Nicking Time

by T. Traynor

  He loses his balance and his Chinese accent when my swift kick to the bum has him sprawling on the floor.

  I help him up. Hands together, we bow to each other.

  “Thank you, Master.”

  ***

  When I get undressed for bed, I forget to consider the danger that Mr Murphy might drop down through the ceiling. I’m thinking about a caterpillar I’ve just found in my sock. It’s not looking too lively. I give it a wee poke but it doesn’t respond. So I put it on the windowsill in case it’s just a bit shy or shell-shocked and not actually dead.

  In the morning, the caterpillar’s gone. Which is good. I don’t bother telling Kit about it. She’s funny about creepy-crawlies. So it’s lucky we live this high up. Very few of them have the stamina for the journey.

  11

  Things quieten down a bit after this. My mum does go and see Mr Murphy, and apparently he’s totally embarrassed and can’t shut his door quick enough. No more accusations from him. It looks like we’re in the clear as far as Wibfipper goes, but after a lot of debate we decide it would be wise to keep a low profile just for a few days. Which means passing on this Friday for Cathkin – no point in tempting fate. Our continuing lack of a jemmy means we don’t really have much choice anyway. So, if the jemmy turns up, it’s to be next week. Every so often we’ll ask, “How’s the search going, Skooshie?” And he’ll respond by tapping the side of his nose and scrunching his eyes mysteriously as he says, “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” or “Good things come to those who wait,” or some other annoying piece of pish. I’m starting to wonder if he talks like this just for the pleasure of seeing Lemur pushed to the point of desperation.

  All the waiting is driving me mad too. Kit senses that something is up. I think I’ve told you before that she’s nosy? Really, you’ve no idea… Give her the tiniest, toatiest hint there’s something you’re not telling her and she grabs it and hangs on like a ferret.

  “It’s Lemur, isn’t it?”

  “What’s Lemur?”

  “That you’re thinking about. Mr Murphy giving him a hard time.”

  “That was ages ago!”

  “But you’re still thinking about it. I know you are. Is it because you think Mr Murphy didn’t make a mistake?”

  “What?”

  “That he really did recognise Lemur. What was it he said? ‘Give it back!’”

  “You sounded just like Benny out of Top Cat when you did Mr Murphy there.”

  “Don’t try and change the subject. You know what I think?”

  “No. And I don’t really care.”

  “I think Lemur might actually have stolen something from Mr Murphy!”

  “Really? You should definitely be a detective.”

  “You think you know everything that Lemur does? You’ve said before that he’s always got loads of plans and you don’t always go along with them because they’re so crazy.”

  “So?”

  “So he might just have got fed up with that and done something on his own.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “I wonder if he’s going to get into trouble? Big trouble? That’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Kit, shut up.”

  “Does he get annoyed with the rest of you being big wusses? D’you think he’d like to be in a different gang?”

  “No! He’s one of us. Always.”

  “But different from the rest of you?”

  “No. Not really. Well, he kind of is, kind of – but not really. In fact, he’s just like all of us.”

  “How?”

  “Well, he’s like Hector in that he…”

  “Is a know-all.”

  “…knows a lot of stuff and he likes to be in charge. He’s daring like Skoosh – always up for a new adventure.”

  “How’s he like Bru?”

  “Well, he’s really loyal. You can totally trust him.”

  “Until the Mr Murphy incident…”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?”

  “Never.”

  “You can absolutely trust Lemur.”

  “Can they not trust you?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just mean it’s a particular characteristic.”

  “And I suppose he’s like you because he’s clever and funny?”

  “You admit I’m clever and funny?”

  “Only compared to your friends. Not compared to normal people.”

  I throw a cushion at her head. It’s the only way to stop her prattling sometimes.

  Still, at least I know she suspects nothing about Cathkin.

  ***

  The days get hotter and hotter. Skooshie, Hector and I are turning brown – and not all of it’s dirt. Lemur and Bru don’t really tan. Well, maybe Bru does. With his freckles, it’s a bit hard to tell – they might be a bit more joined up than usual. Lemur stays as white as a pint of milk. I roll out of bed every morning sure it will be sunny and it is. I grab the nearest pair of shorts and the first clean t-shirt in the drawer. I pull on my sandshoes while I’m chewing my toast. If I’m caught before getting to the door, I brush my teeth. Bed to outside in less than ten minutes.

  So one morning – it was the Thursday before Cathkin Friday (yes, that close) – I’m sitting on the grass near the flats waiting for everybody to arrive when Skooshie turns up. He’s walking really oddly, like he can’t bend. He’s also got his arm glued to his side. Unusually in this heat, he’s wearing long football socks. Even more unusually, they’re pulled right up over his knees, nearly reaching his shorts.

  “Are you expecting snow, Skoosh?” I’m about to ask, but I’m stopped by his curious expression. He’s rolling his eyes up really high, then down towards his glued arm. He looks like a toad who hasn’t yet learned how to catch flies successfully.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got it,” he hisses, still doing the eye-rolling thing.

  It’s only then that I notice, in the small gap between the top of his socks and the hem of his shorts, a dark piece of metal. The jemmy! It’s well concealed – jammed up his t-shirt and down his socks – which goes a long way to explaining the funny walking.

  “Brilliant!” I hiss back. “Why have you brought it here? How did you get down all the stairs?”

  “It took a while,” he confesses. “But Hector thought it would be better to hide it by the fence – so we’re quicker tomorrow.”

  “Good plan.”

  “You all right, son?” Mrs Clarke from our flats has appeared, shopping bag over her arm. She’s looking at Skooshie with concern. “I saw you coming down the stairs there. Is your leg really sore?”

  “He was just practising, Mrs Clarke,” I say. “We’re competing in a three-legged race and he’s so keen, he started training on his own.”

  “Aw, right… I’m glad you’re OK.”

  We decide the safest thing is to hide the jemmy inside Cathkin. I cover while Skooshie extracts it from his sock and slots it in under the iron fence, within easy reach of anybody who know it’s there but totally hidden from the rest of the world. He picks a dock leaf while he’s down there and applies it to a fictional jaggy nettle sting in his hand as he stands up, just in case anybody should be watching and wondering what he’s doing rummaging in the undergrowth.

  We go back to wait for the others to arrive. We sit in the sun and talk about just how brilliant Cathkin’s going to be.

  Once they come we play tennis against the wall, measuring and marking a net. There’s been tennis on the television so we’re in the mood. We take it in turn to play, partly to make it competitive and partly because we only have three racquets between us. Bru wonders if we should maybe call it squash, but none of us is really sure what squash is. We’ve never known of anybody who’s actually played it. But tennis we love. Bru’s convinced he’s Jimmy Connors – he never gives up even when it’s hopeless. Lemur puts on a Borg-like coolness, not reacting even at his best shots.
Once he tried falling on his knees when he beat us all, but tarmac is a lot tougher on the knees than grass. He won’t be doing that again in a hurry.

  Today we’ve got to the best wall before any girls show up to get in the way with their skipping games and their prams and their dolls. Bru, Skooshie and I are sitting on the steps in the shade, watching a tough final between Lemur and Hector.

  “My money’s on Hector,” says Bru.

  “No chance,” I say. “Lemur’s tanking him.”

  Play stops briefly while the players debate whether Lemur’s last shot was actually below the net.

  “Fault!” shouts Skooshie. He points a warning finger at them to head off any argument. “The umpire’s decision is final.”

  Play resumes. A wild ricochet on the next shot propels the ball past both of them. It’s bouncing down the hill towards the road. Lemur and Hector look hopefully in our direction. We shrug and shake our heads. We’re umpires, not ballboys. Lemur snorts his disgust and starts off at a slow jog in the direction taken by the ball. He’ll need to be quicker than that. It’s the only ball we’ve got so if it runs under the wheels of a car, we’re scuppered.

  While we’re waiting for him to get back, Kit appears from the flats with her friend Shelagh. Skooshie’s been playing with an empty sherbet dip packet he’s found – some wee kid must have thrown it away. He quickly squeezes it back into its original roundness, so it looks full, and holding it out yells, “Hey, Kit – want a sherbet dip?”

  He doesn’t know what’s hit him. She shoves him hard against the wall and hits the sherbet dip packet from his grasp with a vicious backhand swipe.

  “HA! HA! HA!” she shouts in his face.

  Then, after giving me a poke in the shoulder as a parting gesture, she stomps off. Shelagh, who has stood and glared at us throughout the whole episode, gives a dismissive snort and stomps off after her.

  “Ow!” says Skooshie, rubbing his shoulder. “Can she not take a joke? I’m hardly likely to give her a real sherbet dip! I’m not made of money!”

  “That wasn’t why she hit you,” says Bru, once he’s stopped laughing.

  “What did I do?” Skooshie is a picture of wounded innocence.

  “You said the words ‘sherbet dip’,” I say. “You must never – ever – mention them in Kit’s presence or she’ll think you’re looking for a fight.”

  “Guaranteed,” says Bru. “Every time.”

  “It’s only a sherbet dip!”

  “Not to Kit. It’s a reminder of something embarrassing she did when she was wee. She was about five and my dad gave her 50p to buy me a birthday present. This was in our last house. There was a shop just around the corner and it was the first time she was allowed to go there on her own, so she was really excited. So many things to choose from… She finally decided on a huge, fancy box of chocolates and a sherbet dip.”

  “And did you enjoy the birthday chocolates, Midge?” asks Bru, who’s heard this story before.

  “No, I didn’t, Bru, thank you for asking. Because Kit ate them! On my birthday she gave me the sherbet dip wrapped up as a present.”

  They find this picture – Kit’s chocolate-smeared face and my disappointed one – both outrageous and irresistibly funny. Skooshie nearly chokes with laughter and has to be thumped on the back by Hector.

  “Yeah, I know. And when my mum and dad pointed out to her that this wasn’t totally fair, that the money was for my birthday present, she got all indignant. She said, ‘I got him a birthday present. I just bought myself something with the money that was left over!’ I’ll never let her live it down.”

  At Lemur’s suggestion, we spend the next while looking for Kit. The plan is we’ll shout “Sherbet dip!” at her and run away. Person who doesn’t get caught wins. But disappointingly she’s nowhere to be found.

  “I have never been… so hot… in my entire… life,” puffs Hector as we slump down in the shade for a rest. And, like it heard him, the van chooses this moment to put in an appearance, its twinkly tune getting nearer and nearer as it comes up the road.

  And the shout goes up, “The van! The van!” Kids drop what they’re doing and start sprinting down to where he’ll park. Skooshie, Hector and Lemur start fishing in their pockets for money; Bru retrieves his from his sock. We’re all flush because there was a wedding at the flats yesterday and we were at the front for the scramble. We had a few skint fingers from it – you have to be quick picking up the money once the bride’s dad throws it out the car window.

  But my pockets are empty. I’ve left my money in the house.

  “You go down – make sure he doesn’t leave before I get there.”

  My dad says that animals adapt to their environment. “Your platypus,” he told me, “is a really clever beast. It’s got webbed feet, to help it swim. It’s a really good swimmer. It hunts underwater, where it can stay for up to two minutes.” (This is longer than Bru or me. We’ve tried.) (Apparently, it’s also a “bottomfeeder” – this turns out NOT to be as funny as you’d think – it just means it eats stuff it finds on the river bottom.) “But it also needs to dig a burrow. Webbed feet not much use for that. So it evolves to a design that means the webbed bit can be pulled back to expose claws.”

  I still think this is dead cool. I love the idea of giving yourself another power, just because you need it. Like me, living in the high flats. I’ve got no money and the van comes. I’m a fast runner but that skill’s no use to me here. By the time I’ve run up and down the stairs and down to where the van is parked, it’ll’ve gone – I can guarantee that. The lift I can’t rely on – it might be up when I need it down and vice versa. I’ve used my superhuman brain to solve the problem and given myself the extra power of an extremely loud shout.

  I stand under our living-room window and bellow, “MUM! DAD! THE VAN’S HERE!”

  I don’t have to wait long. The blind shoots up.

  “Just a minute… Right, stand back. “

  It lands on the ground in front of me with a dull metallic thud, 10p in small coins, wrapped in a bit of newspaper. Once again I have successfully avoided being brained. Another instance of boy adapting to his environment. I take the most direct route to the van, which involves jumping over a few walls and leaping down some stairs.

  ***

  We eat our ice cream leaning against a wall in the last of the sun. In this heat you have to concentrate, licking quickly to catch the drips as they run down the cone. We’ve all gone for sauce but not flakes – we don’t want to use up our money too quickly.

  “What flavour is this red stuff supposed to be?” Lemur asks.

  “Raspberry,” says Hector.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not like the raspberry in raspberry ripple.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.”

  “Or like raspberry jam.”

  “Yuk. I hate that stuff – it’s full of bits that get stuck in your teeth.”

  “Or like raspberry Angel Delight.”

  “I’ve never had that one. Good?”

  “Quite nice. Or was it strawberry?”

  “None of them are as good as butterscotch.”

  “Aw, butterscotch! It’s magic!”

  “Imagine if the van sold butterscotch sauce on ice cream cones!”

  We fall silent in admiration. Hector has truly brilliant ideas sometimes.

  “Is that Kit?” says Lemur, squinting.

  She’s holding a cone in one hand and a torch in the other. My torch, to be precise.

  “Hey! That’s mine, that torch!” But she’s too far off to hear and my ice cream is tasting too good for me to get up and chase her.

  “She’s always taking my stuff,” I complain. “You’re so lucky to be an only child, Hector.”

  “Sometimes,” says Hector. “A lot of the time it’s really boring.”

  “The annoying thing is,” I continue, “that I don’t want to use her stuff. It’s all girly rubbish. Nothing worth taking.”

  “So you�
�ve got to be inventive to get her back?” says Skooshie. Having five brothers and sisters means that Skooshie’s experience in this area is impressive. There’s not a trick he hasn’t used or been the victim of.

  “Yeah. I hide things a lot.”

  “Nice one.”

  “And tell her she has to do stuff, pretending I’m just passing on the instruction from my mum or dad.”

  “Yeah, I like that one. There’s loads of opportunities for it in my house,” Skooshie says. “It’s got that you can’t really trust what anybody says.”

  “I can still see her,” says Hector, making owl eyes with his fingers to improvise binoculars. “Everybody finished? Could it be Sherbet Dip Time?”

  “Yeah!”

  And we’re off again, in pursuit of Kit. That’ll teach her to take my stuff.

  12

  It’s raining: an endless Weegie drizzle that drips and seeps into the den where it finds nooks and crannies we haven’t been able to block. We’ve had days and days of sun, each one hotter than the one before, and the heat has finally exploded in a storm. Today. Friday. Cathkin Day. When we’ve finally got the jemmy and there’s nothing to stop us – except now the weather. We’re sitting it out in the den. We’re more or less dry, but we’re feeling aggrieved, we’ve nothing to eat and on top of that we’re bored. Brain-numbingly bored.

  I’ve just turned to Bru to argue that I’m more bored than he is when Skooshie’s bare foot is thrust between our faces.

  “Wouldn’t it be great,” says Skoosh, “if you could hear with your feet?”

  “Great how?”

  “Well, think about how useful it would be if you were a spy.”

  “How could that possibly help you in spying on somebody?”

  “It would be unexpected. The element of surprise. People would never suspect you could hear what they were saying.”

  “Brilliant – except your feet are attached to your legs which are attached to your body which is attached to your head which features your actual ears – which, unless you are very, very, very tall, are within hearing distance of your feet.”