by Gary Kittle
Bradley suggested roller skating, which opened at ten o’clock. Chris agreed, though the only thing harder for him to participate in would have been a parachute jump. Bradley also wanted to bring a friend, but Chris managed to talk him out of it. Bradley was a keen skater, and accomplished too, but baulked at his father’s suggestion to take it more seriously. Apparently skating clubs were ‘gay’, whatever that meant.
‘Whew! I didn’t realise the rink would be so packed. Is it always like that?’ Chris was exhausted. Even as a spectator the circling figures had made his head spin.
‘Wheelers? Always. Sometimes you can’t get in for hours.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t join you.’
Bradley shrugged, his hair flapping between them like a limp flag. Chris was grateful he wasn’t in one of his stroppy moods. In fact, this was as relaxed as he’d seen his son in weeks. Agreeing to eat lunch in Bradley’s favourite pizza restaurant certainly helped.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bradley blurted out. ‘About the sandwich.’
Choose your words carefully, Daddy-O. ‘Me too.’
Bradley sighed. ‘I should have helped clear up.’
The aroma of melted cheese and onion was making him regret having only a starter, so when asked if they wanted to see the desert menu Chris practically ripped it out of the girl’s hand.
‘I think there are more important things going wrong than our cleaning arrangements.’ They both ordered Mississippi Mud Pies. Chris decided to wade in. ‘Can we talk about that?’
‘What’s the obsession you guys have with ‘talking’?’ Bradley frowned.
By ‘you guys’ Chris assumed Bradley meant parents. ‘You know, entering your teens is a difficult transition for any child…’ Hell, that sounded like something straight from a child development textbook. ‘But when your home life is already strained…’ Even Brad’s teachers didn’t talk like that, he felt sure. His back went into spasm unexpectedly, making him stiffen in his seat. ‘What I mean to say…’ he grimaced.
‘I thought you’d quit the gym, Dad.’
Chris studied his son’s face and realised that what he had mistaken for calm was actually cockiness. There was certainly no sign of the previous kitchen worktop insecurity. Maybe it wasn’t just Daddy’s agenda that had changed.
‘I just think we need to get things out in the open, clear the air.’
Just be natural. He’s your son not a job candidate. So why did Chris feel like he was the one being interviewed?
A smirk flickered impishly across Bradley’s face. ‘So let’s talk, Dad.’
Chris waited for his back to stop screaming, and tried to ignore the sensation that Bradley was just waiting for his next faux pas. ‘How’s school?’
Bradley slowly sipped his refilled coke. ‘Parents Evening was only a few weeks back. Mum was there, remember?’
‘I know how you’re doing lesson-wise,’ Chris answered. Bradley just stared down into his cup. ‘Tell me about your friends…’
‘What’s to tell?’
Chris plunged onward, no longer caring what might be the right or wrong thing to say. ‘So who’s your best friend now? Is it still Peter?’
‘Peter? Peter changed schools, Dad. Don’t you remember?’ Bradley pushed his pizza crust around the plate. ‘I have made one new friend recently. But he’s… different.’ Chris felt the hairs stir at the back of his neck. Bradley’s smirk was back. ‘We have a secret den we go to after school sometimes.’
‘So what’s his name, this new friend?’ This time it was the boy’s turn to stiffen in his seat. ‘Perhaps he could come round for tea one night.’
‘Yer, right!’ Brad snorted. ‘And a sleep-over?’
Chris misread the sarcasm. ‘If you like.’
The generous deserts arrived. ‘I have a question,’ Bradley announced suddenly.
‘Sure. If it’s about us.’
Bradley leaned forward in his chair and scooped up a fat spoonful of pie. ‘It is. In a way.’
Chris felt the tension swelling behind his eyes. Whatever was coming, the boy was preparing himself to enjoy it – a different sort of mugging.
He looked his father full in the face, that scornful little grin scurrying around the corners of his mouth.
‘What’s happened to your back, Dad?’
Chapter Nine
Watching Gordon’s attempts to ingratiate himself with his peers was pitiful; he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to choosing exactly the wrong boys to approach. He was hopeless at football, had only the most rudimentary computer games skills and dressed like someone from another era. Indeed, Gordon now spent a lot of his time with girls, much to everyone’s amusement – the girls included. Hating Gordon was fast becoming the most popular pastime in school.
In many ways the weekend past had been by far the worst since Mum had vanished. Dad was obviously going out of his way to master his role as dickhead of the family. But it was the injuries that really interested Bradley. Talk about accident prone. First the unknown staircase, and now whatever had damaged his back on Friday. He had cried off actually skating at the rink and winced at the slightest movement. It was fun making the old man wave to him as he sat stiffly upright, barely able to draw in half a lungful of air. But it only delayed the nauseating ‘chat’ that followed.
Now Monday was behind him, too, and he was back in the wood by the industrial estate. He pushed aside a low-hanging branch and there was the signalman’s hut sticking out from the railway embankment like a poor man’s castle. One section of corrugated tin had been pushed aside already. Gordon had got there first. Good. He frowned momentarily as something firm and heavy bulldozed through his thoughts, hitting the back of his skull and then dropping down to form a lump in his throat. What would his mother think of all this? Bradley stared at the darkness beyond the threshold of the hut, relishing the prospect of seeing Gordon alone again. He probably wouldn’t even be here if Mum was still around; but now that she wasn’t he wanted not just to see Gordon’s suffering but to hear it, touch it… Taste it. The lump dropped into his guts so suddenly that for a second he felt certain he’d messed himself. He stepped forward.
Inside Gordon was standing behind his pathetic garden chair, as if for protection. He stared wide-eyed for a second then spread that unconvincing smile across his mouth by way of a peace offering. Bradley blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
‘Got here as soon as the bell went, like you said,’ Gordon beamed.
Bradley stifled a yawn. He was finding it harder to sleep these days; it took longer to nod off and he was always awake with the birds. He glared at Gordon, reminding himself why he was there. He felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘Stop staring at me.’
Gordon obliged, and started rustling in his carrier bag. ‘I got three different flavours...’
‘Got Worcester Sauce flavour?’ Bradley smiled inwardly at Gordon’s uncomfortable frown. ‘I’m kidding. Cheese and onion will do.’ Gordon tossed over a packet. Bradley let himself sink into the camping chair, and buried his hand in the quickly opened packet. ‘I saw you running in the cross country race earlier. You looked whacked.’
‘I know. I’ve got asthma, but they still make me do it.’
‘Is that why you don’t join in at football during break?’ he asked, knowing full well it wasn’t.
‘Dad doesn’t like me to scuff my shoes.’
Bradley glanced down at the black school shoes that already looked third hand and guessed there wasn’t much still holding them together. ‘Dads, hey?’
‘It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it, I suppose,’ Gordon smiled.
‘What’s that club you do on Tuesdays?’
Gordon looked anguished. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
Bradley leapt forward, centimetres from Gordon’s flinching face. ‘Of course I’ll laugh. If it wasn’t something to laugh about you wouldn’t have kept it a secret, now would you?’
The look on Gordon�
��s face was priceless. Cowering, like a cornered animal. Oh yes, this was a big deal for Gordon, all right. Gordon looked down into the carrier bag, as if contemplating whether it was possible to hide there.
‘It’s not a club. I have to do extra maths on Tuesdays. I’ve got dyscalculia.’
‘You’ve got what!’
Gordon seemed anxious for a hole to appear beneath him and spare him the agony of explanation. ‘Well, you know Jane Harrison has dyslexia?’
‘Can’t read, can’t spell, writes like she’s on a Ferris wheel. I know.’
‘Well, it’s a bit like that only with me it’s numbers rather than words.’
Bradley stared for several seconds, reveling in Gordon’s embarrassment. Just as it seemed that he might try changing the subject, Bradley threw back his head and let out the biggest, deepest burst of laughter he could muster. He didn’t need to look at Gordon; he could sense his shame wafting across the hut like a fart.
‘I’m only telling you because you’re a mate,’ Gordon declared.
Bradley stopped laughing. ‘You’re telling me because you have to, Gordon. And don’t you forget it.’
Gordon eyes widened in alarm. ‘Sure, Brad. But you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?’
Everyone already knows, you idiot. ‘So what’s two plus two?’
‘It’s not that bad, Brad. I’m not stupid.’
‘But you’re special needs, right?’
Gordon turned away, deflated. ‘Well. I suppose…’
‘No suppose about it, pal,’ Bradley snorted. ‘You’re mentally disabled.’ Gordon stared at the floor. ‘Educationally subnormal, is what they called it in my dad’s day. I heard him talk about it once.’ He moved up closer still and whispered: ‘Or as my granddad used to say: retarded.’
Gordon failed to respond and Bradley noticed that he was trembling slightly. Was he about to lash out? Bradley hoped so. If it came the assault was bound to be as pathetic as its owner and allow Bradley the righteous liberty to give him a good kicking. All Bradley needed to do was push him over the edge.
He put on his best careers advisor voice. ‘So what job do you hope to get after school, young Gordon? Let’s look at your prospects.’ And with gusto he spun the camping chair about face and perched himself behind it, pretending to hold a clipboard and pen. ‘Accountancy’s out, of course; as is working in any kind of retail setting. Street cleaning, that doesn’t require any counting; nor does being a lavatory attendant. I used to know a lavatory attendant,’ Bradley chuckled, ‘he said the hours were shit but he never got caught short…’
That was when Bradley heard Gordon’s first sob. Oh, give me strength… Gordon’s sobs deepened, becoming more frequent like a gathering shower. And with it Bradley became aware of something stirring in his own heart. He set his teeth together.
‘If you want me to keep your little secret, Gordon, I’d shut the hell up right now.’
There was a burning sensation in Bradley’s stomach. Not even when Mr. McGuire made him rewrite his geography homework in detention every Wednesday did he feel rage like this. But at least it filled a void within him, like air being pumped into a football. The only problem was when the pumping didn’t stop and a sickening dizziness spilled through his brain. He tasted acid in his mouth and felt certain that everything would come up if he didn’t throw a punch soon. Bradley leapt from his chair and strode towards Gordon.
Bradley did not know what he was going to do until it happened. He reached out for Gordon’s gaping mouth and pinched his trembling lips between his fingers. Gordon yelped, his face a picture of shock and indignation. Bradley squeezed harder, laughing, pulling the other boy’s face out of shape. He laughed harder.
‘Ow! Bwrad! Bwrad, w-what are you do-wing?’
A tear dropped from Gordon’s eye onto Bradley’s hand and immediately the spell was broken. He looked at Gordon’s greasy skin, his recycled clothes and rubbish shoes and felt ashamed. He felt the words ‘I’m sorry’ sliding round his mouth like half-chewed cabbage and bit down on his own lip. Sometimes it felt like he had never hated anyone as much as he hated Gordon, not even his dad. But then something like this would happen and the only person he hated was himself.
Letting go of Gordon’s mouth he murmured: ‘Just… Don’t let it happen again.’
Bradley turned away, his head swimming like it did after a fairground ride. A memory overpowered him, Dad snarling at his mother: ‘One day you’ll push me too far, Tess!’ So did that make it Mum’s fault? Was it her defiance that had landed them all in this mess; that sarcastic response that so angered his father? Bradley’s lips moved before he could stop them: ‘I think you need help, Charlie.’
‘W-what?’
Bradley stared ahead but all he could see was his mother’s tear-stained face. Bradley suddenly felt like crying as his mother’s face faded as quickly as it had arrived. ‘And stop bloody staring at me!’
Gordon looked away, sullen. You silly bloody tit! The impetus to beat him unconscious was potent. Not yet, Bradley told himself. There were other games he could play first.
‘Listen, I’ll prove I’m on your side,’ Bradley sighed, placing a reluctant hand on the other boy’s shoulder. Gordon dared to sneak a glance up from the floor. ‘You’ve told me secrets, right? And maybe I shouldn’t have taken the piss.’ Bradley tensed as he realised he was sailing close to the rocks of an apology. ‘And I promise I won’t tell.’
Gordon nodded, his sniveling diminished. Bradley’s voice was gentle now, soothing, unthreatening; but inside a plan was forming that had him bellowing secretly with laughter.
‘Now let me tell you one…’
Chapter Ten
What if the police just gave his attacker a warning? Wasn’t there a very real risk of a reprisal attack if they didn’t lock him up straight away? And on top of all that was the embarrassment of admitting he’d been twice overpowered by someone on major tranquillizers. If he hadn’t left it too late beforehand, this latest development surely put the final nail in the coffin.
He stared at the message again and clicked on DELETE. He withdrew from a handful of social networking sites, citing ‘taking a rest’ as his reason for leaving. Half-term was approaching and Chris would put in an annual leave request to coincide with it. That way he could kill two birds: spend time with Bradley and get away from Small Change Psycho. In truth it would be good just to get out from these four walls. There was his poor health (mentally and physically) to consider, the uncertainty over Tess, his nemesis the cooker… Not so much two birds to kill as an entire flock. What better time to migrate?
The first of the three emails had been the most innocuous, but in its own way just as ominous as its successors. Doubtless the police would not have been able to trace the sender, anyway. This guy was cunning, if more than a little loopy, as all the messages confirmed.
THE PAVEMENTS AROUND HERE ARE LETHAL. YOU NEED TO WATCH YOUR STEP. FROM A FRIEND.
Part of him still hoped this might be a practical joke from someone he knew, something tactless but not truly malicious. But then if the prankster knew he’d been mugged? He was clutching at straws. There was no doubt about the identity of ‘A. Friend’. His second email followed five minutes later.
YOUR BOY TOLD MINE EVERYTHING, MR HAYNES. AND I MEAN EVERYTHING. A FRIEND.
His sleep that Tuesday night was predictably lousy, the anticipated new message waiting for him first thing Wednesday. Ironically, each message was shorter but more unsettling than its predecessor. Permanently deleting the three messages one by one, Chris lingered on the last, debating on whether it was cryptic or just psychotic before stabbing the BLOCK SENDER icon:
I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE IN THE SUMMERHOUSE. A.FRIEND
Chapter Eleven
‘What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?’ Chris felt something throbbing at the side of the head. He’d caught his son after deleting the emails, eager for answers before he sloped off to school. ‘Bradley, I asked you a question.’
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Bradley shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s just some boy at school, that’s all.’
‘But you said he was a ‘different’. And you’ve got a den you go to. Tell me his name, Bradley!’
‘What does it matter?’ Bradley’s defiant gaze started to wilt immediately beneath his father’s scrutiny. ‘Just leave me alone. I’m late.’ Bradley took a step forward.
‘No. I’ll drive you to school if necessary; but first I want answers. Tell me the boy’s name!’
‘Why? He’s my friend!’ Chris put his hands on his hips and frowned. ‘Gordon! It’s Gordon! There! Satisfied?’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Chris sighed. ‘So what makes him different?’
‘He’s not like other kids, all right?’
‘How exactly?’
‘He has… special needs or something. OK?’
Oh, no… Chris thought as Bradley moved to squeeze past him again. He felt like he’d swallowed a stone. Please don’t tell me that.
‘What do you want to know about him for anyway? He’s a Muppet.’
A Muppet? Chris thought back to his own childhood and tried to remember the parlance back then: spacko, flid, dummy, idiot. The names might change but the prejudice was the same. ‘I thought you said he was a friend?’
Bradley made another attempt to squeeze past, his cheeks beetroot red. ‘I have to go, Dad!’
‘No, wait a minute! I haven’t finished. I need to know what this so-called friendship involves.’ Chris grabbed his arm, trying not to hurt him but almost wishing he could. ‘Now tell me: Gordon who?’
‘Moore. Gordon Moore.’ So now he had a surname at least. If his worst fears were correct, this was the mugger’s son. But there was still something missing from the overall picture – something fundamental.
‘And what have you been telling him exactly?’ Chris did not give the boy time to deny anything. ‘There are some things that should stay within the family, Bradley. I think you know what I’m talking about here.’
