by J. A. Baker
‘He’s a perv.’ Joss’s tone is one of contempt.
Dane steps back then moves closer again when she raises her finger and points at the house. ‘Him, over there. He’s a total perv. He tried to touch me up last week in class.’
Alex’s eyes droop. He’s tired. He wants all of this to go away, to just disappear. Joss is drunk, Dane is both lustful and angry. A dangerous combination.
‘What?’ Dane moves even closer to Joss while Alex takes another step away.
‘It’s true!’ Her eyes are glassy, her voice as shrill as a whistle. Alex imagines that her breath will smell like the bowels of hell. ‘Last week he asked to see me and Sasha after class, told us both to stop back so he could speak to us, said we were talking during the lesson and that we needed to stop it and that we have to start knuckling down. When I tried to leave, he moved past and pressed himself up against me.’
In his peripheral vision, Alex watches Dane attempt to put his arm around Joss’s shoulders. She slumps under the weight and ends up sprawled on the floor, her hair fanning out around her, skinny legs jutting out at awkward angles.
‘Tell you what we need to do,’ Dane murmurs, as he heaves her back up and places his arm around her waist. ‘We need to teach him a lesson. Let him know we’re onto him, the sick old fucker.’
Before Alex can say or do anything to stop him, Dane picks up a small stone and throws it at the house. It skims past the front window and lands in the shrubbery with a thud. Alex’s heart hammers out a sickly solid beat under his shirt. His neck pulses in a synchronised rhythm. This is what fear and anticipation of an unpredictable scenario feels like, he thinks, wishing all the while that he could spirit himself away; be elsewhere. Wishing he could be at home in bed, far away from here.
This is what happens when you hang around with Dane Bowron. Things happen that you can’t always control. Dane has a way of stringing him along, making sure he is witness to each and every event.
‘Come on. I need to get her home. Jocelyn, let’s go.’ He starts to walk away, his footsteps the only ones to be heard as Joss and Dane stay put, their bodies angled in eagerness while Dane finds another handful of stones and hurls them at the window. This time they hit, an explosion of gravel that rattles the glass.
The burst of noise causes Alex’s skin to prickle. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dane! What the hell?’ He strides over to Joss and tugs at her arm. She yanks it free, pulling her hand up in the air and waving it about aimlessly.
‘Piss off, Alex. I’m staying here with Dane. We’re going to do stuff together, aren’t we, Dane?’ She nudges him and bends down to pick up another handful of small stones. ‘Here, chuck this lot at the old codger’s window till he wakes up and sees us. No more than he deserves. Filthy old bastard. He’s completely rank.’
They giggle, their voices a crack in the silence. Alex thinks about Mr Rose peering out of his window, calling the police and the ensuing chaos that would follow. He thinks of his mum and her permanent state of anger, then his dad and the disappointment on his face that would crush Alex more than any scathing words or fits of fury ever could.
Dane leans over to Joss, takes the stones and throws them, a worrying amount of strength in his trajectory. This time they hit the front door and Alex hears the immediately recognisable sound of glass breaking and shattering. He sucks in his breath and feels a rage flare up inside him, building in his chest, bubbling up into his throat like lava. He turns and walks away only to be pulled back by Dane; his fingers clasped tightly around Alex’s forearm.
‘Where you off to?’ Dane’s eyes are like tiny flecks of coal set deep in his skull, dark and menacing. Even in the pitch black of the evening Alex can recognise the intent that lies behind them, that unmistakable craving for friction and unrest. ‘Come on, man. It’s only a bit of fun. And anyway, don’t you think the old bastard deserves it for what he did to your sister? Are you really going to let him get away with touching her up?’
Alex’s stuttering heartbeat increases, jumping about his chest making him feel faint and queasy. He thinks about walking home, leaving this behind. Then he wonders if Joss’s story is really true. She may well be a manipulator but is she really devious enough to think up such a damaging narrative knowing this man could lose his job if he is reported?
Crippled by confusion and anxiety, Alex stands, unable to move. A lone voice drags him out of his stupor like the clap of thunder overhead.
‘Hey! I can see who you are!’ Mr Rose is there, standing on his doorstep, silhouetted, his finger pointing at them as they dive for cover amongst a clump of shrubbery. His tall stooped outline stands dead centre of the door frame, the light behind casting him in an eerie glow. A caricature of himself. That’s what springs into Alex’s head. Mr Rose is like an exaggerated version of himself with his flyaway candyfloss hair, bent posture and long skinny legs.
Joss’s inane giggle makes the hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stand on end. So far, they have remained hidden in the shadows but once they move, which they will have to, he will spot them. He needs to stop her, to shut her up or they will all be done for.
Alex grabs for his sister but misses, staggers and falls onto his knees with a clatter, twigs snapping, branches breaking beneath him, the carpet of rotting leaves breaking his fall but not absorbing the noise. Hands grab at his shoulders, Dane attempting to pull him up out of the way, but it’s too late. The beam of a torch lands on his face, blinding him, a spread of pale yellow illuminating his shocked expression.
‘You!’
Alarm spears through him, piercing his temporary frozen stance. Scrambling to his feet, Alex turns away from the light, his feet struggling for purchase on the soft damp ground, alcohol and fear making him clumsy, his movements ungainly and cumbersome.
‘I can see who you are! It’s Alexander, isn’t it? Who’s that with you? Is that Dane Bowron?’
A sudden silence descends, an atmosphere of tension surrounding them as they wait, wondering what he is going to do next, this teacher whose window they have smashed. This teacher who has identified them and caught them red-handed. An imaginary wail of sirens booms in Alex’s head, blue flashing lights stopping close by while a trail of uniformed officers creep up behind them, pushing Alex, Joss and Dane to the ground before cuffing them and throwing the three of them in the back of the van. He swallows, rubs at his eyes. Is unable to see a way out of this stupid fucking mess.
‘Get away from here. If I see you around here again, I’ll call the police!’ A bang echoes into the thickets and tall trees as Mr Rose slams the door and turns out the light, plunging them, once again, into darkness.
‘Ha!’ Dane spins around, spluttering with excitement. ‘We did it! We fucking did it. We got old Rosey.’
Whilst Dane and Joss celebrate, whooping and cheering, chattering and dancing around, Alex turns and heads back over the field towards town. If Joss doesn’t want to follow him, she can make her own way back home. He’s done here. He has had enough. He is well and truly done.
9
Dominic pads upstairs, wondering if it was the same lot that knocked at his door yesterday. Weary acceptance settles on him coupled with a strong streak of disappointment. He should be used to this by now, being bothered by pupils. There was a time they would knock on his door asking for help with homework but now their appearance is usually coupled with abuse – throwing stones, shouting through his windows, making idle threats. He’s witnessed them all, the juvenile activities they get up to, and each time it chips away at him, lowering his resistance, pushing him one step closer to retirement.
Seeing Alexander there, knowing he was one of the baying mob has left Dominic flattened and marginally depressed. He had high hopes for that lad, thought him better than that. Thought that such childish pastimes were beneath him. Just goes to show that his judgement is skewed, that he is losing his touch. Even the most intelligent and thoughtful of pupils have a darker side, demons that lurk somewhere deep in their souls.
Given their immaturity and lack of worldly knowledge, he would, at one time, give all students a second chance. But lately his feelings have changed, his perspective shifting in another direction due by and large to age, lethargy and general disinterest. He will bide his time, do the best he can to teach those who want to learn and then leave it all behind him. Gone are the days of enthusiastic debates, a need to pump as much knowledge into their brains as he can. Nowadays he considers it a successful day if he can make it through without buckling under the strain.
Heading back downstairs, Dominic checks the door again, tugging at it, making sure the chain is in place. Chances are they will be halfway home by now, those miscreants, but he’s not prepared to take any risks. Dane Bowron is a strange lad, his thoughts hidden and unreachable, his behaviour predictably unpredictable. Scowling and muttering seems to be his default stance. Getting him to engage and interact in lessons is exhausting, like shovelling snow while it’s still snowing. And Dane isn’t the worst of them. Not by a long shot. There are others who will sink lower, take more risks, do very little to get by, knowing that a safety net will catch them, help them through life even though they have done nothing to deserve it.
Dominic heads back up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, surprised and pleased at his own agility. He thinks back to those days, to long before Dane was born, when Dominic taught his father, Robert Bowron. The father is louder and more forceful, but they are both still cut from the same cloth, their core values plain for all to see. Dane’s recent essay showed elements of misogyny; his dislike of women and a deep hatred for figures of authority. It sent a shudder through him reading it, knowing that nothing he could ever do or say would shift the boy’s attitude. It’s too deep rooted, too embedded in his psyche.
There was a point in his career when he would have put aside some time, spoken to Dane, put another side of the argument across to further the boy’s thinking skills, show him how to reflect on situations critically. But not anymore. Not when the boy has the likes of Robert Bowron behind him, that influential father figure pushing him on, whispering in his ear, installing his own warped ideas into the head of his son. It’s a losing battle and one for which Dominic simply doesn’t have the vigour or willingness. Soon he will step away from it all, leave it to his younger counterparts, and spend his days at home, whiling away the hours in this ramshackle old place.
A stone sits at the base of his belly at the thought of spending more time with his mother. A serrated rock of resentment. She has good days and bad days and then there are those days that are long and drawn out with no end in sight.
Teaching gives him some respite. Without it, his life will feel shaky and out of balance with no sense of direction. He will have to recalibrate his free time, find a new hobby, muster up interests in other areas. Tending to his mother’s needs cannot take up every minute of his day. It’s not healthy. Not good for his soul.
She is sleeping as he peers around the door. The same familiar smell pervades every corner of the room, that musty aroma that no matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot remove.
He tiptoes in and sits by her bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening to her breathing, low and soft. Shallow gasps of air. Dominic glances beyond the shadows, casting his mind back.
This used to be his room when he was a young lad. This was where he spent his evenings, studying for exams, playing his music, perusing his stamp collection, and when he thought he was alone and there was no chance of being disturbed by either of his parents, looking at girlie magazines; that insubstantial stash he kept hidden at the back of his wardrobe.
This was also the place where he first made love to Clara. Blood rushes through his ears, clogging up his veins as he thinks about it, that day, that hot summer’s day when he slowly peeled away her layers of clothing, caressed her skin, his fingers trailing down over her body, treating her as if she were a porcelain doll while she sighed softly and responded to his touch.
Dominic shifts in his chair. There is a stirring in his groin, something he hasn’t felt for quite some time. Even now, all these years later, thinking about her still sends a rush of blood whirling through his system, reaching parts of his body that haven’t seen any signs of life for so long that he had forgotten what they were truly capable of.
A low groan slips from his lips as he leans back and closes his eyes, his hand finding its way beneath his clothes and resting just below his navel before trailing lower and lower.
No.
Not here, in this bedroom. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He stands, the arousal exiting his body in a sudden cold rush, and strides towards the door. He needs to leave this room and the many memories it holds. Sometimes thoughts of that period of his life provide him with comfort, make him feel at ease, and then other times – other times it stabs at him, piercing his heart and skewering his emotions. He isn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with the past tonight. Tomorrow, things may look brighter, less gloomy and fraught, but tonight he would rather leave things alone, let the past rest, not stir up a host of unwelcome sensations that make him feel like he is plummeting through a dark starless sky with nothing beneath him to break his fall.
His own bedroom is cool, the bed soft and welcoming. He slips between the sheets, allowing sleep to embrace him almost immediately, whisking him off to a place of impenetrable darkness and safety.
Despite it being a Saturday, he is up bright and early. Last night feels like a hundred years ago. His mind is clear of cobwebs and the sluggishness he felt sure would linger. He dresses and heads downstairs to make breakfast. The darkness is always the hardest time, small problems multiplying exponentially, exploding, firing off bits of shrapnel into his brain. But now the lightness is here. Dawn has broken. The sky is a deep cerulean blue, the sun lingering somewhere behind a lone grey cloud, its heat already introducing itself as the breeze pushes the spread of white away leaving a clear patch of cobalt above him. The world feels like a happier place to be.
His singing fills the house, bouncing off walls and travelling through each room as he moves about, tidying and putting things back in place, arranging items just how he likes them. With his mother bedridden, he is the only one in this house and yet by the end of his working week, it feels as if an army of people have trampled through it. Newspapers are strewn about the floor, blankets lie crumpled on the sofa, dirty cups stand in a line on the coffee table; one for every day of the week.
I need to do better, try harder at this housework malarkey, thinks Dominic, enjoying his use of educational terms applied to his own chaotic existence. He smiles. Sometimes it’s the small stuff, the inane, the mundane and the downright absurd that helps him through, injecting levity back into his life.
He enjoys the task, ridding himself of the clutter and detritus, stopping only to make a coffee. He stands, sipping at it, staring around at the kitchen, thinking that even when clean and tidy, it still looks dated, having not been modernised for as long as he can remember. The cracked laminate surfaces feel dry and porous as he runs his fingers across them, his nails catching on the small grooves that run the length of the worktop. Years of use, of cutting, of placing hot cups on it. Years of neglect.
He thinks how little has been done to this place. Not even how little. Nothing has been done at all. Everything is still as it was when his father was alive, the fixtures and fittings the same as when they first moved into it. Not a lick of paint or a strip of wallpaper has ever been applied. He could have done something about it, turned his hand to it, even paid somebody to refurbish it but the time never seemed to be right. Life got in the way.
Is there ever a right time for ripping the heart and soul out of a house to replace it with things that are not associated with the people who inhabit it? It seems unnatural and superficial to replace things just to keep up with the latest fashions and trends. What is to be gained from such endeavours? Memories are what make a house a home, not designer units and expensive fab
rics and unremarkable and yet ludicrously expensive pieces of art. Sometimes it feels good to stand still, to slow down time and be anachronistic in his approaches and methods. Following the latest trends has never been his thing. It’s not always easy, pushing against the oncoming crowd, heading away from current leanings and forging his own path but he knows no other way of existing. It’s just how he is.
Dominic closes his eyes, thinks about time, the passing of years. Thinks about Clara. How different everything could have been, how life seemed to turn on him, tipping his world upside down leaving him with nothing but the dregs. For so many years now, he has had to put up with what was left, wading through the aftermath, making do and yet never quite getting used to not having her in his life.
Sipping at his coffee, he tunes back in to the present, dismissing any fleeting ideas he had about decorating or changing this old place. It’s fine as it is. Stripping away at the layers of paint and wallpaper would take with it his many memories and he cannot contemplate doing such a thing. They are all he has.
A sound cuts through his thoughts. He spins around, looking for obvious sources, checking the gas taps on the cooker, leaning towards the window, his head cocked to one side as he listens out again.
It comes once more, muted, dulled yet definitely audible. A scratching. He stares down at the floor, his senses now heightened. It’s in the cellar. The noise is coming from the cellar, drifting up through the floorboards. Mice perhaps, and yet it feels too loud. They’re small creatures who scurry at night, making little or no noise during the day. Mice in the cellar is a given. They cause him no trouble. Whatever is down there is large enough to make itself heard. He thinks of rats and takes a long shaky breath before pushing his feet into his mud encrusted wellies and unlocking the back door.
When his dad was alive, the old man used to use the cellar as a workshop, somewhere he would go to carry out any maintenance work – sawing, fixing, mending the bits of farm machinery he had, but to Dominic it is a dark dank place, somewhere for storage of things he no longer uses but can’t bring himself to throw away. Perhaps he should have put it to better use, turning it into another living area. It was an idea that occasionally rumbled about in his mind but somehow he never quite got around to doing anything about it. Like so many other things in his life, it got pushed away and neglected, left to rot.