Southsiders

by Nigel Bird

  His dad lifted his head. Ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, son.” This time there were no tears and the words were barely whispered. “I didn’t mean it, Jesse. I’m so very sorry.” He gave Jesse a hug, stepped over to the door and lifted the latch.

  Put A Chain Around My Neck

  The four of them walked in as though they owned the place.

  Leading the way was a man in a suit. His skin was orange. Too many hours on the sunbed, most likely, or maybe a mid-winter break on the Algarve.

  Following on were a couple of police in uniform weighed down by heavy, black safety vests and whatever it was that was stuffed in all of the pockets. The first was tall and wiry. Could have cleaned windows without a ladder. The second was a woman, her hair tied up in a tiny bun and her trousers seemed to be battling with her huge hips and ridiculous arse to make sure they managed to keep them hidden. Pear-shaped, she was. A bit like everything else in Jesse’s life.

  Behind them, in the same duffel coat and shiny shoes he always wore, came Jesse’s favourite social worker, Rupert Wallace. He had more of a swagger to him than usual, probably buoyed up by the presence of the heavy mob.

  Jesse’s first instinct was to run. He could go get his bag, dodge past them all and escape before they could get their acts together. The woman wasn’t going to be leaving the traps like a greyhound that was for sure. The guy with the tan looked like his main form of exercise came from rubbing in lotions. Rupert Wallace was pathetic. Even if he caught up with him, Jesse reckoned he could do him. That left the tall guy. He might have the legs, but he’d be awkward around the bends of the stairs and all that gear he was wearing was likely to slow him down enough for Jesse to get away.

  His heart pounded in his chest so hard that it felt like it might escape all by itself. Jesse tried hard to calm himself down. To think things through quickly before taking action.

  He’d never have expected old Lurch to have dobbed him in after what had happened, not in a million years, but maybe Tony Fish had cottoned on and called the police. They’d got there bloody quickly, mind. However it happened it might be as well to just come clean and admit to it all. Take the punishment and keep his nose clean forevermore so that he could rub it against Bonnie’s cheeks and nuzzle at those delicious ears of hers. He lifted his arms and held them out, offering them up for cuffing.

  For some reason, none of them seemed to notice. The tall copper poked his head into all the rooms and announced that they were clear. The Weeble blocked the kitchen door with her ample behind and the two men in civvies only had eyes for Jesse’s dad.

  The plainclothes cop introduced himself and everyone else, but Jesse had forgotten their names almost as quickly as he’d heard them. The cop went on. “I’m afraid we have bad news, Mr Spalding. At eleven o’clock this morning a body was found in the Meadows.” He cleared his throat and Jesse waited for the next instalment. “Hidden down by the buildings next to the children’s play area. We’ve already made an identification based upon the fingerprints, not that we really needed them. How many women have Elvis written across their chests, after all?”

  The words stung Jesse’s ears. Had him picturing his mum’s breasts all inked and jiggling, sometimes when she was having a jive, others when she was taking a swing at him. His teeth squeaked as he ground them together. A wobble passed through his legs making him lean forward to grab the back of the kitchen chair to keep himself steady.

  An arm took hold of his shoulders. It belonged to Wallace and just proved that the guy was a freak. Jesse shrugged hard to try and remove it. When that didn’t work, he threw his right arm backwards in a circle and broke the hold.

  Jesse looked at his dad. He’d dropped his head and was rubbing the sides of his bruised and lumpy nose, as if he was trying to remember something.

  “We believe that it’s your wife, sir. Paula Spalding, of this address.” The room seemed to be getting smaller and seemed to be tilting a little, like it had become a fairground attraction. The policeman stared hard at Jesse’s dad, who was visibly wilting under the gaze even though he wasn’t actually looking into it. “The thing is, Mr Spalding, we have witnesses who say they saw a man very like you with your wife last night. Outside Sandy Bells at closing time. And you didn’t seem to be getting on all that well at the time. And if I might get a little personal, you look like you’ve been in something of a scrape. Would you mind me asking where you got those scratches?”

  His dad’s hand went to his cheek. His fingers ran softly down the cuts on his face. He shook his head and mumbled something.

  The conversation went on, but to Jesse the rest of the words melted into coloured shapes and floated around the room and inside his head. He tried to watch them, but their motion just made him nauseous. His dad started to say something more, but the words didn’t come out cleanly. There was something about putting on a shirt and coming down to the station and questions and heavy looks from one uniform to another.

  Jesse hummed a tune. “In The Ghetto”, written by Mac Davis, released 1969. And his mamma cried, he sang, only in the real world she didn’t. Not anymore. She’d never cry or shout again.

  His dad came back into the kitchen. Went over to Jesse and put an arm across his shoulders. Addressed the others. “Mind if I give the boy this crucifix? Keep him safe while I’m away.”

  The man with the tan shrugged and Ray Spalding reached inside the collar of his leather jacket and fiddled with the chain around his neck. The wincing of his face suggested something was hurting. His hand maybe, judging by the scrapes on his knuckles that Jesse was noticing for the first time.

  Watching his father’s shaking hands fumble with the clasp was too much. “Here, Dad. Let me do that.” Jesse reached over and had the necklace off in seconds.

  “Keep this with you always,” Ray told his son. “It’s very important. I’ll tell you all about it one day. Don’t take it off, not even in the bath. Promise me that.”

  Jesse put the chain on. “I promise.” The weight of the gold surprised him. Must be worth a few quid. He’d definitely be looking after it until the time came when his pile of cash needed a top-up, if nothing else.

  “The key especially.” Ray was whispering now. Into Jesse’s ear. Keeping the words in the family and away from the boys and girls in blue and orange. “Make sure you don’t lose the key. Understand?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “Come on, Mr Spalding,” the man from the Algarve told him. “There’ll be plenty of time for catching up after we’ve finished our enquiries.”

  Ray hugged his son.

  Jesse felt protected. Knew it was an illusion – it had been for as long as he could remember – but it was an illusion he loved to keep up. “Dad,” he said. “I almost forgot. Danny Boy told me to say hello.”

  Ray stood back. Held Jesse at arm’s length. “Danny Boy? Danny Boy Floyd? Last of the giants?” Jesse liked the way he said it. Like it had given him his spirit back. He came in close again and whispered once more. “Tell him everything. The whole shebang. He’ll know what to do.” He picked the gold cross up in his fingers. Kissed it lightly. “There is a god, Jesse. I bloody knew it.”

  A hand appeared on Ray’s shoulder. “Sorry to break this up, but it’s time we got going.”

  Jesse wanted to bite it. To grab his dad and run.

  Instead he saw the look in his father’s eyes. There was a glimmer of hope in there. Something to cling to. A lifebelt in the middle of a stormy sea.

  *

  Wallace was using his full range of compassionate tones as he watched Jesse pack his bag. “Enough for a couple of days,” the policemen had said.

  “Don’t worry, Jess. We can always come back for more if need be,” Wallace explained.

  There wasn’t that much to be done. The bag had already been half-packed in case he’d had to do a runner. The key to the treehouse was safely stashed in an internal pocket. He had pants and socks, a couple of shirts, a fleece and a copy of “The Adventures
Of Tom Sawyer”. To that he added his wash bag, his swimming shorts, a towel, a tub of Brylcream and the copy of “That’s All Right”.

  When he walked back into the kitchen Wallace followed closely, as if he was auditioning for the part of shadow.

  Jesse’s dad stood in the middle of the room in his leather jacket, a cigarette stuck to the undamaged side of his bottom lip. He looked older, somehow, like a misspent youth and years on the booze had caught up with him, finally. He looked at Jesse with hound-dog eyes, all the hope of minutes before already gone.

  “Let’s get this over with,” the plainclothes guy said and everyone made to get ready.

  Somewhere in the middle of the chaos of motion, Jesse’s dad moved over to his son, opening his arms for a hug. Jesse allowed himself to fall into them, but kept his own arms by his side.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse. I didn’t mean it.” His dad was whispering into his ear to prevent the coppers from hearing. “She came at me, you know?” Jesse knew. For a moment his heart was full of compassion. He wanted to tell his father to stop right there. To tell him that he loved him. To hug him tightly and never let him go. “It was self-defence.”

  Instead of the hug and the words, Jesse answered by shoving him hard in the chest and pushing him away. As the beanpole in the uniform stepped in to settle things down, Jesse swung his fists into his dad’s face, feeling the crunch of the nose and the bones in his own hand warping on impact.

  It hurt. The pain felt good. Covered the misery like it was a coat of whitewash.

  We Are Family

  George and Vera weren’t religious nuts or hard-case disciplinarians, which was a bonus. Their house was clean and smelled of air-freshener. They cleaned behind the chairs and under the sofas. The TV in the living room was half the size of the wall, had HD and SKY and surround sound. They had the Wii and a Play Station as well as an iPad for the kids to mess around on.

  They might not have lived in the poshest house in Morningside, but there were six bedrooms and the playroom housed a full-sized snooker table and a pinball machine, as well as a stack of board games that would keep children of any age happy.

  George called all the troops down for tea. He was balding and wore spectacles with lenses that were so thick that it was hard to see which way he was looking. His pot belly hung unashamedly over his jogging bottoms and he wore flip-flops around the house.

  Jesse had been hiding in his bedroom when the call came. It was clearly a room they set aside for boys – a Star Wars poster hung on the back of the wall and there were footballs on the wallpaper that made it difficult to stare at them for long without feeling dizzy. He stretched out to loosen his limbs after being hunched up in a tight ball for the last few hours and headed downstairs.

  There was a huge pot of tomato sauce and an enormous plate piled high with grated cheese in the middle of the table and Vera stood there holding a ladle and wearing a smile.

  “C’mon kids. Let’s fill those bellies.” Her American accent was warm and homely and from what Jesse could see of her enormously fat legs she’d most likely spent much of her life stuffing herself with treats from her kitchen.

  The chairs around the table were soon filled. There were a couple of girls who were identical twins, a teenager with acne, a young lad who looked like he’d taken a beating fairly recently and a tiny toddler with thick curly hair and busy hands.

  George served out bowls of pasta, the acned teenager poured out juice from a huge jug and Vera topped each pile of spaghetti with the sauce, according to the individual requests of the kids.

  Jesse didn’t say anything when he held out his dish. He watched the sauce as it was poured, all thick and healthy looking. Probably good baby food.

  When everyone had been served, they were allowed to grab handfuls of the grated cheese and sprinkle it over their dinner. Everyone took plenty and then took plenty more. Everyone except Jesse.

  “Vera’s own doughnuts for dessert, everyone. All you need to do is clean your plate.”

  Jesse managed to twirl a knot of spaghetti around his fork. He managed to dip it into the sauce and lift it to his mouth. He even managed to get it into his mouth to taste the zing of the tomatoes and the subtle hint of herbs. What he couldn’t do was swallow the stuff. No matter how much he chewed, his throat didn’t seem to want to open. He sat for a while watching the rest of the crew tuck in like gannets with table manners and George messing around with a spoon and doing the choo choo thing to get the toddler to eat up.

  Spitting food back onto the plate didn’t seem to be the right thing to do. Running from the table and getting rid of it down the toilet probably wasn’t the done thing either. Jesse chose to sit there with his mouth full while the sauce cooled and congealed around his tongue. It was all he could do not to cry, but with girls in the room and the teenager, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He gripped the handle of his knife and fork and pushed his feet into the floor to make sure there were no wobbles.

  “Now, now, Jesse. Don’t you want a couple of Auntie Vera’s homemade doughnuts?” Vera put a hand on his shoulder and Jesse felt the comfort seep down through his shirt and into his heart. “Finest this side of Georgia.”

  The warmth in her tone loosened his jaw enough to let him chew again. He went for the swallow and some of it went down. Another try and it was all gone.

  George gave him a wink and went back to eating. The wink looked weird through those lenses, like it was the only movement of some sedentary beast in an old horror film.

  “They’re the best, just like she says,” one of the blond twins said through a smile. Just for a moment she reminded him of a younger version of Bonnie. He pushed his plate away.

  “Tell you what,” George said. “How about we make an exception this time? It’s your first night. Sit with us until everyone’s done and you can choose yourself a cake from the tin. How’s that, Jesse?”

  It was bloody amazing as far as Jesse was concerned. He didn’t say that, though. Just nodded his head and sat in silence as the rest of the collection of wounded souls munched through their meal.

  *

  A sugary film still coated Jesse’s lips as he sat, fully clothed, on his bed and hugged his bag close.

  He’d phoned Archie and told him he was on his way. He’d been sitting, ready, ever since.

  The kids had been right about the doughnuts. They were the best he’d ever tasted, each of them filled with a caramel that was perfect. He’d even been allowed two, this being his first night and all. He’d liked the way she’d said ‘An’ all’. The drawl of the American South was almost as sweet as the cakes and made him think of Mrs Presley bringing up Elvis and mourning the loss of his twin in some kind of tangled mess of emotion.

  Compared to the other families he’d been sent to, this one was the best by a long way. The other kids seemed to know it, too. They were mostly nice to each other and didn’t do much fussing, not even when it was lights out. George and Vera were so kind that it made him feel guilty enough to write a letter trying to explain his actions. He left it on the pillow for them to find in the morning.

  It was half-eleven when silence eventually conquered the house and Jesse had the confidence to get going. He stood up and crept over to his door for a final listen before opening it and stepping into the hall.

  All of the children slept on the top floor and he was confident that everyone other than the teenager would be sound asleep. As it turned out, there wasn’t so much as a trace of light coming from under any of the bedrooms and the hallway was pitch-dark, in spite of the window in the ceiling above him.

  Jesse licked his lips as he padded towards the stairs and hoped the energy boost would serve him well.

  The stairs were way wider than any he’d seen before. They had a carpet that ran up the middle of them, flanked on either side by polished wood. Jesse made sure he kept to the carpeted section as he went, letting his weight sink into each step as slowly as he could to make sure he could predict any creaks. Soon as th
e boards made a sound, he shifted his weight back to his standing leg and moved his foot to a different spot.

  As he came to the bottom of the steps, he was startled by a grunt. It was followed immediately by the bangs of a headboard against the wall. Jesse froze, one foot on the last step, the other on the floor. His body went numb and all of his blood seemed to rush up to his head and swirl around. Got into his ears and slushed away like the Forth on a stormy day.

  He pictured the scene behind the door. Thought of his mum and dad. Imagined the blows falling and the hateful words cutting slices of one and then the other. Felt the walls close in on him as he thought George or Vera might have heard him out on the landing with his bag in his hand. Saw the fire in their eyes burn when they realised what was going on.

  His body played along. Remained frozen and silent. Silent apart from the sea-storm that pounded in his brain.

  The next sounds were quite different. Vera was panting out ecstatic moans and George started to repeat himself. “That’s it. That’s it, honey-pie. That’s the way.”

  At first, Jesse’s body flinched at the mental images of Vera in a state of undress, her varicose veins pointing to the ceiling and the flab pulling down her skin. It relaxed a little when he remembered that George was probably blind enough to miss the visuals and was probably just finding pleasure by grabbing handfuls of flesh. It finally relaxed altogether when it became clear that no one was about to burst out of the room and send him back to bed with his tail tucked between his legs.

  He walked quickly and lightly to the next flight of stairs and descended. He opened the inside door, entered the porch and pulled the main door to as quietly as he could, shutting it just at the point when Vera’s screams of joy rattled the air around him.