Itinerant Child

by Sarah Osborne

  “Mouse!” A tall, thin, blonde guy dropped his baseball bat and ran towards her. Nitro felt a surge of jealousy as she was pulled into a hug. “It's been too long.” He looked over at Nitro and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “This is Nitro.” Mouse unclipped her helmet and passed it back to him. “He's not as much of a wanker as his name might suggest.”

  “High praise, indeed.” Nitro stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

  Blondie eyed his cut. “You sure about this, Mouse?”

  “He wouldn't be here if I wasn't.” She took Nitro's extended hand. “Think of me as a Punk Pocahontas.”

  Nitro leaned and whispered in her ear. “Probably not the best analogy, punk.”

  She ignored him. “He's okay, Steve.”

  Steve's eyes hadn't left his, and Nitro forced down the urge to square up to him. He took off his helmet and cut, and laid them across the tank. “I come in peace.”

  Mouse rolled her eyes, then grinned as a middle-aged woman, who'd obviously gotten dressed in the dark, approached. “Maggie!”

  Maggie laughed and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home.” She looked up at Steve. “Stop scowling, lover. He'd snap you like a twig.”

  Steve exhaled. “I suppose if Mouse vouches for you...” He turned on his heel and walked back to the farmhouse.

  ~oOo~

  “So, why do they call you Nitro?”

  He and Maggie were sitting at a huge table in the middle of a cavernous kitchen, the like of which he'd never seen before—he guessed that if he was pushed, he'd describe it as antiquated but functional—while Mouse and Steve prepared the meal for that evening.

  Mouse turned around and pointed a knife in his direction. “Not the answer that gets you laid.”

  “Excuse me.” Nitro pushed his chair back and crossed the kitchen. “I just gotta kiss my ol' lady.”

  Mouse was as stiff as a board when he pulled her to him. She laid one hand on his chest and pushed him away. “You are aware that I have a knife in my hand?”

  He shrugged. “Figured you wouldn't cut me for kissing you.”

  “No, but I might when you call me your old lady.”

  “Did I just do that?” He felt the grin spread across his face.

  “I'm not, by the way.”

  Not yet. “I know.” He lifted her chin and brushed his mouth against hers. “I won’t say it again.”

  Maggie grinned as he sat back down. “So. Why Nitro?”

  He shrugged. “It's a just stupid kid's nickname that's followed me across the Atlantic and back again.” He grinned. “I thought I'd shook it off, until my dad told the club. Now I'm stuck with it.” He looked around. “What's the deal with this place?”

  Maggie put down her mug. “How about I give you the tour?”

  And leave Mouse alone with that asshole? Yeah right. “Sure.”

  ~oOo~

  If Mouse was to call anywhere home, this place would be it. And the people who lived here were the closest she had to family.

  Mouse had a biological family somewhere, but since she was too young to remember, her childhood had been a succession of foster parents and kids' homes. Like many kids in her situation, by the time she'd hit her teens, she'd become a serial runaway, and learned quickly to live by her wits. She'd been lucky: Digger had found her, at sixteen, trying to fend off a drunken arsehole in Piccadilly and taken her to a nearby squat. It probably wasn't the best place for a kid, but it was safe and dry, and with Digger at her side, she'd learned what it felt like to be cared for.

  Even after she'd met her ex—a London cabbie, who was almost permanently off work with a bad back—and moved into his home, full of dreams of a proper family, Digger had kept the lines of communication open, despite his reservations and her ex's best efforts. And it had been here that he'd brought her, when she'd escaped.

  She'd been nineteen, hurt, scared and ashamed. She should never have let it happen—she'd seen it happen to kids when they came out of care, and had vowed that she'd never make that mistake. But all it had taken were a few kind words and hot coffees, and she'd jumped, feet first, into his trap.

  Maggie hadn't judged, nor had she treated Mouse like a victim. She had stated the rules—do your share and don't take the piss—and then hugged her, and bade her welcome.

  Mouse had learned everything here. From building fences and animal husbandry, to computer skills and basic law. Mouse had been exposed to poets, artists and musicians, as well as activists and artisans.

  It was in this kitchen that she'd learned to read.

  Steve nudged her with his elbow. “What're you doing with a biker, Mouse?”

  She sighed. “I dunno.”

  “You like him?”

  She nodded.

  “Trust him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Digger? What does he think?”

  She laughed. “Digger fucking loves him.”

  Steve bent and kissed the top of her head. “It would've been easier if you'd just got together with me, when I asked. You know that, right?”

  “Shut up, Steve.” She dropped the potatoes into a pan.

  He laughed. “Jus' saying.”

  ~oOo~

  “Wow. Are those for real, like people really live in them?” Nitro and Maggie were standing on the edge of a meadow that was occupied by three traditional gypsy Caravans, some weird tent things and a teepee.

  “Great, aren't they.” Maggie bent and scratched the ears of a skinny-looking hound that was sniffing around their legs. “The trick, Nitro, is to look for loopholes. We couldn't get planning permission to build or for more than three motorised dwellings on the land, so we went for horse-drawn vans and yurts instead. We own this land—we're not squatters, we pay rates and everything—but still the powers-that-be want us gone. We try to stay one step ahead, and so far, we seem to be winning.”

  Nitro had already decided that he really liked Maggie. “This place is great. I don't get what the problem is.”

  She slipped her arm through his and led him back towards the house. “We're itinerants, dirty gypsies, Anarchists. We upset people's sensibilities.”

  “People are fucking stupid.”

  “Or scared. This place proves that it's possible to live simply and well with very little money, as long as everyone works together. Those who hold all the power don't like that, so they do all they can to demonise us.” She pointed to a row of stables that looked in better repair than the house. “In there are screen printers, computers and sewing machines. Over in the big barn is a studio and pottery, and we run classes for the kids in the main house. We grow all our own food, and sell any surplus. We use solar panels and wind turbines to generate our own electricity. There are two wells, so water is free, and the only thing we pay for is the internet and to have the septic tank emptied.” She grinned. “There has been talk of compost toilets or reed bed filtration plants. But I like flushing loos.”

  “Kinda all seems like a lot of hard work.” He looked over to the long poly tunnels and fields of vegetables.

  “It is, but not as hard as you think. There are five families living here right now, and we usually have guests that stay for a week or so. By dividing the work fairly, everyone still has plenty of spare time for other stuff. It isn't for everyone, but it's a pretty good way to live.” She frowned. “Are you limping?”

  Nitro grinned and pulled up the leg of his jeans. “I seem to be doing a lot of walking since meeting Mouse, I'm getting kinda sore.”

  Maggie laughed. “Don't let her bully you.”

  “S'okay. I quite like her bullying me.”

  She stopped and turned to look at him. “You really do like her, don't you.”

  “Yeah. I like her a lot.”

  Mouse and Steve had been joined by some of the other residents when they returned. A heavily pregnant woman and a kid were sitting on a window seat reading a book, and a couple of punky-looking guys were leaning on the counter drinking tea. Mouse and Steve were sitting at t
he table with a kid of around five, playing Jenga. As Steve carefully eased out a block close to the bottom of the pile, Nitro stumbled—convincingly, he thought—on the uneven floor and bumped his shoulder, sending the blocks flying across the table. “Shit. Sorry, friend.”

  Steve pushed his chair back and stood. “You don't look sorry, friend.”

  Maggie grabbed Nitro's arm. “Come into the other room and let me look at your leg.” Without waiting for an answer she dragged him into a cosy sitting room and pushed him down onto the sofa. “Take it off.” She grinned at the expression on his face. “Trust me, I'm a doctor.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, was in general practice for nearly thirty years.” She frowned as he pulled off his leg. “Good grief, Nitro. How long have you been an amputee?”

  He shrugged. “Long time, nearly twenty years.”

  “So you know better than to go yomping across the countryside when you have a bruise like that.” She poked the yellowing mass. “I'll give you something to take down some of that swelling.”

  “It's okay, I've had worse.” He started to pull on his stump-sock.

  “You need to leave it off, Nitro.” Maggie touched his arm. “When did you last have your bone density checked?”

  “Last year—it's fine, Maggie. Just a bit sore is all.” He tried not to wince as he pushed his stump into the socket.

  “I'm not going to argue with you, but that is hell of a lump, it might be an idea to get it x-rayed. And you really should leave that off, for a while at least.”

  “Fuck, Nitro.” Nitro looked up as Mouse crossed the room and sat down next to him. She slapped his arm. “Why didn't you say something?”

  “Pretty sure I did, punk.” He ran his thumb down her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  “Yeah, but I thought you were bullshitting.”

  Shit, she really looked guilty. He ignored the voice telling him that this would be an ideal time to capitalise on the situation. “It's nothing, Mouse.”

  Mouse looked over at Maggie... Ah, here it came: Combined woman nag. “What should he be doing?”

  “Resting. The socket has to fit tightly, and the swelling around the bruise is rubbing. Nitro risks breaking the skin and getting an infection, or really damaging himself if the bone is chipped—amputees have a high risk of osteoporosis.” She grinned. “Of course, he knows all this.”

  “Bit melodramatic, Maggie.” He took off his leg and laid it on the floor—it really was sore. “Fine, have it your way. I'll sit here, an' you can wait on me till we're ready to go home.”

  “You're staying, surely. At least for one night.” Maggie straightened up. “Don't whisk her away too soon, Nitro.”

  His eyes met Mouse's, and he grinned. “Sure.”

  ~oOo~

  Mouse was in love.

  She couldn't deny it anymore. She'd thought, when she'd suggested coming here, that the differences between their worlds would be so glaring that he'd realise that they'd never be reconciled. She'd expected him to be uncomfortable—to want to leave. What she hadn't expected was to be sitting on the floor of the sitting room, watching Nitro, with his hair in bunches, painting 'tattoos' on the kids.

  There were still people—Steve in particular—who were wary, but Nitro had an A+ in charm, and his easy-going nature and humour were winning over the majority. He was unapologetic when talking about his role in The Freaks—sometimes he'd refuse to answer questions, but those he did, he'd answered honestly—and seemed genuinely interested in how life on Hope Farm worked. Mouse wasn't sure if biker gangs had PR guys, but if they did, and they weren't using Nitro, they were missing a golden opportunity.

  The kids loved him. He'd told fantastical tales about the origins of his ink—most of them bullshit, she was sure—let them examine his 'bionic' leg and his stump, and explained the importance of looking both ways when crossing the road. After dinner, he'd put his leg back on, and taken them for rides on his bike, and now he was playing 'makeover' with the girls—although he had drawn the line at lipstick.

  There were two teenage girls who were currently staring, doe eyed, at him, and because this was Nitro, he was managing to flirt a little with them, whilst completely charming their mothers. Even Lugs and Stumpy, two of the most hardcore Anarchists she knew, thawed, as he discussed the merits of vegan ink and how to get the best out of their dirt bikes.

  He was working the room like a pro.

  Fuck.

  “I'm gonna go out for a smoke.”

  ~oOo~

  Most people probably thought that Anarchist communes were debauched free-for-alls. That there were no rules. But that was because they didn't understand what Anarchy was. There were plenty of rules on Hope Farm, and one of them was that the only place, other than their own homes, that people could smoke was the old washhouse behind the farmhouse.

  Mouse lit a candle, sat on a wooden garden chair and began rolling a joint. She was doing it again: Falling for pretty words, allowing herself to be charmed into dropping her defences.

  She'd been relieved when Maggie had produced a pair of crutches. Nitro got around pretty well without them, but the flagstones that covered the ground floor of the house were uneven and unforgiving, she'd hate if he hurt himself further. Now though, as she watched him cross the yard, she really wished she hadn't.

  He sat on an identical chair and held out his hand. “My weed, I think.”

  Mouse handed it over. “I didn't think you'd mind.”

  “I don't. I wouldn't've given it to you to look after if I did.” He started to build a joint of his own. “Is something wrong?”

  “I want you to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because... Because, I know what you're doing.”

  “What am I doing, punk?”

  “Playing us all. You're good, I'll give you that. You almost had me fooled.”

  “I'm not playing anyone.”

  “Yes you are.” Mouse stood and ran her fingers through her hair. “All this... Pretending to be interested in what everyone says... playing with the kids. I'm not buying it, biker boy.”

  “Maybe I am interested in what everyone has to say.” Nitro was on his feet—foot—now. “Maybe I like kids.” He grabbed his crutches, and turned for the door. “Maybe I'm just a nice guy. Has that ever occurred to you? It hasn't, has it? No matter what I do, what I say, you're gonna think there's an angle.”

  He was angry, and maybe if he didn't have his hair tied in ribbons, and silver stars on his cheeks, he might've been intimidating. Mouse met his eyes. “Is there?”

  He smiled—she really wished he'd stop doing that. “Can we sit down? I really hate these things. they make me feel like a cripple.”

  Mouse shrugged, but sat down. “I want to believe you, but...”

  “Yeah, I know. You've got issues.” He sat and took her hand. “I like you, Mouse. I like it here, an' I really do like kids. I know you got a problem with me being a Freak—although I reckon you'd find another excuse to push me away if I wasn't—but we're more similar than you think, an' we wouldn't be the first couple to have problems with the in-laws. I wanna be with you, an' I'm pretty sure we could iron out any bumps along the way.” He touched her cheek. “Look at me, Mouse. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay.” He grinned. “I'm one of the good guys.”

  She didn't want to respond to his touch. Mouse could feel her body surrender as he pulled her from her chair and onto his lap. She didn't want to be that person, that weak, pathetic woman who could be controlled like this.

  This was how it started: The sweet words, and gentle touches. The promises, the reassurance. The kisses down her neck—oh God—the brush of his beard on her skin. She had to tell him to stop nipping at her earlobe, and not to run his fingers through her hair... she couldn't keep letting him kiss her like that, like he fucking owned her. He was winning, and she was letting him.

  Nitro pulled away. “Mouse.”

  Oh no, she wasn't going to look at him, not when she knew
she'd see the hunger in his eyes. If she looked, it would be all over, because that was as hot as hell.

  “Mouse.”

  Mouse opened her eyes, and waved the white flag.

  He grinned. “No condoms.”

  She allowed her forehead to drop onto his shoulder. “Fuck.”

  ~oOo~

  If he had a list of things that are incredibly hard to do, 'hopping across a farmyard on crutches, with an erection' would be on it. Nitro guessed they could've worked around the no condom thing, but it would've been kinda defeating the object. Mouse would've caved, just like she always did... like all women did. It wasn't hard to turn a situation around. No matter how tough women thought they were, no matter how in control, as long as a guy knew exactly which buttons to press, she'd soon be putty in his hands.

  But if his little punk had given in to him—and she would've—she'd hate herself for being so weak, and Nitro really didn't want her to hate herself. So he'd given her an out.

  He could miraculously find the condoms later, when she was in a better frame of mind.

  The kids were all over him before he was even through the door, Nitro followed them back into the sitting room and made himself comfortable on the sofa. Chloe, a cute little dot of about five, picked up a book and climbed onto his lap. “Tell us a story, Nitro.”

  Nitro looked at the book and shook his head. “That looks pretty boring, how about I tell you the story of the big, bad cat who wanted to be friends with the scared little mouse?”

  Mouse scowled. “Just read the story, Nitro. Everyone knows cats can never be trusted.”

  She was pissing him off now. He hadn't put a foot wrong, and still she was treating him like the fucking enemy. Gently, he sat Chloe on the cushion next to him and picked up his leg. “Reckon we'll have to take a raincheck on that story, sweetheart, I'm gonna have to go home.” He glanced up at Mouse. “Your stuff's with my bike. You need to get it.”

  ~oOo~

  If she didn't say something, he was going to ride away. It was what she wanted, of course, but...

  Mouse followed him to his bike, and silently watched as he retrieved her parka from the saddle bag. He was angry, and, if she was honest, she understood why, but it was better this way.