by Gary Davison
A Tale of
Two Halves
A Tale of
Two Halves
Half by: Gary Davison
Half by: …you
Paperbooks Ltd, 3rd Floor, Unicorn House
221-222 Shoreditch High Street, London E1 6PJ
[email protected]
www.paperbooks.co.uk
Contents © Gary Davison 2009
The right of Gary Davison to be identified as the author of this work has be asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-906558-5-3-6
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Set in Times
Printed by Lightning Source, Milton Keynes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
10
12
14
15
To all aspiring writers
Also by Gary Davison
Fat Tuesday
Streakers
see www.paperbooks.co.uk for details
The Guidelines
This book offers a unique opportunity. Author Gary Davison has completed the first half, and the rest is down to you.
If you plan to take up the challenge to finish this novel, all you have to do is read the start Gary has made and then complete the rest – taking it wherever and however you wish. Such is the beauty of fictional writing.
Furthermore, this is your chance to win a publishing contract. Paperbooks intends to offer a contract to one lucky winner from the versions submitted, chosen by a panel of publishers and authors. You can either send in your text in a separate file to [email protected] or if you write it in the book, you can send the hard copy to Paperbooks Publishing, 3rd Floor Unicorn House, 221-222 Shoreditch High Street, London E1 6PJ.
Finally, see the Two Halves page at:
www.paperbooks.co.uk
1
Glue sniffers used to hang around in the old swimming pool until the punks from Holycross came down and smashed them to pieces with baseball bats and coshes, and shot them with air rifles. The punks had a real Colt 45 and had been getting army training to use butterfly knifes. True enough, I reckoned, because I’ve seen the punks on King George’s playing fields in full battle once and they had bike chains and knifes and huge lumps of timber with nails in and they ran the mods and rockers out of sight. The Punks from Holycross were more fearsome than the Hell’s Angels. Good job Hollywood’s dad knew them so well.
Hollywood’s dad always knew someone who knew someone. He’d recently got back from Thailand where Hollywood reckoned he’d bought an oil plant. More like an oil painting, but that’s Hollywood for you, he doesn’t give a one as long as he’s dressed dapper. Hollywood never gets hotted up, even when one of his stories about his dad turns out to be blatant bull. He just says, ‘That’s the Kingpin for you, you just never know when he’s yanking your chain!’
When Hollywood first moved onto the estate, right next door to the Pasante brothers, I was sure he’d roll with them but cool as you like, the first day at school, Hollywood sat on the wall and spun us a real one about how he’d had to move up here from down south because his dad was a retired gangster and needed to get away from the scene. Sounded real pony to me, but I just loved the way Hollywood went on. Cool beyond cool, Hollywood. Everyone wanted to dress and be like Hollywood. He can do a Johnny T better than Johnny T. Trouble is, if you try and copy him, by the time you get round to it, he’s got a new image and you’re out of date already.
‘Jay!’ Vinny shouted up. ‘They’re here!’
2
Hollywood and me held our breath as we looked through the vent and spotted D’s dad. We had only ever seen him sitting down at D’s house or in his van, but even from so high up, he looked enormous. D’s dad shook his jacket off his shoulders and threw a few punches, loosing off, then pushed the men in black coats out of the way and climbed down into the shallow end of the old swimming pool. Hollywood’s dad reckoned that D’s dad would take a beating. Would stick his house on it, he’d said. This bloke from Cumbria was a gypo, a real killer, who had snapped people’s necks with one hand and ripped their tongues out with the other. I hoped he was right. I wanted D’s dad to get a real hiding, hospitalised, so he couldn’t beat on D and his mother anymore. D had already missed so much time at school and was coming out less and less.
The man from Cumbria roared out of the changing rooms and down into the pool. He was bigger than D’s dad, like a mummy without the bandages, and covered in tattoos. He snarled and opened his mouth wide, stretching his jaw. The two fighters circled each other, hands open, moving one way then the next, getting closer. D’s dad stopped, crouched down slightly, then leapt on the mummy, quick as a panther, and headbutted him in the face, again and again and the mummy hit the deck. Then D’s dad was all over him like a savage dog. I looked away. It was horrible.
When I turned back, D’s dad was out of the pool, but the man was still lying there, blood splattered up the wall and running down the tiles past his legs.
‘Jay! They’re coming!’
Hollywood and me ran down the ramp, jumped off at the end and stumbled into the long grass. We grabbed our bikes and made for the Den.
3
Our den is an old caravan at the back of Smith’s scrapyard looking down on Denton Dene. From the bottom footpath, if you look up, all you see is the criss-cross fence, bushes and then cars stacked on top of each other.
We found it when Kenny was tormenting the dogs in there one day. Kenny the weasel is a bit naughty when it comes to animals. He can’t help himself. Inside the den we’ve caught him stunning bees, dazing them, and then setting fire to them with his chemistry set. I don’t know how he got his hands on such an advanced chemistry set but he can make all sorts. Only thing that bothers us is what he does with it.
The dogs in the scrapyard are crazy. Really mad, on account of all the battery acid they drink. If they ever got a hold of you there’s nothing could save you. A few weeks ago, after Kenny had caused a diversion with his petrol bomb, D ran straight through the scrapyard, right down the middle, touched the night watchman’s cabin door and ran back to our den. They were on his tail and nearly got him. We were hurling sticks and rocks all over the place to distract them, but once they spotted little D going for it, they were after him. Dobermans and Alsatians, starving and covered in oil.
To get into our den we hide our bikes in the Indian’s cave. Another glue sniffer’s hideaway, but they never come out until late at night. Then we climb up the rock face, a sheer drop that must be a hundred feet. Once the coast’s clear, we pull the fence back, get to the other side, squeeze between the cars, and into the den.
We made a few changes to the place when we first moved in but the fire last week, after one of Kenny’s experiments went wrong, meant everything’s burnt to smithereens. We’ve cleaned it up, but the curtains are gone and everything is singed or burnt black. Still, it’s ours and it’s
great.
Kenny was in when we got back, heating something blue up in a test tube. ‘Wait till you see this, Jay,’ he said, eyes wide, tapping the test tube then putting it back under the burner.
Vinny and Hollywood piled in behind me and took their seats. We’d not said a word all the way back. What was there to say? D lived with a monster that could beat a man to death with his bare hands. D never stood a chance and things were getting worse.
‘What we going to do?’ Vinny said.
‘What can we do? What can we do against that? You seen it, H, tell him. The man’s an animal. There’s no one alive that could touch him.’
Hollywood nodded, rolling a match in his mouth. Even he was lost for words.
We expected to see D’s dad take a beating and that he’d be in hospital or even dead. And then D would be able to come on the camping trip with us. Hollywood’s dad was taking us to Keilder at the weekend. Everyone was in, parents agreed to it, all except D. If we were going on any other trip it wouldn’t be so bad, but Hollywood’s dad was cooler than ice and would let us do what we wanted. Hollywood reckoned his dad was going off to play a high stakes poker game and would just leave us alone in the forest, even with a motor boat. He had air rifles, knifes, everything we’d need to hunt our own food, survive in the wild and make a fire wherever we wanted. There was even talk of us heading downstream, discovering places no one had ever been before.
D had already missed a lot of school and the authorities had been in to see his mam and dad. They claimed he was a truant, and they knew nothing about the beatings. His mother was just as bad. She’d not say a word against his dad. D said she’d just go out of the room if he started. He said if he didn’t get back from the shops in time, and I mean record time because D might be the smallest in our school but he’s the fastest runner and swimmer, his dad gave him the belt.
I’ve only had the belt twice, off Mr Sassy, the head, and that was for running away and bunking off, and for fighting in the yard. That was a good fight though, with a lad in the year above me who was second hardest in the school. Great fight that, and I won the rematch down the park.
It was a great day for us because lads above us started to take notice. The Pesante brothers weren’t so eager to come and get their ball when it came over to our corner of the yard. It gave us a real edge. After that day, apart from the beatings I got off my brother and his mates, I never got beat for years. Although I would have struggled when we took on Blakelaw school if it hadn’t been for D.
‘Remember what he did against Blakelaw?’
‘Unbelievable,’ Kenny said, tidying his stuff away into its box. ‘I was no use, probably would have got me head caved in if it wasn’t for D. No fear.’
‘No fear,’ Vinny said. ‘The size of him, you just wouldn’t think he had it in him. I tell you, if D was the size of me, he’d have a chance against his dad. That’s how hard D is.’
‘Stand by you no matter what,’ I said.
D came to our school after being expelled from another school. He said that he got into a fight with an older lad because he was picking on his friend. Said his friend was carrot ginger, the worst, and after all the verbals, the kid started shoving him around. The kid was two years above D, but he didn’t give a one and got stuck into him anyway after he’d shoved the ginger and he’d fell and cut his face.
Only right, too. We know a few gingers and they always cop for it. Verbals are ok, but there isn’t any need for anything else. Anyway, when the fight got broke up, D bit into what he thought was the kid’s arm, but it was the teacher’s.
When he came to our school, he kept himself to himself. D lived on the other side of Fenham, nearer Cowgate, which was rougher than our estate, although not by much. It was only when we got ambushed by Blakelaw school, twenty against five, that we got to know him. He just got straight into it. Side-by-side, we gave Blakelaw a right good go. Word got out that there was only five of us, and that was that. Not many will mess with us now. We’re fighting Stocksfield next weekend. Can’t wait for that one. Kenny’s making a surprise to scatter them, then we’re going to give it to them proper.
There was a rustling outside and we all held our breath. The door opened and it was D. We all gasped at the state of his face.
4
D’s nose was broken for sure and one side of his face was swollen black and blue. Vinny and me cleared space and guided him in and Kenny got a Tizer from the box. I opened it and handed it to D. His knuckles were all scraped, bright red, and he was cut all down his arm. He must have put up a fight. He was still wearing his slippers.
D told us that his dad came in full of hell and backhanded his mam for no reason. Said he didn’t even speak, just smacked her and went straight to the fridge. D’s mam had said that he wasn’t to take any notice of his dad right now because he was in training for fights. And that he took medicine to make him strong but it made him bad-tempered.
We all knew it was steroids and it sent people crazy and made them huge, but their dicks shrivelled to nothing which is what made them so mad. Hollywood was right when he said he’d rather be big downstairs than upstairs. Nothing upstairs or down.
D said he tried to sneak out the door but his dad saw him and started messing him around. He said he saw his mam getting to her feet and her face was a mess – ‘… like her jaw was broken or something, she looked like someone else.’
That was when he lost it and went straight at his dad, giving him everything he had. His dad laughed at him, near hysterical, which made D madder and madder, so D picked up the poker from the fireplace. That’s when his dad stopped laughing.
D said he was never going back. Not ever. He was going to run away, find a place to live and then come back for his mam. We were all for it and the camping trip at the weekend would be perfect.
‘The Kingpin knows people up in Keilder,’ Hollywood said, taking the match from his mouth. ‘Once we’re up there, he’ll know what to do.’
‘No thanks, H,’ D said, touching the side of his face. ‘No offence but I’m going it alone.’
‘You’ll never be alone, D,’ I said. ‘That right, boys?’
We all agreed. There was no way we were leaving D. No way. We decided that over the next few nights we’d sneak our stuff from our rooms over to the den. Just the minimum, get whatever cash we could and then on the trip, late at night, when Hollywood’s Dad was away playing cards, we’d take the motor boat and run away. Far as the river would take us. Live off the land, set up camp at different places. Cover our tracks for when they came looking for us.
Kenny had a few ideas about making some diversions and also some safety bombs. We didn’t know what was out there, but we weren’t scared. Hollywood’s dad had all sorts in his cabin, Hollywood said, from when he was a made man. We’d be invincible.
‘Only one thing,’ D said, ‘I need my inhaler and tablets.’
‘Where are they?’ I asked.
‘In my room.’
5
D stayed in the den and we all headed home. Kenny said there was no chance he could make it out later, not with his dog sleeping at the top of the stairs. The only other way would be out of his window and that was too risky. The drainpipe was hanging off the wall and his garage roof was on the other side of the house.
He offered to take a chance and dive onto the hedge to break his fall, but we wouldn’t let him. If we were going to do a runner properly we didn’t want any surprises or problems. Kenny’s mam and dad were ok. Strict with homework and church and being in on time, but apart from that they were nice people. If he started doing anything strange, though, they wouldn’t let him on this trip. They took a bit of convincing in the first place and Kenny’s old man wanted to come along, keep an eye on things. Said he’d organise an archery competition. Kenny wouldn’t have minded but we would have. The Weasel’s dad tagging along, shouting ‘lights out’ and ‘tally hoe’? No thanks.
Dot on eleven o’clock I heard Hollywood’s call – a hoot
-hoot-hooting that we all used. No one else but us knew how to do it. I went to my bedroom door, checked onto the landing – my mother’s door was open and she was in bed. I could see a lump under the mattress, but Dad wasn’t alongside her. They’d been arguing a lot recently. More than a lot and Dad had been ‘sent to Coventry’. At first I thought he was staying with my aunt’s relatives there, but he’d actually been staying up the road at Alan’s house. His partner at the MOT garage.
Dad’s hopeless with money and I know we’re a bit skint at the minute. Things must be getting tight because they wouldn’t even get me new football boots on my birthday. It’s the only thing I ever ask for. Well, apart from a new bike and snooker table, but the boots I can’t do without. My birthday’s in September, just when the new season starts and I always need new boots. New boots dubbined and dubbined so they’re softer that next door’s cat. Not this year. The season’s just about over and I’ve had the same boots for two seasons. They’ve been stretched at Cobbler’s Corner, but they’re still a bit tight.
I tiptoed out onto the landing, avoiding the areas I needed to. Sunny Jim was at the bottom of the stairs snoring. He’s the best dog bar none. Smarter than Lassy and harder than D’s dad. Everyone loves him. Other kids, like Hoggy across the road, knock on him to play out. He’s really cool. Unlike Pip, who’s getting old now and has decided to go live with my grandma in Slatyford. She just upped one day and made her way across the fields, through two parks, over roads, and plonked herself down at my grandma’s – who is really cool, too. She works on a farm, works like twenty hours a day and still has time to look after us.
If I’m not at the den with the boys, I’m always over there. Vin and me hang about in her big garden playing sticky the knife from the Tarzan swing we put up. She even let us camp out in her garden, and that was after she caught me the week before trying to smoke. I was collecting dumps from all the ashtrays in our house for my grandad. He’s a bit of a waster, just spends all day in the pub. Anyway, for some reason I just kept one. My dad, mam, grandma, uncle, aunt, all smoke, so I thought I would try. Wasn’t going to do it proper or anything. No way. It stunts your growth, just look at D.
