Tomas was shouting again, inside the living room; something about the pipes. But Jozef had already heard his complaints about having to cut a fresh lot for the kitchen, so he blocked him out, squinting at the sky first, wanting rain, cooler days to do all this work in; then down at his emails, scrolling his way back through the attachments, all the endlessly updated plans. The developer claimed he’d sent him the latest, but Jozef would prove he hadn’t. He was going to look out for himself now, like Ewa said, not pay for someone else’s cock-up.
He’d got all his men working again in the meantime. Marek was in and out of the kitchen, just behind him, carrying tools and odd lengths of pipe, ready for Tomas to unhook the boiler, and Jozef thought he should be happy about that at least, getting his apprentice back at last; he’d taken Marek out round the local pubs to raise a toast, just last night. But all Jozef could hear right then was Tomas’s angry voice.
Jozef stood up, impatient, and looked inside. The kitchen was empty: no Marek, no sign of anyone.
The floorboards by the back door were up, so Jozef stepped across the pipework, joist to joist, hearing no drills or nail guns or saws. There was no work being done at all, just bellowing, coming from along the hallway. Tomas was the loudest, but other voices were joining his, in Polish and English: an angry mix.
Jozef stepped his way faster along the corridor, and found all his men, massed in the living room.
“What the hell is going on?”
It was stifling in there, and everyone was standing and angry, with Tomas in the middle.
“Bloody copper pipes,” he shouted. “None left. That’s what. I ordered extra, yes? Three whole bloody bundles. I need them for the boiler. But they’re not here now.”
Tomas flung his arms up, looking around the room, so Jozef looked around himself too, at all his men standing, grim-faced; and then he saw Stevie in their midst, with his arms folded wary across his chest.
Tomas fixed his eyes on the boy, and soon everyone was turning.
“No way.”
Stevie shook his head, raising his palms.
“No way, pal. Dinnae look at me.”
And then the room erupted. They were all talking Polish now, but Stevie understood enough. He turned to Jozef, angry:
“They aw think I had they pipes? Wasnae me, aye?”
“So who was it?” Tomas asked. He was standing next to Marek, and Jozef looked at his nephew, remembering how he’d laid out the bundles, but not what he’d done with them after that.
Tomas took a step closer, speaking low and sharp under all the shouting:
“This boy. I know what he is.”
He jabbed a finger at Stevie.
“He is trouble for us. You just don’t want to see it.”
Jozef blinked: what did Tomas know that he didn’t? Things were getting out of hand, way beyond him, and he could hardly think for all the noise in there, the lack of air and all those voices. So he yelled out:
“Back to work!”
But no one moved.
“Go on, all of you!”
Still they stayed where they were: they wanted to see this dealt with. Jozef felt all eyes in the room turning on him now, while he pushed Tomas aside. This wasn’t about the boy, this was about the pipes, and Marek was the one to ask. So Jozef stepped up to his nephew:
“You counted the bundles when they arrived. Where did you put the ones left over?”
“He put them in the back room,” Tomas answered for him. “I’ve looked in there. Everywhere. That boy sold them on, I’m telling you.”
He sounded so sure, but Jozef wasn’t. He was still watching his nephew, keeping too quiet; Jozef didn’t like it. He threw a quick glance at Stevie, and saw the boy was watching Marek too, his eyes dark; so then Jozef knew.
He straightened up, facing the room, ready to make his own accusation, but then he saw all his workers’ faces, puzzled and hostile. They all thought he was after the wrong boy.
Jozef caught himself. He stood there and weighed them up, Marek and Stevie, one against the other.
You’ll watch out for Marek. And you’ll watch out for yourself, too. Okay?
22
Stevie was just leaving his Gran’s when he ran into his Dad. He’d hardly seen him in months, but there he was: long-faced and grey, sitting in his van, parked at the end of her street. It was like he’d been waiting and Stevie didn’t know what to say to him, so he crossed the road thinking to get away, only his Dad got out:
“School’s that way, son.”
He pointed, over his shoulder, to Stevie’s secondary. He’d started there last August, but he didn’t make it much. He didn’t think his Dad knew about him skipping school; maybe they’d sent a letter. But his Gran wouldn’t like it, anyhow, if word got back to her that they’d been talking, so Stevie kept his head down, kept on walking, while his Dad called after him:
“You come back an live wae me, I’d take you.”
He was shouting by the time Stevie made the corner:
“You get tae school, son. An stay there.”
Stevie made for the derelict blocks at the far edge of the scheme. He thought he could spend the day, he had the lunch his Gran had made; she left the house early, didn’t know he left it late. Stevie was meant to be good for her, but it was like he didn’t know how any more. She was so quick to shout, it felt like everyone in the family was; they were always arguing over his head just now.
But it was peaceful up around the empty blocks.
The flats were mostly boarded over, and they had been as long as Stevie could remember, but junkies had jemmied open the metal sheeting on some of the ground-floor windows, so he pulled at a few, until he found a loose one, and then he got himself inside quick, through all the dim rooms.
Stevie came up here most weekdays. Some of the flats he passed through still had things inside: sofas and cookers and broken kids’ toys. No one was meant to live up here now but sometimes, if Stevie went back in another day, stuff had been moved. The flat he got in through today was empty, and the door to the close hung off its hinges, so Stevie made straight for the higher floors, where the windows weren’t covered.
He watched the cars on the Boulevard, and the new builds too, going up on the high ground beyond the scheme. The school hours were ages long, and he was always starving hungry before he could go home to his Gran’s. So Stevie walked through to the back rooms, to see across the back court: might be places he could get into across at that side.
The flats over that way were empty too, but when Stevie looked, he saw two boys standing down by one of the boarded-over back doors. One big, one smaller, they were both looking up at all the windows above, and Stevie scanned the back wall, trying to find what they were after. Only then the bigger one shouted:
“Ho!”
He was looking right at Stevie. Great mop of dark hair and a hoodie. Stevie stepped away from the window, but still near enough to keep watch. He didn’t think he knew the boy; not from the high flats, or from school, even if Stevie didn’t go there enough to be sure. The boy was much bigger than Stevie anyhow, and he had his big hands cupped to his face:
“How d’you get up there, pal?”
Stevie held tight, he didn’t answer, and then the boy just gave him the finger.
The other one did too, the younger one. They both had that same dark hair, white faces; Stevie thought maybe they were brothers. He kept one eye on them anyhow, to see if they got in through the ground-floor windows; these felt like Stevie’s flats, and he didn’t want them in here. But then the big one turned and took hold of the drainpipe: arms high, he kicked his toes in behind it. Pushing down, he pulled himself up, he started climbing and Stevie watched.
The boy went hand over hand, and he was fast too, up past the ground-floor windows. Stevie couldn’t help but keep on looking, thinking what it would feel like to do that. There were no boards up where the boy was headed, just plenty of points of entry, and then it occurred to Stevie he could get in anyw
here he liked, if he was quick like that up the downpipes.
There were other pipes that fed off the main one. Just about horizontal, they ran under all the bathroom windows, and the boy got his feet on the first one. Stevie watched while he pressed his chest to the wall and inched himself across. The window he was headed for was small, and it was shut too, but the boy got a half-brick out of his sweatshirt pocket. Cuff pulled over his hand, he smashed the pane, reaching in through the hole, lifting the catch. He pulled the window open, and then he was gone: over the sill and inside.
Stevie waited. He looked down at the smaller one, who was waiting too, standing down in the back court. He had a carrier bag; it looked to Stevie like it was full of cans. But still no sign of his brother.
“Kevin! Mon. What you playin at?” the smaller shouted.
The big one, Kevin, he stuck his head back out the window and laughed.
“Had you worried.”
He let down a length of something, looked like it was washing line, and the younger one tied the bag to the end. Kevin pulled, his brother climbed up after the cans, and then Stevie didn’t see them again the rest of the afternoon.
He went to school the next day, because his Gran said otherwise she’d bloody walk him. But the morning after, Stevie was back at the empty blocks.
He chose the same back wall as that Kevin. The big pipe looked solid enough, with gaps behind for a foothold, but Stevie couldn’t stand and think about it too long, else he’d never get started; he just mashed his trainer in between the iron and the brickwork, just like he’d seen those brothers. He got his toes good and wedged, only a bit too high, so he was hopping about for ages before he could get a proper grip with his hands. Glad there was no one to see him, Stevie pulled himself up against the tenement.
It got easier after that, much easier than he’d thought: first one foot, then the next. Stevie tugged his toes out, and shoved them in again one brick further up, his legs like levers, pushing him onwards. He didn’t look down, or too far above, he just felt himself getting higher. It was a light feeling, but it had his wrists all weak, and his heart jumping too, all sore against his ribs. Stevie saw the pipe that led off to the broken window, so he made for that, just wanting inside now, no further from the ground. Cheek pressed to the wall he edged to the sill, grabbing hold. Stevie shoved away broken glass, pulling himself up and scrambling over, a head-first lunge. He landed on the floor, just by the toilet, and then he just lay there, hauling air into his lungs; sharp little pains, like electric jags, shooting all down his limbs, but he couldn’t stop himself smiling.
Stevie found another block the week after with back verandas: concrete balconies with metal railings. Getting up to those was a gift, and he went from one to the next, all along the long back wall, getting up to them quicker than before. Some of the windows were left open, or they were smashed, or if not then Stevie panned them in himself. He liked that sound, doing that small bit of damage: it gave him a high and tight feeling in his throat, like a cord pulled and knotted. He found his own half-brick and carried it with him.
Then Stevie went past the first floor to the second. It took him days to work up the courage, and then more days of failed efforts. It scared him witless too, but it left him feeling brilliant, once he was over the railing and inside. With blue bashes on his elbows, and aching ribs, and raw little splits in his thumbnails. Stevie blew on them to cool them, spat on his palms and rubbed his grazes.
“Ho!”
He’d just got himself onto a second-floor veranda when the shout came.
“Ginger!”
Stevie kept back from the railing, but he saw it was that Kevin.
He was down in the back court and looking up, with his brother and another boy too. That other boy was older, standing just by Kevin’s shoulder; both had their hoods up and they were talking, pointing up at Stevie. Kevin shouted to him:
“Stay there. I seen you.”
He started climbing. He was coming up the downpipe, and Stevie thought Kevin was coming for him; maybe that other boy too.
The door to the flat was open and Stevie made ready to run, only when Kevin climbed onto the balcony he was alone. Out of breath, hood pulled off his curly head, he said:
“This is the best wan, aye?”
Stevie blinked a moment, uncertain: he didn’t know what Kevin was asking. Kevin looked at him a second, before he pointed upwards:
“You been up there?”
Stevie hadn’t got higher than the second floor yet.
There was a shout from down in the back court, and Kevin leaned over:
“Mon up! What’s takin you?”
He turned back to Stevie:
“They’re feart, the pair ae them. Cannae climb this high.” He laughed. “Mon, I’ll show you.”
He went ahead: out into the close and up the stairs and Stevie followed, even if he was still nervy. They were nearly at the top-floor landing before he heard the other two coming; they’d got in further down, so he kept watch on the stairwell. Only then Kevin kicked at his foot. He was pointing to a trapdoor in the ceiling, just above the top banister railing.
“We can get up that way.”
But Stevie couldn’t follow what he was saying, not properly, because Kevin’s brother was on the last flight, and the other boy, the bigger one, was just behind. With his hood still up, and his face under it looking none too kind. He pointed at Stevie:
“Who’s that?”
Kevin shrugged:
“He doesnae say much.”
He laughed.
But the other boy didn’t; he had his eyes on Stevie, like he knew him or something. Stevie didn’t know him, but then the boy told Kevin:
“His Da’s wan ae them.”
He mimed a flute, both hands up beside his face, and then Kevin looked at Stevie, and he wasn’t smiling. He blinked a moment, like he was thinking, but then he said:
“No his fault.”
Kevin shrugged again. He took Stevie by both his shoulders, and pulled him to stand smack in the middle of the landing. Kevin told the other boy:
“He can climb. He’s no feart. Are you?”
Stevie shook his head, even if he was; even if he didn’t know what Kevin wanted. Kevin made a cradle with his two hands, and held it down by his knees, so Stevie put his foot in. He felt himself lifted; he had to grab hold of Kevin’s jacket to stop himself tipping, over the banisters, down the close. Kevin told him:
“Get your feet tae my shoulders.”
And then Stevie was standing, his feet planted either side of Kevin’s ears, and his own face up at the ceiling, hands against the trapdoor.
“Push!”
Stevie did, and the heavy boards shifted; he shoved them over and pulled himself into the crawl space. Kevin followed him up, swift, and then they crouched, both letting their eyes get adjusted.
Shafts of sun came in through gaps in the slates. Kevin had dust on his knees, across his face. He said:
“You’re no in a band, are you, pal?”
“Naw.”
He wasn’t. Stevie knew it was the right thing to say. Kevin watched him a moment, and then he turned. He crawled and Stevie followed, making for a patch of light, until they came to a hole where there used to be a window. Kevin said:
“I kicked it out. Me an Cammy.”
He flicked his head, back to the trapdoor. He said his brother was Paul, Cammy was the other.
“The wan doesnae like you.”
Kevin grinned, like he thought that was funny.
“He’s a Prod, but. Same as you.”
It made Kevin laugh.
“No his fault, neither.”
He pulled himself out onto the slates, but Stevie stayed where he was.
He could see the back court, miles below, through the kicked-out hole: broken paths and knee-deep grass, past the splintered batons, and the long back wall of the tenement opposite.
One of the closes over there had fallen in. The outside walls were int
act, but the slates were all gone, even the timbers, and Stevie could see the place was hollow and charred; no floors any more, just a big burned-out gap with one long chimney in the middle. It made his head spin to see it standing, black and tall in the middle of nothing. Only then he heard scuffling; the other two were coming, so Stevie shifted, fast.
He put his head out the hole, looking up, mindful to keep his face turned away from the drop. He saw Kevin wasn’t watching; he was up on the ridge tiles, rolling a smoke, so Stevie pulled himself out.
The slates felt warm under his hands, even if it was winter now. Stevie lay on them first, belly down, spread-eagled, his cheek pressed close. He lay and then he crawled. Stevie made it up as far as the ridge, on his hands and knees, but the roof ramped up sharper there from the street, and he was scared of sliding, so he steered himself along the back court slope.
He sat not too far from Kevin first; not too close, just on the ridge tiles. Kevin offered him his roll-up, and he laughed when Stevie didn’t take it. Stevie didn’t know if he was being laughed at, so he edged past Kevin and on, shuffling on his bum, until he got to the chimney, and then he stayed there. With his back up against the stack, he felt a bit safer.
The other two stayed in the crawl-space with the cans, and Kevin told him:
“They’ll never come out.”
Stevie wasn’t too bothered about Paul, but he was glad Cammy stayed below.
After that, Kevin came looking for Stevie in the mornings. Some days Paul was with him, carrying a bag, other days he came by himself, and then before they went climbing, Kevin took Stevie down to the shops. He gave him money and told him to buy a couple of cans, but the rest could go under his sweatshirt, or inside his sleeves. He showed Stevie how to slide a can inside his cuff, getting it off the shelf.
Cammy mostly came and found them later. He always had money and fags; Kevin said he swiped them from his sister’s bag. But there were plenty of days where Stevie waited and Kevin never showed up. If it rained, if Kevin couldn’t be bothered. If Kevin didn’t come, Stevie thought he was most likely at Cammy’s.
The Walk Home Page 18
