Nicholas Dane

by Melvin Burgess

  The only face Nick knew in the whole place was Oliver, but since he was in a different class and dorm, he didn’t get to see much of him. With the kind of attention Nick was getting, he would have understood if Oliver stopped bothering with him altogether, but the younger boy still found time to come and talk with him in the playground, and sometimes he’d pop over to Nick’s side of the hall after school. Admittedly he was never to be seen when there was a fight going on, but Nick couldn’t blame him for that - there was hardly anything of him. He was more like a dandelion seed than a boy, the way he floated and bobbed around under his shock of blond hair.

  The fact was, Oliver was unpopular himself, but somehow he managed to get away with it. He seemed to have a knack of avoiding trouble, or work, or exercise. The other boys sometimes called him names, but by and large, he was left alone. Even Toms seemed to take no notice of him. Nick couldn’t help noticing that when Oliver was around, the trouble seemed to stop for a while at least.

  There was always a supply of chocolate, magazines and sweets, but oddly, no one ever tried to take them off him. They just left him and Nick alone to get on with it. Once, about four or five days after he’d arrived, Oliver turned up with a pack of cards in his pocket with nudes in some very revealing postures on the back of them. Nick was amazed.

  ‘Where’d you get this stuff?’ he cried.

  Oliver smiled and shrugged. ‘I guess I’m just lucky,’ he said.

  ‘You bloody are ’n’ all,’ said Nick. ‘That’s you. You’re a good luck charm, you are.’

  ‘Am I?’ asked Oliver shyly, peeping at him from under his hair.

  ‘I never get into a fight when you’re around. I can’t normally move without someone having a go at me. See? Good luck!’

  ‘Just call me lucky,’ said Oliver proudly. ‘Snap,’ he added, proving the point by winning the game.

  Oliver obviously didn’t want to reveal where he got the stuff from, and Nick reckoned that was his business. But whenever he saw Oliver’s blond head bobbing towards him among the other lads, his heart always rose up a notch in spite of his troubles.

  But day after day the violence went on. Mostly, the boys managed to avoid getting caught, since that meant the cane, but with so many fights, Nick was bound to get caught from time to time. That first week he suffered twenty-four strokes. His backside was literally raw. No sooner had he scabbed over than he got another dose. It became a game with some of the other boys to creep up behind and kick him. He spent the breaks leaning up against the wall to protect himself.

  Nick was exhausted. He barely thought about the mother he’d lost such a short time ago. That was from another world, another life. It had all died with her. He was a prisoner of war, a refugee, too tired, too scared, too busy trying to find his way to have any feelings except fear and relief. His ribs hurt, he was black and blue all over them from countless kickings. He had a black eye swollen up as big as an apple, a bust lip, loose teeth. He was limping from where someone had kicked him in the ankle. He was a mess.

  He was so dazed, he’d lost his sense of time, but it must have been round about a week after he first arrived that he finally got into some really serious trouble with the other boys. It happened like this: he’d got so used to people attacking him, that he’d started lashing out more or less at once, without asking any questions. At least it meant he got a blow in quick and a chance to scare his attacker off. But Nick had no idea about the politics of Meadow Hill and finally, more or less by accident, he knocked down Steven Morris.

  At the time he hadn’t thought anything about it. When Steven poked an arm into his face he didn’t stop to see how big this latest attacker was, or even if he really meant to hit him. Next thing, Steven was flat on his back with Nick sitting on his chest and his fist going up and down on his face - one, two, three, four, five times - before he was plucked off by a couple of other lads, worried for the safety of both boys.

  ‘You’re dead now,’ one of them whispered to Nick. It wasn't a threat; it was a prophecy.

  Steven was a couple of years younger than Nick. He was always picking fights, and tough enough - but no one ever fought him back if they could help it because of his brothers. The Morrises were the biggest, hardest clan in the whole of Meadow Hill. There were three of them in at that point and another two coming up in other Homes around Manchester. You didn’t mess with the Morrises. It was just too dangerous. In another five or six years, they’d be running rackets around the streets of Salford, and in another ten, they’d be one of the hardest and most violent of the Manchester gangs. Already, they ruled Meadow Hill. No one ever touched them. You weren’t fighting with just one person, you were fighting the whole clan.

  Nick flattened Steven at break. The brothers caught up with him at lunch time.

  The first Nick knew of it was the usual - someone standing suddenly in front of him shoving him in the chest and shoulder.

  ‘You picking on my little brother, are you? Do you know who I am?’ Shove, shove, shove. Nick went back three times, then, as always, his temper blew. He was living in a red mist. He flew at the lad in front of him but he never made contact. His legs were kicked away from under him, he went down with a thud on the tarmac on his side, and that was it. All three of the Morris brothers were around him, with little Steven dancing around to get to his head and face, and the heavy black school shoes going bang bang bang against his ribs, his head, his neck and his face.

  He could taste the salt blood in his mouth within a few seconds. The Morrises ruled the roost from sheer violence. Within a few seconds, he was already unable to defend himself. His head was lolling on his neck and banging from side to side from one boot to the next, a ball on a short rope, as blow after blow after blow landed home. Other boys around were starting to yell at them to stop, because this wasn’t a fight; it was turning into a maiming.

  Then it was over. Nick saw nothing, just vaguely heard the feet run off. He tried to move but his limbs weren’t doing what they should. Someone was shouting near to him, a man.

  ‘I saw it, you three. You better run, Michael Morris. And you, Steven and David. You’re going to have me to answer to now.’ There was a pause. Nick managed to crawl onto all fours, blood dripping out of his mouth and from the end of his nose. He raised his head and tried to get a look at his rescuer through a haze of blood, mucus and tears.

  It was a tall, thin man. He was wearing a sandy coloured suit that matched his pale chestnut hair, peppered with grey. He spoke in a soft Geordie accent. He had an alert, intelligent face and he was bending over Nick with his hands on his knees, looking very serious indeed.

  ‘Up you get, Dane. You lads, help him to his feet. Go on.’

  Nick was dragged upright. The tall man looked at him for a moment, then tossed his head.

  ‘Right, can you walk? You’re coming with me. You two, give him a hand and the rest of you lads get on with whatever you were doing. And tell the Morris brothers, they’re going to have a long appointment this evening with Mr Harvey.’

  He turned and led the way out of the playground, with Nick limping behind him, helped along by two other boys, and into the big house itself. Inside, he sat Nick down on a chair in the hallway, while the other two lads were dismissed. The man sat down next to him and introduced himself as Tony Creal, the deputy head at Meadow Hill. Once Nick was a bit steadier on his feet, he told him to get up and led the way up the grand stairway, up to the first floor.

  7

  Tony Creal

  It had been a fine old house once, Meadow Hill. The staircase was as wide as the average sitting room, curling elegantly up to a high landing. Once, the boards had been stained and waxed and laid with woollen rugs, the walls papered with costly designs and lovely paints. Now, Mr Creal led Nick down a dirty long corridor that smelt of stale cabbage and dust, with dark brown lino underfoot and walls painted dull green to waist height and then a dirty, shiny cream up to the ceiling. They turned a couple of corners, and eventually came to a che
ap-looking modern door.

  Mr Creal took some keys out of his pocket and turned to look at Nick.

  ‘Nicholas Dane,’ he said, with a wry little smile. ‘Mrs Batts was telling me about you.’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Batty Batts,’ said Mr Creal. Nick watched him closely but didn’t respond. It sounded friendly, but how did he know it wasn’t a trap?

  Mr Creal shook his head and smiled his bright little smile. ‘Right, Dane,’ he said. ‘Where we stand here, it’s Meadow Hill Assessment Centre for wayward boys. Behind that door, it’s my flat. On this side,’ he said, nodding at the floor, ‘I’m Mr Creal or Sir, and you are Dane. Not Nicholas, not Nick - just Dane. But!’ He lifted a finger in the air and raised his eyebrows. ‘Behind that door, two steps away, you turn suddenly into good old Nick again. As for me, I’ll tell you my name when we get there. Deal?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Nick, cautiously.

  Mr Creal smiled again, put the key in the door and led the way inside.

  It was a house, it was a home - it was the real thing. There was carpet on the floor, a settee, armchairs, books, a TV. One thing that struck Nick after only a week in care was how so much of it was covered in cloth. The chairs, the floor, the lights. Nick stood there staring at it. It looked weird. It looked.. .normal.

  The tall man held out his hand. ‘Tony Creal. Pleased to meet you,’ he said. Nick stood there, oozing blood and spit and stared at the proffered hand. Mr Creal raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said encouragingly. ‘It’s not a trick. Promise.’

  Nick took the hand and shook it. ‘Nick Dane,’ he said.

  ‘Fantastic! Right.’ Mr Creal spread his arms. ‘Here we are. Make yourself at home. What’ll it be, Nick? Tea, cocoa? Coffee, Cola? Well?’

  ‘Cola? Thank you. Sir,’ suggested Nick, still not sure he wasn’t being lured into some awful trap.

  Mr Creal held up a finger. ‘In here, my name’s Tony. Just Tony. Remember! OK?’

  Nick looked at the man standing in front of him, smiling brightly, with his perky manner and bright eyes. He looked nice, but he wasn’t sure his mouth would form the word Tony.

  Mr Creal laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it. Right, you have a look around while I get some coffee on.’ He made for the kitchen, but paused at the door. ‘Put some music on,’ he said. ‘The tapes are over there.’ He nodded to a comer and went through to the kitchen.

  Nick looked around him, aware that he was dirty, bloody and unpleasant, in this clean place. He limped over to the music cabinet. There was a shelf with rows of albums and tapes, all arranged alphabetically. On top of the music centre itself was another stack of tapes that looked familiar. Nick picked one up, turned it over. It was his. He looked at the ones in the stack. They were his, too.

  Mr Creal came back into the room carrying a steaming mug and a glass of Coke. ‘Mrs Batts asked me to look after them. Not much use leaving them back in your old place - it’s going back to the council, I’m afraid. I can look after them for you. Don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe. At least you can listen to them from time to time up here. Do you want to put one on?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘No, Sir...’ he mumbled; then he remembered he was supposed to be calling the man Tony, and paused in a fright, thinking he was going to get punished.

  Mr Creal looked at him, and put down the drinks. He put both hands on Nick’s shoulders and guided him to a sofa and made him sit down. ‘Not easy, is it?’ he asked, sitting down next to him. ‘These places ... ’ He waved his hand at the window and Meadow Hill in general. ‘Under funded, badly staffed, used as a dumping ground for all the dregs society can dig up. We’re all ghosts and orphans here, Nick. But it won’t go on forever and there are things I can do to help make life a little easier in the meantime. Now... ’ He reached over and got the Coke. ‘Drink this. First thing is to get you sorted out. Then we can think what we can do to make life a little better.’

  Mr Creal went back into the kitchen and came back with a plate of chocolate biscuits, which they shared. He didn’t ask Nick to speak much at that point, just talked to him about his own day, what he’d been doing - a story about the toilets not flushing, and it turned out to be some lad whose mum had brought him in a cake and he’d hidden it in the cistern in a plastic bag from the other lads, but the bag leaked of course, and every time anyone flushed, the loo filled up with what looked like the most disgusting dirty water. Gradually, Nick began to relax.

  ‘How’s your day been, then, Nick?’ asked Mr Creal quietly.

  Nick shrugged, as if he was going to do a typical teenage ‘Dunno.’ But he wasn’t going to get away with that here. Slowly at first, but then more and more quickly, out it all came. The fights, the beatings, the violence.. .over and over and over again.

  ‘It’s illegal, isn’t it? Mr Toms, I mean ... ’ asked Nick.

  Tony Creal pulled a face. ‘In theory. But these places, Nick. Once you get sent here, people just forget about you. The police are just pleased to have you lot off the streets, they’re not going to help you out. As far as they’re concerned, the kids who come here are the scum of the earth - the criminals of tomorrow. And very often, they’re right.’ He nodded. ‘You need to be careful. There’s some very unpleasant people here. Unfortunately, some of them are on the staff.’ He leaned back and roared with laughter at his own joke.

  As they talked, Mr Creal was glancing at Nick and smiling to himself. Finally he began to laugh. ‘Tell you what, come and have a look a this.’ He took him by the arm and led him into the bathroom, where he stood him in front of the mirror.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said.

  Nick looked. In the mirror there was the most amazing looking beast. His nose was bleeding, his eyes were red, his face was half black with dirt, half red, and half blue with bruises. His lips were fat, his face was bruised - he looked like ...

  ‘You look like you’ve spent a few months being interrogated by the IRA,’ said Mr Creal. ‘Tell me, where does it hurt the most? No, don’t tell me - your backside.’

  Nick smiled weakly. Mr Creal bent over the bath to put the plug in and turned the water on.

  ‘I’d get you to show it to me, but I don’t suppose you want to show me your arse at this point, do you?’ He stood up, wiping his hands and laughing. Nick giggled, slightly hysterically, just from the sound of a staff member at Meadow Hill speaking like that.

  ‘When was the last time you had a good soak?’ he asked.

  Nick shook his head. He couldn’t even remember. Mr Creal took down a bottle from the windowsill and tipped it in. The water began to foam.

  ‘You have a good soak while I rustle up something to eat. OK? Go on, in you get.’

  He closed the door and left him to it. Nick got his clothes off and gently let himself down into the bath. The hot water stung his cuts and bruises, but he settled back into the foam, took a long sigh and closed his eyes. Ahh ... bliss. He wondered if he ought to take this break from the violence by thinking about his mother, but he couldn’t. The water was just too warm ... it was sheer ecstasy ...

  When he opened his eyes again, Tony Creal was standing by the bath with some clothes over his arm.

  ‘I thought you’d drowned, you didn’t answer,’ he said. He put the clothes on a chair. ‘These are yours - I’ve got a few of them from Mrs Batts. Food’s ready. I’ve put your old clothes in the wash. Come on, it’ll get cold.’

  Nick spent the rest of the afternoon at the flat. Mr Creal patched him up himself, dabbing his various wounds with iodine, claiming he’d done First Aid and was better than the Home nurse, anyway, who was a sweet thing but had no training. He fed him steak and oven chips and ice cream and Coke, put him in front of the telly and let him sleep for an hour after lunch.

  He woke him up at three with a sandwich in time to get back - ‘Or Mr Toms will put in a complaint and we’ll both get into trouble.’ Nick ate his sandwich, drank some milk, and then Mr Creal sat him down to give him the lowdown.


  ‘What we need to do, Nick, is get you out of here,’ he said. Mrs Batts, apparently, had been trying to get in touch with his family in Australia. She’d managed to find his grandmother, Muriel’s mother, but she’d made it very clear she didn’t want anything to do with him.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for twenty years. Why should I want to look after her brat?’ she’d said.

  The only other family was the prospective great-uncle at Maggie’s Pies. Mrs Batts had written a letter, which had apparently been forwarded on. They were awaiting a personal response.

  ‘That’d be all right,’ said Mr Creal. ‘Maggie’s Pies are everywhere. You’d be rich.’

  Nick didn't think that was very likely. ‘What about Jenny?’ he asked. ‘She wanted me to live with her.’ He’d been thinking a lot about that. It had seemed awful at first. Now, the thought of staying with Jenny was sweet Heaven.

  Mr Creal nodded. ‘Mrs Hayes didn’t do herself any favours when she invited Mrs Batts for dinner. But she’s a canny lady, Mrs Batts, and she realises it may have been a case of trying too hard rather than not enough. Leaving you with Mrs Hayes didn’t seem like a good option at first, but Mrs Batts is beginning to think it might be the right thing to do after all. Mrs Hayes -Jenny - is on the phone all the time apparently, trying to get you back. But these things take time. You’re in the system now. It’s not like she’s related to you. There are procedures, forms, all sorts of things. Committees. It’s not up to any one person. Mrs Hayes is going through the procedures, but it will take time. And Nick - I have to be honest - there’s no guarantee that she’ll succeed.’