by Shea, Alan
‘Want s-some chestnuts?’
‘Yeah!’
In the far corner a tin drum glows red as blood, shooting sparks into the black night. An old man hunches, warming his hands – part of the darkness, torn out of the shadows. The smell draws us on. On top of the drum, roasting chestnuts sigh in the heat. Reggie hands over a threepenny bit. The man squints at it, coughs loudly and scoops crackling nuts into a brown paper bag. We walk away examining our supper. Crispy, golden brown nuts.
My mouth waters. Reggie hands the bag to me. I take one and bite into the hot, sweet, salty flesh. It burns my tongue deliciously.
‘Nice?’
‘Great.’
Impatient, we toss the hot nuts from hand to hand like jugglers. Tumbling through crowds, twigs in a current.
‘Look, dodgems over there.’ Reggie gets squashed between women pushing prams overloaded with babies, men laughing, kids shouting.
‘Where?’
He nods his head in the direction of the dodgems. ‘Over there.’
We have to barge our way through. I get pushed, trip and land on a pram. A woman looks daggers at me. Reggie smirks.
‘What you doing, playing pram dodgems?’
‘Very funny. Just you wait.’
Eventually we disentangle ourselves from the crowd like threads from a jumper.
The man looking after the dodgems has long greasy hair. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a tattoo of a dragon on his arm. Reggie counts out some money and gets into a bright-red car. He has that cheeky look in his eyes and that little smile playing around the corners of his mouth that makes his lips twitch. He pushes at his glasses. ‘You s-sure you want to do this? It can get a bit rough.’
‘Don’t you worry about me, this is war.’
We spend the next few minutes racing around. Trying to bash each other. Getting bashed. The watching faces are a blur. The noise of people laughing, yelling, and bumping dodgems blocks out everything else. Suddenly the cars slow and come to a halt. I can hear the music again. I get out and sit on the side. My legs feel wobbly. I do up my shoelace. Reggie gets out of his. Sits by me. I feel a hand on my back.
‘Gotcha! Surrender or die.’
We both turn at once. The face is hidden by a black balaclava. Only the eyes show.
‘Wish you’d stop doing that, Norman.’
He’s chewing a bar of nougat. ‘I could’ve slit both your throats.’
‘Yeah, that nougat looks really dangerous.’
He pulls out a long knife. Black handle, floppy silver blade. Sharp as rubber. ‘Liberated this off a German officer.’
‘Put it away, Norm, before you rub yourself out.’
He drags the balaclava off his head. It rakes through his hair like a plough through fields. Underneath his face is red. His eyes shine.
‘How long have you two been here?’
‘Not l-long.’
‘What you been on?’
‘Couple of things. W-what about you?’
‘Coconut shy.’
‘Win?’
‘No. I hit loads of them but they never came off the stands. I reckon they’re glued on.’ He chews on the nougat, pulling it out in long, tacky strands.
‘You should watch out, Norman. That’ll take your teeth out. You won’t get into the army without teeth.’
‘Wanna bit?’
We both shake our heads.
‘I’m gonna go and win a goldfish. I ain’t never had a pet.’
‘What about your goats, Norman?’
‘They ain’t pets, my dad keeps them for their milk and that. Anyway, goats are stupid. Goldfish are clever.’
‘Wh-what makes you think that, Norman?’
‘That’s obvious, mate, they can swim, can’t they? Gotta go. See you later. And don’t forget: take no pensioners.’
‘Prisoners, Norm.’
‘Yeah, them neither.’ He sneaks off into the shadows. The nougat bar becomes a pistol. He massacres the crowd. Then a stray bullet spins him to the ground. He dies in agony. Again.
‘That’s twice he’s been killed this week.’
‘M-maybe his mum will knit him a medal.’
The crowds grow. Two rivers flowing from different directions. A torrent of people that meets in a narrow path between the coconut shies and the slot machines, then spills over. A monster flood. Full of people, all shapes, all sizes. Sticky with candy floss. Pink-mouthed, strawberry-iced. Beery-breathed. Swirling. Twisting. Not quite here. Not quite there. Not quite anywhere. Ladies in bright floral dresses. Kids red-eyed. I lose sight of Reggie. More lights glimmer in the darkness. More stalls spring up, opening their welcoming arms. Shadows spill into light. Light into shadows.
‘Alice? W-where are you?’
A man steps forward from behind a stall. Shouts out a challenge to the crowd.
‘Come on, test your strength. Make the bell ring. Show your sweetheart what a man you are.’
‘I’m here, where are you?’
An old woman knocks into me. Nut-brown. Red scarf tied around her head. ‘Lucky heather. ’Ere you are, sweetheart. Penny a bunch. Genuine lucky gypsy heather.’
And another, ‘Read your fortune, handsome?’
‘Penny a bunch, lucky heather.’
‘Over h-here.’
‘I can’t see you.’
Plastic ducks bob on water jets. Sitting targets. Air rifles crack. Ducks stop bobbing. Float upside down. Dead as ducks.
Disembodied voices. Arguments and laughter. Singing out of tune.
Wish I had stilts. Ah, now I see him. ‘Reggie.’
He hears me. Smiles. Waves. Then I think I hear another voice. It whispers in the wind. Calls my name. Sounds like my stepdad. I shake my head. Must be the excitement.
I look around again for Reggie. The crowd seems to fill my eyes. My head swims. I feel sick. Faces press in around me, blocking out my space. In my face. Pushing. Shoving. It’s like there are just too many of them. Like they can’t be real. I call out, ‘Reggie.’ I see him for an instant then, like a monster whale, the huge crowd opens its mouth and swallows him whole. Spits out his voice. ‘A…l…i…c…e.’
I have to get out. Find a bit of space. I move away from the bright lights and into the darkness. The wind is suddenly colder. The warmth that you get from being close to so many other people has gone. I take some deep breaths. A cloud bites off a piece of the moon, spits it out as smoky white light. I keep walking. Probably best to get away, just in case he really is in the crowd.
The noise of the fair melts into the night like the candyfloss on my tongue. I pass the caravans, where the fairground people sleep. They’re in darkness. Everybody is busy at the fair. The shadows get longer. Giants, changing with the lights. Sometimes following, stealthily silent. Sometimes in front, lying in wait. I move further into the darkness. The shadows disappear. Now only the humming buzzing of the generators keeps me company. Thick cables lie on the ground taking electricity to the fairground. There’s a smell in the air. I don’t trust the dark. Your mind can turn on you. Twist the ordinary out of shape. Silver moonlight slips from behind the clouds. In front of me a big striped tent hunches its shoulders. For a minute I can see the moon quite clearly, before it loses itself. Then I hear a sound: a thread of sound. A whisper. Like someone is calling my name. It sends shivers up my spine.
I decide to make my way towards the striped tent. Maybe there’ll be people around there. The moon dips in and out of clouds, weaves wispy trails of light. Tents press out from the night. The wind flaps at canvas, shusses out a whisper. A…l…i…c…e. Can that really just be the wind?
I start walking. Hear it again. A voice. Close by. He’s here. He must be.
‘Who’s there, who is it?’
Nothing. Silence. One of the ropes holding the tent rattles back a laugh at me. The moon moves, casts off clouds, plunges into the dark ocean of the sky. It’s light yellow, dull. From behind the caravans I hear a laugh. It’s the way he used to laugh at my poems. M
ock my stories. Not even a laugh really. Just a sound. A sound that meant I was no good. Rubbish.
I start to walk faster. The big top is just a few hundred yards away now. Shouldn’t take long. I cast a quick glance behind. Footsteps. I freeze, straining my ears. Someone’s breathing. I hear the voice again, louder this time.
‘A…l…i…c…e’
A breath of sound. It frightens me.
‘Reggie, is that you?’
I clutch at the straw of the question. Know the answer. The moon sinks. I can’t see. Feel like I’m drowning in darkness.
‘A…l…i…c…e.’
It’s not Reggie’s voice. I turn and walk quickly. The walk turns into a run. I’m trying to keep my eyes on the shadow of the big top. I’m running blindly now, shapes rise, tower over me for an instant then wreck themselves in the darkness.
The voice sighs out my name one more time. I try to run faster. I will my legs to pump harder. My breath rasps in my chest. I can sense someone is close by. Just as I turn my head something snags at my ankle. Flips me over into the night. I stumble. Sprawl in the mud. I lie still for a few seconds, not daring to look. My chest hurts. I can’t catch my breath. Slowly I open my eyes. Turn around. Look up. Silence. Nothing. I sit up.
‘A…l…i…c…e’
My blood chills. Sweat prickles.
The shadow slips out of the night. Moonlight sidles down. Sly. Cold. Lights up the space. I can hear breathing, a thin finger of sound.
‘Who’s there? What d’you want?’
My voice cracks. I try to get up. My legs are jelly. I want to scream, shout, run away, but I can’t move. The air trembles. A shadow ripples across me. Something glitters in the threads of moonlight. Eyes watching me.
‘Please . . .’ I blink and he’s there. Like he’s been there all the time. Holding his belt. Weighing it in his hands. Tap-tapping it against his palm. I shut my eyes. I try to think of the snake, the way I beat him the last time. But it’s like he’s too strong. I haven’t got enough energy. The breathing turns to a laugh. And all the time I can see him. Looking at me. Those terrible eyes.
My body tenses, waiting for the blow. I look around, desperate. Close by is a piece of wood. I inch my fingers towards it. If I can’t fight him one way I’ll just have to do it another.
I’m nearly there now. Just another fraction. My fingers are about to close on the wood.
A foot stamps down. Pins the wood to the ground. The shadow reaches out and grabs my shoulders.
My heart stops. I can’t fight any more. I roll over and look up into the darkness.
‘Gotcha. Surrender or die.’
It’s Norman! It was Norman all the time. Relief turns to anger. ‘Norm! You idiot, what you playing at.?’
‘Sorry, Al, didn’t mean to frighten you.
I feel sick. Start to get up. ‘Well, you did. What d’you mean standing there like that, scaring the life out of me.’
He fidgets nervously, shuffles from foot to foot. ‘Sorry, Al, I only know one way to stand.’
He pulls up his balaclava. ‘You look terrible. You all right?’
‘No thanks to you. Why’d’you do that?’
‘What?’
‘Follow me. Call out my name. Trip me. I could have killed myself.’
‘I didn’t! I was out on night patrol. I saw you running like someone was after you, then you tripped over the tent rope. I just came to see you’re OK.’
I stare back into the darkness. Nothing moves. Silence.
‘So, you wasn’t following me?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anyone around?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone? My stepdad?’
‘No. Like I said, I saw you running but I couldn’t work out why. You looked really scared though.’
I get up. Start to rub at the mud.
‘Ain’t seen Reggie about, I suppose?’
‘Yeah, he was looking for you. He seemed really worried. Then I lost him in the crowd. So I thought I’d keep an eye open, make sure you were all right.’
‘Thanks, Norm.’
‘No problem. It can be a bit scary out here on your own.’
I take a deep breath, then feel something soft brush my face. Like everything’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.
I look up. The moon dips in and out of clouds. It’s all light and shadow, imagination and reality. Perhaps being an Indian has its drawbacks after all.
I shake myself. ‘Come on, Norm, let’s go and find Reggie.’
We dive back into the noisy crowds.
24
Birthdays of a different kind
Today is Saturday. No school – and my birthday, all rolled into one. It’s not going to be a usual birthday. Mum’s still in hospital, so there won’t be any presents, but I still feel good. There’s something about a birthday when you don’t have to go to school. Like that’s your present. Freedom to do what you want. That’s a present worth having.
I begin to think about all the things that have been happening. Wonder what Sherlock would make of it all. He’d probably go on about evidence again, as usual. Maybe this thing Reggie’s going to show me will be the first real piece of evidence. The first piece. Maybe it will prove that mind-touching is real. And it will be obvious and we’ll all stand around saying ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’. Like the truth was staring us in the face all the time. I don’t think.
I reckon he’s found out something about that old photo. I asked Mrs Gilbey if she knew any more about it, but she said that all she knew was that it was found in my tin when I was a baby. I keep trying to guess what it can be. The questions whirlpool around in my head, round and round in smaller circles till they disappear down the plughole that’s my brain.
I have a good wash at the kitchen sink and make myself tea and some toast. The grill is broken. The bread burns. I scrape off the black bits. Smother it with marge and crunch into it. Delicious. A birthday cake without any candles. I thought I might get a card from Mrs Gilbey, but I haven’t. I feel a twinge of something, somewhere. She must have forgotten this year.
I’m hoping Reggie will knock. I wait and wait, pretending to myself that I’ve got things to do. Reasons not to go out. He doesn’t come. The church clock in Sidney Street chimes out.
I decide to go up for him. Granddad’s in, but he doesn’t know where Reggie is. I tell him I’m going to the library and ask him to let Reggie know. He asks me to get him a book.
I take the long way up Commercial Road. Today I feel like seeing people, dodging traffic, soaking in the noise around me. So much has happened. So much has changed. The world is doing somersaults on a trampoline, holding my hand and taking me with it. It’s scary and exciting at the same time. I almost believe the impossible is possible. Nonsense can sometimes make sense. That takes some thinking about. But now, in the busy, bustling street it seems that the only thing that matters is to be here. To be alive. To be thirteen. Happy birthday to me. I skip along like a little kid, singing to myself:
‘Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday, dear Alice,
Happy birthday to me.’
Rows of books ‘shush’ me with the sweep of the opening door. There’s a place for singing and a place for not singing. I like it in the library. I can get lost in the books and forget about everything else for a while – blot it all out.
Mrs Bentley is the librarian. I like her because you know where you are with her. She’s always the same. Her face is always the same. She always dresses the same. I wonder if she has a spare same face and several spare sets of the same clothes. She always has her hair in a bun with little bits straying on to her forehead. I sometimes think that they’re always the same little bits of hair that stray, but I can’t prove it. As I go in she smiles at me.
I walk along the aisles, touching books as if they’re friends I’m visiting. Reminding them I’m here. It isn’t warm or cosy like Mrs Gilbey’s,
but I feel safe here like I do at her house. I take a book from the shelf. Just pick one at random. It’s old-looking, the cover scarred as if it’s been in a battle. A faded red, with the letters of the title picked out in gold. I find a quiet corner up by the window. Sit on the floor and start to read.
When I open a book I usually lose myself in it, but today isn’t like any other day. Today is different. The book’s only got half my attention. I keep hoping that Reggie is going to walk in through the door, or creep up and tap me on the shoulder. But gradually I lose myself in the pages, and the next time I look at the clock almost two hours have gone by.
Mrs Bentley smiles as she stamps my books, and says, ‘Everything all right?’
I nod. Suddenly remember that I have to get that book for Granddad.
I find it and leave, opening the door slowly, still hoping that perhaps Reggie will be outside waiting for me. But there’s no sign of him.
I walk back home. Doubts, nagging like a toothache, start to pull at me. Where is he? Why didn’t he come to the library? He said he was going to tell me today. Why isn’t he around?
I decide to go over to the camp. It starts to rain. Gentle rain, like it doesn’t really want to make anyone wet. People push their umbrellas at the sky. Put their heads down.
I cross the bomb site. Suddenly I hear a noise coming from the air-raid shelter. It must be Reggie. My heart lifts. I can’t wait to see him. I quicken my walk. Now I’ll find out what’s been going on.
25
Passwords and parcels
But it’s only the noise of canvas flapping against the walls. I sit and wait in the damp shelter for ages. Rain dances off the roof, splashes into puddles. It seems very empty here. The birthday feeling begins to wear off. I take slow walks to the places we go. The canal. Vicky Park. Hope I’m suddenly going to turn the corner and find him waiting there. See him walking towards me down the road. The wet streets are empty. I wander around. Feel like a stranger. Like I don’t belong.
The day slips by. The gentle rain keeps falling. I watch the hours slowly pass. Time drip-dripping away with the rain. I watch it from shop doorways. From wet park benches. From empty alleyways. Chimed away by church bells. Waved away by people leaving friends. Lonely hours. I remember Mrs Gilbey saying that he and Granddad have moved around a lot, and I get a hollow feeling in my stomach.