Then I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my money. And remembered that all I had left from what Cindy-Charlene had given me was 65p! 65p! And even just a portion of chips cost 35p!
I was just stood there looking at the chalked-up menu board, realising that all I could afford was chips, gravy and one thin slice of bread. Or perhaps chips and peas instead of the gravy. Or just chips with two slices of bread. And then I was thinking it might even be best to have just peas with five slices of bread – when I saw him! Further along, down towards the front of the queue! Him! The truck driver who’d robbed all my money. The Greasy-Gobbed Get who’d robbed my wallet. And there it was! Being held out in his fat hands, one hand holding it open and the other extracting a ten-pound note and passing it over to the girl at the till, my wallet!
And then I saw him turning away from the front of the queue, with a tray in his hands; and I even remembered then, remembered him saying that his job sometimes took him all the way over to the east coast; the bastard, the Incredible Bulk of a bacon-chewing bastard who’d taken my wallet from my bag, leaving me penniless and destitute and having to hitch and beg and borrow just to get myself to Grimsby. Leaving me without so much as my deposit for my digs or enough to buy myself a decent dinner!
And now here he was turning away from the front of the queue, with a tray in his fat hands; and on it a big plate piled high with chips, two eggs, big black pudding pieces, sliced tomatoes, beans and mushrooms along with half a loaf of thick buttered bread and next to that a steaming pudding bowl. And all of it paid for with money from my wallet!
I know, Morrissey, I know now, I should perhaps have proceeded with a bit more caution. But I was starving and weak with hunger; and there was him lifting all his overflowing dishes from the tray and laying them out on the table. I watched him as he sat down and started laughing and talking with the other men at the table, the men I’d been working with. I watched as he put down the wallet, my wallet, at the side of his dinnerplate. And I didn’t even have to worry, Morrissey, because I could prove it was my wallet. I could! Because what he didn’t know was that inside the wallet, on the back panel, in purple felt-tip pen I’d inscribed it, Morrissey; inscribed it with words of yours. It was the night before I’d left Failsworth. The night that I knew I was going to have to give you up, Morrissey – give you up and go to Grimsby and try and make a go of it. And inside that wallet I’d written the words, ‘Will nature make a man of me yet?’
And that’s why I left the queue and started picking my way through the tables, looking at him all the time, watching him as he opened his big mouth and laughed at something one of the others said, laughed like I’d seen him laugh before, with his fat mouth full of food so that you could see all the chewed-up chips and black pudding mixed up with egg yolk and sauce and saliva. He didn’t see me though. Didn’t look up, didn’t notice. Nobody seemed to notice me, even when I was stood there at the side of the table. They were all talking, the labourers, laughing and talking and telling jokes. I ignored them. And kept staring at the Greasy-Gobbed Get, waiting for him to realise, to look up and recognise me. But it was one of the labourers who noticed me first, the one with the snake tattoos. ‘Y’ all right?’ he asked.
But I didn’t answer him. I just kept looking at the wallet robber. And in the end it was the young labourer who nudged him, so that he finally looked up from his plate. And, at last, he was staring at me, staring into the face of the person he thought he’d never see again, the person whose wallet he’d robbed.
‘Yes! That’s right,’ I said to him, ‘it’s me!’
He tried to pretend! Straight away, he tried to pretend. Looking at me with a puzzled frown on his fat face and then turning to the others, indicating me with a nod of his head as he said, ‘One of your lads?’
The labourers all shook their heads. Then the older one shrugged and said, ‘He was just with us this morning.’
Then the Greasy-Gobbed Get turned back to me and said, ‘I think you’ve made a mistake, son. You’ve got the wrong party!’
But I didn’t flinch, Morrissey. I just kept staring and even smiling slightly as I shook my head and said, ‘Oh no I haven’t! I’ve got exactly the right party! The party from Birch Services, on the M62!’
He still tried to pretend, Morrissey. He frowned at me and said, ‘What the fuck are y’ talking about, son?’
I nodded. I pointed at him. And said, ‘I’m talking about you! And what you stole from me yesterday.’
All the others were looking at him then, Morrissey. And I knew he must be getting hot under the collar then, because he said, ‘What are y’, a fuckin’ druggie or what?’
But I just shook my head, smiling at him, smiling in triumph as I said, ‘I can prove it! I can prove that you stole my wallet.’
And I know that must have rattled him because he suddenly became really narked then as he pointed at me with his fork and said, ‘Now listen! Fuck off, y’ little twat. I’ve never even fuckin’ set eyes on y’ before. Go on, fuck off!’
But I didn’t, Morrissey. I didn’t ‘fuck off’, because I knew! ‘Right then,’ I said, pointing at it, ‘all right! If that’s not my wallet, then how come I know what’s inscribed inside the back panel?’
He picked up the wallet from the table and pointing it at me, he said, ‘I’ll fuckin’ inscribe you in a minute!’
But that’s where he made his big mistake, Morrissey, because as he was pointing at me with the wallet, that’s when I snatched it out of his hand! And the look of surprise on his face, Morrissey, it was like he was so stunned, he couldn’t even move. And before he could recover, I handed the wallet to the young labourer and said, ‘Go on, go on. I haven’t looked inside it, have I? But if you open it and look inside the back panel – go on, look in there and I’ll tell you what it says, the words, the words in there. I know what they are because I put them in there and if it wasn’t my wallet then I wouldn’t know, would I, would I?’
They were all looking at me, Morrissey. All of them, even the Greasy-Gobbed Get, sitting there and looking mutely back at me. And I knew why, I knew why, because it was all up, the game was up and they all knew. ‘Go on,’ I told the young labourer, ‘open the wallet.’
He seemed a bit apprehensive. But then he looked at the Greasy-Gobbed Get who nodded. He’d given up! He knew I’d caught him red-handed and there was no point denying it any longer. The young labourer opened up the wallet and looked inside.
‘The panel at the back,’ I told him. ‘Look in there.’
He did. And then I said, ‘Can you see what’s written there?’
He nodded.
‘Right,’ I said, and they were all staring at me, ‘written inside the back of the wallet are the words, “Will nature make a man of me yet?”’
The young labourer looked at me. Then he looked back at the wallet. I could see the rest of the gang, wide-eyed and waiting, like they were in the betting shop waiting to hear the results. I could see the Greasy-Gobbed Get, his face a stony mask, as if he was trying to pretend that none of this was happening to him. I almost felt sorry for him. And then I heard him, the young labourer, as he announced, ‘ “Made in Italy” !’
They all burst out laughing, Morrissey! And one of the labourers reached across saying, ‘Here, let’s have a look.’
They were all still laughing as the other labourer said, ‘Y’ right, “Made in Italy”. It says nowt else here.’
Morrissey, I want you to understand that I wasn’t thieving. I thought they were lying, covering up for the Greasy-Gobbed Get. And that’s why I did it. Why I snatched the wallet as it was being passed from one pair of hands to the next. And if none of them had leaped up and started coming after me, I wouldn’t have run anywhere with it. I was only trying to get far enough away so that I could look inside and see for myself before they took the wallet back off me and carried on pretending that your words weren’t inscribed inside, when I knew they were. That’s the only reason I went running, dodging between the t
ables and out of the canteen, so that I could prove that they were all lying. And that’s why I was pulling out the money! Not because I was taking it or trying to steal it! I was pulling it out so that I could see inside the wallet properly! Because I must have inscribed the words much deeper down than I’d remembered. Or maybe it wasn’t even inside the back panel. Maybe I’d just got mixed up and written the words inside the front panel. That’s why I was pulling everything out and just letting it all fall to the ground, the pictures of the baby, the driving licence, receipts, credit cards, club membership, the packet of condoms, bits of scrap. I wasn’t trying to steal anything, Morrissey. I was just looking for the words; the words that weren’t there!
If I’d been trying to steal anything, Morrissey, I would still have been trying to get away, wouldn’t I? But when they all came running up to me, I was just stood there, feeling really woozy and light-headed again. I didn’t like being back out in the sun. It was glaring into my eyes and making the skin on my arms and shoulders feel all uncomfortable and prickly. That’s why I was just stood there, Morrissey. In a sort of trance really, with all the money and all the bits and pieces from someone else’s wallet all around me!
They said I was a ‘fuckin’ thievin’ bastard’. They told me to pick everything up and put it back in the wallet. I told them I was sorry. They ignored me. When I’d put it all back and handed it to the man, they told him to check that everything was there. I watched him going through it all, counting his money. And it’s funny, but outside in the sun he didn’t even look that fat. He didn’t have an earring either. Outside in the sun, it was hard to believe how I could ever have mistaken him for the Greasy-Gobbed Get. I said I was sorry again. But they all just kept looking at me, looking a bit shocked and wary. That’s when I said to him, the young labourer, I said, ‘I made a mistake. But I’m not a thief, I’m not, honest. Because really,’ I said, ‘I’m a Morrissey fan, just like you.’
I thought he’d understand. But his face twisted into a look of complete disgust as he said, ‘What! I’m not a fuckin’ Morrissey fan! Just because you heard me singing that miserable shite? I’m no fuckin’ Morrissey fan! I just do it for a joke, to wind them up!’ He pointed at me then and said, ‘Don’t fuckin’ accuse me of liking that twisted bastard!’
Him and his mates just stood there and carried on staring at me then, as if I was even weirder than I’d seemed before. The man with the wallet announced that everything seemed to be in order and none of his money was missing. They started debating whether they should call in the police. But as they were doing that, the Ganger came running up, saying he’d heard what had been going on. When he saw me, he said, ‘Well, I should have fuckin’ well known, shouldn’t I? It obviously runs in the family with you lot, doesn’t it? Like your uncle! Like uncle, like fuckin’ nephew!’
And that’s when he pushed me, Morrissey, pushed me so hard that I fell over, sprawling on the ground. And then he was pulling me, dragging me back to my feet and propelling me along, pulling me by my vest and dragging me with it, dragging me all the way to the Portakabin, where he told me to get my gear and get the fuck out of it before he called the police and had me arrested. Then he aimed a kick at me and sent me running and stumbling out of the gates and up the narrow lane, all the while trying to keep to the side that was in shadow, to keep out of the sun. I hated the sun! It was making me feel sick, whenever I looked at the light or felt the heat of it directly on me. I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t have any idea; I was just stumbling along, reeling from side to side like the drunk men do. And then I had to sit down, leaning my back against the building-site boards and just sitting there, feeling frightened and panicky and wondering, wondering what was happening to me; trying to tell myself that it couldn’t be happening again. Only it was, Morrissey. I knew it was! Because it was starting to be like it was before, when I was in Swintonfield and being paranoid, when I was seeing things, seeing people who weren’t there, seeing the Greasy-Gobbed Get when there’d been no Greasy-Gobbed Get. And that same morning in Cleethorpes, when I’d sat and stared out across the sands, I’d been seeing things then, seeing the girl; when there was no way that she could possibly have been there, the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes.
And even the man, Morrissey, the night before, the American man who’d dropped me in Grimsby. He was probably just somebody inside my head. I should have known, should have known that it was starting then, when a middle-aged grey-haired man was singing along to Smiths’ songs and said he had a son back in New York City. Maybe he meant Malcolm! Perhaps that’s who he was, Malcolm’s dad who used to be in the Beach Boys.
But there was no Malcolm, was there? There was never any Malcolm. There was never any American man who’d driven off with my guitar in the boot. I’d just lost it somewhere and couldn’t remember where.
It was all happening again! That’s why I knew I had to try and get home, before it was too late; before I no longer knew who I was any more. My head was aching though, aching so much that I couldn’t bear to open my eyes. And I had no money, no way of getting home. But I had to!
I pushed myself up and tried to move along the lane, leaning on the chipboard wall, stumbling along to the end of the lane till I got to the road that leads down to the docks. I reached the traffic lights, the ones with the yellow sign for the building site. But I couldn’t bear it, the traffic, the noise of the traffic, the smell of the fumes from the cars and the lorries and the heat, the heat, coming down from the sky, coming up from the ground, the heat. I had to sit down again, sit down anywhere, just there, on the pavement, anywhere, it didn’t matter, leaning up against the traffic-light pole, my eyes closed against the light, head spinning, my ears ringing with the noise, the noise of the traffic and the wheels and the squeals and the thundering roar and then the voice, the American voice, shouting, calling, saying, ‘Hey, Kid! … Raymond?’
‘Go away!’ I started shouting at the voice, covering my ears to cut it out, starting to jibber and jabber so that I couldn’t hear it inside my head, the voice … the voice saying, ‘Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened? Raymond? Kid, come on … it’s OK, OK.’
‘Go away,’ I told the voice in my head, ‘go away go away go away … leave me leave me go away …’
But it wouldn’t. It was still there, still in my head, saying, ‘Jesus, what happened to you? Can’t you talk … can you hear? Can you hear me?’
That’s when I felt the hands! Hands on my hands, gently tugging them away from my ears as the voice said, ‘Can you open your eyes? Can you try? Please …’
And I thought that might make it go away, like it sometimes did in Swintonfield when somebody had hold of me, like the Man with the Upside-Down Head, but if I opened my eyes then they wouldn’t be there any more.
Only this time it didn’t work, because he was still there, Malcolm’s dad, kneeling in front of me, pretending to be real, pretending he knew things.
‘I’ve been lookin’ for you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know where the hell to find you. I opened up the boot and there was your guitar. I looked for you. What happened to you? What happened to your clothes? I almost drove straight by you.’
I started frowning. I blinked and looked at him again. He seemed worried and anxious. His eyes were full of concern as he said, ‘Jesus, you really are in a bad way.’
Morrissey, that’s when I began to wonder! When I even started to hope that he might be real.
That’s why I nodded when he said, ‘Look, do you think you could stand?’
I pushed myself up as best I could, with my back against the traffic light pole till I was standing, and shivering now, shivering in the burning hot heat of the day. He was looking at me really intently. And he said, ‘Hey! You’re gonna be OK, you know that? You’re gonna be OK.’
That’s when I felt the salty sting of a tear running down my cheek; when I didn’t even care any more whether he was real or not, because it was just so nice having someone who was smiling at me, being nice to me, p
icking up my bag and helping me and asking me if I could manage the few steps around the corner, where the car was parked.
I began walking, following, wishing that the pain in my head wasn’t so bad, that my skin didn’t sting, that my legs didn’t feel like they were made of jelly; wishing that the man really was as real as he seemed; as real as the silver Mercedes parked in the side street around the corner, the same silver Mercedes that I’d seen the night before.
That’s when I thought it was all right! That it was real after all! Really, really real. That’s why I tried to start hurrying towards the car, so that I could get out of the sun.
Only I never made it. Because that’s when I passed out!
When I saw her, sitting there in the back seat of the car, the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Marks
22 June 1991
Swallowbrook,
Heaton Wold,
N. Lincolnshire
Dear Mam,
I know that this’ll come as a surprise but, honest, you really shouldn’t worry about me; because I’m all right, Mam.
I know that my Uncle Jason will have talked to you by now and so you’re probably all upset. But Mam, don’t even bother listening to him because it’s all right; it is, Mam, everything’s all right.
I know it’s a different sort of all right from the all right you expected it to be. And I know how much you were counting on it, me getting a job and settling down and just becoming an ordinary normal person who wouldn’t be such a worry to you any more. I understand that, Mam. That’s why I went to Grimsby in the first place, because I thought you were right. I even thought my Uncle Jason was right! I thought that if I just made the effort then I really could turn into the sort of ordinary normal lad that I know you’ve always wanted me to be. And Mam, I even wanted it to be like that as well! That’s why I tried. I tried really hard. Only I think I’ve come to realise now, Mam, that if you’re not naturally normal then it’s pointless really, thinking that you can change and become somebody who fits in. I think it must be a bit like being homosexual and if that’s what you are then that’s what you are; and that’s all there is to it.
The Wrong Boy Page 47