by Kit de Waal
“Look at him! Look!”
Leon stands up and takes the head. It’s a baby’s head and the baby is asleep. Leon hands it back. Mr. Devlin puts it back on the shelf next to another head that is the same baby but a bit older. He picks it up and points to his nose.
“Does he look like me, do you think?”
There are four heads altogether of the same baby getting older and older.
“It’s my fault, she said. My fault for shouting. He wasn’t looking. My fault. Always my fault. Always will be my fault. Forever and ever. Amen.”
Mr. Devlin picks up the biggest baby’s head. It’s different from the others; it has more hair and its eyes are open. He sits back down in his leather chair. He puts the baby on the table next to him, picks up his blue glass, fills it with his whiskey, and gulps it down.
“This is my favorite. I like to sit here with him. I tell him stories.”
He fills the glass again and, just before he drinks it, he points at the door.
“Go home,” he says. “Go on. Get out.”
Leon backs away. He stops at the door and watches Mr. Devlin throw his drink to the back of his throat. He drops the blue glass on the carpet, closes his eyes, and slumps back in his chair.
Leon walks slowly to his plot. He understands why Tufty doesn’t like Mr. Devlin. It must have been Tufty who did all the work on Leon’s plot.
The allotments are quiet. This would be a good time to go and put his things in the secret shed. He looks around. There are one or two people in faraway plots but they won’t notice. But then maybe Mr. Devlin might come out and catch him. He picks up his backpack and walks slowly. If anyone asks him where he’s going he’ll just say he’s looking for ideas of what to plant. As soon as Leon gets near his shed, he crouches in the long grass and opens the door. He rushes inside and closes it behind him. It’s dark inside. He can hear birds flapping nearby, a scratching noise on the roof. Leon picks up the tins he left and stacks them in the corner by the heavy weights from Mr. Devlin. He forgot the broom. Maureen would say his shed was a pigsty. She would make him tidy up and make it spick-and-span. He uses one of the plastic trays to scrape the leaves and dirt into a pile by the door. He picks up the chair and sits down. There are still a lot of things to bring. A bed, something to eat with, spoons, a bowl and a plate, more food. He uses his fingers to keep count and then takes the two trifle mixes out of his bag and puts them on the chair. He stacks the tins underneath and folds the blanket over them. He will fix the window another day. He closes the door behind him.
Leon uses his little spade and his little fork to dig the soil in his raised beds. He plants his Scarlet Emperor seeds at the base of each cane the way Mr. Devlin did. He places them in the little hole and covers them over with soil, presses it down softly. He waters them from Tufty’s water barrel, taking care to let the water trickle and not flow. It takes a lot of going to and from and when he’s finished he sees there’s still lots of space for other seeds. If he grew carrots, he could take them home to show Sylvia and she would be surprised, because all of her carrots come out of tins. And he could show Maureen when she gets better and she’d smile and say how clever he was. And if he saw Carol again he could cook them and make her eat them so she could get better. But all his Scarlet Emperor seeds have gone and he doesn’t want to spend any of his money on carrot seeds because he’s going to need every penny. He looks at the padlock on Tufty’s shed and wonders if he could get inside. Tufty wouldn’t mind.
The door isn’t locked. The padlock is just hooked on the outside for show so Leon pulls the door open. Someone grabs him, pulls him inside. It’s Castro.
“Shut the door,” he whispers and he shoves Leon against the wall so hard that the door slams and makes a noise.
“And keep quiet. Quiet, you hear me?”
The whole shed smells sour and bad. And he doesn’t look like he looked when Leon first saw him. His red hair sticks out from under a dusty woolen hat and his clothes are dirty but his face has changed the most. He has blood on his lips and one of his eyes is swollen and closed. There are Tufty’s cans of soda all over the floor and Castro has made a bed out of Tufty’s clothes.
Castro rubs the dirty window and looks outside.
“You see Tufty?”
“No,” says Leon.
“Where you live?”
“On College Road.”
“Where is Tufty, man? I thought he come up here every day? He don’t come every day?”
Castro turns and looks at Leon and points to his bag.
“You got food in there?”
“No.” Leon stands with his back to the door with his backpack squeezing against it. He thinks of his precious things and what he will do if Castro tries to take them.
Castro rubs his hands over his face.
“I need a drink.”
Castro is close. Leon can smell pee on his trousers.
“I know where there is a bottle of whiskey,” he says.
“Where?”
Leon points. “In the shed over there.”
“Somebody in there?”
“He’s asleep.”
“Run get it. Quick.”
Leon turns around and puts his hand on the door and then Castro grabs him and pulls him back. His voice is slow.
“Anyhow you don’t come back, anyhow you tell someone you see me, anyhow the police come here for me, anyhow you open your mouth.”
Leon says nothing.
“You get me?”
Leon steps outside and closes the door behind him. He walks to Mr. Devlin’s shed, thinking all the time if he can just run back home and what Castro would do to him. Who is the worst, Castro or Mr. Devlin?
The door to Mr. Devlin’s shed is open and Leon stands just out of sight. He can hear snoring inside. Slowly, slowly, he peeks in. Mr. Devlin’s mouth is open; Sylvia would say he was catching flies. The blue glass is still on the carpet where he dropped it and Leon’s wooden head is on his lap. Just inside the door is the tray of whiskey bottles. If Leon’s arms were longer and rubbery, he could stay where he was and his arm could go inside all on its own without Leon having to tiptoe on to the wooden floor and hope it doesn’t creak and choose the fullest bottle which is in the middle of the pile and lift it up straight so it doesn’t knock into all the others and it’s so heavy he thinks it might slip out and smash to pieces and wake Mr. Devlin who has already told him off once and who might kill him with his Kanetsune.
Leon can feel his heart pounding under his T-shirt and he can feel the anger for Castro bubbling in his throat. It makes him want to smash the bottle against the wall. It makes him want to wake Mr. Devlin and say, “Watch this!” It makes him want to take the big curved blade and march to Tufty’s shed, kick the door off its hinges, and stab Castro and tell him to fuck off. All the anger makes him want to fight Castro for making a mess in Tufty’s shed and drinking all the soda.
Mr. Devlin doesn’t move. His snore is like a whistle and a grumble and he just carries on sleeping as Leon steals the bottle, and then Leon sees the pruning knife right next to the baby’s head, the one Mr. Devlin talks to, the one he loves. The one he speaks to and tells stories to. He moves quickly, silently, one step at a time until he has them, and then quickly, silently, he steps outside. He pushes the head and the knife in his bag, twisting and wrestling with the zipper, then he runs with the bottle back to Castro.
“Yeah, man!” says Castro and pulls the cap off. He scrunches up his eyes when he drinks and then coughs.
“Yeah, fucking hell, man. Yeah. Feels good.”
He’s talking all the while and looking out of the window between gulps from the bottle.
“If Tufty don’t come soon, you have to go fetch him.”
Leon shuffles backward. He puts his hand on the door to push it.
“Don’t fucking move, you hear me?”
>
But Leon is through the door before Castro can catch him. It’s starting to get dark outside. He runs and runs, not even stopping to get his bike, because he knows Castro is behind him with his bad breath and his one eye, so Leon runs and runs and the pack is smashing into his back with every step but he runs and runs and runs and then something hits him full in the face and he falls over. He tumbles and rolls onto the dirt, catches his elbows on sharp stones.
“Easy, Star!”
Tufty gets off his bike and lets it fall. He pulls Leon up onto his feet but Leon can’t stand up and his legs won’t work properly.
Tufty squats down and holds Leon steady.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
Leon likes the sound of Tufty’s voice and the feel of Tufty’s hands on his shoulder. He likes the way Tufty looks worried and the way the lines have appeared on his forehead and his eyebrows are close together.
“Somebody trouble you, Star?”
Tufty looks over at Mr. Devlin’s shed.
“He touch you? You running from him?”
“I’m thirsty,” Leon says.
But Tufty stays looking at Mr. Devlin’s shed. He stares at it like he can see Mr. Devlin lying on his chair inside, like he can hear his whistling, grumbling whiskey breath.
“Come,” Tufty says eventually. “I’ll get you a soda.”
Leon doesn’t move.
“What?”
Leon says nothing.
“Come then.”
Tufty picks up Leon’s backpack and puts it over the handlebars of his bike. Then he takes Leon’s hand like he’s a little boy going to school. The nearer they get to Tufty’s shed, the more Leon tries to go slow. He shuffles his feet and tries to hang back but Tufty pulls him along.
“You want to get on the bike? It’s too high for you but you can try.”
“I want to go home now,” Leon says. “My back’s hurting.”
“Yes, get a drink first. You don’t look good. Take five minutes, get yourself right.”
As they get near his shed, Tufty slows down. Leon watches him because he doesn’t know what Tufty will say about Castro making a mess. He sees Tufty looking at Leon’s bike on the ground, then at the padlock that has fallen off the bolt by the door. Tufty’s voice is quiet when he speaks.
“Somebody inside there, Star?”
“Yes,” says Leon.
“You been inside?”
“Yes.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“White man?”
“No.”
“Black man?”
“Castro.”
Tufty stops.
“Castro,” he says and he looks around the allotment. “You see anybody else? You see any police?”
“No and Mr. Devlin is drunk. He’s asleep.”
“Good.”
They walk quickly to the shed and Tufty pulls the door open. Castro is standing just inside, holding the garden fork up in the air.
“Fucking hell, Tufty, man. I nearly stab you!”
Tufty pulls Leon inside and shuts the door behind them.
“Shut up, Castro. Keep quiet.”
“I couldn’t see nothing, it’s too dark. I was keeping watch for you.”
“Keeping watch for me? It’s not me on the run, Castro.”
Tufty looks around the shed.
“What you doing here, Castro? You can’t stay here.”
Castro shrugs his shoulder and grabs the whiskey bottle off the shelf.
“You think I like sleeping in a shack, Tufty? You see this?”
Castro points to his eye.
“You think I like being blind? You think I have choices, Tufty? You think I can check into the Hilton, lie down, and sleep? You think I can run up to the hospital and tell them, ‘Police beat me?’ You think I can go to my mother’s house and get a dinner? Tell me, Tufty.”
Tufty kisses his teeth.
“You’re drunk, Castro. Keep quiet.”
Castro drops down onto his bed, sucking from the bottle. He looks like Jake when he’s hungry. Tufty takes the bottle off him and stands it on the side.
“What happened, man?”
“They charge me with resisting arrest but I get a solicitor up at the Cross. The solicitor start talking about technicality and they have to let me go. The magistrate throw it out. Next day, them same police catch me up by the Law Center. I was standing in the entry waiting to go inside. One solicitor there told me I could sue the police from last time. Remember the time they mash up my place and their dog bite me? Yeah, well, the solicitor told me I could get compensation so I was just going in to see them. Three police pull up in a beast wagon. Right there on the street they attack me. Didn’t say nothing like ‘Get in the car,’ never even try to arrest me. They don’t usually beat you till they get to the station, Tufty, but these people out of control. They just grab me and throw me down the entry. Start search me and box me down. Three of them. I mash one of them full on his fucking mouth. Bam! Anyway, the solicitor come out of the Law Center and they did stop. Said it was a routine search and I just run off.”
“Fucking hell, man.”
“Yeah,” says Castro, “hell is what it is.”
Tufty looks at Leon.
“You better go home, Star. And listen . . .”
“I won’t tell anyone, Tufty.”
Tufty puts his hand on Leon’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s getting dark outside. Ride carefully.”
32
The whole house smells of toast. It’s the big-shop day but it’s been raining since Leon woke up. The wind is swirling around outside and making the windows rattle. It looks like it’s going to rain forever. So there’s only bread to eat. Sylvia has toast for breakfast and Leon has the rest of the Weetabix, then they both make toast for lunch; Leon has one slice with raspberry jam and the other slice with a cheese triangle.
Leon moves the net curtains aside and looks at the silver raindrops weeping on the window. Some drops stay where they are for ages but others hit the window and immediately start racing, joining up with little drops until they become a fat river that runs all the way to the windowsill and drips off the edge. Leon tries to guess which raindrop will start moving first. He chooses two drops next to each other, one for him and one for Jake. Jake’s starts to move immediately. It’s got a weaving, sliding movement, veers off to the right somehow, picks up miniature droplets on the way, hovers near a running stream and tries to join in but it’s going too fast. When Leon’s raindrop moves, it’s just straight down, all on its own, glistening, shuddering in the wind, straight down, fast and true, all the way to the bottom. He wins easily and the game is over.
The TV is boring. One channel has horse racing and another has cricket and Sylvia has a rule that they both have to agree on the program. She turns on a black-and-white film with dancing. A little girl with ringlets keeps walking around and singing, so Leon doesn’t agree on the program, but Sylvia says because there is a child in it, he should be interested. Leon sits on the floor with his AT-AT.
“If you pull that stunt again, Leon, I’m taking that bike to the secondhand shop.”
She has been talking about him being late over and over since last weekend. She was standing at the front door looking up the road when he cycled up. She pulled him off the bike, told him to get in, and started asking questions but she didn’t leave him any space to answer, which was great.
“I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? I nearly came out looking for you. Have you seen the time? It’s going dark. One hour, you said. I’m going to get you a bloody watch. Hour, my ass. Where have you been anyway at this time of night? Anything could have happened. Didn’t you think? I’ve been sitting here watching the news. Have you seen what’s happening? Thought you might have been attacked. I had no ide
a where you were. Where were you till this time? There’s some sort of fight up on Nineveh Road. You haven’t been up there, have you? Did you see anything? You can’t be at the park at this time of the night. Where were you?”
She shut up and looked at him.
“What’s the matter?”
“I fell off my bike,” he said. “I hurt my back.”
She turned him round and pulled his T-shirt up. She looked at the scratches on his elbows and the marks where his backpack had pounded into him.
“Bloody hell,” she said and from then on she was nice and didn’t tell him off anymore. But then the next day, and every day since, she goes back to where she left off.
“No more coming in late, all right? Or that bike goes.”
Leon says nothing.
“Sunday tomorrow,” Sylvia says. “Another week bites the dust.”
He can feel her eyes on him. She’s not watching the singing girl, she’s watching him. She does this sometimes but usually it’s when he’s eating his dinner or when he’s falling asleep. She looks at him like he’s a photograph or someone she’s met for the first time. Sometimes, she looks soft and reminds him of his mom.
“It’s my birthday soon, you know. August,” she says.
He turns around and looks at her. She has her head to one side like she’s trying to measure him.
“I was thirteen when I grew up. I was fourteen when I went to work and seventeen when I got married. I was only a bloody child. You don’t get married at seventeen.”
Leon turns back to the television.
“How old is your mom, Leon?”
Leon shrugs his shoulders.
“They say age is just a number,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “They’re right. One bloody number for every year you’ve been alive.”
Leon remembers when his mom got birthday cards she kept saying she was old, but she was very pretty, so no one noticed. Sylvia isn’t pretty anymore and that’s why she’s sad.
“Can I go to Carpenter Road to the place that does kung fu?”
“Kung fu?”