The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  When Miss Miller read the story of Lucy Brown, and the cruel giant was gone.

  But Miss Miller had never got around to reading the story of Lucy Brown.

  Paulette had watched her with the exercise book, watched her as she put it back down

  On the desk again, as she sighed and asked out loud how she could possibly be expected

  To mark a piece of work like this when its author had so obviously neglected

  The basic rules of grammar, spelling and the need for clear handwriting;

  Miss Miller held up the exercise book and said it looked like spiders had been fighting

  All over the pages after dipping their feet in ink! The kids in the class had all laughed.

  And Sarah Pugh had said that everybody knew that Paulette Patterson was daft!

  Smiling through the scalding shame and shrugging at the spikes of embarrassment

  Paulette picked up her exercise book. And that night when she got home, she went

  Straight to her room and ripped the shameful pages from the book, the stupid story of Lucy Brown.

  And finding the hole in the skirting board, she stuffed the scribbled pages down

  Amongst the scrunched-up sheets of old newspaper that were meant to keep out the draught;

  And tried to forget the shame and disgrace. To forget how everybody had laughed

  As Miss Miller had betrayed her and held up the book; said it looked like spiders had been fighting;

  And had never even noticed it was Paulette’s first try to write a story in joined-up writing.

  Paulette tried to forget! And what she couldn’t forget she pretended had never taken place.

  Although something that couldn’t be pretended away were the pages stuffed in the space

  Behind the skirting boards and the danger that they might be discovered

  And read by her father. And Paulette knew what would happen if he uncovered

  The story and perhaps read a bit more closely than Miss Miller had bothered to do;

  Her father, seeing through the scrawly writing, the thin disguise and realising who

  The story was truly about. Her father who’d told her never to talk about their special game.

  Because if she did, bad things would happen. And she’d only have herself to blame.

  He’d smile at her when he told her that. But Paulette saw the threat behind the smile,

  Heard the note of warning in the whispered words; and thought about the pile

  Of pages still stuffed behind the skirting board, pages that swelled and multiplied

  At night when she was in bed, in the dark. And then when the wind outside

  Began to stir, she’d hear the hideous chorus start up, behind the alabaster;

  The hidden pages rustling and scratching at the wood and plaster,

  The scrawly words coming to life, letters sprouting spidery legs until a teeming

  Army of ugly, inky insect words began pouring off the pages, streaming

  Up and down, this way and that behind the wall, itching, scratching, the frenzied horde

  Feverishly scrabbling till they found the gap and began to spill over the skirting board,

  The torrent of misformed alphabetical bugs scattering out and over the floor,

  The tittle-tattle, tell-tale words scurrying across the carpet and under the door,

  Swarming down and through the house to spread the word of deceit and defiance;

  And how Paulette Patterson had betrayed her father with tales of cruel giants.

  Time after time she’d intended retrieving those sheets of paper,

  To pull them back out from the skirting board and hide them somewhere safer.

  Or better still, rip them into pieces and throw them down the grid,

  Flush them down the toilet, bury them, burn them, get rid

  Of the ruinous writing; but now she knew she’d left it too late.

  And he’d warned her; warned her so many times how he wouldn’t hesitate

  To do what would have to be done if the meddlers and the snoopers got to know

  Just how much he loved his little daughter. And it wouldn’t be his fault. No,

  Because he’d warned her! How many times had he said, daddy’s love must be kept

  A secret, just between the two of them. And he thought she was such a good girl! Except,

  Look what she’d done now! With her sneakiness and slyness, cunning and invention,

  Boiling the pot and meddling with what she’d been told she must never dare mention.

  He’d warned her! Oh he’d warned her. And he’d believed that she’d understood;

  When all the time she’d just been pretending, planning to deceive her own flesh and blood

  With a fairy tale for the teacher; spidery letters, coded, crippled words betraying

  Him to the interferers; the snoopers, meddlers. Oh they’d all start baying

  For his blood now. The fools who’d be falling over themselves to damn and to brand him

  A monster: all the godly, the good, the interfering who’d never understand him!

  And he’d warned her, so many times, of what would happen if she ever dropped

  Even the merest hint of how much her daddy loved her. Hadn’t she stopped

  And considered the consequences? The times she must have heard him say

  There was nobody, nobody on this earth who could take her daddy away!

  Nobody. Apart from himself! Had she thought it was some sort of joke

  When he told her what he’d have to do if anyone found out? When he spoke

  Of how nothing could ever separate them; when he made his solemn promise

  Of what he’d do if the snoopers ever knew and tried to take him from his

  Daughter: that they’d find he was beyond them now, where a daddy’s love couldn’t be defiled,

  Where death had beaten them to it; uniting for ever and ever the father and the child.

  Blind to all but the demons that danced inside her head, she went

  Hurtling along the towpath, a hunted animal, nostrils thick with the scent

  Of her own fear, ears deaf to all but the heavy thudding

  Feet that beat upon the path behind her. Terror flooding

  Her imagination, she ran without knowing that her only pursuer

  Was nothing but the ghost of all that had happened to her;

  The jagged fingernails scratching at her skin nothing more

  Than the snagging of bramble branches as she frantically tore

  Past the hedgerows; the incessant beat of the feet she heard,

  Just the pounding of her own frightened heart as she hared

  Along the path, under the bridge and out where rusted coal shutes and long-derelict

  Grain hoppers sagged, propped up like weary old men against the solid soot-bricked

  Wharfside walls where suddenly she saw her chance of sanctuary:

  Leaving the towpath she clambered, scrambling over neglected machinery,

  Stumbling over lumps of stone and shards of shattered roofing slate,

  Trying to reach her refuge and hide herself before it was too late

  And he emerged from under the bridge, able to see her again before she’d had chance

  To reach the abandoned buildings. As she ran, she risked a quick glance

  Behind her, seeing nothing but hearing still the relentless rumbling

  Beat of feet against the earth; the beat beat beat, sending her stumbling

  On, over the pock-marked cobbles of the disused wharf,

  And across the derelict builders’ yard, racing past the half

  Built hulls of rotting barges, running for her life until she reached

  The gaping hole where the boundary wall had been breached.

  Scrambling through the gap, she thought she’d be safe on the other side.

  Thought that everything would be all right and that she could just hide

  Behind the wall. But it wasn’t
all right! Glancing back there was nothing to see,

  No-one running down the towpath, nobody coming under the bridge. Nobody!

  Nobody’s feet on the pock-marked cobbles, nobody running across the builders’ yard,

  Nobody treading across the wharfside, not a single soul to be seen in the scarred

  And lifeless wasteland; no track or trace of her tormentor;

  Just the sound! The stubborn, ceaseless, thudding sound that sent a

  Wave of panic coursing through her veins; the numbing beat, beat of drumming

  Dogged feet, sending out the message that still, he was coming!

  The warehouse towered above her, vast cathedral walls blocking the sun,

  Doors and windows battened, boarded up with sheets of corrugated iron,

  Each sheet pasted with a message that warned of the consequences

  For those who chose to disregard the ‘DANGER – KEEP OUT’ notices.

  But Paulette Patterson didn’t stop to read and heed the warning signs,

  The threat of possible prosecution and the maximum level of fines.

  She was in enough danger as it was, to care about risks that awaited

  Those who ignored the warning signs and went beyond the corrugated

  Sheeting and ventured inside the building. Paulette found the loading bay

  Where the rusting metal cover had been pulled and partly prised away

  From the wall. Squeezing through the narrow gap, she faltered, hesitating,

  Suddenly afraid of the deep black darkness that loomed beyond the grating.

  But as she paused, she heard it again, coming closer, the dull thudding sound!

  Hesitating no more, Paulette dropped and lying flat on the ground

  She writhed and wriggled beneath the grating, stifling her fear of the dark within

  As she pushed past the rusted iron doors, edging deeper into the darkness, the thin

  Shaft of light from the entrance quickly fading as she crept forward, a careful hand placed

  Against the dusty wall, fingertips guiding her in the blackness as blindly she traced

  Her faltering way, floorboards creaking, whining, crying out beneath her tread

  As if in complaint, the groaning wood, dryboned, too tired and foul-tempered

  To bear the bothersome step, the tiresome weight of the intruder; the rotten pockmarked timbers straining

  To bear the burden as Paulette stood, leaning against the wall now, regaining

  Her breath; the throbbing thud of feet behind her finally beginning to slow, to fade and disappear.

  Safe now, safe in the pitch black cloak of darkness, the beating feet all gone; nothing more to fear;

  Only the dark, as she waited; counting to a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four;

  Then those same hundreds counted again, counted backwards, counted and recounted until she was sure

  That she’d escaped him; that by now he’d have gone, given up, given in, forced to postpone

  His plans. And now, now that she was no longer so afraid, now that the terror had gone,

  Paulette told herself that perhaps, by the time she got back home, he might be himself again,

  Might have turned back into her ordinary daddy, her proper daddy. And then perhaps she could still explain

  Everything so that her mam would understand it wasn’t Paulette’s fault, losing her knickers like she had;

  It wasn’t her fault at all, because it was the butterfly. And the missing sandal? She hadn’t been doing anything bad

  At the allotments; it was the man’s fault, the man who’d chased her, that horrible Man from the Hut.

  And so really it was his fault, Paulette losing her sandal; because he’d grabbed hold of her foot,

  Pulling at her in the spiky hedge; and that’s why the buttons were missing, that’s why her dress was ripped;

  And that’s why her knees were scratched and bleeding, from where she’d stumbled and slipped

  As she was running away. So none of it was her fault, not really; and if she could just explain it to her mother,

  Just like she could explain it now, in her head, then maybe she wouldn’t be in any bother.

  And maybe her mam and her dad had even been worried out of their minds, wondering where she’d gone,

  So that when she did get back, her mam might cry and say she loved her and promise that from now on

  Everything would be different; so that instead of being slapped and called stupid and told she was a walking disgrace,

  Her mother would hug her and hold and tell her there was no-one who would ever take the place

  Of her precious little Paulette. And her mam would wipe all her tears away then and tell her not to be afraid;

  Because from now on, her mam would always be there to love and look after her and make sure she stayed

  Safe and sound. Then Paulette’s mam would whisper that of all the girls in all of the world

  There was none so bright and clever; and none so loved and cherished as Paulette, her treasure of a girl.

  And perhaps Paulette believed her concoction, of the mother as a mother who cared;

  And her father, a father whose love she could trust, one who gave her no cause to be scared

  Of him. Perhaps she believed it; or just needed to believe something better than reality

  As she started to retrace her steps in the darkness, holding onto the wall, holding onto her fantasy

  Of the joyful reunion; of her mam and dad both thrilled to see her safely returned.

  Impatient now to be back outside in the sun, running home, Paulette stopped and turned

  Away from the wall that had been her guide, choosing instead to strike out across the warehouse floor

  Towards the sliver of light from the entrance. But Paulette never made it to the door.

  In the blackness, Paulette couldn’t possibly have seen the void; the gutted

  Timbers; spars collapsed, fallen or flung into the vault below; joists jutted

  Out, fractured floorboards splintered into emptiness, a yawning hollow

  Hidden in the dark; a ravenous gaping mouth, insatiable, ready to swallow

  And suck down into its bottomless black belly, those who deserved everything they got

  For straying so far from home; straying and meddling where they should not.

  Paulette Patterson lifted her foot, eyes fixed on the shard of light from the door

  As she stepped forward. But where her step should have met the wooden floor

  There was nowhere for a foot to fall; nothing but the space, into which she lunged,

  Toppling from her feet, arms flailing, fingers grasping, snatching at the air as she plunged

  Tumbling into the void, plummeting down through the lift-shaft; and thudding to a halt,

  Amid the stinking raft of scrap and rubbish that lined the black belly of the brick vault.

  She tried at first to find a way out. But in her terrified heart she knew she was trapped, entombed

  In this shaft, where the only chance of escape was to scale the sheer walls that loomed

  Above her. She tried at first; clawing at the brick, scrambling to find a crevice or crack

  Where tips of fingers could grip, a foot could fit; and she could begin to push and heave her way back

  Out of this dark stinking tomb. She tried, again and again; feet slipping, sliding, fingers scraping;

  And all her frantic effort mocked by the voice in her head that said this time there would be no escaping.

  Outside, in the stillness of the early evening sun, any passer-by would have heard the calls,

  The shouts, the whimpered cries for help from deep within the disused warehouse walls.

  But that evening, no dog was walked, no lovers strolled, no bicycle boys came thereabouts,

  No vandals, vagrants, stickleback hunters, mischief-seekers, no-one to hear the shouts

  Of the child drifting up from the bowels of the buildi
ng. Nobody came and nobody heard

  The wasted cries, left hanging limp and feeble in the sultry air where nothing but the gnats stirred:

  And the butterfly! The single crimson butterfly clinging to the face of the baked brick wall,

  Where it basked in the sun, in its own brief glory, unaware, undisturbed, untouched by the call

  Of the child, growing slowly weaker, fainter; fading till it was barely more than a bleating cry;

  Than the beat of a wing in the air that bore the soaring crimson butterfly.

  RJM

  The Pulse and Husk

  Wholefood Cantina,

  Rennet Street,

  Huddersfield

  Dear Morrissey,

  They cancelled the coach! When it came on the tannoy and they said that due to unforeseen circumstances the three o’clock service to Grimsby had been cancelled, I couldn’t help feeling a massive, if momentary, surge of relief. All the other passengers started groaning and shaking their heads but I just sat there hoping that this was the news I’d been waiting for and that Grimsby had had to be sealed off from the outside world because of blue asbestos or an outbreak of foot and mouth; or even severe earth tremors or civil unrest and cod riots or the invasion of the sodding body-snatchers. I didn’t care what it was as long as it was something that meant I could just turn round and go home to Failsworth without upsetting my Mam.

  But the announcement just said the cancellation was due to mechanical problems with the incoming vehicle. And we’d have to wait for the five o’clock service instead. They said they were issuing vouchers so the delayed passengers could avail themselves of a selection of sandwiches in the bus station cafeteria. But as all the selected sandwiches were of a notably non-vegetarian variety, and some of them were positively cannibalistic, containing things like brisket and brawn and tongue, I gave my vouchers to this elderly couple in the queue.

  ‘Don’t you want them?’ the man said to me.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘they’re no good to me. I’m a vegetarian.’

  His wife looked at me then, cocked her head all sympathetically and said, ‘Agh,’ as if I’d just informed her I only had three weeks left to live.

  I went for a walk round. Even after paying for my coach ticket, I still had £1.65 left. So I saw this place and I came in here. I don’t know about you, Morrissey, but despite my avowed vegetarian status I always find the atmosphere in wholefood cafés to be somewhat intimidating. They seem to attract the sort of vegetarians who give vegetarianism a bad name, all sat around looking ill, avoiding salt and getting wound up about E numbers and CFCs. And for such caring people they all seem so hostile. Even the food seems to have some kind of passive hostility to it. I ordered a homity pie. But it was all attitude and no flavour. I took it back and told him the potatoes were hard. He looked at me like he was too bored to breathe.