by Ally Kennen
“I can’t look after him any more,” I say. “I’ve got to get rid of him. I can’t afford the meat and I’m moving soon.”
My dad has a funny expression on his face. His mouth is closed tight and he has wrinkled up his eyes like he’s staring at the sun. To be crude, he looks like he’s having a shit.
“So what do you think I can do?” he asks. “Fly it to the swamps?”
I bite my lip. I have spent a long time thinking about this.
“I want you to help me kill it,” I say.
It’s the only way I know I’ll be free of him. I spend hours at night, lying awake and wondering how I can do it. I can’t stab the thing. It would just eat me as soon as I got close enough. And I can’t poison it. I saw a rat dying of poison once. It was in the grounds of the children’s home and was all green-frothing at the mouth and making horrible noises. I just stood and watched. I was only a little kid. I can’t do that to an animal no matter how mean it is. Besides, how would I get the dosage right, and how would I get him to eat it?
“Just leave it there,” says my dad. “And it will die of starvation.”
“But he makes a noise when he gets hungry,” I say. “Someone might find him, someone might get killed.” I stop there. I’m not going to tell my dad about my dreams, my nightmares, where he breaks out of the cage and goes on the rampage. How even now, if I hear a noise downstairs in the night, if I am half asleep, I think maybe possibly, it has followed my scent back to the Reynolds’s house and is waiting for me. I can’t tell my dad that I can’t go swimming anywhere, in case he has broken out and is hiding underwater. I can’t tell him that I have had dreams where Chas, my little brother, is being eaten alive and screaming for help.
“I need a gun,” I say.
A gun is definitely the best bet. A clean shot between the eyes and all my troubles will be over.
My dad is quiet for a long time. I had to come here. He’s the only person I know who could get me a gun. He must have contacts from his prison days. And having been in the army, he’d know how to work one.
“How old are you now?” asks my dad.
“Eighteen,” I lie.
“No way,” he says.
I don’t know if he is referring to my age or to the possibility of getting me a gun.
“I don’t know what else to do,” I admit. “He’s bloody huge, lethal. You should see him.”
My father unscrews the lid of a brown bottle and takes a swig. He chokes a little on the liquid and I watch dribble run over his beard. My father is disgusting. That’s not beer he’s drinking, it’s something really rank, like paraffin.
So he’ll probably die soon.
“I’m not getting you a gun, you crazy little shit,” he says.
That’s what I like, a nice bit of parental support.
“Just leave it to die,” he says. “Forget about it.” He rolls himself back into his hammock. “Now clear off.”
“Dad.”
He waves his hand in dismissal.
“He’s too dangerous,” I say.
“Then take it to the zoo. I don’t care. It’s nothing to do with me.” He turns his back to me.
“You got him for me,” I say.
“Bugger off, Stephen.”
Something in his voice has changed. It’s even thicker, with a kind of growl. As I am walking away I hear a shout.
“Leave the dog.”
E i g h t
I’m not surprised my father refused to help me. He’s that sort of bloke. But now I’m stuffed.
I expect you’re wondering how I got the thing to the cage in the first place. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. But it was four years ago and he was much, much smaller than he is now. It was before I was staying with the Reynoldses. It was a coincidence that I was moved so close to the reservoir a year later.
I was only thirteen but I was quite strong. That’s the one thing I’m lucky in. My size. I’ve always been big for my age. When I was thirteen I was tougher than a lot of sixteen year olds. No bullshit. It’s true. Anyway one night I nicked a car from the Lidl car park. It was a Volvo Estate. It was definitely not the usual sort of car I went in for. But I needed to keep a low profile. I remember driving like a granny through town to the place where I was keeping him. He was in this bath in my dad’s lock-up. My dad was in the nick at the time. He’d messed up my mum a bit too badly and even she couldn’t disguise it. Not that time.
I had a rope and I managed to get on his back and hold his mouth shut. Like I said, he was smaller then, about the size of a full-grown collie dog. But he still managed to rip my arm. I couldn’t do anything about it. That’s what the scar on my arm is all about. I tied up his mouth, wrapped him in a sheet, and carried him down to the Volvo.
I always do things on my own. Even Selby didn’t know about my little pet. I can’t trust Selby. In some ways he’s like Robert. Unpredictable. For all I knew Selby would have set the animal on one of his enemies, or something like that. He can do a lot of damage if he puts his mind to it.
I drove out to the reservoir. I didn’t know about the lay-by then. I parked in the car park. He was grunting and wriggling in the boot. I emptied a can of Coke over him because I thought I had better keep him wet, but he didn’t seem to like that. I picked him up and he thrashed around a bit, but he couldn’t do much because I had tied him up so tightly. He was bloody heavy even then. I carried him round the path until I reached the water cage.
I undid the ropes that held his legs against his body. I admit I wasn’t sure how to loosen the ropes that went round his jaws. Don’t forget, I was only thirteen. I know kids that are scared of piddly little spiders. I was faced with a squirming, crazy animal with twenty times as many teeth as me! I probably hurt him when I dropped him in the water because I ended up dangling him by the rope that held his jaws shut. Then I got out a bread knife from my bag and hacked at the ropes. There was a bit of string trailing from his jaw for about two years after that. I had no way of getting it off. It didn’t seem to do him any harm.
I’ve fitted a new padlock on the hatch. There are three keys. One is hidden under a stone nearby. The other I keep in my bedroom in my sock drawer. The last I keep on me at all times.
I liked him at first. I liked the mean look of him. I liked the fact he was my secret. I fed him tins of dog food and packets of bacon. I nicked quite a lot of this stuff, but I was also spending most of my money on feeding him. But like you know, as time has gone by, he’s been eating more and more.
“You’ve had two telephone calls,” says Jimmy, when I arrive back at the Reynolds’s after visiting my dad. “The first was from your supervisor wanting to know why you didn’t turn up to work.” He raises his eyebrow. “I told her you had flu but should be in tomorrow.”
Was that nice of him or not? Is he so desperate to get me out of the house he’ll lie for me?
“I know things are tough for you at the moment,” says Jimmy.
I shrug and help myself to four biscuits from the packet on the kitchen counter. There’s a chicken roasting in the oven and pans of vegetables boiling on the cooker.
“What was the other call?” I ask opening all the saucepan lids.
“Mindy. She wants you to attend a review meeting next week to plan your next move.”
My next move. When I am kicked out and left to rot in St Mark’s. When I join the rest of the losers. Where I’ll have to sleep with a knife under my pillow.
“Cheer up,” says Jimmy. “Everything will be OK. You’re a sensible lad.”
At that moment Carol flounces in. She stinks of perfume and is wearing a skirt so short I can practically see the bottom of her arse.
“Darling,” says Jimmy, “you forgot to put on your trousers.”
“Hardy-har,” she says. She focuses on me. “Skiver,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t stick that job.”
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“I’m going in tomorrow,” I say.
Carol waitresses in this pub down the road, The Globe, a few times a week. She gets all done up in black and white and comes home with roast potatoes and chocolate flakes nicked from the kitchens.
I tried for a job there, but they wouldn’t take me. I really can’t think why.
Jimmy slips me a fiver. “For petrol,” he says.
Carol looks put out. “Where’s mine?”
For once Jimmy ignores her.
“Just try it for a week or so,” he says. I assume he is talking about my glamorous job. “It’s bound to get better as you settle in, and you might make some friends.”
“I doubt that,” mutters Carol.
Sometimes, when I look at Carol, I get this feeling like I could just grab her, take her throat in my hands and slowly, slowly squeeze, pushing down on her windpipe. I have this feeling now. I think Carol notices because she skips off.
“Have you got her a card?” whispers Jimmy.
“What?” I struggle to bring myself out of my murderous thoughts.
“It’s her birthday tomorrow. Remember?”
I shake my head. I couldn’t care less.
“Verity’s bought one for you to sign, just in case. It’s in the sideboard.”
I help myself to another biscuit.
Carol’s going to be sixteen. Sweet sixteen. What a laugh that is. Sick sixteen more like.
“You seem a bit glum,” says Jimmy.
Glum! What kind of a lamby word is that? I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say.
I mean, I can hardly admit that I’m pissed off because my ex-con dad has refused to get me a gun so I can do a killing, can I?
“Where’s the dog?” asks Jimmy.
“I gave it to my dad,” I say. It feels strange telling the truth; like sucking lemons.
Jimmy looks surprised. “Is that where you’ve been today?”
I nod. All this truth telling makes me feel weak so I sit down.
“How is he?” asks Jimmy.
“He’s a scabby old man,” I say slowly.
Jimmy sighs. “I wish we could have let you keep the dog, Stephen. But you know it’s not practical at the moment.” He draws up a chair and sits down. “I think you need some fun in your life.”
I give him a look. The sort of fun I like isn’t legal.
“I appreciate things are tough, what with moving out, and your dad, and everything.”
“I’m not going to St Mark’s,” I say.
Jimmy nods. “It’s not ideal, is it? Mindy says she is trying to get you in supported lodging.”
“Yeah right.” I think what I say next is because I’m fed up with all of them pretending to care about me when really they don’t. “I’m going to my gran’s,” I say with a sidelong glance. “Back to my real family.”
Jimmy looks worried. He fiddles with a mug Carol has left on the table.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, with your mum being there and everything?”
I face him. “It’s better than St Mark’s.”
Jimmy nods. “It probably is. Have you spoken to your gran about this? I had no idea.”
“Course I have,” I lie. “So tell Mindy she doesn’t have to bother.”
“You can tell her yourself at your review meeting next week,” says Jimmy.
I hate review meetings. They take up approximately one and a half hours of my life, every six months. Jimmy and Verity are there, also Mindy, her boss and the latest support worker or mentor or whoever they’ve dragged up that is supposed to have some interest in my wellbeing. They never invite my gran. Then they sit and patronize me. When I was younger I’d be a real pain in the arse. I’d refuse to say anything, or try and get my foster parents into trouble, or just walk out. It was fun to see these big shots from Social Services, with all their university degrees and diplomas and political correctness, get mad when I ripped up a form or spat on the carpet. I have to admit that did give me the greatest pleasure. I love watching these sorts of people lose control. It’s funny. They think they are better than us. But they get wound up over the tiniest things. It’s irresistible.
I don’t mess about these days. I just sit. I used to think if I co-operated, then the meeting would be over quicker, but oh no. This lot will always find something else to talk about. So I just sit and take it. Like going to the dentist. And when it is over, normal life doesn’t seem quite so bad. I mean, what could be worse than having a group of strangers, who claim to know you, who have read your files and know that your dad is violent and your mum is a nutter, talk over your head about “stimulation” and “career pathways”.
I can just picture the scene:
Mindy:
So Steve, is there anything worrying you?
Me:
Yeah, you lot are about to throw me out on the street, without any money.
Mindy:
And how does that make you feel?
Me:
That you are useless bastards.
Mindy:
Anything else, Steve? You can talk about anything, you know.
Me:
OK. I need a gun to kill a bloody monster; before it gets so big it breaks out of its cage and eats someone.
Instead I’ll sit there and listen as they tell me I could do one day a week bricklaying at the tech and do building site work the rest of the week. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against brickies. They make good money. But I don’t want to be one. I’ve never had anyone ask if I wanted to take any GCSEs. Or do any A levels. I don’t want to go to university, but imagine if I said I wanted to? They’d laugh me out of the room.
“Fun,” repeats Jimmy. “I’ll try and arrange something for the weekend. Maybe we could go karting or do a round of golf?”
“No thanks, Jimmy, I’m a bit old for family outings.”
Why would I want to go karting when I’ve been nicking cars since I was eight years old?
A flatbed truck draws up outside and Jimmy goes to investigate.
I’m relieved. All this talk of fun makes me feel angry. How can I skip around like a happy teenager when I am about to be thrown out on to the street? Are these people mad?
I glance out of the window. Jimmy is talking to the truck driver.
I read the writing on the side of the truck.
ERIC WINSTANLEY – BLACKSMITH
I’ve heard Jimmy and Verity talking about this. The man’s come to put up a fence. Probably to keep out scum like me. There’s a dog in the front seat; a brown and white spaniel.
I wonder how Malackie is doing. I only hope my dear father remembers to feed him. But at least it means I can collect him, as soon as I am ready. As soon as I work out some sort of plan.
I go outside for a fag. The bloke talking to Jimmy is about thirty years old and scruffy looking. He’s got hair even shorter than mine and a nose ring. I feel sorry for him. Imagine being called Eric! His dog is sticking its head out of the window so I walk round to the van to talk to it. It has these crazy cross-eyes and sniffs my hand.
“He won’t bite,” calls the bloke. “He hasn’t got any teeth left. He eats stones.”
“What’s he called?” I ask.
“I just call him Dog,” says the bloke. “So there’s no confusion.”
I’m not sure about that. But then again, I don’t expect the dog minds.
“Hello, Dog,” I say, scratching its ears.
When the blacksmith has gone Jimmy comes up to me.
“I’m really sorry about your dog,” he says. “I don’t think it would have worked out.”
“Yeah
, right,” I say.
N i n e
Carol gets a scooter for her birthday, this really cool Vespa, really sharp. I bet you can guess what colour it is. Correct: pink. On my sixteenth birthday, Jimmy and Verity gave me a game for my Xbox and clothes vouchers for Top Man. Top Man! I ask you.
Carol goes all round the driveway on it, shouting and showing off. She won’t let me or Robert have a go.
Before I leave for work I have a good look at it. I prod the white leather seat and fiddle with the mileometer.
Carol comes up to me. “Don’t you dare nick it,” she says. “I know you want to.”
“Now there’s an idea,” I say.
She put her hands on her hips. “I’ll kill you if you touch it again,” she says.
Naturally this is a challenge I cannot resist, so I grab the throttle and pull it back. “Vroom, vroom,” I say. I know this is childish of me but I can’t help myself.
“Very funny,” she says. “But I mean it. I know what a tea-leaf you are. I expect you’ve already called up your mates who you can flog it to.”
I walk over the gravel to my car.
“Happy Birthday, little sis,” I say, just to annoy her.
“I’m not your bloody sister.”
I drive off, swerving closer to her than I should. I enjoy the look of alarm in her face before I steer away.
Naomi, the supervisor, doesn’t say anything about my being away yesterday or late today. She gives me a new beard net and set of gloves and tells me to join the kebab line. I’m prepared today. I’ve got four T-shirts on under my jumper and I’m wearing my thickest socks. The radio seems even louder than before even though there aren’t so many people about. I scan the line for the nice-looking girl I saw on the first day. She’s here, talking to a girl with a pasty white face. My girl’s wearing tight black jeans under her white coat. I decide that my mission for the day is to find out her name. I am busy squashing all the mince into the kebab boxes when Naomi orders me to come with her. We go through into another underground room. There’s no radio here but the layout is pretty much the same as the first. Naomi gives me a crate of dead chickens and tells me to put each one on a tray, ready to send down the conveyor belt for washing and dressing.
