. He trudges away in the direction of the park.
•
As night falls, dark, heavy, moody-looking clouds hang in the sky, shielding the glow from a bright full moon. On the opposite side of the park, away from George’s den, a row of old terraced council houses, with particularly long thin back gardens, back on to the playing fields. George ambles across the grass until reaching a long tall slatted wooden fence that separates these gardens from the park.
The massing clouds congregate in force, and burst; it begins to rain as George takes a running jump at the six-feet-high fence; he takes a foothold on the parallel cross section, grabs hold of the top and pulls himself up until his upper body is perched over the top.
Peering through his long rain-soaked fringe, he surveys a murky vegetable patch and line of heavily laden fruit trees before him. In times of extreme hunger, when no other food source is available, George resorts to a vegetarian diet. Although fruit and vegetables are not his favourite… food is food and needs must.
A visual reconnoitre of the garden reveals waist-high wire-mesh fenced perimeters running the length of the plot, both sides, all the way up to the house. At the foot of the back fence, on the left side, is a large compost mound; thereafter a line of mature apple, pear and plum trees line the wire-mesh all the way along. On the right, a decent-sized vegetable allotment patch runs along partway; the rest is all lawn.
George reaches over, and with his palm deliberately slaps the garden side of the fence, several times, and immediately prompts a response; right on cue, a scamper of activity from up near the house. George hears it; he knows what it is, but can’t see it yet. The scampering sound of powerful pounding paws draws nearer. Knowing exactly what to expect the boy holds on tight bracing himself to the top.
Moments later, from the dark, explodes the snapping teeth and wild demented eyes of a muscle-bound jet-black Rottweiler. Without breaking step, as it runs, the pounding dog appears to coil itself before launching spring-like into attack. George holds on for dear life, and feels its force, as the fence shudders from the beast’s impact.
While waiting for the rocking to stop, the boy wipes his wet flopping fringe from his eyes, and looks down upon a crazed dog that stands balanced on its hind legs, with front paws and long sharp claws resting only feet away from him. It barks viciously while its dark demonic eyes glare upwards at the boy’s precariously balanced frame.
George knows exactly, from experience, how close he can get to the dog safely, and how high the dog can bound, so completely unfazed, he cranes his neck over, stares directly into the eyes of the beast, and proclaims, “We meet again, dragon!”
Such disrespectful mockery incenses the dog further. It tries to leap higher, springing and bounding off its hind legs, snapping teeth desperately at a fearless goading face; George’s measurements are just right, gauged so fine that every time the dog leaps, the boy feels hot hound breath on his face.
Eventually, continuous barking and bounding tires the dog; he drops back onto all fours and grabs a moment’s respite; without taking his eyes off George. After a breather he commences a patrol along the rear perimeter, beneath the boy; still growling, still watching George, still intent on guarding his territory… doing his duty.
The rain pounds down. George is soaked to the skin now, and wondering whether today is going to be another of those long drawn-out days without food. Sometimes, when he slaps the fence, the dog is inside the house, making the garden safe to raid; but not tonight, until, from the top of the garden the sound of spoon bashing tin bowl rings through the rain. George and dog both peer towards the house, where the downstairs lights are now on. The dog’s pricked-up ears twitch towards the sound, that dinner sound. He’s as hungry as George, and now torn between food and his duty. Confused, he barks, but less vigorously now.
Once more, spoon bashes bowl as the owner shouts, “Troy!”
The dog looks to the house, then back at George, and growls. Still confused, in two minds: dinner, or guard? George can see the dog’s distraction, and how he’s angling his body slightly towards the house. He sarcastically mocks the dog’s dilemma, “Din dins Troy!”
The dog’s owner shouts impatiently, “Come on, Troy, I’m getting bloody soaked here!”
This time, obediently, Troy trots back towards the house; but stops, just a few yards away to turn its head back, momentarily at George, as if to say: I’ll be back, then disappears, bounding away, blending into the darkness.
George waits to hear the back door slam before leaping over the fence, landing on wet ground with a muddy squelch, and moves towards the fruit trees pulling a polythene supermarket carrier bag from his pocket. The boy would normally scrump himself a nice selection of apples, pears and plums, but knows tonight he only has limited time before the Rottweiler returns; plus it’s raining hard, so George plumps solely for apples.
With the bag half filled with firm fruit, he moves to crouch at the allotment bed and picks a few stalks of ripe cherry tomatoes and pulls up several clumps of baby carrots; his theory being carrots avec tomatoes for mains et apple pudding. It’s not the most mouth-watering feast, but when you’re famished, fodder is fodder.
Once the bag is heavy enough, George stands, wipes his rain soaked face and trudges back towards the fence, hooking his arm through the bag’s hand-holes, preparing to climb.
Torrential rain pounds the ground now, so noisily, that it disguises pounding paws. On tiptoes George grabs hold of the fence top, heaves himself up, and then hears the dog’s approach; too late, with no time to turn he’s hit square in the back, full force; the attacking dog’s bulk slams him into the fence.
The hound bounces off, preparing a second wave of attack; coiling its body, snapping his teeth, as George, stunned, turns around, facing the dog, that lunges at his face; instinctively the boy swings the produce bag around from the side into the dog’s head, making it yelp, and diverting its lunge. The Rottweiler falls onto its side. George grasps his opportunity; as the dog springs to its feet, the boy drops the bag and sprints towards the wire-mesh fence.
With the dog snapping at his heels, George leaps… onto the rais
ed compost mound, to use as a springboard to jump the fence, but as his foot lands it sinks straight into soft absorbing compost; he falls face first onto the mucky soaking mound, halted dead in his tracks; he spins over onto his back, to face his attacker…
In mid-air, the hunting hound’s savage face and powerful underside bear down on him. The panic stricken boy yells, “Aaaahhhhh!” expecting the worst. Flailing his arms to the sides, in desperation he grabs the first thing he feels… a short-handled pitchfork.
•
A concerned dog owner stands in the illuminated doorway, peering out into the dark dismal evening. His wife also looks out, over his shoulder, and says, “Don’t go out there, love… it’s pouring down!”
The man’s heard the hullabaloo, and replies with concern, “I know it’s pouring down, love… but I heard Troy yelp… and a scream!”
“He’s probably eaten a cat,” replies the wife, turning back into the house as her husband extends a large umbrella out through the door, shines a large torch into the dark and steps out. The torch’s beam struggles to penetrate a ferocious wall of rain, as he shouts, “Troy!”
On reaching the bottom fence, he shines his torch towards the compost mound, and sees Troy, lying on top of the mound, collapsed on top of a skinny white boy. They both appear motionless.
“Troy?” The concerned man hurries over, shining the torchlight directly onto George’s face. The boy squints back into the beam, and then, struggling with the weight, manages to heave the hound off him.
The dead carcass rolls off, and lands on its back with four legs pointing towards the sky. The short-handled pitchfork protrudes from its chest. Dark blood oozes from the wound. The shocked man alternates his torch beam, between dead dog and boy, not knowing what to do or say.
George sits up, and stares at the hound for a while, then reaches over, and dabs his finger lightly across the animal’s wound. He examines the blood on his finger, stares back into the torchlight, pokes his bloodied fingertip through the centre parting of his rain-soaked fringe, and marks a bloody red cross of Saint George on his own forehead.
He stares wide-eyed in silence into the beam of the torchlight. The man stares back, at an awestruck painted face painting a powerful picture. Over the sound of torrential rain, pounding his umbrella, the man can just about hear George whisper, “I killed the dragon!”
•
Some time later, in the bedsit, Maurice is busy dividing his attention between satisfying himself sexually on Martha, and watching a boxing match on TV. She lies beneath him in a drug-induced slumber, totally oblivious to Maurice’s selfish attention.
Her nightdress rides up around her midriff as he forces Martha’s pale legs apart, to accommodate his manhood, and as the boxers snort and grunt, trading blows on TV, Maurice snorts too, through his nostrils as he thrusts aggressively with his pelvis, while focusing his gaze on the screen.
But his pounding rhythm is broken, by blue flashing lights; flickering through wafer-thin curtains from outside. Without a second thought he slides out and moves to the window to peer out, and wipes his penis clean on the curtains; but then stops and blurts in panic, “Shit, Martha!”
Noise from the boxing match intensifies, as movement around the bedsit becomes frantic.
“Martha… Wake up!” Maurice yanks on his boxer shorts and snatches a plate of leftover food from the kitchenette. A large pile of white powder is mounded on the table, next to a box of baking powder. He hurriedly scrapes cut narcotics onto the plate and repeats, “Martha!”
The TV boxing bell rings twice to end the round. Excited ringside commentators recap the action, while an excited Somali drug dealer rushes to the bathroom to scrape the plate’s contents into a filthy toilet; which unfortunately holds one large unflushed stool; Maurice’s last deposit. He tips the powder on top regardless, and yanks the chain to flush. However, the old cistern won’t shift the load; insufficient water mass, a pathetic amount dribbles in feebly. The load won’t flush.
“Shit. Shit, Martha!” he shouts. “Wake up, bitch!” yanking the chain; but he yanks in vain. A trickle won’t clear this heavily laden loo.
As the commentators continue discussing the last round, Maurice spots another open wrap on the bedside table, slams down the toilet lid and scurries around the bed. Blue lights still flicker. He leans over, slaps her face and yells, “MARTHA!”
She doesn’t wake.
A rapped knock on the front door prompts another slap, a last-ditch attempt to wake her; it doesn’t, so he grabs Martha’s jaw, yanks it down hard, opening her mouth wide, then with his fingers pinches her cheeks to squeeze her lips apart, pursing them like a goldfish, and pours powder from the funnelled wrap straight into her mouth. “Swallow, Martha, swallow.”
A more vigorous knock sounds from the door, and a request, “Police, open up please!”
The bell rings, starting the next round. An announcer announces, “Seconds out… round six!”
Maurice closes her mouth, filled with cocaine, wiping remnants from her lips.
A louder request from outside, “Open up!”
Maurice scuttles back around the bed, flushes once more, closes the bathroom door, stands directly behind the front door and yells, “What you want?”
“Just open it,” instructs an authoritarian voice.
Maurice tentatively opens the door, but only wide enough to peer through the gap and see, stood on the pavement directly outside, two rain-soaked uniformed policemen and a freezing cold wet trembling George. The bloody red cross, though diluted by rain, still visible through his fringe. A disturbed George looks up pleadingly at the officers, explaining with chattering teeth, “The dog was gonna get me! I didn’t want to kill him. What else could I do?”
Maurice is disinterested in George’s waffling, and far more concerned by the police presence. “What you want?” he drawls.
“Is this your son, sir?” asks an officer.
“Him not my boy!” his expression dismisses the suggestion as ludicrous.
“Just open the door.” The policeman is wet, tired, and in no mood for games. “The boy said his mother lives here.”
Maurice reluctantly swings the door open.
The officer peers inside and asks, “Is that his mother?”
Maurice sucks through his teeth before replying, “His mammy sleeping. You better not wake her.”
“Ooh,” the commentator sighs dramatically, after a connection to the jaw.
Martha’s face is dreadfully pale, and clammy, and her jaw has dropped slightly, revealing white powder mixed with saliva, dribbling from the side of her mouth.
Concerned how she looks, George pushes past Maurice, closely followed by both officers.
“She sleeping! You got warrant?” The pimp demands to know.
The police ignore him; like George, they sense something’s wrong. The boy leaps to the bed, straddles his mother, shakes her face and yells, “MA!”
Loud crowd noises blare: ooh’s, gasps, cheers. The champ lands another blow… Challenger hits the canvas, the commentator crows.
With noise and commotion all over her, Martha still won’t wake. The first policeman, wearing a serious expression, dons disposable gloves from his pocket, and checks Martha’s airways, eyes and pulse.
George frets continually, “MA!” then points accusingly at Maurice yelling, “IT’S HIM! HE DID IT! HE’S A BASTARD! HE’S A DRAGON!”
The second officer seems confused and disturbed by George’s outcry, and looks to Maurice for a response, while the first officer engages a button on his radio, and requests, “Urgent medical assistance, possible OD. Please respond soonest ETA!” The radio crackles on release as the excited commentator describes how the floored boxer is back on his feet, and as the crowd’s roars grow louder, the thrilling commentary becomes more frenzied.
George shakes Martha as he weeps, ranting, “He’s a bastard to us, A BASTARD!” The officer tries to console George, as he slumps on top of his mother, cuddling her, p
leading desperately, “Wake up, Ma. Ma. Please wake up.”
The officer reassures him, “There’s an ambulance on the way, lad,” attempting to peel the boy away.
George turns his tear-streaked face towards the policeman, whimpering, “Will she be okay? I promised I’d protect her…” then points at Maurice and yells, “PROTECT HER FROM HIM!”
The pimp skulks into a corner, as George is lifted from the bed. The officer rolls Martha into the three-quarter-prone position as the boxing reaches its climax. At the top of his voice the commentator squeals, “Surely there can’t be much more of this? It’s only a matter of… No, he can’t… yes, yes he can… it is! IT’S ALL OVER!” Several rings of the bell signify the end of the fight.
The officer tries in vain to console an inconsolable George. He places an arm around the boy weeping uncontrollably for his mother… who lies dead on the bed. While the second officer and Maurice watch a defeated challenger on TV… lying unconscious on the canvas.
•
Chapter: 9
Good Evil
The London Juvenile Detention Centre houses teenage boys aged thirteen to eighteen. The occupants are young offenders who the justice system feels will benefit from a period of detention, and rehabilitation, away from their families and homes, if they have them.
In George’s case, with no living relatives, he was initially, under jurisdiction of the court, placed into the care of a string of foster parents. But his habitual running away proved impossible to halt. It wasn’t that they didn’t know exactly where he’d escape to; for each time he went missing care workers were despatched to George’s old den in the park; where inevitably, sooner or later he would turn up. And no matter how far away they sent George, once free, his homing instinct somehow always took him back to his den. He admitted to care workers that his den was the only place that felt like home. The den had been his home.
