The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

‘Huh. What’s wrong with him?’

  Sally leaned in, keeping her voice low. ‘Not everyone grew up with a silver spoon in their mouth, Ray. Not everyone is taught impeccable manners at expensive public schools. Where do you want me to drop you?’

  He grinned. ‘The Longacre will do.’

  ‘You know Gordon doesn’t want you there.’ She placed her hands on the baking metal of the roof. ‘He doesn’t like you hanging around.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘Go home, Ray,’ she said, and started to climb in – but he made one of his funny faces. All he had to do was go bug-eyed or pucker his lips and she could deny him nothing. It had been the same since he’d been a toddler. When he wanted something, or when she got angry, all he had to do was grin like a maniac or pull his ears, and she would relent. Even now, when he was afraid that all the joy had gone out of her, when it seemed to him that she was a pale shadow of the funny and vivacious Sally he once knew, he could still get round her.

  She shook her head. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll do you a deal.’

  ‘No deals, Ray.’

  ‘Drop me off outside. I won’t come in; I’ll make my own way home.’

  And before she could reply he had come round the driver’s side and lifted the seat to climb into the back.

  Sitting behind the wheel in the baking-hot interior, Sally rolled a cigarette, slapped in the dashboard lighter. Ray shifted against the door behind her to make himself unobtrusive, so that he could listen. If there was one thing Ray Drake was good at, it was listening.

  ‘You going to give me the silent treatment all day?’ Sally asked the kid beside her.

  In the rear-view mirror, Ray saw the make-up caked against her damp cheeks, the rash of angry spots racing down her jaw and neck. Her nails were almost as dirty as those of the mysterious boy next to her.

  When the lighter popped, she applied the burning coil to the tip of the roll-up. The stink of tobacco filled the hot car. ‘I want to help, but I’m going to need a name.’

  ‘Connor,’ said the boy, finally. ‘Connor Laird.’

  ‘Where do you live, Connor? Do you have family?’

  The boy called Connor turned away to watch shimmering waves of heat slam into the concrete car park. ‘Who’s Gordon?’

  ‘Now there’s a question,’ murmured Ray.

  Sally’s turned angrily. ‘Shut up, Ray.’

  Removing a fleck of tobacco from her lip, the poncho fell away from the crook of Sally’s elbow to reveal livid scars. She quickly flipped it back but Ray saw them, had seen them before. He didn’t know if it was the sight of those red tracks or the cloying smoke filling the sweltering compartment that made him feel sick.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Sally told Connor, and started the car.

  The Longacre Children’s Home butted up against a railway track at the end of a street where once-grand Victorian homes stood derelict. Some of the empty houses had become squats. Colourful banners hung from windows. Wall murals celebrated forgotten revolutions in far-flung places. The car bumped along the pitted road, past abandoned vehicles and dumped furniture.

  ‘How long will I be here?’ Connor asked when Sally swung the car to the kerb outside the double-fronted building.

  ‘That depends,’ she said. ‘Tell me where you live and I’ll take you home.’

  Connor stabbed a thumb at Ray in the back. ‘Isn’t he coming in?’

  ‘He doesn’t live here,’ said Sally. ‘He’s got a home of his own to go to, and he’s going there now. Aren’t you, Ray?’

  ‘Whatever you say, sis.’ Ray sat up, his sopping T-shirt peeling away from the hot plastic of the seat to cling against his spine.

  ‘Why don’t you go inside, Connor?’ said Sally. ‘I’ll be a moment.’

  The boy looked up the steps to where the door to the home was ajar. The dull roar of children came from somewhere behind the house.

  ‘See you, Connor.’ Ray waved, but the boy walked inside without looking back. ‘Myra would have a thing or two to say about that boy’s manners.’

  ‘I’m not your sister, Ray.’

  ‘You’re my big sister.’ He angled a foot on the bottom step to look up at the shoddy house, with its rotten window frames and peeling sills. ‘And I don’t like you hanging around here.’

  ‘I’m your second cousin, the bad girl. Your parents would go crazy if they knew you were with me.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Here.’

  ‘My parents hate everyone.’ He grinned. ‘Me included, I think. But it’s what I think that counts, and you’ll always be my sister, the only one I’ll ever have.’

  ‘Go away and do something that normal kids do. Go to the pictures, climb a tree. Look up a girl’s skirt.’ A curtain in the window shivered, and Sally climbed the steps. ‘Enjoy your childhood while you can.’

  ‘Myra says I’ve got a talent for sticking my nose into other people’s business. The kids at my school, I know all their secrets.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Ray. I don’t want you here.’ She spoke quietly. ‘And Gordon doesn’t want you here.’

  She jumped in surprise when the door creaked open. A plump kid with red hair stood there.

  ‘Hello, Kenny,’ said Ray.

  The ginger boy nodded warily and stammered at Sally: ‘Gordon says to come in.’

  Sally turned back to Ray. ‘You don’t belong here. Shove off back to school, why don’t you?’

  ‘It’s months before I go back, the whole summer. I promise you, you’ll miss me when I’ve gone.’ When Sally moved to the door, he called, ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to my wicked second cousin. Just so she knows.’

  ‘She doesn’t need saving. Go and practise your missionary act somewhere else.’

  Then she slammed the door behind her, leaving Ray Drake staring up at the house, the smile slipping from his face.

  ‘Who said she needed saving?’ he asked.

  Inside the home, dust motes danced in the bright hallway. The walls were covered with smeared drawings and dirty fingerprints. Through an open doorway on the left Connor Laird glimpsed an enormous room dominated by two tables, each long enough to seat a dozen kids.

  He would later discover there were only two doors left on their hinges in the entire house. One of them closed on a room on the right. When Sally finally came in, she led him through this door into an untidy office where a man with shoulder-length chestnut hair sat with his feet on a desk. His paisley shirt was crushed beneath a scruffy corduroy jacket the colour of strained tea. His forehead and cheeks were pockmarked, and his jaw was hidden behind a sculpted beard. When he saw Connor, the man broke out into a snaggle-toothed smile. Connor quickly pushed the handcuffs he had stolen from the sergeant’s desk deeper into his pocket.

  ‘And who’s this?’ Gordon asked, in a lilting Scottish accent.

  ‘Harry gave him to me.’ Sally dropped her satchel onto a sofa, absently scratching her elbow. ‘Said he’s got nowhere to go.’

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ Gordon came round the desk to plant his hands on Connor’s shoulders.

  ‘Connor.’

  ‘A good Celtic name.’

  Sally inspected her nails. ‘Connor’s the strong, silent type.’

  ‘Keep yourself to yourself, do you? I can understand that. My name is Mr Tallis, but I’d be grateful if you called me Gordon. You’re welcome to stay, Connor. Sally will arrange the paperwork, but we needn’t worry about that yet.’ He smirked at her. ‘He’s scaring me with those eyes.’

  ‘Harry wants more money.’

  ‘A lad like you will make plenty of mates here, Connor, but I’d be honoured if you considered me your first friend.’ When the boy glanced at Sally, Gordon smirked. ‘She doesn’t count. Sal’s only your friend if you’ve something she wants.’ His eyes slid to her. ‘Did you give it to him?’

  ‘He wants more, he said—’<
br />
  Gordon held up a hand. ‘Let’s get the boy settled in. Then we’ll discuss it.’

  ‘The money isn’t enough.’

  His voice lifted irritably. ‘I said let’s get the boy settled in.’ Gordon opened the door to shout into the corridor: ‘Kenny!’

  Returning to Connor, he said, ‘Breakfast is at six thirty a.m. You’ll be expected to have showered and brushed your teeth – there are communal brushes in the bathrooms, we share everything here, Connor – and to have made your bed. Supper is at six. We all muck in with the daily chores. The Dents will add your duties to the rota on the wall. If you’re unable to read, one of the other children will explain them to you.’

  When Gordon’s hand shot out to grab Connor’s cheek, the boy snatched at his wrist.

  ‘Ha! You’re stronger than you look, and fast. A bit of spunk, too. We’re going to be pals, I think, you and me.’ Gordon removed his hand from Connor’s grip as the red-haired kid reappeared in the doorway. ‘Kenny here will show you around. Let’s talk again soon, lad.’

  The last thing Connor saw as the door closed behind him was Sally – eager, expectant – an arm stretching towards Gordon.

  ‘My name’s Kenny,’ said the kid, as they walked towards the back of the house, the linoleum crackling beneath their feet. ‘Kenny Overton.’

  ‘Connor.’

  ‘I’ve been here two years.’ Kenny spoke like it was a badge of honour. ‘But others have been here even longer.’

  Every opening revealed more tatty rooms, and scruffy, listless kids. A girl scribbled feverishly in a book, barely looking up as they passed.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ asked Kenny, as they arrived in a massive kitchen, a gloomy room despite the midday sun high in the sky. ‘You can have one of mine if you promise to be my friend.’

  Connor said: ‘I’m nobody’s friend.’

  Kenny blushed. ‘Please don’t tell Elliot I asked you.’

  The room stank of boiled vegetables. Pots and pans hung over a pine table. Outside, a long garden inclined towards a copse of trees. When a train blipped past beyond them, the windows buzzed in their frames.

  On the patio a man and a woman were wedged into deckchairs. A can of lager was balanced on the man’s belly, which bulged like risen dough over the shiny fabric of his Speedos. The woman, grossly overweight, wore a bikini.

  ‘That’s the Dents, Ronnie and Geraldine. They run the place for Gordon. They’re all right, as long as you stay out of their way.’

  Children swarmed over the faded brown lawn. One boy saw Connor right away. He was tall and broad, a lumbering youth who towered over the other kids.

  Connor guessed this was Elliot. His size, the sullen sneer on his face, and the way his mates fanned out on either side of him, marked him out as trouble. Within moments he was pounding up the garden, his gang falling into formation behind him like geese. Sensing the excitement, other kids fell into their slipstream.

  Geraldine Dent, who’d seen it all before, called in a bored voice: ‘Elliot.’

  Arms pumping like pistons, Elliot pushed Connor into the kitchen, his brow knotted in pantomime menace, shoving him against the table.

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ He grabbed a fistful of Connor’s T-shirt and twisted it. A forest of small heads bobbed in the doorway behind them.

  ‘His name’s Connor,’ stammered Kenny.

  ‘Shut your face; he can tell me himself!’

  One of Elliot’s mates pinched Kenny’s arm, and he yelped.

  ‘What’s your name?’ snarled Elliot, shaking the newcomer. ‘You wanna live, tell me your name!’

  ‘Connor.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, Connor, around here you do what I say, got it?’

  Elliot’s mates giggled. One of them – Connor would later learn his name was Jason – jabbed his finger in Connor’s ribs. It was typical pack bravado. All his mates crowded close. The tail of Connor’s spine throbbed against the table’s edge; the stolen handcuffs dug into his leg. Pots and pans bumped against the back of his head.

  ‘I said, have you got it?’

  Connor slowly stretched his hands above his head in a display of surrender, and Elliot grinned, sticking out his forefingers like they were six-shooters. ‘Stick ’em up!’ he said. ‘Stick ’em up, pardner!’

  All the kids laughed like drains, and they were still laughing when Connor pulled two saucepans from the hooks and swung them hard into either side of Elliot’s head with a satisfying bong. The boy crumpled to the floor.

  Then Connor stood over Elliot, bringing the pans down on his head, pounding them into his nose – whack, whack, whack – like he was hammering a nail into wood, before the Dents managed to drag him off.

  6

  ‘Gav, it’s me, open up!’

  Elliot Juniper banged on the door with the flat of his hand, still trying to convince himself that it was all a mistake, a big misunderstanding. Everything would straighten itself out soon enough. They’d laugh about it later down the Oak, him and Gavin.

  When he cupped his hands against the frosted glass he was sure he could see a figure, barely a smudge at the end of the hallway, and lifted the flap of the letterbox.

  ‘I can see you, Gav. Let me in!’

  He didn’t want to make a scene on a quiet street like this, all double-fronted homes, big cars in the driveways and trimmed hedges. First sign of trouble and a nervous neighbour, meerkat sticker in the window, would be on the phone to the Old Bill. Elliot hadn’t been in trouble for years, but he shouldn’t be driving after last night’s morose drinking session, didn’t want to take any chances.

  Thanks to his hangover, the world moved behind a thick membrane. Every molecule above his neck was sore. His brain hurt; his skin and eye sockets too. His nose, bashed flat a long time ago and never right since, throbbed on his face.

  Besides, getting breathalysed would be the least of his problems if Rhonda discovered he was driving over the limit. And it would be even worse – catastrophic didn’t seem a strong enough word – if she discovered why he was here. Whatever happened, she couldn’t know.

  Elliot still had his mouth to the flap when the door cracked open. Instinctively, he pushed his way in, expecting to find Gavin. Instead, he saw a small woman in a sweater and leggings.

  ‘Where is he?’ Elliot was surprised to discover Gavin had a wife. But when he thought about it – and the realisation made him wince – he hardly knew anything about him. ‘Where’s Gavin?’

  ‘There’s no one called Gavin here.’ The woman held the front door open. ‘Please leave.’

  ‘Gav!’ He grabbed the banister, called upstairs. ‘Gavin!’

  ‘This is my house and I’m asking you to—’

  ‘I’m going to leave,’ Elliot said, ‘when I’ve spoken to Gavin.’

  ‘And I’ve told you,’ the woman’s voice cracked, ‘there’s no one here with that name.’

  Elliot marched into the lounge and saw post stacked on a dining table. He went over and rifled through the envelopes. The same name was on every one. ‘Who’s Jane McArthur?’

  ‘I am.’ The woman stood in the doorway, darting anxious looks up the stairs. ‘And this is my house.’

  Elliot eyed the photos on the wall: men and women and plenty of a smiling baby, but not a single one of Gavin. He felt the anger deflate inside him, leaving in its place a stinging bewilderment.

  And the terrible certainty that his savings were gone.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He pulled a hand down his face. ‘He said he lived here.’

  The woman spoke low. ‘Well, he doesn’t.’

  ‘I’ve picked him up here half a dozen times.’

  ‘Not from here you haven’t.’ She edged towards a phone on a cabinet. ‘I’m going to call the police.’

  The woman’s eyes were wide, her lips pressed tightly together. She was distraught. Any moment now she would burst into tears or scream. Upstairs, a baby began to wail.

  For the first time it occurred to Elliot what he
had done. A big, burly man – an intimidating sight with his shaved head, tattoo sleeve and smashed nose – and he’d barged into this poor woman’s home, was stomping around like he was deranged. For all she knew he was going to rob her, strangle her, take her baby. Burning with shame, he held up his hands in apology, aware that it was too little, too late.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s been a … I thought he …’

  ‘Please go.’ The woman’s stricken whisper was almost drowned by the infant cries from upstairs.

  Elliot stumbled past her, head down. As soon as he was outside, the door slammed behind him. He hurried down the path without looking back, fumbling in a pocket for his e-cigarette.

  Back in the van, he sucked miserably on the vape. He knew it wasn’t a good idea to hang around for too long – that poor woman would be calling the police already, he would do the same in her shoes – but Elliot couldn’t help but take one last look at the house. It just didn’t make sense to him. He’d been here more than once, to wait for Gavin and give him a lift down the pub, had parked in this very spot.

  But now he thought about it …

  He couldn’t remember one time when he’d seen Gavin actually inside the house or stepping outside, closing the door behind him. As far as Elliot could remember, he’d only ever seen Gavin waiting on the step, or bouncing down the path, waggling his fingers in greeting.

  Two days ago Gavin had been down the Oak, scheming, planning, selling Elliot a dream of a glorious future in burgers, and now he had vanished with Elliot’s money.

  All his life’s savings. Thirty grand gone, just like that.

  Correction.

  All of Rhonda’s life’s savings.

  Because, let’s face it, she was the only one who ever put money into the account. She was the one who made the effort to put by a little each month. Elliot couldn’t save money if his life depended on it. Cash rocketed out of his pocket. Gavin may have run off with it but, unquestionably, it was Elliot’s fault the money had gone. He had handed it to him – in cash! He had been an almighty fool, and not for the first time in his miserable life. Elliot was petrified that Rhonda would finally have had enough of his gullibility, his naivety. She might even come to the conclusion – and this made his stomach churn – that he was pulling a fast one and had taken the money himself. After all, people don’t change. That’s what they say.