Dirty Old Town and Other Stories Read online

  “Come on Billy,” Ian said. “They’re not going to say anything. Look at the one you chose. He’s pissed himself already.”

  The man in the middle lay in a puddle, his body shaking like he was freezing to death.

  It was the last time they were going to work with Ian, Brandon decided. He was worse than fucking useless. Didn’t have the stomach for this anymore.

  “Today,” Billy said, “I shall be using the belt, followed by whatever knives I can find in the kitchen.” He stood over his victim and pulled back his arm.

  Brandon heard a creak on the stairs, then another. Turned his head towards the door as it was kicked open. Found himself looking straight at a crossbow.

  *

  Arash stayed at the bottom of the stairs. It was like his body gave up on him. He looked at the spikes on his weapon then gave the chain a swing. Let the ball take out a chunk of plaster from the wall. No way he could do that someone’s head.

  The others took the stairs three at a time. Strolled up like they were about to throw a few practise hoops.

  Ali went to take the door. This time Naz let him. He kicked it in with the heel of his trainers and they were out of sight before Arash could let out his breath.

  He heard the ping of the bow-string and the jolt of the crossbow, then nothing.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” someone was yelling. Sounded like Zeeko. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  There was a strange sound, like a gas leak.

  “No way man. Please. No way.” Someone was begging. One of the white kids. Should be saving his breath.

  Next he knew a human fireball was tearing down the stairs. Looked like he was wearing a suit and tie, but Arash couldn’t be sure. He resisted the urge to lift up his leg and trip him over - the way the flames were swirling round the body and those arms were gyrating, it would have been a mean trick.

  Arash watched the ball of fire run out of the door, cross the road and jump clear over the wall into the river. By the time he got there to investigate there were only a couple of ducks to be seen.

  From the house spilled the tinny sound of a hip-hop track, hitting the beat in perfect time with Arash’s pulse. .

  *

  “He just reversed into it like it wasn’t even there, Mum.”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  Arash hadn’t worked through the whole story. He’d been too busy getting his mates to the hospital. “Nah, Mum. He was too quick.”

  He didn’t see it coming but he felt his cheek sting as the slap landed.

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  Sea Minor

  Mum always speaks in Gaelic when we come up to Skye. She speaks in Gaelic because that’s what Gran likes to use in the house. I can’t join in when they’re talking, but I understand some of the things they say. Mum thinks that I might go to school here soon and they’ll teach me, only I want to stay at my other school with my friends.

  Skye’s an island so you have to go over a bridge to get there. Davy told me it was a troll bridge and that some people didn’t want to pay, but I said I would because you wouldn’t want to make them angry like in Billy Goat’s Gruff.

  It’s always dark when we arrive. When we step out of the car we can see how this place gets its name; all you can see for miles and miles are millions of shining stars. Maybe they put an ‘e’ on the end it’s so stretched out. In London the heavens seems so small. There are always buildings in the way.

  This time the journey had been awful. We packed in more than usual because Mum thought we might stay longer. I got wedged up against suitcases and dresses and stuff. Davy was fine though; he got to sit in the front where Dad usually went because Dad wasn’t coming this time.

  And we didn’t get to play any of our usual games like I-Spy or making words from registration plates.

  Davy said that Dad always had a map in case we got lost. Mum told him that she didn’t need maps; she was a human compass. Then she didn’t say anything for the rest of the journey.

  *

  Lots of things are different here. Some are better and some aren’t. It’s wonderful wandering around in fields and woods, but it’s not so much fun walking to the shops and back, especially the back part. I love swimming in the sea and paddling, but I’m not so keen on taking a bath in the old tin thing we fill with buckets. I love the way Gran gets us quiet for the weather forecast every evening, but I miss the television and my computer.

  It was even more different when Mum was young. There wasn’t a road, the toilet was outside, the washing was done by hand, things like that. Mum said that the only things that hadn’t changed were Gran’s tabard and the weather.

  Whatever time we get up Gran’s always ready with a pan or two frying. We have a big cooked breakfast “to keep the wind out,” Gran says, and we go out and explore. When we get back we wash our hands and by the time we get into to the kitchen there’s a plate of fresh scones on the table and a jug of milk from Nancy the cow, all warm and creamy.

  We explore a bit more and it’s lunch, then dinner, then supper for the weather forecast, and in the evenings we listen to stories. I think some of them are true because they have real people in them and some are made up because they’ve got fairies and giants in them.

  *

  Mum’s the best storyteller though. Perhaps that’s because she reads so much. She was reading when we were down by the sea last week - ‘A Perfect Day For Banana Fish’. She’s been reading that lots recently; it must be her favourite.

  Thinking about banana fish makes me laugh because I start to think of other fish: orange, grapefruit, kiwi, potato… Maybe there’s a pineapple shark out there too. The one I like best of all is the onion fish. It’s always crying, even if fish can’t cry, not really.

  When she finished it she put the book face down on the rock, pulled her knees to her chest and held them there, “giving herself a hug,” she said. She didn’t move for a long time, staring out over the water into the distance; perhaps that’s what distant means. I played with Davy till it began to get chilly and went for a cuddle to warm up. This was a safe place. Old Man’s Jaw it’s called. If you stand on top of the hill behind you can see the face and this long, flat rock sticking out. I’ve seen it in a photo at home, Mum pointing across the bay to where she was born. She had one more story for me that day, about how I was made in that very place almost eight years ago. This is where I started out as a tiny seed.

  “Just look at you now,” she whispered and I wondered how big I’d been when I began and how big I’ll be in the end.

  *

  A few days after that we went out to collect peat. A tractor came along and we all helped to load the trailer. The midgies kept biting everyone so we put on this cream to keep them away. It’s for moisturising the skin really and smells like perfume, so it’s not for the midgies at all, but they didn’t come near me after that. Uncle Tam’s hands were green from the string by the time we’d finished and Bob had a bad back. The children got to sit on the trailer all the way home, and we piled into the kitchen when it was unloaded for cakes and biscuits or whatever you wanted.

  Most of us went for a walk after that. We turned round when the dark clouds started rolling in and got back just before the storm. I don’t know how she’d managed, but Gran had moved all the peat into the shed by then. The stacks in front of all the other houses were getting soaked through and Uncle Tam was struggling with a tarpaulin in the gale and the gale was winning.

  “He’s only himself to blame, now. They said the rain would be coming,” said Gran shaking her head, wiping her hands on her apron and putting on the kettle. We all had tea to warm up our hands, which made Davy and me feel very grown-up. We watched the flames thinking about how much we deserved to be cosy, especially me with my blister and Tam with his green skin.

  *

  Then yesterday happened.

  Gran took off her tabard and put on he
r wellies so that she could take me and Davy to the shore. Mum couldn’t make it. She stayed in bed because of a headache. She kissed us goodbye and said she’d join us later, and reminded me to look out for the banana fish.

  It took about twenty minutes to get there.

  There were lots of people with bags so they could tidy up the beach. For the children it was going to be a competition. Whoever collected the most rubbish would get to light the bonfire later. Second prize was a toffee apple.

  We put on our huge rubber gloves, took a handful of bags and walked over to where no one else seemed to be. Uncle Tam was just over the way collecting whelks. He’d sell them later on and said he’d make a pretty penny.

  *

  I found the rusty bit of an old spade, a plastic bottle, a long metal stick and a burst football. Davy spent most of his time digging a piece of rope from the sand. It looked small at first, but the more he dug, the longer it got. In the end it filled up half the bag. Daddy was always asking how long a piece of string is when we asked him things; I didn’t think it would be that long. Gran had sawn off a gill net from the post in the water using the blade of her penknife and that filled the bag. Just think of all the birds we were saving and how nice it would be for all the walkers to see it so wonderfully clean.

  We started another bag. The first thing we found was an old bike tyre. Davy was trying to stuff it in when it went all quiet; he stopped what he was doing. This is the bit I don’t want to say because it sounds stupid, but you can ask Davy and Gran if you like. I couldn’t hear the sea or the birds and it was creepy, then there was music, soft at first, then louder and louder. It was like a choir in church. It was all high voices and ladies singing and it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. There weren’t any words, just tunes. Davy held my hand tightly and then the sound was suddenly the wind again. Just like that.

  We looked at each other then sprinted over to Gran. Davy was first and grabbed onto her leg. I got the other.

  Davy was telling her about the music and I joined in until she couldn’t tell who was saying what, so we had to start again one at a time. He’d heard the same as me.

  She went quiet for a moment and said, just like it was nothing important,

  “That’ll be bad news at sea; someone won’t be making it to supper tonight.” She looked up, touched her forehead and shoulders and chest and said something Gaelic.

  “I heard it once when I was a girl a long time ago. My mother heard it too. Like the sound of heaven itself, and yet it was a horrible thing that happened when it came to me. Two boats collided. Full of men they were - fathers, husbands, brothers – none of them seen again.” It sounded a bit like the start to one of her fairytales, but she didn’t take it any further.

  “Now don’t you worry, there’s nothing to be done. Let’s get this bag filled up,” she said, and so we did.

  The bags were heavy, but we managed to drag them to the pile.

  I couldn’t believe what was there: lobster pots, a bicycle, tubes, bottles, netting, a doll’s arm, crates and rope. The twins had brought a bag of seaweed even though the man at the start had told us that seaweed wasn’t rubbish, so that couldn’t count for the competition.

  Angus got to light the bonfire. He’d found a whole carpet, but he didn’t carry it back himself so I don’t think he should have been the winner.

  Mum hadn’t arrived. Now it was later and I wanted her to be there.

  It turned into a party. There were guitars, fiddles and songs. The people who weren’t playing were mostly dancing. The only ones who didn’t look happy were the twins, because they’d had a fight, and Gran. She was gazing into the flames, the light seeming to make her look strangely old and tired. I guess she is pretty old, really.

  Eventually we had to go because my eyes wouldn’t stay open. The music could be heard from the cottage till we shut the door behind us.

  *

  She wasn’t in bed. It was the first thing we did, go and see if she was better.

  I cried and Davy told me to stop being a baby, but I think he was nearly crying too, so Gran made us hot chocolate. We got into Mum’s bed, wrapped ourselves up in the blankets and she told us cheery stories until I fell asleep.

  *

  I had a funny dream. I walked down to the sea and could hear the church music again. I could see my mother sitting in the things we’d collected, except the bicycle was like brand-new. She was staring again and brushing her hair and we smiled at each other for ages.

  When I woke up, I tried to keep that picture in my mind and when it faced I pulled my knees up and gave myself a huge hug.

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  Dirty Old Town

  In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it. That’s why I kept my mouth zipped. If the guys dishing out justice were anything like me, the more noise I made the more pain they’d inflict.

  Luckily, their first punch was too good. Right on the point of my chin. I didn’t see the stars, but felt them speed through my nervous system, tingling down to my fingers and toes.

  From the way I hurt when I came round I knew they hadn’t stopped at one hit.

  It was like my birthday in reverse. They gave plenty and I ended up with less than I started with. For the time being, I’d lost the sight of one eye, one front tooth and a button from my favourite jacket. I didn’t mind - it was about time I got myself a few new clothes and the missing tooth just made me look interesting.

  I reckon I’d make the perfect front man for the Popes should Shane MacGowan pop his clogs. We’ve been laying bets on him dying before Christmas every year since ’86, and we’re still losing money. I could do it. Stand in for Shane. I know all of the songs and can’t hold a tune. What more could they possibly want?

  Lucy Whale was worth every moment of agony. Taught me things I’d never heard of, stuff any man would want in his life if he could get it. Shame Mr Whale couldn’t see it my way, that she was doing humanity a service.

  When I arrived home I was a wreck. I washed down a couple of painkillers with my cocoa and decided I needed a lie in. I set the alarm for 6:00 and crawled into bed. The way things turned out, I wish I’d never even tried to get up the next day.

  In the morning I wasn’t sure I could make it, but the nationals were almost upon us. The squad had been working their gym shorts off trying to get to the top of their game and I wasn’t about to let them down by crying off sick when they needed me.

  My boys were already in action when I arrived. Luke was on the rings, James on the parallel bars, Ken and Crazy Horse were practicing floor exercises, Donald was on the pummel horse and Hugh was pumping weights.

  Good lads they are. Known them since they were eleven, and seen them grow from children to teens to young men. Not many kids would make the sacrifices they have, not these days.

  I took them out for ice-cream when we heard Britain got the Olympics. Last thing they needed was sugar, but I gave it to them all the same. I doubt they slept a wink that night. I’ve not treated them since – it’s a serious business preparing for a games. I can take them there, I know I can. All I ask in return for my help is education, dedication and perspiration.

  Train like you’re coming second I tell them, and for the most part, they do.

  I interrupted their workout, offered a few suggestions and answered all questions about my face in the same way. “It was a full moon. The lunatics were out of the asylum.”

  8 o’clock we took our usual break. The boys went to the changing room to re-hydrate and take in calories. I went to talk to the desk-staff to see if I could book a session for the weekend.

  For the umpteenth time that week, I saw the back end of Billy the Cheese. I had no idea what he was up to or where he got his name, but whenever he was around I felt uneasy. If I’d have seen him entering I might have turned him round and sent him packing. Instead, he was heading for the exit when I clocked him. There wa
s nothing I could do.

  I carried on chatting with Laura and Ruth at the desk.

  Donald burst through the double doors to interrupt. Told me I should come. “In a minute,” I said, but he pulled my arm and I found myself moving in his direction. These boys have got muscles on top of muscles. More than I ever had and that’s saying something.

  It wasn’t until we were alone that he spoke again.

  “There’s something wrong with James. We can’t get him to wake up”

  “Is this a gag?” I asked as we entered the changing room. I could have saved myself the bother if I’d waited a moment.

  James Foster lay on the floor, his eyes bulging, leg swollen and his arms circling like he was trying to swim in the air. Sticking out from his thigh was a hypodermic syringe, half full of blue liquid.

  “Get the epi-pen, for Christ’s sake,” I told them.

  Crazy Horse and Ken opened his locker and fumbled through his things, throwing them onto the floor as they were checked.

  There wasn’t much I could do by then. I knew already he was leaving us. He was telling me with his eyes.

  The pen arrived and I took off the cap with my teeth. I jabbed it into his leg and the contents emptied into his bloodstream in seconds. Seconds too late, as it turned out.

  You shouldn’t have favourites, I know, but James was mine. He was quiet. Didn’t talk much and hardly smiled. We understood each other from the moment we met. I went to his birthday parties, family events, spent time at their holiday cottage and took him to all his competitions. I’d spent more hours with him in hospital than with some of my closest friends. And there he was, white as an England shirt, lying in my arms, life already drifting to another place.

  “You stupid bastard,” I said as I hugged him to my chest. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”

  It’s not a situation you can prepare for. Won’t find it in the gymnastics manual. I looked round at the others and saw the panic on their faces. Not one of them spoke, not even Crazy Horse. Ken gagged, looked like he was going to puke and ran to the toilets. We listened as he filled the sink with isotonic drink and bananas.