Nicking Time

by T. Traynor

  “Yeah. The best. And she thinks Lemur set it up.” I snort and flick my eyes dismissively in Kit’s direction.

  “You’re saying it wasn’t just chance, Kit?” says Bru. “Lemur arranged it so Midge’d bump into him and that we’d find the den?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Well… maybe he did. And if he did, it all worked out. Maybe he saw us playing and he was lonely and he thought the quickest way to get to meet us was to let himself be knocked over like a bowling pin by you, Midge.”

  “I did hit him hard!”

  “And maybe he thought the best way for us to be friends was to have something in common, like the den. And he didn’t want to say, ‘Here’s my den and you can hang out here with me,’ because then it would always have been his den.”

  “Yes. Much better for it to be something that we all discovered at the same time, so it was always ours, for all of us. So you think he probably did set it up?”

  Bru shrugs. “I don’t know for sure. But it’s totally Lemur, isn’t it?”

  “Clever… always wanting to be totally in charge… generous… scheming…”

  “Yeah. All of these. That’s just Lemur.”

  He’s right. Bru’s usually right. It’s annoying he thinks Kit was right too, but sometimes you just have to accept these things.

  The next thing we hear is a whine from her: “Will you play a game with me? Pullleeeeease?”

  There’s a bit of argument about what to play. Kit says we can’t play Mouse Trap because the bath is missing. I say that if it is, she’s the one who lost it. She says I can’t prove that. I say… but Bru interrupts, suggesting a Connect 4 league. Kit and I both say no to that – one person would have to sit out every game, which would be boring. We’re about to settle for playing cards when Kit remembers Go.

  Go’s a bit like Monopoly, but much more interesting – you get to travel round the world collecting souvenirs. You choose where you want to go. You need to change your money to the currency of every place you land in so you can buy them. The first one back to London with all their souvenirs is the winner.

  “Mum’s not doing anything – just drinking tea and reading a magazine. Shall we ask her if she wants to play as well?” says Kit. She comes back two minutes later without Mum but with a tray of biscuits and juice. “She says she’s sorry, she’s busy, but she hopes we enjoy playing.”

  “I love this game,” says Bru, just before a Risk card sends him to Heard Island when he was on his way to Los Angeles. He curses as he looks at his now-useless US dollars. “How is it even possible to be diverted from the US to some squitchy wee island near Australia? What kind of storm causes that?”

  Kit looks gleeful. She has a fistful of souvenirs and I can see her working out what’s the quickest route back to London. She looks on target to win. I need to distract her.

  I pick up her souvenirs.

  “What are you doing?” she says. “Buy your own.”

  “Just wanted to see which ones you’ve gone for. Oh, yeah. Here you are.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh, yeah’?” she asks, snatching them back.

  “Nothing.”

  She rolls the dice and moves. She can’t let it go. “You definitely meant something.”

  “Just that they’re not like the souvenirs you normally go for.”

  “How?”

  “You usually have quite an ambitious route, don’t you? The way you’re going is a bit… easy?” I catch Bru’s eye. He knows exactly what I am up to. “But you’re absolutely right. It’s winning that’s important,” I say, taking my turn with the dice. “Not winning in style.”

  You can almost hear the cogs turning in Kit’s tiny brain as she takes this in. She can see that if she wins using her current plan, I am going to go on and on about this. That it was a win but somehow not a very impressive one. But if she changes her plan and then loses, she will have played right into my hands. Her only option is to change her plan and still make sure she wins.

  With her next move she goes so far west she is off the board. She throws her piece to Bru. “Tokyo,” she says. He places it for her. I have to conceal a smile. It’s a long way from Tokyo to London…

  I study the board. I’m plotting a very bold route myself, involving all three African locations. And it’s going really well. Up until the point when Bru rolls a six and hops his piece casually across the Atlantic. “That’s me,” he says. “Back in London.”

  “Never mind,” he adds, grinning at how crushed we look. “You both lost with a lot of style.”

  ***

  The rain clears at last after dinner. Kids ooze out of the flats and try to find games that don’t involve going on the grass, which is still soaking wet. The air is thick and sticky.

  We’re playing Kick the Can. It’s never hard to find a Tennants can – the fans on their way to Hampden sling them into the long grass as they go up the hill.

  Kick the Can is like Hide and Seek, but more exciting. You stand an empty can in the place where whoever’s het is counting. When he goes to look for everybody, you have to try and get back to base and kick the can over – it’s proof you made it back safely. If he sees you and is able to kick the can over first, you’re out.

  It’s Skooshie’s turn to be het.

  Bru’s really good at this game. He’s small and fast and really hard to spot. He’s the first back as usual. Skooshie’s miles off when Bru gives the can a mighty punt, so it ricochets off the wall. “HOME!” he yells.

  I manage to steal in. I’d like to say it’s because I’m a faster runner than Skooshie but I was helped a bit by Bru showing Skooshie a really interesting stone he’d just found. “No fair!” shouts Skooshie.

  “All’s fair in war and Kick the Can!” I correct him. “HOME!” Again the can batters off the wall.

  By now Skooshie can hardly see. The lights start to go on in people’s windows, making the gloaming even darker. While Skooshie’s complaining that this gives all the hiders a huge advantage, a flash of sandshoes gives Hector away. Skooshie races for the can, beating Hector back.

  “Saw your shoes,” says Skooshie, doubled-over and breathless. “Wear your dark ones next time.”

  “These ones are the best for running,” says Hector, also gasping.

  Only Lemur hasn’t been found.

  We don’t think about being called in, in case thinking about it will make it happen. We would give anything to stay out, anything.

  The door to my flats opens. A figure stands looking out at us. I squint at it, trying to work out who it is. It’s not my dad because I know he’s not working tonight. And the figure doesn’t move towards us, just stands, peering into the dark. I wonder if we’re in for a row. Not everybody appreciates hearing a good game of Kick the Can.

  “James!” It’s a man, beckoning to me. I jog over. As I get closer, I recognise Mr Murphy. His windows are all on the other side of the flats. No way he could hear us playing.

  “Hello, Mr Murphy.”

  “Is your pal with you?”

  “Which pal?”

  “The lad with the fair hair who was with you… that other day at the lift. What do you call him?”

  “Lemur?” I say.

  “Lemur,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Is he here?”

  “He’s not here right now. We’re playing a game and he’s hiding. I’ve no idea where he is.”

  “Does he live in the flats?”

  “No.”

  “Tell him… Will you ask him to come and see me? Tell him I said it’s about time we had a talk.”

  “OK, Mr Murphy. I will.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turns to go. I really want to ask him what it’s about but I’m not sure how to do it without getting told off for nosiness.

  “Is it… is it anything important, Mr Murphy?” I finally ask, in what I hope is a casual kind of way.

  He looks at me. Here’s the row coming.

  “Good pal of yours?” he asks.

 
I nod. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Watch out for him. Just watch out for him.”

  Watch out for Lemur? Why? I have no time to ask. Mr Murphy is gone, back in the lift on the way up to his flat.

  Is Lemur in trouble, like Kit said? What has he done? What do I need to do to help him? I lie in bed later, thinking and thinking, but I don’t come up with any answers.

  ***

  I get Lemur on his own the next day and I pass on the message.

  “Are you in trouble, Lemur? Because if you are…”

  “I’m not in trouble.”

  “What did he mean then?”

  “He saw us playing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Probably remembering when he was in a gang. Remembering what it’s like to have your pals round you, standing up for you. Just saying we should watch out for each other, whatever happens.”

  “We do. That’s what I was going to say. If you are in trouble—”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “I know you’re not. But if you ever are… well… you know… I’m… if you need… you know… help.”

  “Eh, yeah. OK.”

  I know – it’s starting to sound like the kind of conversation two girls might have. I think we’re both relieved when Skooshie tumbles into the den, throwing out noisy accusations that Lemur cheated with his hiding place the night before, and normality is restored.

  16

  “I can’t, Midge.” Bru’s just answered the door to me. There’s a resigned look on his face. “My mum’s going out and I’ve got to look after the Toaty Terrors.”

  “An-drew!”

  “Sorry, got to go. See you later maybe?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Really? Would you? No, but don’t. They’re a pain. That would be above and beyond, you know.”

  “I’m not going to abandon you.”

  “Aw, thanks, Midge. You’re a pal.”

  Mrs Brown gives me a smile when I go into Bru’s living room.

  “Two big brothers to play with. You’re brave, Jamie!”

  Bru’s five-year-old twin brothers, Kenny and Graham – more usually known as the Toaty Terrors – fling themselves at me. “Midge! What’re we going to do? What’re we going to play? What’re we going to do?”

  “Enjoy yourselves!” Mrs Brown calls after us. They’re still attached to me as we leave the house and get in the lift.

  “How hard can it be?” I ask Bru, as the lift doors open and his brothers whirl out (and when I say “whirl”, I mean whirl – all the way down they’ve been spinning to see who can make themselves the dizziest). “As long as we don’t lose them… Or let them injure themselves… And they don’t start crying… That about covers it, doesn’t it? See. We’ll be fine. Then as soon as we get rid of them, it’s up to the den to make the final arrangements for Friday.”

  Bru says nothing. It’s possible that he’s thinking that I don’t know what I’m talking about, but if he is, he’s not the sort to say it.

  “Do that spinning thing again,” he calls to Kenny and Graham. “Here on the grass, where it won’t hurt when you fall down.”

  We sit and watch, admiring them, for a minute.

  “You’d fall down before me,” says Bru.

  “Prove it,” I answer.

  “You’re on.” Bru never says no to a challenge.

  Bru is the first to drop. As I knew he would be. Kenny and Graham shout gleefully for another round, all of us together. We let them win, or maybe you get less good at this sort of thing as you get older. The four of us lie whooping on the grass. I keep my eyes closed to enjoy the last moments of the wheeling, out-of-control feeling you get.

  “What’re we doing now?” asks Kenny.

  We try to teach them how to play tennis. It’s a dead loss. They don’t seem to get the whole ball-racquet connection thing. If Bru and I aren’t ducking to avoid head injury from the wildly swung racquets, we’re sprinting down the hill after the ball. We all agree it’s time to find another activity.

  We go up to play on the bars. I think they’re supposed to be for people to hold onto as they go up and down the stairs but we all use them for tricks. We show the TTs how to turn somersaults, then hold onto them as they have a go, to make sure they don’t split their heads open on the concrete. They get quite good.

  “Monkey genes,” says Bru.

  “That makes sense,” I say. “How long have we done so far?”

  “Half an hour,” says Bru.

  “You’re kidding!”

  He shakes his head. “They actually make time go slower. Didn’t you know? I think it’s their superpower.”

  “What’re we doing now?” asks Graham, who’s hanging upside down. If he didn’t have the ginger hair, he’d look quite like a vampire bat.

  “What about a game of Spies?” I suggest.

  “I’m James Bond,” Kenny announces quickly.

  “No, I’m James Bond!” says Graham, now the right way up and looking less batty. “I’m dead good at being a spy!”

  “No – me.” Kenny gives his brother a push. Graham gives him a push back. These things never stop at one push each. It’s not looking promising.

  “Whoa!” says Bru. “Why d’you want to be James Bond? The Russian spies are much more dangerous.”

  “Russians?” says Graham, suspiciously. “Who are they?”

  “They’re… from Russia. They’ve got bombs. We’ve got bombs. They spy on us all the time and we spy on them. That’s the main spying thing that’s actually going on right now in the world at this very minute. The Russians practise a lot and are really good at spying – they’ve got lots of amazing gadgets. You should definitely be Russians.”

  “So, these Russians, they beat James Bond?”

  “Well, no…”

  “They sound rubbish,” says Kenny.

  “Yeah,” says Graham.

  “Let’s both be James Bond, Graham,” says Kenny.

  “Yeah!” says Graham.

  The flats are a great place for spying (well, if you can forget the fact that you can be seen from about a million different windows). There’s loads of walls to hide behind, lots of different ways you can go to avoid capture, plenty of places to hide. We give Kenny and Graham a head start by talking loudly in Russian accents whenever we’re getting close to them, to warn them we’re on their trail. Bru and I agree our accents are brilliant, even if totally unappreciated by Kenny and Graham. It turns out we don’t know any real Russians apart from Olga Korbut (and she’s a girl), so we go by the code names Midgeski and Bruski.

  Using all our cunning, and some very skilful Russian spy tactics, we eventually capture the Jameses Bonds and are just about to make sure that they never cause us any trouble again, when, totally unexpectedly… they manage to escape! (Who could have guessed that was going to happen?) As they run off, the Jameses Bonds pause only to shoot the brilliant Russian agents Bruski and Midgeski, who die slowly, dramatically, tragically…

  “Aren’t you dead yet?” says Graham.

  “What’re we doing now?” asks Kenny.

  It’s quite hard work, thinking up all these great things to do.

  “What would you like to do? What ideas have you two got?” I ask them hopefully.

  Kenny frowns. “We don’t have any ideas.”

  “That’s your job,” Graham adds. There’s a hint of a warning in his voice. Bru wasn’t kidding. They are tough customers.

  The van comes. Bru’s mum has given us money. Going down to the van (the long way), queuing (politely allowing grannies to go before us) and eating our ice creams uses up another ten minutes.

  “What’re we doing now?” asks Graham.

  Bru and I have noticed that there are quite a few other wee kids at the van. We try to interest Kenny and Graham in playing with their own kind, but they’re not having it. Even when one of the wee kids comes up and asks if he can play.

  “No,” says Graham. “We’re playing a game with my big brother.”


  “That’s who I meant,” says the wee kid. “It’s him I want to play with.”

  It is risky but we’re stuck for ideas so we don’t have a lot of choice. We started off with two and now there’s a whole crowd of them wanting entertainment from us. Luckily, Bru comes up with a brilliant plan.

  “OK, you can all play. D’you know Hospital Tig?”

  They don’t. When we explain it, they look at us like we’re aliens, bringing details of an amazing new technology from another planet. Even Kenny and Graham seem impressed. “Right, listen!” says Bru. “Rule 1. One person is het. They do the chasing. Everybody else runs. You have three lives. If you’re caught, you lose a life. First person to lose all three lives is then het.”

  “Rule 2 – and this is why it’s called Hospital Tig. If the person who’s het catches you by touching you on the arm, after that you’ve got to run holding your arm. If you’re caught on the head, you hold your head. Get the idea?”

  There’s a chorus of yeses, and more than one “Yes, Kenny and Graham’s big brother.”

  “Rule 3. You can only run in this big space between the flats – the stairs are too dangerous, so they’re out of bounds. We don’t want any actual hospitals involved, do we?” As jokes go, it’s really pathetic – if we hadn’t had the audience, I would have had to punch Bru to bring him to his senses. But the wee kids laugh like he’s the funniest person they’ve ever met.

  I’m het first. There’s a lot of shrieking and squealing as they scarper. I do give them a chance by running sideways a lot of the time. My target (one that I’ve just made up for myself) is to catch them all in different ways to see who runs the funniest. I get a wee fair-haired girl by touching her hair as it flies out behind her when she sprints, so she has to run holding her plait up in the air. Then I duck right down and manage a neat backhand tap to Graham’s ankle. (Not easy – being so toaty, he’s really very near the ground.) After that, he’s got to hop so he can hold onto it. And I flick Kenny on both buttocks, so he has to run around holding his bum. This has most of the wee folk in stitches (now that, Bru, is what I call a genuinely funny hospital joke). This makes it a lot easier to catch them.