Language in the Blood

by Angela Lockwood

  ***

  Thomas never got into that sort of trouble. He finished university and got a teaching job in one of London’s suburbs. He was still awkward and shy, but eventually, in 1968, he managed to convince one of his fellow teachers to marry him. A year later their son George was born and in 1974 they added a daughter, Olivia.

  Thomas didn’t need me to look after him either, but George Junior was a different story. I was living in the south of France by the 1980s, but I came back to look in on young George when he was about 17. I had fulfilled my promise to George Senior, but felt I should have a look in on his grandson to see if he had taken after his dad.

  Not a bit of it. Young George was a very different character. He was restless and had a violent streak. He soon rebelled against his teachers and parents by donning a Mohican and Doc Martens and hanging out with a bad crowd that liked to terrorise the local shopkeepers.

  Even at 17 George had a commanding presence. He wasn’t very tall, but he had an impressive physique and, as I was often to tell him, a face only a mother could love. Things got really bad when George met alcohol – the two really never should be in the same place. After a few drinks George liked to pick a fight and wouldn’t always come out on top. I started to follow him every night he went out drinking and sometimes stepped in when things got out of hand.

  One night he got into a fight with two skinheads and ended up taking quite a beating. I thought it best to hand him into the local accident and emergency as he looked in a bad way. As I dragged him along the road, he started to sober up. Suddenly, he stopped and looked me up and down suspiciously with the eye that hadn’t swollen shut.

  ‘I’ve seen you a few times,’ he slurred.

  ‘Could be. We probably drink in the same places. Now come on. We’d best get you to the hospital,’ I told him, flagging down a taxi. He let me put him into the taxi and I dropped him off at the hospital.

  When I next saw George, the stitches in his face and hands were healing nicely, but they didn’t stop him from going out on the town again. He’d managed to track down one of the guys responsible for the beating and one night I found the two of them alone in a side alley where George was laying into the guy with a bicycle chain. I swooped in and pinned George to the wall, pressing my hand against his throat. The guy ran away, bleeding heavily from his ear.

  ‘Stop! You were going to kill that guy,’ I said pushing him hard against the wall.

  ‘Fuck you! Get off!’ he shouted, trying with all his might to take swings at me.

  ‘George! What the fuck are you doing?’ I said placing my hand under his chin and lifting him up a bit against the wall.

  ‘Who the fuck are you? Why do you know my name?’ he said, feeling the pain now and calming down.

  ‘I was a friend of your grandad,’ I told him quietly.

  George was starting to calm down and I took my hand off his throat. He looked at me suspiciously. ‘I think you have the wrong guy, pal. My grandad died in World War II,’ he said straightening his clothes and frowning.

  ‘Did they ever find his body?’ I asked and gave him a wink.

  ‘What the fuck are you on about, you fucking weirdo!’

  He launched at me again and I grabbed his fist in mid strike and pinned him back against the wall, my hand firmly back against his throat. He started gasping for air.

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to mess with me boy!’ I said, giving him my most chilling stare.

  I finally saw fear in his eyes. Maybe he could be helped. ‘Go home George,’ I told him, ‘but meet me here tomorrow and for Christ’s sake, be sober. Honestly, I will mess you up if I catch you drinking again,’ I threatened.

  He left with hanging shoulders. He had felt an unknown strength and rage in me that left him chastened.

  We met the next day and talked for many hours. He was the first human I ever told about myself. At first, he laughed. Then he realised that would explain why he’d felt something in me that wasn’t quite natural. Later, out of sight in the alley, I showed him my fangs and let him touch them. He thought they were very cool.

  I don’t know why I was so honest with him, but I felt I could trust him knowing I had seen his more beastly side too. I found George very easy to talk to and far from being the mindless thug that I’d initially thought he was. He was intelligent and inquisitive, but had become bored with his surroundings. I could understand that; I got very nasty too when I was bored.

  He asked me many questions about his grandfather and our time together and after that we met up every night and became firm friends. He also knew never to touch alcohol in my presence.

  One night I asked him if he’d ever got a letter from Sweden in the late 1970s.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ he asked, astonished.

  ‘This girl owed me a sum of money, but I didn’t want her to know my real name or address. When I met backpackers I didn’t give my real name. I mostly gave my friend Hootie’s address in Edinburgh and he must have had lots of postcards from all sorts of destinations, but in this case there was money involved. I had to be sure there was someone still at the address so I gave her yours,’ I told him.

  ‘It was ever so funny! One day this letter turned up and my Mum asked me if I had a pen pal in Sweden. I said no, so it was my mother that opened the letter. All these pound notes fell out and it was quite a bit of money. Then she read the letter and went bright red. “What’s the meaning of this George!” she cried and I said, “well I don’t know, do I? I haven’t read the letter, have I?”’ He grinned.

  ‘Did you ever get to read it?’ I asked.

  ‘No. My mother paraphrased it. I’m sure the language must have been a little more choice to make my mother blush, but she told me that apparently I had cheated on this girl with another girl. I had also given her money and she was paying back the loan,’ George told me.

  ‘But you were only ten or so. Did your mother not find that a bit hard to believe?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, once she calmed down she said it was obviously a misunderstanding, but as there was no return address they decided to put the money in my bank account and see if anyone contacted us again,’ he told me.

  ‘And no one ever did?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed. And then, from the age of 12, every Christmas they gave me 20 quid of it to spend on whatever the hell I wanted and the rest I got when I was 18. I thought Swedish people were angels with their blonde hair and unexpected generosity,’ George told me with great glee.

  ‘Sorry to burst your bubble, but it was me who gave her your name and address. But you’re welcome!’

  ‘I’m surprised she paid you back at all,’ he said.

  ‘She was a nice girl, but when you’re me it’s often kinder to piss a girl off straight away. Being my friend never ends well,’ I told him.

  ‘Should I worry?’ he asked me.

  ‘Are you a girl?’ I quipped.

  ‘Fuck off, you Scottish twat!’ George said outraged, and he flicked a cigarette butt at me.

  I was surprised when he told me one night that he had joined the army. We agreed though that he needed some discipline and it would probably be the best outlet for his fighting spirit and restlessness.

  George did well in the army, eventually joining the SAS and learning all the skills that would be so useful in our future joint ventures. We stayed in touch over the years and met when we could.