by Phil Earle
‘Oh … them. They didn’t say anything.’ But the way she pushed her hair nervously behind her ear told me otherwise.
‘Hell of a bruise, though. Must have been some size the next day.’
‘Nothing a bit of ice and some make-up couldn’t fix.’
I thought back to the bump she’d worn that night. It was no small bruise. It was threatening to take over her face after a few minutes, so it would have been a full-on shiner by the next morning.
‘What about you? What did your folks say about your nose?’
‘Ah, you know …’ I shrugged, wiping at my nose instinctively, almost expecting it to be still bleeding. ‘It’s not the first time, let’s put it that way.’
‘Really?’ she said, with a smile that lit up her face. ‘You surprise me. I heard you were a proper choirboy. I can’t imagine you ever getting in above your head.’
I let that comment hang there for a minute or two, unsure of what to say. Wondering who had been talking to her and what they’d said.
Although she was finally talking, she wasn’t giving anything away. Nothing that made me change my mind about her. Something about her told me she had to be a lifer. I just couldn’t work out what it was.
It wasn’t the way she looked. I mean, she was pretty normal. Bit on the skinny side, but so were loads of the lasses in our year. And she didn’t go for the whole fake-tan thing either. At least I didn’t think she did. I’m no expert.
She was decent-looking, I suppose. But maybe that was because she didn’t seem to care. She was always wearing jeans, and shirts that were too big for her. She had this habit of hanging on to her sleeves, which were too long for her arms. She was constantly gripping the cuffs between her fingers and the palm of her hand, which made her seem smaller than she actually was. She may only have been five foot three or something, but she was impossible to ignore.
I was trying not to stare, but it was difficult. In fact, it wasn’t until she caught me looking that I realized how I knew for certain about her.
It was her eyes. The way she looked at things. There were times she’d stare at something for what seemed like minutes at a stretch, but there were times, like now, when her eyes flitted from left to right, then up and down, as if she was endlessly looking for something. Something important.
I do that all the time, especially when I think I’m going to lose the plot. It feels like if I’m not taking everything in as it happens, I’m going to miss something. Something I need to chill out. Something I can’t live without.
I can’t tell you what that something is, there are so many things missing. So many things that give me the fear. Like losing the twins, or growing up to become like Annie or Shaun.
But I knew, I knew for sure, in that instant, that she felt the same. So I went right for it.
‘I wanted to walk on that night, you know.’
It took her a minute to latch on to my train of thought, and when she didn’t jump in, I just continued.
‘The night with those lads. I wanted to walk on. Ignore what was happening, but I couldn’t. Because as I passed you, I had this weird feeling that I knew you. You know what I mean?’
She looked none the wiser, but she was definitely listening.
‘It’s not like me, you see. To stop like that. It’s not what I do. I’m not into the whole Good Samaritan thing.’
‘Look,’ she interrupted, ‘I told you before, I don’t do thank-yous. Can we not just leave it?’
‘It’s not about that. I’m trying to explain. Trying to make sense of why I did it. And why it is that ever since, every time I see you, you give me the fear.’
‘What do you mean “the fear”? What have I done –’
‘Just listen, will you? I’m trying to say something to you, tell you something. The reason I stopped that night is cos I thought I knew you. But I didn’t, I know that now. But I also know – at least I think I know – that we’re the same, me and you. I’m sure of it. We’ve seen the same things, haven’t we, in different houses like, but the same things anyway?’
As the words fell out of my mouth, it was like someone else was saying them. They sounded desperate, mad. They were the truth, the words I’d wanted to get out since that first night, but outside my mouth they sounded ridiculous.
To me anyway.
All Daisy said was, ‘Fancy going halves on a bag of chips?’
The chips tasted great. Daisy had gone mad with the salt and vinegar, but they gave us something to fill the awkward gaps in conversation, and gave me something to drown my embarrassment in.
‘Sorry about what I said back there,’ I muttered, shovelling another chip into my mouth. ‘Don’t know what came over me. I just have these mental ideas sometimes and I don’t know what to do with them.’
She hadn’t said anything about my outburst. Nothing. Which made me think that I must have got it wrong. But as she dragged her last chip across the salty paper, she finally piped up.
‘Nothing to say sorry about. I know it’s not easy.’
‘What do you mean?’ I was confused.
‘I heard things. From the kids at school. Well, I mean I overheard them.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Oh aye, what sort of things?’
‘That you were in care. Had been for a long time, and that you had a brother and sister.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Look. I don’t want to make a big thing about it. In fact, I don’t want to talk about it at all. But I understand. I do. I know what it’s like. To not live with your folks and that.’
My head pounded at those words, at the fact that I’d been right all along. But there was such sadness in her voice that I felt guilty for forcing her into a corner about it.
‘I didn’t mean for you to have to talk about it. Forget I mentioned it. They’re not even worth talking about, parents. I wish mine were dead.’
Daisy sniffed as she chucked the chip paper into the bin.
‘That’s the problem, Billy. Mine already are.’
Rummaging in her pocket, she pulled out a pile of change, counted it and sighed.
‘You got any more cash?’ she asked. ‘I fancy getting wrecked.’
CHAPTER 12
The Friday night freak show was never something to look forward to. Not in my book anyway. Being dragged out and stared at by normal people wasn’t my idea of fun, but it was a ritual we were forced to endure every week.
The scummers always reckoned that a ‘house’ night out was good for us. Showed us what it meant to be part of a family. Have you ever heard such a load of cack?
How many families do you know that have ten kids and four carers in it?
Or how many families turn up at the cinema in a minibus?
The staring would start as soon as we arrived. We were never the smartest-looking mob, or the quietest, and you’d see parents guiding their kids away as soon as they clocked us. I swear that some kids were once hoicked out of the swimming pool as soon as we dipped our toes in the water. That’s how contagious we were.
Some weeks, when I really couldn’t face the embarrassment, I’d kick off on a Friday afternoon, just to give them the excuse of grounding me. All right, it was boring at home on your own, but at least it was quiet.
The only problem with that plan was the twins. When I was banned from going, they got upset, and if they missed out as a result, then the Colonel started giving me grief, telling me I was spoiling it for them.
So more often than not I went along, desperately hoping that I wouldn’t catch sight of anyone I knew.
Where we went depended on who was on shift. The brighter scummers chose the cinema, for two obvious reasons. First, it was an enclosed space, making it harder for us to do a runner, and second, it meant they got through nearly two hours of their shift without having to speak to any of us.
The newer bods, though … well, they made
some terrible decisions. Like taking us to Laser Quest. I mean, I’m not the sharpest tool in the box, but even I know that putting guns in the hands of ten angry kids is never going to be a good idea. Not for us, or for the spoilt kids that found themselves terrorized as we ran rampage.
The worst night happened just after me and Daisy had started hanging out together. We weren’t together all the time or anything, but a few nights after school we’d trawled round town, looking for anywhere that would sell us some booze.
One Friday night she’d suggested doing something, and looked put out when I told her I had to join the regular lifers’ freak show.
‘I can’t think of anything worse. Can’t you get out of it? There’s a band playing in town and I reckon we could get in easy enough.’
I’d mulled it over, but the thought of the twins’ disappointed faces was too much to bear. For a second I’d worried that she was going to ask if she could join us instead, but after a shrug and a mumbled ‘never mind’, she’d let it drop.
We’d ended up going bowling that night. And on the way the rest of the lifers were pretty calm. Little wonder with Ronnie running the show.
The only problem was, he had a couple of temps with him, and although this happened a lot, none of us had ever seen these two jokers before.
They were classic temp staff. Smiley, eager to please and utterly useless.
As soon as I saw them climb into the van, I knew the evening was doomed.
They spent the journey trying to make themselves popular, cracking lame gags to the younger kids, who giggled along because they didn’t know better.
Once we got to the bowling alley, though, they were completely out of their depth.
What normally happens is this:
Ronnie parks van.
Ronnie turns round and reads the riot act about good behaviour.
Ronnie gets lifers to sign contract in their own blood, promising good behaviour.
Ronnie singles out Billy for extra promise on good behaviour.
Doors are then, and only then, unlocked, leaving lifers to walk like zombies into the bowling alley.
But unfortunately, as soon as the van was parked, one of the temps made the fatal error of opening the door, and we all sprinted inside before Ron could suck the life out of us.
From there it all went downhill.
Instead of having ten kids to look after and organize, Ronnie had ten kids and two scummers to sort out, and from what I could see, we were less of a problem than they were.
It took them twenty minutes to get us out of the arcades and another fifteen to get us into the right bowling shoes. Ronnie tried to act as shepherd, guiding the temporary scummers like dogs, but he would have had more joy had he just waded in and picked us up by the ears.
Eventually, we were plonked on to two lanes, much to the dismay of a group of lads in their late teens next to us, who even at first glimpse were taking their bowling far too seriously.
You know the type. They’d stand for thirty seconds, drying their hands before even daring to pick the ball up. Then there was the ridiculous posing as they lifted the ball to nose level, as if whispering to it, telling it how many pins to knock down.
Naturally, I took great delight in laughing when all they managed was to whack over a measly couple, drawing disapproving glances every time I snorted.
When they did manage a strike, you should have seen the celebrations. You’d have thought they’d won the World Cup or something, not successfully tossed a ball down an alley. Each one had their own little dance, shuffle or lame moonwalk, and it wasn’t long until we were all imitating them, whether we’d knocked over any pins or not.
They tried to ignore us, and Ronnie did his best to calm us down, but he couldn’t handle all ten of us on his own.
Things really kicked off, though, when Charlie Windass dared to pick up one of their balls. I don’t know if he realized it was theirs, but he wasn’t the type to care anyway.
What he did know is that, for some reason, he was winding them up, and he loved it.
Lifting the ball to his nose, he danced to the edge of the lane, not realizing one of the fellas was running after him.
As he swung the ball backwards, he managed to catch the guy full in the stomach, like something out of a slapstick movie. With that the other guys on the lane rushed forward, yelling at him to put the ball down.
Of course Charlie did the exact opposite, running halfway down the lane, until he was only a matter of metres from the pins. But instead of rolling the ball into them, he hurled it, like he was playing cricket. The sound as the ball obliterated the pins was deafening and I swear, in that second, the whole alley stopped in its tracks.
Full of himself, Charlie moonwalked back down the lane, arms aloft, straight into the owner of the ball, who gave him a mighty shove for his trouble.
Something flicked in Charlie’s head. I’d seen him kicking off at home, witnessed it up close and personal, and knew that once he went into one, it could take him an age to calm down.
He launched himself at the guy, who was nearly six foot and twice his weight. More out of surprise than anything, the guy fell on to his back, leaving Charlie to throw himself on top, arms flailing.
I’ve never seen Ronnie move so fast, but I’m not sure he knew where to go, towards Charlie or into the path of the other fellas, dashing to their friend’s defence.
In the end he settled for Charlie, dragging him away, putting himself between Charlie and the angry group.
He then threw his arms in the air in submission and tried to explain what was going on.
‘Lads, lads. I’m sorry. Listen to me, will you? Let me explain. He didn’t understand …’
But with his arms waving wildly, Ronnie had let go of Charlie, who took the opportunity to dart around him and deliver another series of kicks and punches in their direction.
Finally, the temps got themselves into gear and wrapped themselves around Charlie, dragging him away to safety.
The rest of us didn’t know what to make of it. The younger kids thought it was just about the most exciting thing they’d ever seen and were egging Charlie on. All I did was keep a guiding arm round each of the twins, making sure they were out of reach of any loose punches that were being thrown.
As the scummers sat on Charlie, Ronnie went into a full charm offensive, whipping his ID out of his pocket like a rozzer.
I hated it when he played the ID card. It was one of those things that the other lifers probably never noticed, but I’d seen it time and time again. Whenever things got a bit fruity, whenever he found himself in an embarrassing situation, he always played it.
It made him out to be some kind of saint for looking after us wild kids and I saw the guys checking it out, listening while he gave them the sob story about us. Within a minute, their body language had changed, pity replacing their anger.
Charlie, however, was nowhere near calming down. The temps had never seen anger like it, or a crowd the size of the one that was now surrounding them. It was a car crash and the people watching were loving it.
‘What are you looking at?’ Charlie screamed, his arms crossed in front of him like in a straitjacket. ‘Why the fuck are you looking at me?’ His face was straining as he tried to shake his way out of the temps’ grasp, and with every effort, you could see his temper spiralling out of control.
And that’s when it happened. Something I’d never seen before, or want to see again. Desperate to shake himself free, Charlie sank his teeth into one of the temps’ hands, snarling like a dog as he did it. The temp recoiled in shock and shook his hand free, but somehow he managed to hold Charlie in the same straitjacketed position.
‘Don’t you bite me!’ he spat. ‘I’m trying to help you here. You wouldn’t bite yourself, would you, so don’t bite me.’
Charlie was so out of control, so in the zone, I was surprised that he heard wha
t was said to him. But not as surprised as when he did what he was told and bit into his own arm.
Why he did it I don’t know. Maybe it was the crowd staring, maybe it was the fact that he didn’t really know the two scummers pinning him down. Maybe he was just afraid, but once he’d bit down on himself, he wasn’t prepared to let go.
All of a sudden, the crowd weren’t quite so happy to watch. Kids were quickly led away, while a few others turned their backs in shock. Some filed out once Ronnie piled into the scene, telling them to back off.
All I could see was Charlie’s face, twisted in anger as his jaw locked upon his own arm.
Being restrained is the worst thing in the world. Worse than being cuffed by a rozzer. At least then you can move your arms a bit and your legs are free. When you’re being pinned down by two bruisers, nothing moves, no matter how hard you try.
There’ve been occasions when I’ve pretended to calm down, only to lash out once they’ve let go, but I’ve never been tempted to hurt myself like Charlie did.
I pulled the twins into me, blocking their view, and watched as Ronnie tried to take control. But at first his presence only seemed to make things worse.
He bent down beside Charlie, stroking his head and whispering calmly into his ear.
But whatever he said, it wasn’t enough – although it was for one of the temps, as tears started to fall down his face.
It’s not often you see the scum cry. All right, you might see some crocodile tears when one of the lifers moves on, but not like this. This guy was out of his depth and he knew it. He couldn’t even wipe the tears away for fear of Charlie landing a right hand on him.
At that point, Ronnie stepped up a gear, swapping places with the tearful scummer, before lifting Charlie to his feet. As the angle of his body changed, Charlie had no option but to open his mouth and let go, and as he did all I could see were deep tooth marks in his arm and broken, bloodied skin.
Flustered and embarrassed, Ronnie marched towards the exit, whispering to a still-angry Charlie.
I looked round at the rest of the lifers, and saw nothing but shock and tears. All they wanted was to be back in the van, home and safe. But there was no way our temp friend was going to get us there. Which left me with no choice.
