The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘This is Mr. Bloomsbury,’ Rachel had said, as she’d showed him into the living room.

  I didn’t greet him. I wondered if he was an undertaker come to talk about my mother’s funeral. I focussed all my attention on Oxo, who was curled up on my lap.

  ‘Hello, Michael.’ He removed his hat and stood in front of me.

  ‘Mr. Bloomsbury is from Social Services, Michael.’

  I studied Oxo’s back, making patterns in his fur with my fingers. ‘So?’

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘How are you, lad?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ A lie. My heart felt like a lump of coal. The image of my dead mother lying at the bottom of the stairs, body twisted, one eye half-open, as if refusing to die, haunted every waking hour.

  He lowered his bowler hat and held it in front of his crotch. ‘Has Mrs. Cougan talked to you?’

  ‘About what?’

  He looked uneasy. ‘About how you can’t stay here, lad?’

  I switched my attention to Rachel. ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘It’s not because I don’t want to look after you, Mikey. I want you to know that. It’s just that there’s not room.’

  ‘But, I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa.’

  ‘I know. But, once the baby’s born, Tommy will have to sleep in the front room. We’re cramped as it is.’

  ‘What baby?’

  She looked hesitant. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Why did she want another kid if the place was cramped already? I didn’t understand.

  Bloomsbury said, ‘You’ll have your own bed at Woodside, Michael. No more kipping on the sofa.’

  I looked into that wintery face. ‘Woodside?’

  He nodded. ‘Woodside Children’s Home. It’s a special place for children like you.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t—’

  Rachel cut him off. ‘Just give it a go, Mikey. Like Mr. Bloomsbury says, you’ll have your own bed. Meet other boys your age. It’ll be more like an adventure.’

  ‘It won’t. I’m not going.’

  ‘And you get the chance to earn money each week,’ Bloomsbury offered.

  I didn’t want money. I didn’t want my own bed, or to meet other boys. ‘I don’t care if it’s the Queen’s palace. I’m not going.’

  Bloomsbury pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and held it out before him like a declaration of war. ‘Do you know what this is, Michael?’

  ‘No.’ And I didn’t care either. Oxo wriggled in my lap.

  ‘It’s a care order.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is.’

  ‘It’s from the courts. It says you have to come with me.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice, lad. Don’t make this hard on yourself. Don’t make this hard for the lady who’s been good enough to give you a home.’

  I looked at Rachel. ‘Please. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. I don’t care if I have to sleep in the coal shed. Please don’t make me go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mikey. We just don’t have room for you.’

  A sudden flash of inspiration. A rescue plan. ‘What about Aunt Jean?’ I liked it there. She was pretty cool once you got through the fag smoke.

  Bloomsbury extinguished my last flicker of hope. ‘She doesn’t want you, lad. She’s made that quite clear.’

  ‘But, why?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment. When he did, I saw the first faint hint of emotion in his eyes. ‘She’s taken your father’s side.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What I say, lad. She wants nothing more to do with you.’

  The words cut through my heart like a saw. How could she side with my dad after what he’d done? Bloomsbury had to be lying, trying to turn me against Aunt Jean. I’d gone to stay with her the night before my mum died. ‘That’s not true. Aunt Jean wouldn’t—’

  ‘She would, lad. It’s a fact. The sooner you get used to it, the better. You don’t want to walk around your whole life deluded, do you?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to no kids’ home. I know that.’

  ‘Like I said, I have a court order in my hand that says you have no choice. I also have a policeman waiting in the car. Do you want me to call him?’

  Oxo jumped off my lap and trotted over to the window. He jumped up, and rested his paws on the sill, as if he’d known what Bloomsbury had just said. ‘What for?’

  ‘There’s no need for the police,’ Rachel said.

  A sudden surge of hope. She’d changed her mind. Come to her senses. She wanted to let me stay. She would send this Bloomsbury idiot packing, back to his stupid children’s home, with his stupid bowler hat and his stupid piece of paper from the courts.

  Rachel sat on the sofa next to me. She reached out and took one of my hands. She gave it a small squeeze. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mikey. You’ll see. Within a week or two, you’ll be glad you’re not still cramped up here. And there’s visiting, isn’t there, Mr. Bloomsbury?’

  ‘Every Saturday,’ he confirmed. ‘Subject to good behaviour.’

  She smiled. It looked more like a grimace. ‘I’ll come and visit you every week. I promise. Keep you up to speed with Oxo and stuff.’

  Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought about Oxo, about being separated from my best pal in the whole world. That sealed it for me. There was no way I was leaving Whitehead Street. No way I was leaving my only real friend behind. ‘I’m not going.’

  She squeezed my hand harder. ‘Please, Michael. Just for me. Give it a try.’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at Bloomsbury. He put his hat down on the pine coffee table and tucked the court order back inside his jacket pocket. ‘For goodness sake, lad, see sense. Anyone would think I’d come to cart you off to war. I’m offering you a place at a very reputable establishment. You’ll get bed and board, and everything you need. You’ll still go to school.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  He changed tack. ‘Do you think I’m to blame for your mother’s death?’

  I didn’t even bother to answer that.

  ‘Do you think the state can afford to keep the likes of you?’ This time he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Of course they can’t. But, they try to give the likes of you a decent education, and a chance to grow up into responsible adults. I sometimes wonder why they even bother, for all the thanks they get.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Rachel dropped my hand like a hot potato. ‘Michael Tate! Apologise!’

  No way. I could see Oxo eying up Bloomsbury. Hackles up. A low growl grinding in his throat.

  Bloomsbury took this as his cue. ‘Okay. Have it your way. I’ll fetch the police constable to deal with you.’

  I watched him collect his hat and go into the hallway. Heard the front door open and bang shut. Oxo sat on the floor in front of me, head resting on my knee, eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘Please don’t make this hard on yourself,’ Rachel said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Then don’t make me go.’

  ‘I’ve got no choice, Mikey.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mikey. It’s babyish. My name’s Michael.’ Mikey was my mum’s pet name for me. As far as I was concerned, she was the only person allowed to call me that, apart from one or two close friends. But, not this woman, who’d betrayed me, and let a fucking twat in a bowler hat take me away from my dog.

  ‘I’m sorry. If I could make it any different, I would. Believe me.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Give it a go. You might be surprised.’

  I didn’t want to “give it a go”. I had known a kid at junior school, who went to a kids’ home. A right loner, always looked lost, clothes worn to threads. Norman something or other. Kids picked on him. Said he stank, pissed his pants, and shitty stuff like that. I didn’t want to be like
Norman, lost and abandoned. He had a huge, red blotch on the side of his face. A birthmark? Or something worse. Kids asked, but Norman never told. He used to hold his hands over his ears and run away when the questions got too much for him.

  Oxo looked up at me as if to say, hey, it’s me, what’s going on?

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you say? Give it a go?’

  ‘And if I don’t like it?’

  She didn’t answer that. ‘Why don’t you take Oxo into the kitchen and give him one of his treats.’

  What she really meant was go and say goodbye to him. I reluctantly agreed. Oxo followed me, a couple of inches from my heels, all the way. It was a mystery how that dog never got himself trampled.

  I closed the kitchen door and went under the sink where his packet of Choco Drops was stored. Oxo sat, straight backed, ready to beg. I fished out a few and held them in the palm of my hand. ‘There. You have them.’

  He looked at me, as if to say, don’t you want me to beg? Seemed to realise in half a second I didn’t, and swiped them from my hand with a single slurp of his tongue. Into his mouth, straight down, no need to chew.

  I crouched in front of him. ‘You silly old dumb dog.’

  Oxo didn’t seem to mind being called names. Not when goodies were on offer. I gave him a couple more and folded the packet up. Enough. They were treats, not dinner. I stuffed them back under the sink. Now what did I say? Don’t worry, Oxo, they’re taking me off to one of those crappy children’s homes. I probably won’t see you again. Ever. I won’t see you grow old. You won’t see me grow up.

  A tear spilled onto my cheek, hot and burning. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

  Oxo sniffed my hand and licked it.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you. Don’t ever forget that.’

  He barked. A single yap. And then, he studied me intently.

  ‘They made me go,’ I blurted. ‘Adults and their stupid, fucking ideas.’

  He licked the back of my hand. A single lick which said more than any words ever could.

  I sat on the floor, wrapped my arms around his neck, and cried my eyes out until the policeman walked into the kitchen and took me away. He looked like a fuzzy blob through the mist of my tears. I wanted to fight them all. Zap them and turn them to dust. Stay here forever with Oxo. But, I didn’t. I let that copper lead me out of Rachel’s house, and put me into the big, green car waiting by the kerb. I sat in the back with Mr. Bloomsbury, and didn’t look back once, as we drove out of Whitehead Street towards North Oxford.

  I could still hear Oxo whining in my head when we arrived at Woodside Children’s Home. See his pitiful eyes looking up at me. Feel the warmth of his tongue on my hand. I’d failed him. Like I’d failed my mum. Michael Tate was the biggest failure the world had ever seen. Things didn’t get any worse than this.

  But, they did. A lot worse. A whole Grand Canyon worse. Just when you thought you’d hit the bottom, a trapdoor opened, and threw you down a load more steps.

  Aunt Mary returned with a bowl of chicken soup and a slice of bread, balanced on a dirty white tray. ‘You must sit up, mind. Don’t want to spill it.’

  I did as she asked. She balanced the tray on my lap. ‘Would you like anything else? Some milk?’

  Perhaps I’d died running around that playing field. Died and gone to heaven. Aunt Mary was an angel. ‘Can I?’

  She smiled and fussed with her bun. ‘Course.’

  Why couldn’t all adults be like her? Surely, they were meant to look after kids, not beat the crap out of them for no reason. Why did they have to be such vicious pigs? No, not pigs, that was an insult to pigs. No pig would ever behave like Selwyn Davies or Kalvin Kraft; they had much better morals than that.

  Chapter Twenty

  I picked up my new set of clothes the following morning from Aunt Mary’s stockroom. Two pairs of black trousers, one with a patch on the knee, the other with one leg shorter than the other, two black jumpers, one with a hole in the right elbow, two off-white shirts, and a pair of black shoes.

  ‘I know they’re threadbare. Bring the jumper back when you get a chance, and I’ll stitch the elbow,’ Aunt Mary said.

  I nodded, shivering in my thin blue pyjamas. I still hadn’t recovered from my ordeal running around the playing field, but whether I liked it or not, my days of skiving in the sick bay were over – Kalvin Kraft’s orders.

  Aunt Mary smiled at me. ‘Go on. You’d better go and get a shower before breakfast.’

  I thanked her and hurried back to the senior block. To say the place was a bit depressing was like saying death was a bit scary. It was as miserable as sin as my mother used to say. Grey-painted walls, blistered and peeling. Polished wooden floor. Half a dozen iron beds lined up either side of the room, a single metal locker for all belongings dividing them. Clothes had to be folded to the size of an eight-inch square rule book. God help any kid who failed inspection. One speck of dust under the bed could result in a punishment more befitting of murder.

  I folded my new clothes and put them away, grabbed a hand towel from the same locker, and rushed along the corridor in my pyjamas to the shower room. The other kids had finished in the shower and were scrubbing their teeth at chipped white hand basins dotted along the bathroom.

  ‘Where have you been, Tate?’ The soft-spoken tones of Thomas Reader, the deputy superintendent. I’d learned from my first time around not to be fooled by his manner of speaking. He was every bit as vicious as the shouters and bawlers. More so.

  ‘I had to get my stuff from the clothes store, sir.’

  ‘Ah, “stuff.” Such an ambiguous word, wouldn’t you say?’

  I had no idea what “ambiguous” meant. I agreed all the same. To be honest, as far as questions from staff were concerned, you were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Something nasty stirred in my stomach. Dozens of eyes on me. An uneasy silence in the air.

  ‘Elaborate on what you mean by “stuff”?’

  ‘My clothes, sir.’

  ‘There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He walked up to me, glasses steamed up. His precision-parted, black hair glistened. I smelled garlic and tobacco on his breath. ‘You are aware that shower time is 6am, aren’t you?’

  Shit. ‘I’ve not been well, sir.’

  He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Oh, dear. Poor you. Did you hear that, boys? Tate hasn’t been well.’

  A few snickers echoed around the bathroom. I heard a tap dripping somewhere, ticking like a hollow clock.

  ‘Tell me, Tate, what caused you to languish in bed while the rest of the boys were all up, bright eyed and bushy tailed?’

  ‘I had the flu.’ I knew this was a mistake the instant the words left my mouth. I wanted to suck them out of the air and right back down my throat.

  ‘You had the flu?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s not what Aunt Mary said when I asked her why you missed assembly yesterday. She said, and I quote – “the boy has a chill”.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Not flu.’

  I looked at the beige tiled floor. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Since when has a chill been called the flu?’

  I shrugged. Fuck it. I knew I had it coming. I might as well do something to deserve it. Act as if I didn’t care. Disrespect him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  A few more snickers. Reader asked the other boys to leave, never once raising his voice. My bladder felt like a swollen river. Reader closed the door. I imagined some of the boys standing outside, ears pressed to the door, waiting for my punishment.

  ‘Do you think you’re clever, Tate?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you think you can just come swanning back here, without a care in the world, after the way you’ve tre
ated Mr. and Mrs. Davies?’

  How I treated that pair of fucking psychopaths? ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You were trouble before you went, and you’re trouble now, Tate. Is that a fair assessment?’

  My initial burst of bravado, my act of defiance, had now turned to jelly. ‘I don’t want to cause trouble, sir.’

  ‘Your sort never do, do they? Trouble just seems to follow you around, like a bad smell, doesn’t it?’

  Like your breath. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘How long did you spend in the sick bay?’

  ‘Three days, sir.’

  ‘Three days for a chill? I think that says a lot about your character, doesn’t it?’

  Maybe you ought to try running around a field naked in the freezing cold. See how you get on with it. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We had to dig trenches in the war. Over six feet deep, on bone hard ground. Live in them for months on end. What do you think would have happened to the war effort if we’d said, Please, sir, I’ve caught a chill, fly me home to Blighty, let me snuggle up in a nice warm bed?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘No? Then, let me tell you. You’d have been talking German and living under Hitler’s house rules by now. Would you have preferred that, Tate?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Damned right you wouldn’t. Where do you think this country would have been if we’d just given in at the first sign of a chill? But, are you grateful?’

  This conversation was starting to have a familiar theme. It was as if they were all reading from the same script. ‘Yes—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. You lot wouldn’t know grateful if it leapt up and bit you on the nose. You’re all take, Tate. I’ve seen men, with fifty times your backbone, go to their graves to make sure this country stayed free from Nazi Germany. Young men leaving behind their loved ones to fight. Ensure your future. But, you don’t care about that, do you?’