by Gary Kittle
Gordon didn’t look well. His cheeks were pale and sunken, and there were black smudges beneath his eyes. He looked tired, run-down, like he’d just got over flu or was about go down with something far worse. And he seemed not just tense but overwrought with fear and worry; not so much on edge as clinging to it by his fingernails. Not that any of this evoked any sympathy in Bradley; not today.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Gordon said lifelessly. ‘I don’t feel too good.’
‘Get inside, retard. This will take as long as I say it takes.’
Bradley took a quick glance up the road, and wondered how much time he had to play with. At least ten minutes. That would be long enough. Gordon drifted into the living room and collapsed into the nearest chair.
‘Oh, no…’ Bradley grinned. ‘Let’s not stay in. It’s boring. Let’s go out to my den.’
Gordon jerked himself upright, as if on invisible wires. He stood swaying and breathing heavily, awaiting instructions. ‘Come on,’ Bradley growled, heading for the kitchen.
Bradley led him out through the back door into the garden. Gordon took out a grey handkerchief and snorted voluminously into it, his shoulders sagging as if bearing a great weight. He looked at the drizzle and frowned. The light from the house was just good enough for him to see what Bradley meant by his ‘den’. His eyebrows hitched up a notch and he froze. ‘Oh,’ he whispered.
‘You want to see the scene of the crime, don’t you?’ Bradley sneered, producing a torch.
Gordon continued to stare at the summerhouse, mute, his glassy eyes wide like an owl’s. Bradley dug his fingers into the other boy’s upper arm and hissed into his ear: ‘You want to see… the evidence – don’t you?’
Reluctantly, Gordon trudged over to the door of the summerhouse, looking disconsolate and frightened. The circle of torchlight bobbed ahead of them. ‘It was always going to end here,’ Bradley whispered, his legs feeling weak with excitement. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Away from the house the darkness quickly encircled them. Bradley shone the torch onto the door handle and leaned close to Gordon, his voice melodramatic and mocking: ‘Is this your first murder scene, Master Moore?’ Bradley slapped him hard across his left cheek. The thwacking sound made them both start. Gordon gasped, his hand rising to cover the point of impact. Bradley held his breath, horrified yet excited. He shone the torch into Gordon’s face; when he took his hand away the skin was already rouged.
‘Now get inside,’ Bradley snarled, reaching across for the handle. ‘We don’t have long.’
He shoved Gordon inside and pulled the door closed behind them. Bradley sucked in a lungful of air, his heart racing. Gordon’s face looked ridiculous, with one cheek glowing crimson and the rest drained of colour - like a clown disturbed half way through make-up.
‘Go on, then. Take a look around. Try and guess where she is.’
Gordon turned to him, his terrified face full of pleading – and something else. Bradley jabbed at the switch for the bare light bulb dangling overhead. Immediately he noticed the sickly yellow tinge to Gordon’s eyeballs. He really isn’t very well - Bradley decided - all the better.
‘Think of it as a game.’
‘A game?’
‘Damn it, you really are retarded.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’
‘Ask me where it happened, then, dummy. Don’t you want to know exactly where ‘it’ was done? Your dad certainly will, I’ll bet.’
That brought Gordon back to life. ‘You mean you actually saw him… do it?’
Bradley let his eyes stray to the area of floor where he knew the loose board lay. He let his eyes linger there, not daring to make eye contact as he replied, ‘Of course.’ Gordon remained still. ‘But what I want to know is whether you’ve got the balls to see for yourself.’
Bradley looked up, curious to see the other boy’s reaction.
‘But I can’t smell anything,’ Gordon complained.
Now it was Bradley’s eyes that widened. ‘What?’
‘From all the decomposing. It must have been weeks ago.’ Gordon returned his scrutiny to the floor. ‘And what about rats?’
Bradley glared at Gordon, but he refused to look back up. ‘I’m just saying…’
With a snarl Bradley grabbed Gordon by his collar and shoved him down towards the floor. ‘Go on, you sniveling little creep. Pull that board up and take a look!’
Gordon backed away, shuffling awkwardly on his backside, glistening eyes bulging in his shaking head. ‘No. I… I really don’t feel well.’
Bradley imagined Mr. Smith laughing at him with a dictionary in his hands. Suddenly he couldn’t get the word decomposing out of his head. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for you, Gordon. Because I thought you wanted to be mates. So do you want to share this secret or don’t you?’
‘Can’t I take your word for it? I feel sick.’ His face was sweating, his eyes bulging.
De-com-pos-ing... ‘Will Daddy be home soon?’ Bradley mocked. ‘Worried you’ll get in trouble?’
‘No. It’s just…I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ Now he stared deep into Bradley’s eyes. ‘Is it - you know - bad?’
‘Bad’ as in rotten and festering, was what he meant. Bradley tried to gulp down spit that wasn’t there anymore. ‘I don’t want to spoil it for you.’ He winced at his use of the word ‘spoil’. ‘Just have a peek and tell me what you see. Go on,’ Bradley goaded, but there was an acid burning in his stomach too and he could feel sweat on his face.
‘Can’t I do it when I’m feeling better, Brad? I really do feel sick.’ He was swaying again from side to side, sweat glistening on his upper lip. ‘Please?’
‘Please!’ Bradley mimicked him. But inside he was swaying, too; because he had to know now, this second. Every day he had been in and out of this place, staring at the loose board, pacing up and down and, yes, despite his disgust, sniffing for any unusual smells; but never once daring to take a peek. ‘The sooner you do it the sooner it’ll be over.’
Gordon looked as if he were about to cry. ‘I have to go now, Brad. Please!’
Gordon started to get up but Bradley lunged forward, grasping Gordon by the scruff of his neck and thrusting his head back down towards the floor. His darkest imaginings surged into his mouth like vomit.
‘They’d been arguing for hours already. Did he have it all planned? Only he knows that and I doubt he’ll ever confess. But once it was done he must have panicked and stuffed her under the floor because he didn’t know what else to do.’
Bile swept up his throat, filling his mouth with its bitter taste, interrupting the flow of his rant but only for a moment. His hands on the other boy’s neck tightened as something worse than vomit threatened to erupt from within him. He swallowed hard but when he found his voice again it was broken and distorted with emotion.
‘She tried to break free… She fought back. So hard! But he was too strong. Too… too…’ Bradley pulled Gordon close to his chest, face aflame and teeth gritted.
‘Please, Brad. You’re hurting me!’
Before Gordon could react Bradley sent him crashing down onto the grimy wooden floor. The impact sent Gordon’s breath puffing upward in a cloud of dust particles, his skull clunking against the boards like an underinflated basketball. Bradley sunk to his knees and pulled Gordon towards him. Shaking and sweating, his vacant eyes blinked rapidly.
‘This is all your fault!’ he bawled in a deep, unfamiliar voice; and as Gordon struggled to escape Bradley swung his right fist down into the middle of his face.
Chapter Sixteen
Less than twenty minutes later Bradley found his father spitting into his face: ‘Have you seen what’s happened out there?’
‘More rain?’
Chris seized him by the arm and hauled him towards the front door. ‘Dad! What the..?’
From the pavement there seemed nothing wrong with the old man’s BMW that a good clean wouldn’
t put right; but from the passenger side it was a different story.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Bradley declared. But of course in a way it was.
Bradley stared again at the car to avoid his father’s glaring eyes. This had been no accident, no error of judgment by a distracted driver. My dad’s not the sort of bloke you say no to… The side mirror was not just damaged; it had been destroyed.
‘So why don’t you call the police?’ Bradley scoffed.
‘We both know who did this, Brad.’ Chris looked up and down the road. ‘And why.’ He quickly shepherded Bradley back towards the front gate. ‘Inside.’
The slam of the front door echoed through the house. ‘I can’t involve the police without dropping you in it, can I? The last thing we want now is some social worker sniffing round our private life. You have to leave this Gordon alone right now…’
Bradley took a long deep breath, like a holidaymaker taking in his first lungful of sea air, and puffing out his chest he said, ‘Father, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
Leaning forward, Chris roared into Bradley’s face: ‘This isn’t a game, Brad. It has to stop!’
‘But I have stopped…’
‘I know you’re lying!’ Chris screamed, and held up the side of his right hand which was raw and weeping blood where the skin had been grated off, parmesan style.
Bradley frowned, staring first at the crimson wound, then back into his father’s bloodshot eyes.
‘For crying out loud, wake up, boy! I’ve been roughed up twice and now this!’ Chris implored, thrusting his injured hand even further into Bradley’s face. ‘Every time you hurt his son he hurts me! That’s how I know you’re lying!’
‘How…’
‘I was crossing the road a few doors up. I didn’t notice the car until it started to accelerate. When I ran for safety the car swerved deliberately – swerved towards me!’ His lower lip started to tremble. ‘He could have killed me, Brad!’
Better luck next time, I say, Bradley thought to himself. But suddenly he was afraid. If Dad went, too… ‘Maybe it was just a warning.’
‘Are you enjoying this, Brad? Do you think I deserve this?’
Bradley started to protest his innocence; then he thought back to the moment when Gordon came close to taking up that floorboard to reveal what lay hidden beneath. But he knew the truth without needing to be shown the evidence. ‘It’s all down to you, not me! If Mum was still here…’
‘What are you talking about?’ Chris turned away, raking his hands through his hair. ‘What do you think will happen to you if I end up in hospital?’
‘You don’t care about me anymore than you cared about her!’
‘Bradley, that’s not true!’
‘You don’t want social workers sniffing round here because you’re a bad father.’
‘Bradley, I will not allow you…’
‘But it’s the bloody truth, Dad!’ Bradley shrieked, and a tiny fleck of spittle sailed through the air between them and landed on his father’s cheek. Before either of them had time to think, Chris pulled back his hand and slapped Bradley squarely across his face.
There was silence, an empty anticlimactic stillness. Chris stared as if into a void, opening and closing his mouth, unable to speak. He couldn’t deny being a monster now.
‘Go to hell!’ Bradley wailed, bolting for the stairs. ‘I hate you!’
Chapter Seventeen
After school the next evening, winter throwing its gloomy cloak over slippery paving slabs, Bradley tried hard to recall in what state Gordon had left the summerhouse twenty-four hours earlier. But his memory would not let him past the dreadful argument with his father that had culminated in physical violence. He should not have been shocked; it only confirmed his darkest fears about Daddy and what happened when he couldn’t get his own way. But he’d still not slept until the small hours, and then only because of the improvised barricade he’d built against the bedroom door.
That morning he had dressed and slipped quietly out the front door whilst his father was using the bathroom. Bradley wasn’t sure which he wanted to avoid more: the threat of further violence or the bullshit justifications his dad would offer him. At least it stopped him thinking about why Gordon hadn’t made it into school that day. A phrase kept worming its way into his consciousness; so much so that on one occasion it even invaded his English essay: like father, like son. On top of that he’d had to stay behind for a detention for daydreaming through Period Three. It was five o’clock before he could make his way towards East Street. And by then his thoughts were dominated by the memory of his clenched fist crashing down into a twelve-year-old’s face.
It was a two up two down house that opened directly onto the pavement, Coronation Street style. The pale green skin of paint on the front door looked set to peel by the end of the year. There were closed plastic blinds in the window nearest the front door; in the upper windows were parted cream curtains, with cheap metal wind chimes dangling from the centre of the curtain poles. There was no car parked directly outside.
Bradley marched up to the door and knocked twice. He had to know what he’d done that stopped Gordon coming to school. For a few seconds there was silence then footsteps approached. Perhaps he would get to meet one of Gordon’s drippy step-sisters. He certainly wouldn’t meet his mum. The door opened six inches, revealing the left side of Gordon’s face in a poorly-lit hallway.
Bradley remembered something whispered to him in the summerhouse, only to realise that was part of the nightmare he’d had: ‘You’ve done me proud, boy!’ The door opened slowly to reveal the rest of Gordon’s face. A wave of guilt rippled through him - but no, the hands responsible for this were far larger and crueler. They wouldn’t be seeing Gordon at school for a while, that was for sure. He stared at the thin arm circling Gordon’s ribcage and guessed there was worse to see beneath his clothing. Bradley stood there staring, unable to speak. If this wasn’t the first time, how did his dad get away with it? How did any of them get away with it? he reminded himself.
Fear seized his intestines as a car passed slowly but didn’t stop. But Gordon’s dad could come back at any time. Just how much could you bite off before all you could do was choke instead of chew? But he couldn’t leave; not yet.
His lips parted, but what the hell could he say under the circumstances? My God, the bastard could have killed him. Both Gordon’s eyes were black, but the right one was swollen halfway shut. The left cheek was purple with bruising, but the right cheek bone was darker still and the skin looked fit to split in two places. His lips were swollen and misshapen, and there were multi-coloured bruises down one side of his neck. But the worst part was non-physical: the eyes that were filled with a sorrow and desperation that would never heal.
‘Come in, Brad. I’m glad you came,’ Gordon lisped. He stepped aside, revealing a dingy hallway beyond. There were shoes scattered here and there, a mass of coats, mainly children’s, clinging to unseen hooks on one wall, and a dilapidated set of wicker drawers beneath the stairs, the middle one of which was yawning outward. Lifting his heavy feet, Bradley stepped past Gordon and into the Moore household.
‘Dad!’ The door slammed behind him, Gordon’s voice much stronger than expected: ‘He’s here.’ Bradley turned to stare at Gordon but found him looking fixedly at the stairs.
Somewhere above a door opened and a pair of denim jeans came tripping down the stairs, causing something sharp and jagged to twist in Bradley’s guts. When the father’s face came into view Bradley was struck by the similarities with Gordon’s. With his trim physique and recent haircut, Mr. Moore looked more like an older brother. The smell of aftershave settled around them like an embrace. Moore Senior smiled politely, an expression that did nothing to disarm Bradley’s unease. The jaws of a trap were yawning. Gordon looked at him briefly to mouth, ‘I’m sorry’, and the coat hanger lodged in his intestines drew blood.
‘Bradley?’ He swept past them both and open
ed the first door on the left of the hall, gesturing with his head to Gordon. ‘In here, I think.’
The living room was thick with the tang of tobacco. Bradley declined the offer of a drink, though his mouth was sand dune dry.
‘Good. So let’s get down to business.’
Bradley’s knees folded and the sofa seemed to collapse beneath him. If anything, the stench of cigarettes was worse lower down. Bradley’s lungs hitched and his throat tickled in protest. Gordon remained standing, his eyes glued to the floor. There was something in Gordon’s hair, just above the right ear, something dark and clotted. A stitch? That was certainly what it looked like. But surely Gordon couldn’t have gone anywhere near a hospital looking that way; so how had… He stared up at Moore Senior, who smirked almost bashfully, as if he could read Bradley’s thoughts. Bradley looked away again, remembering the desperation in his father’s voice: the car swerved deliberately – swerved towards me! His bladder turned to ice.
‘I told the school he’s got flu. And then it’s half-term. So don’t worry; we’ll both be in the clear after that.’ Moore’s smirk transformed into a sneer. ‘He’s a quick healer, this one!’
‘Listen, Mr. Moore...’ He tried to rise from the pudding mix which passed for a seat beneath him. ‘I don’t know what Gordon’s been telling you, but…’ the would-be lies burst from him like juice from a squashed tomato.
‘Can it, Tarzan. I’m not interested in what either of you has to say, believe me.’ Moore waved his hand at Bradley like he was a particularly irksome fly.
The acid in his guts leapt upward, trying to dissolve the soft tissue in his throat. He gulped hard. Moore leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Bradley’s.
‘Ah. You might well look nervous, Bradley… Or can I call you Brad?’ he smiled pleasantly.
Pleading seemed Bradley’s only option, but that leering grin seemed to dare him to utter another sound. He looked over again at Gordon, catching him glance up as he did so, those multicoloured splashes over his normally ashen complexion provoking the same awkward question again and again: Did I do some of that?
