by Ally Kennen
“I heard you took Terry Dunleary to Casualty. That true?” Eric takes the notebook from me.
“Yeah,” I say, surprised.
“Well thanks,” says Eric.
I must have given him a funny look.
“He’s my sister’s boy,” explains Eric. “He’s always getting into trouble. He’s a plonker, that kid.”
I nod. “Not everyone thinks so,” I say.
Eric finishes measuring and whistles for Dog.
“You still at the meat factory?” he asks.
“Kind of,” I say.
I am planning to leave and get something better, but I don’t know what. I know I should stay there for now. I’m going to have to show my face there tomorrow or they’ll sack me. But I really don’t want to go back. It’s not that the people are so bad, and if I work quick enough I can get warm. But I hate the sight of all that meat and mess and I hate the smell. It makes me feel sick. And all that death makes me feel queasy. It’s a sick place really. A massive building dedicated to cutting up animals. It’s like a horror film. Listen to me! I sound like a girl! I’m going soft.
“Listen,” says Eric. “Jimmy has suggested you come and help me in the workshop some mornings. He said you weren’t particularly happy at the meat factory.”
Fancy Jimmy sussing that.
I eye Eric suspiciously. “I suppose he’s paying you?”
“He said Social Services would give me something,” admits Eric. “What do you think?”
I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. I have a brief fantasy about me standing by a massive furnace, heating up red-hot metal and walloping it into a sword.
“Why not?” I say.
Eric’s workshop is this big shed, with unpainted breeze block walls and an uneven concrete floor. He’s got a large metal table, which he calls his welding bench and there are bits of metal and machinery lying everywhere. He gives me this safety talk when I arrive. Don’t touch any tools or machinery or metal unless he says so. The metal might be hot and some of the machinery could take my fingers off. I like the forge best. It’s like a massive open fire with a hood. It’s all piled up with coke and there’s a fan underneath to keep it hot. I stand close to it, warming my hands.
“That’s a cast iron stand, made in the last century,” says Eric. He shoves some wood in to stop it going out. There’s a silver metal flue that goes right out of the roof. Eric’s got the windows and double doors wide open because, he says, it’s important to keep the place well ventilated. But I like the smell. It’s a clean, burning smell, a bit like woodsmoke.
Eric goes on about the difference between cast iron and wrought iron and I drift off a bit. I can’t keep up with him but am too embarrassed to ask him to explain it again. Eric tells me that he makes many of his tools as he needs them. How cool is that? But then he goes into detail about the differences between his hammers and my concentration wanders off again.
Some of the machines look really evil. I hope he lets me use them. Eric is wearing a leather apron and steel-toe-cap boots. My trainers are no good for this place. The dust has made them shitty already.
He shows me this machine called a linisher. It’s like a sanding belt for metal. Eric gets this iron bar and switches on the machine and holds the bar next to the belt and the sparks go flying. Eric switches the machine off and shows me the bar. It’s got a perfect curve on it.
“I might get you to do some of that at some point,” he says.
But Eric doesn’t let me use any of the machines. Instead he makes me sweep up, make the tea and carry in sacks of coke. After that he asks me to tidy the yard outside. I ask him how he wants it and he says it is up to me. So I spend about two hours stacking steel rods and collecting rubbish and moving disused machinery. It is grunt work but I don’t mind. The yard looks miles better than it did. When I am finished Eric is dead chuffed because now he can fit his truck into the yard.
Eric says I can come in whenever I like if I give him a ring. And I think I might, though as I’m not getting paid, I have to stick with the meat factory. But I reckon if I came here long enough, I could be a proper blacksmith like Eric. Maybe one day I’d have my own forge and my own truck. It’s all right working here. It takes my mind off things. I decide I’ll come in a couple of mornings a week. If I was at the meat factory every day I’d go mad. And I don’t think they’ll sack me. I’ve lost count of the days I’ve skived off work now. I’m a good worker. I don’t piss around like most of the lads. I don’t gob in the kebabs or mess around much. And like I said, they are pretty relaxed about when people turn up. You just get your time sheet signed and that’s it.
If Eric teaches me to weld, I might be able to mend the water cage.
T h i r t e e n
Me and Robert are playing chess on his bed and he’s hammering me. (See, I might not have gone to school much, but at least I know how to play chess.) Robert’s killed all my pieces except my king which he is harassing round the board. I hear footsteps on the gravel outside. I’m surprised as it’s late, nearly ten o’clock. But the doorbell goes off, playing this lamby tune and soon enough Jimmy is calling me.
“Stephen, your dad’s come to see you.”
My dad! I look at Robert and he looks at me. He throws back his duvet and jumps out of bed.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I want a look,” he says, running to the door.
I scratch my head. My dad has never come to visit me before. None of my family has, except Chas, and that’s only twice-yearly visits carefully organized by Mindy. So what’s my old man doing here?
Carol’s lurking on the landing, trying to listen to the talk downstairs. There it is; his horrible growly voice. My dad has this really deep voice. It sounds like he puts it on, but he doesn’t. It’s always been like that and it’s worse indoors. I listen with Carol for a few minutes but I can’t make out anything.
“Don’t you want to see him?” she asks. I don’t know if she is taking the piss or not.
“Stephen,” calls Jimmy again.
I walk down the stairs. I have no idea what to expect. Come to think of it, how the hell did he find out my address?
Jimmy looks worried. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want this crazy-looking tramp in my house either. There are patches of mud on the carpet where he’s walked. I thought he smelled pretty bad when I saw him in the forest but now he stinks worse than fresh sick. I ought to open a window. He hasn’t made any effort to clean himself up or anything. He’s wearing this dirty, red jacket and old man’s trousers that are too big. He’s got bits in his beard. Dudley wakes up, takes one look at him and pegs it, shooting through my legs and up the stairs. My dad sits in Jimmy’s armchair and I try not to look at the stains on his trousers.
“Where’s Malackie?” I ask. I should have never given him to my dad to look after. He’s probably dead by now. My dad can’t even look after himself.
He makes a wet noise with his mouth.
“He’s all right.”
Jimmy hovers. He looks at the clock and notices Robert peeping round the door.
“Bed,” he orders, and Robert vanishes.
Verity bustles in with a mug of tea and hands it to my dad with the handle pointing his way so he doesn’t burn his fingers. He doesn’t deserve this sort of treatment.
It’s my fault he is here; stinking up the living room and dribbling tea into his beard. If I was the Reynoldses, I’d throw the mug away when he’s gone.
There’s a suppressed cough from the stairs. I feel sorry for Carol too: having random tramps in your house can’t be very nice. Then I remember. Soon I’ll be out of here and they won’t have to put up with this sort of thing. Not until they get the next kid anyway.
“It’s quite late,” says Jimmy. “Would you like to come back and see Stephen in the morning? He has to be up early. He’s got himself a job.”
> “Got nowhere to stay,” says my dad.
I cringe as Verity and Jimmy exchange glances. Please don’t ask him to stay. I stare at Jimmy and shake my head so slightly, he probably doesn’t notice.
But Jimmy isn’t falling for it.
“We’ll leave you two to talk,” he says. “And after that, I’ll be happy to give you a lift.”
They leave us alone.
“What are you feeding him on?” I ask.
My dad looks confused.
“The dog?” I remind him.
He waves his hand dismissively. “I told you, he’s fine.” He looks crafty. “Anything decent to drink round here?”
“No,” I say.
“Got yourself a nice little pad here,” says my dad, looking at the TV and DVD player, the hi-fi unit and speakers.
“Not for much longer.” I stand behind the sofa because I don’t want to sit down. “I told you before; they’re kicking me out in a fortnight.”
“Ah,” says my dad.
It wouldn’t surprise me at all if, in a month or so, the Reynolds family get burgled.
I watch him check out the velvet curtains, the red carpet, the painting of the tree on the wall, the wood stove, the pile of Good Housekeeping magazines. He fingers the leather strap of one of Carol’s discarded shoes and eyes a half-eaten Mars bar on the coffee table. I study his dreadlock. It is attached to the back of his head by two or three thin locks of hair. A couple of snips with the scissors and the whole thing would come off.
My dad swigs the last of his tea. “I want to see it,” he says. “Show me where it is.”
I gesture for him to keep his voice down because Carol is probably listening to every word.
“Why?” I whisper. “Are you going to help?”
The mug rolls off the chair to the floor.
“I’m interested,” he says, “to find out if you are as big a liar as your mother.”
I look at him for a long time. I want to punch him but I need his help.
“Will you help me get rid of it?” I ask finally.
“I’ll phone the zoo for you. Just show me where the bloody thing is.” He looks exasperated and a thought strikes me.
“Have you been looking for it?”
“All bloody day,” says my dad. “I reckon you’ve been lying to me, Stephen.”
I want to spit in his face. Instead I retrieve the mug from the carpet and place it on the table.
Have you ever been playing a game, like chess or something, where you get so bored, you just want it to be over? When you start doing stupid things, like going on a killing spree and putting your queen in danger, just for some excitement or so you can be out? I love that feeling of losing. When everyone else is crowded round, getting wound up over a board and a few bits of plastic and you can just walk off and get some food. Or go outside and have a fag and feel the wind on your face. I get so restless sometimes. I’ll do anything to escape. I feel like this now.
“I might be able to help,” says my dad.
I don’t think there’s anything he can do apart from get me a gun. But I am fed up of being the only one who knows about this thing. When he sees it, he might realize what a problem I’ve got.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll take you up there.”
He leaves a smell behind him. I look at the dent in the chair where he has been sitting. There is a leaf and crumbs of dirt on the seat. I wipe them off.
“He didn’t want a lift then?” says Jimmy coming back into the room. “Where is he staying?”
“In the shed,” I answer and grin at Jimmy. “Only joking.”
Jimmy, however, goes to the window and peers out. There is a full yellowy moon sitting on the tree tops.
“Did he really say that?” he asks with a worried voice.
“Nah,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Jimmy pulls the curtains and leaves the room. I hear him lock the front door then go round to the back.
“Watch out, he might come down the chimney,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Verity bustles in. She looks flustered. I don’t blame her. Like I said, my dad is not someone you’d want lounging round your house.
“Did he want anything in particular?” she fishes.
I have to tell her something convincing.
“He wants to borrow some money,” I reply.
This seems to go down all right. Verity nods. “Did you give him any?”
I shake my head. “I need every penny at the moment, don’t I?”
I am pleased to say she looks guilty.
“Stephen, I know you’re upset at moving out. . .”
I interrupt. “Not enough to set fire to the village hall though, Verity.”
I am pleased with this and decide it is my cue to go to bed.
Carol’s door is closing just as I get to the top of the stairs. I wonder how much she has heard, how much she has worked out. Like I said, sometimes I do stupid things, just so I can get out of the game. Or to make it more interesting.
He’s late of course. I hang around the car park, feeling shifty as hell. I don’t usually come in the public entrance because I’m likely to be carrying something big and dead to feed my boy. And I like to come at night. I prefer to sneak in via the lay-by and across the field. I feel exposed here, next to a notice and a litter bin. But I couldn’t rely on my dad to find the right lay-by, so I told him to meet me here. The Dam Man drives past and I give him a wave because I haven’t got time to hide. He waves back and drives on and I let out my breath.
Where is that scumbag? I wish I’d never agreed to this. What do I think I can get out of it? I half think I should just bugger off before he gets here. Dad never sorts things out. He only messes them up. But he does have contacts. He knows people who can help. As soon as he sees it, he’ll want to help me. Anybody would.
I read on the Internet these animals haven’t changed since prehistoric times and that they are millions of years old. My friend, I am dealing with a bloody dinosaur!
“Stephen.”
It is the voice of my dear father.
He’s leaning against the bonnet of a Range Rover. I never heard him coming. I notice he’s carrying a big stick.
“Where did you sleep?” I ask.
“There.” He points to the information shelter at the end of the car park. I see a pile of tinnies under the bench and an empty baccy packet skiddles over the tarmac.
I feel self-conscious talking to him. I mean, he doesn’t exactly blend in. An old couple in a sky-blue Escort pull up next to us and the woman gives us a horrible look.
“Come on,” I say.
With each step I feel more reluctant. It’s unusual to see all these visitors. There’s a much bigger reservoir not far away, with sailing and nature walks and all that sort of stuff. Most people go there. And I come here at night, or very early in the morning when it’s deserted. Now there are fishermen and walkers and even a couple of rowing boats on the water. We have to be careful.
My dad goes over on his ankle.
“Bollocks.”
He swears even more when he starts hobbling after me. We must look strange. There’s me, seventeen years old, in my jeans and trainers and hoody, and this gross old tramp with the massive cod hanging from his head.
“How far?” moans my father. And, “Got anything to eat?”
I give him a banana. He peels it and chucks the skin into the water.
I check to see there is no one about. “Do you know anyone who can get me a gun?” I ask.
I’ve never looked properly into my dad’s eyes before. They have these yellowy flecks, like sparks. I look away.
“Let me just see the thing,” pants my dad.
He’s in bad shape. He can hardly keep up with me and his ankle doesn’t help. But
I’m not slowing down just so the old piss-head doesn’t get out of breath. I don’t feel as wary of him as I normally do; maybe because he just looks like an old waster, like thousands of others. He’s nothing like as sharp as he was last night in the Reynolds’s sitting room.
By the time we are getting near the water cage, he is moaning and grumbling almost non-stop. He mutters under his breath. I try not to listen but I can’t help hearing a few words. None of them are very complimentary about me.
I look up and down the path. I can’t see anyone, but I don’t feel right. I tell myself it is because I have my father with me. No one has ever been here with me before.
“Shhh,” I tell my dad. It feels strange ordering him around. I half expect him to belt me. But he does quieten down.
We step from the path, and I lead him through the trees.
This is a big mistake. I know it. Maybe it’s not too late. I could tell him right now that I’ve been winding him up. We could stop and go back. I could drop him back at his shed in the wood. Maybe if I wasn’t being kicked out of the Reynolds’s I would have done just that. Maybe if I was sure the cage was safe.
Dad moans like hell when we get to the thorn hedge.
“I’m not going through that, Stephen.”
I ignore him and push through. If he’s come this far, he’ll not stop now. After a short while I hear grumbling and snapping noises behind me.
From a distance the cage looks harmless enough. There are brambles growing up one side and at the back and you can’t tell how big it is until you get right up close.
My dad kicks the bars.
“What have you got in there, Stephen?” he asks. There is the sound of water swirling round. He stops kicking and stares at me.
I peer through the bars. There is a horrible smell, like something rotting. I’ve never noticed it before. As my eyes get used to the gloom I see a grey wing stuck to one of the bars. Poor old pigeon. I look at the dark swirl of water. There’s a new line of green algae growing up the walls and something is floating at the back of the cage, bobbing on the water. It’s a small hoofed foot with wisps of yellowy wool stuck to it. I lean back in disgust. There are lots of lambs grazing round the reservoir. Why the hell had one got in here? It must have got through the bars somehow and fallen in. I shudder. I play the scenario in my head; the bleating lamb kicking in the water and the sudden surfacing of the head and snout. His lunge. It makes me feel sick. But then I remember. The more he has to eat, the less likely it is that he will escape.
