by Ally Kennen
“Feel how much warmer the air is here?” he asks.
I nod. I can’t speak.
“It’s a borehole,” he says. “Maybe the remains of a test pit or something, you know, for the dam. It’s so deep we’re getting warm thermals coming up from the ground. That’s what’s heating this cave.” He shines the torch into my face. “I admit I thought you were lying. But now I’m not sure.”
I must be very stupid but I don’t see why a hole in the ground makes Eric believe me.
“Reptiles need warmth to survive,” says Eric. “They’re cold-blooded. This cave is probably just warm enough to keep your crocodile alive during the winter.” He kicks at a massive pile of rotting vegetation.
“And this is clever,” he says. “Your croc has pulled this in from outside, and used it to keep warm as it composts.” He shakes his head. “I never knew they were so clever.”
Neither did I. It freaks me out. Burrows, boreholes, compost. My boy had all these things going on and I never knew about it. What else has he been up to?
This must be where he hid when the Dam Man was here. The walls are soft and damp. If my boy worked hard enough, he could have dug his way right out of the hillside.
“I want to get out of here,” I say. Like I need to ask Eric for permission.
I scramble to the wall and climb through into daylight. I ease myself round the cage and clamber out over the broken bars. Logically I know I am in greater danger than in the cave but I am still massively relieved to be outside. Eric follows and we lean against the bars, not saying anything.
Eric dives into the bracken and pulls something out.
It is a shoe, or more accurately a boot. Boots, laces. They are pretty universal. A man’s boot. New looking, with grimy brown leather. A yellow flash down the side. A stitched-on label saying Caterpillar.
My father’s boot.
T w e n t y - t w o
“There’s no way,” says Eric, “that we’re setting it free in the sea. No way.”
He turns into his yard and switches off the engine.
I shift in my seat. I hope Carol won’t freak out. This is her master plan after all.
“It’s crazy,” says Eric. “Apart from the risk to people, the water will be too cold. You’ll kill it.”
He doesn’t have to convince me. I just want to get shot of it.
“We’ll leave it somewhere safe,” says Eric. He taps my arm. “Anonymously. At night.”
I nod, feeling strangely high; maybe because I have all this unexpected help. I reckon Eric is enjoying himself. This is a big adventure for him. All the way home he was going on about how amazing it was. He likes a bit of danger, Eric. He likes to think he is a little bit of a bad boy.
He decides that we need a pig as bait. “Because that’s what he’s used to,” says Eric. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I think Eric is going to be useful even though I still don’t know that he really believes it.
Eric says he’ll get the pig and ring me later to arrange a time.
I drive myself home in my little Renault 5. Something wedged under the carpet catches my eye and I yank it out, nearly crashing into a yellow grit container at the side of the road.
It’s a little bit of blue plastic. The stuff I used to wrap the pigs in. It seems like ages ago now. If I hadn’t told my dad about him none of this would have happened.
What about my dad? What about his boot? He probably lobbed the boot at the saltie. He loses stuff the whole time. He lost a son; he lost a whole family for God’s sake. He’s in a new pair of boots by now, nicked from somewhere. This is how he is. You should know this by now.
I’m approaching the turning to the Reynolds’s house when a figure steps off the verge and starts waving at me. It’s Carol. What’s she doing out here? It’s started to drizzle and she hates getting wet. I slow and lean over to unlock the passenger door, but she shakes her head and indicates for me to wind down the window.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She is pale and looks cold.
“Where’ve you been?” she demands suspiciously.
I kill the engine. This is going to take some explaining.
“I told Eric everything,” I admit. “I had to.”
“And is that where you’ve been? With Eric?” she asks.
“Yep, he’s going to help us, only. . .” My voice trails off. I don’t want to tell her that Eric isn’t going to allow us to set it free in the sea.
“What?”
I think it over. “I think he doesn’t know if I’m telling the truth or not,” I say slowly. “I think he wants to believe me.”
“But he still says he’ll help?”
Carol mulls over this for a while.
“Look,” I say. “Why don’t you get in?”
“You can’t come back,” she says. “We’ve got to go.”
“What?”
Carol keeps looking up and down the road as if she is expecting someone.
“So you swear you were with Eric all afternoon?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say.
Carol picks her bag off the verge and crosses in front of my car and climbs in. I move to start up the engine but Carol puts her hand on the steering wheel.
“The police are here,” she says.
“What?” I am so startled I push her hand off mine and almost crick my neck.
“They’re waiting for you to get home.”
I reel through my catalogue of recent trouble. I really, really hope someone hasn’t been killed by the croc. Or maybe Eric has decided to report me after all. Or maybe it is something to do with my dad. For a paranoid moment I wonder if there are closed-circuit TV cameras in the meat factory and they’ve seen me nicking the chickens. It could be anything.
I turn the ignition and the car fires into life. I begin a rapid three-point turn in the road, only it’s so small it takes about eight points. But I’m not laughing. I decide to go back to Eric’s. I can’t risk getting arrested now, not when my luck is beginning to change. I’ve got Eric and Carol on my side now. This thing can be worked out; it doesn’t have to end in disaster.
I am halfway to town before Carol speaks.
“Don’t you want to know what’s happened?”
I shrug. I can’t focus on too many things at once. Like I said, they could pull me in for any number of things. Why dwell on it now?
“It’s St Mark’s,” says Carol.
I slow as we cross a railway line.
“What about it?”
“Somebody set fire to it this afternoon.”
Won’t any of this ever let up? I feel like a rock climber who finally reaches a ledge, then has it crumble under his fingers. We pass an old couple, hobbling along, loaded down with shopping bags. For a second I envy them. What nice straightforward lives they must have; gardening and grandchildren, pension books and Mr Kipling’s Almond Slices. But then, who am I trying to kid? The old lady is probably deranged and her husband looks like an ex-con.
I take a different route to the workshop. I’m not going anywhere near St Mark’s. Do you blame me? I must have a revolving flashlight on my head when it comes to arson. I’m like a beacon for the police. There must be tens of thousands of people living in this town. And it only takes one of them with a bottle of paraffin and a packet of matches to light a fire. So why blame me?
“What did Jimmy say?” I ask. Then I feel like kicking myself. Why should I care about what he thinks of me?
“He’s shocked,” says Carol. And she says something which makes me feel mixed up. “He’s worried about you. You’ve been missing for hours.”
It’s nice to be worried about, but Jimmy’s only worried because he thinks I did it.
He thinks I might be trapped in the burning building.
“Someone told the police they saw you in th
e area,” says Carol.
“I must be famous,” I say.
I’m making jokes but I’m bloody glad I’ve got Eric to give me an alibi.
Eric is surprised to see us back so soon. He looks pretty flustered. He says he’s got loads of work to do before he finishes for the day. I hope he’s not backing out.
“Let me just finish these,” he says. He has a pile of railings to beat into shape with his hammer machine. He nods at Carol and tells us we can make ourselves a cup of tea in the office.
It’s weird being back here. I mean, I don’t expect Eric is going to give me that job now. I have a feeling he is just playing around. I’m worried he has a nasty surprise for me. Carol sits on the swivel chair and I perch on the desk, swinging my legs. Both of us sip black tea because the milk is lumpy.
I haven’t got anything to say to her. For all I know she’s going to spring something on me as well. I give her sneaky glances to see if I can work out what she is thinking but she is engrossed in an old newspaper she found in the bin. She warned me about the police. This is good. She is where I can keep an eye on her. This is also good. She knows about the crocodile. This is bad. But I know the truth about the village hall fire and this is good. This will keep her down if she starts getting nasty.
She looks up from her paper and smiles. “Don’t worry, Stephen; it’s going to be all right.”
I don’t understand how she can be so calm. I don’t understand how Eric can bang a few bits of metal around when all the time my boy is prowling round the reservoir.
A siren wails in the distance and I freeze. I want to crawl under the desk or jump out of the window but I can’t. The noise fades but I can’t relax. I listen to the steady thumping of the hammer machine. I imagine my head under the piston. It’s how it feels these days. Only the machine is never switched off.
The door swings open and Eric comes in.
“You,” he says looking at me. “Out.”
I jump to the floor and hurt my feet. They are cold. My circulation is bad and I landed too heavily.
“Wait in the yard,” says Eric.
Of course I have to hear what they’re saying so I shin up the brick wall, drop down into an empty yard of grassy tarmac, and creep up to the office window. Unfortunately their voices are muffled but I manage to fill in the gaps. Eric is asking Carol if it’s true. He’s asking her if she’s really seen it. I hold my breath. It would be just like Carol to lie now. Imagine that if you will. I lean right into the wall. My head is only centimetres from the bottom of the window.
“I’ve seen it,” says Carol.
There is a long silence. I wish I could see Eric’s face. I’m sure he hasn’t believed me up till now.
Eric swears and I feel a grin spread across my face.
T w e n t y - t h r e e
Eric takes us to a greasy spoon round the corner. He orders a fry-up for himself, and me and Carol have a Coke. There are two blokes sitting at another table. I hope they’re not undercover cops. They aren’t talking to each other so we have to keep our voices down. I fiddle with the vinyl tablecloth and wish I had enough money for a triple bacon sandwich.
“Look,” says Eric. “Why don’t we give the police an anonymous tip-off?”
“They’ll kill it,” says Carol. “With guns. You know they will.”
Eric studies her, wondering what he is dealing with. In his book, shooting it would be no bad thing. Nor in mine.
“I thought you said he was going to help?” Carol turns on me.
“I feel like I’m on a reality TV show,” says Eric. “Any minute they’re going to jump out with the hidden cameras and call me a sucker.”
“Then don’t do anything,” I say. “Just forget it, only. . .” I hesitate.
“Only what?” Eric’s food arrives and he plunges his fork into a runny yellow yolk.
“Can we borrow your truck, just for a night?” I look at my hands and bite my lip. This is almost funny. Selby always said I was a cheeky boy. He always said I had to push things just that little bit further. Why not? What have I got to lose?
Eric scoops up his egg and loads it into his mouth. I fiddle with the change in my pocket. I’ve got about a quid in there. I could afford a fried egg sandwich.
“You can come with us if you like,” says Carol. “Just to keep an eye on your truck. You wouldn’t have to do anything. Please say yes.” She gives him one of her killer smiles.
Eric looks from one to the other of us. He swallows the last of his egg and sits back with a deep sigh.
“I may as well play along,” he says. “After all, you only live once.”
Food is amazing stuff. One minute you’re walking along the street, feeling like shite, hardly able to walk straight and thinking you’re going to pass out, you have a bite to eat and you’re suddenly a master of the universe. Maybe Selby should have eaten more. Or maybe I’m just a freak, getting my kicks from food. But it’s worked for Eric. Look at him!
I order an egg butty to take away and so Eric offers to buy Carol one but she says she’s already had loads to eat today. But back at the workshop she helps me eat mine as we sit on the welding bench, watching Eric scurry around. He gets a tarpaulin and five rounded wooden stakes and chucks them in the back. Then he makes me help him with this mechanical lifting arm. It screws into the truck. He says it works by hydraulics.
I’m glad he’s coming with us. I’ve never thought how we were going to load the thing once we’d caught it. I guess I never really thought I’d get that far. I don’t ask Eric what the stakes are for. I’m worried it’s for something Carol won’t like. Eric makes me get two planks from the yard and asks me to fetch the winch from his tool chest. The man has thought of everything. I don’t really like him bossing me around, but I can’t complain. All of this means he is taking me seriously.
It’s late now, around half past eight, so Carol phones home. She lies easily. I’m impressed. She makes up this story about staying at a mate’s house.
“They don’t believe me,” she says switching off her mobile. “But we don’t want them sending the police out after me, do we? They’ve left by the way, Dad’s got to call them when you get in.”
The police. If we’re not careful, they’ll catch us before we’ve had the chance to do anything wrong. Maybe by now they’ve caught the person who did set fire to St Mark’s.
I hope so.
I have qualms about Carol. I can just about understand why Eric is helping me. He likes to think he operates outside the law. He sees this as a chance to stir things up a bit. He likes to be subversive. I think this is why he has me around. But what’s in this for Carol? She could be out pulling blokes with her mates, all done up in her shimmery make-up on her pink moped. Instead she’s shivering in Eric’s workshop, waiting to go and freeze her arse off all night, not to mention the danger she’s putting herself in. She should be at home studying for her GCSEs, not hanging round a criminal like me and a freak like Eric. She sits asking Eric questions and flicking the chips of metal from the bench. She looks happy. Eric too, rushing about, grabbing a couple of old coats, an oil-stained blanket of Dog’s and a packet of biscuits, is Mr Lively himself. It’s only me who isn’t saying anything. It’s only me who’s crapping himself. This is because when it goes wrong I know I will get the blame for all of it. And I still don’t know where Eric is planning to take my boy. I don’t want to ask him in front of Carol, because she still thinks we’re taking him to the sea.
Eric couldn’t get a pig so we stop at a supermarket. Eric gives Carol twenty quid and tells her to buy the biggest joints of meat she can find. She comes back with the most random selection ever. There are cheap sausages, a chicken, five pork chops, a leg of lamb and three packets of bacon. Eric isn’t impressed. He says it all looks too sterile and the crocodile will never smell it. He drives to the twenty-four hour supermarket on the other side of town
, losing us at least half an hour, where he goes in himself.
Carol and I wait in the truck and I break open Eric’s biscuits.
We munch in silence, watching the late-night shoppers. It’s Saturday night so there’s lots of blokes buying pizza and beer. There’s pissed-up students messing with the trolleys and quite a lot of couples with babies strapped to their chests. I wonder why all these people aren’t doing something more interesting at ten o’clock on a Saturday night than going to the supermarket.
“How did he die?” asks Carol.
Biscuit crumbs get caught in my throat and I cough so hard my eyes water.
“Sorry,” says Carol. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Damn right we don’t. I recover from my fit and wipe my nose in my sleeve.
“I read everyone’s file,” says Carol. “I always have. Mum and Dad have got a filing cabinet in their bedroom.”
I’ve seen it.
“They keep it locked but I know where they hide the key. Whenever we get a new kid, I always sneak in and read their file. It’s shocking what they don’t tell me. But I like to know who is living with me. I like to know if I’m sleeping in the same house as a sex attacker or thief or a junky or an abused kid. Wouldn’t you?”
I nod. I’m not surprised. I’d do the same if I was her.
“So I read your file. I know about the cars and the school. I know your dad was violent. I know you lived with your gran when your mum got certified. But there’s stuff missing. The social worker reports, the psychiatry assessments. It’s like Social Services haven’t told us everything about you.” She takes the biscuits from me and helps herself. “So naturally I worry.”
“Mindy’s pretty slack,” I say. “She doesn’t do any of the stuff she’s supposed to.”
“Yeah right,” says Carol. She sweeps biscuit crumbs off her lap as Eric staggers towards us in the orange lamplight, loaded with straining carrier bags.
There’s a reason there’s information missing. Years ago, when she was taking me somewhere, Mindy left my file lying on the car seat. When she got out to get petrol, I removed a load of papers. I’ve got stuff I don’t want anyone to know. Like stuff about Selby. Like why I was put into Care in the first place.
