by Mick Scully
A group of Asian lads from the sixth form college that lay behind the bushes lining the canal were standing on Kinny Bridge smoking and stamping their feet against the damp cold. The dogs went barking towards them. Ashley could tell the lads were scared but didn’t want to show it. Someone had told him that Asians were scared of dogs. ‘You never see Asians with dogs,’ they said, and at the time he had thought this must be true, but since then he had seen Asians with dogs, usually shopkeepers though, usually with Alsatians, like Mrs Nayer, the woman who kept the shop at the foot of Walton Tower. The Asian lads laughed as the dogs approached them, but stopped stamping their feet. Cigarettes went into mouths and hands into pockets. Nervously they let the dogs sniff around their feet.
‘You’re all right,’ Ashley shouted as he walked past. ‘They don’t bite.’ The lads looked unconvinced. Muttering to each other in Asian.
Further on there was a bloke wearing a woolly hat and a donkey jacket with a toolbag slung over his shoulder and who wasn’t scared at all. He crouched down, pushed and pulled the dogs. Made noises at them. Tugged their ears. Put his face close. The clouds of his breath mixed with the clouds of theirs. Ashley could see he was used to dogs, and they liked him. The man looked up. ‘These yours, mate?’
‘Walking them. For me uncle.’
A dog was licking each side of the bloke’s face. The third had his muzzle cupped in the man’s hand and was playfully tugging away. Ashley noticed a letter tattooed on each finger of the man’s right hand. He could see S and W but couldn’t make the other letters out. ‘You’re a fine fella,’ the man was saying to the dog. He looked up at Ashley. ‘Live on the Mendy, does he? Your uncle.’
‘Close.’
The man laughed. ‘Like you.’ He rose. ‘Nice dogs anyway. Well looked after. You look after them for him, do you?’
‘A bit.’ The dogs started to follow the man as he moved away in the opposite direction, but returned to Ashley when he called.
‘Well trained,’ the man said.
‘Why yus got all the doors in your house locked, man? Whaz in dem rooms? Your old man got all his gear in there?’
Ashley shrugged. ‘They’re just locked. Always have been.’
‘No, man. They new locks. Shiny little tings.’
‘What you been spying for?’
‘I’m not spyin’, man. Jus look about me, innit. Know what I mean, man? Know where I’m goin. You get me? Tryin’ to get to the bathroom when I stayed ova other night. Every door is locked.’
‘The bathroom’s downstairs. At the end of the kitchen.’
‘I knowed that now. Damn near pissed myself finding out.’
For a moment Ashley wondered if he should tell Kieran about this. But Geezbo didn’t know anything. Ashley didn’t know anything. There was nothing to know. As far as he did know there was nothing in there – yet. He’d certainly never seen Kieran bring anything in. But that changed.
Ashley came back one afternoon after spending some time with Geezbo and Tyr at Sophie’s. On the way back Geezbo had told him a secret. He said he was the one who had made Sophie pregnant, not Tyr. It was his baby. He had been shagging her for ages. But he wasn’t going to let on. Tyr was part of Mendy West. ‘I got connections myself,’ Geezbo said. ‘So if it came to it. Know what I mean, man? But there no reason for him to know. If that what Sophie want im to fink, it okay with me, man. It sweet.’
Kieran opened the door before Ashley could turn the key in the lock. He could hear voices in the front room. ‘Give us half an hour, will you? Ash. Here.’ He fished in his pocket for a tenner. ‘Get yourself some chips. Give it an hour. We’ll be finished then.’
‘Okay.’ Ash had had some toast at Sophie’s so he went to the arcade. The cancer woman wasn’t there. It was the first time he had been there when she wasn’t. There were quite a lot of people in but her machine was free. He didn’t know whether to use it or not. It might bring him luck – or bad luck if she had got cancer.
There were two Chinese blokes in suits on the big jackpot machines. He wondered if they were part of the Dragons, the Chinese mob that did protection in the clubs and casinos in town. He’d heard his dad talking to Kieran about the trouble Crawford had with them sometimes. But he didn’t think they would be out here in Stirchley. They usually kept to Chinatown. Probably waiters from Cotteridge, further up the Pershore Road. Cotteridge was full of restaurants. Indian. Chinese. All sorts.
He had started to move towards a machine when he heard Alma’s voice. ‘Ten quid max for you. Remember.’ He changed his mind and went on the cancer woman’s machine and lost everything Kieran had given him. He wouldn’t do that again.
When he got back to the house, Kieran was gone. It was all dark and cold. Quiet. He felt sad. He put the gas fire on but didn’t bother with the light. He wondered what was in the front room. He supposed they had put something in there. He could pick the lock, but he was sure they would have set something up so they would be able to tell if he went in. He got up and went into the hall. Switched the light on. Carefully he examined the edge of the door. He couldn’t see anything. He crouched down and examined the lock. A good mortise, but he should be able to do it. But. He reminded himself who he was dealing with. Kieran was all right but mess him about, and remember what he said – You’ll really be in the shit – buried in it. Best leave it, for now.
It was pissing down when Ashley pressed Sophie’s button beside the main door of Walton Tower. Above him he could hear the slap of the rain on the balconies. There were puddles in the lift. ‘Mel’s here,’ Sophie told him as she let him into the flat. ‘It’s okay though.’
Mel, in a short, silky robe, pink fluffy slippers, dark glasses and a white baseball cap, was lying across the settee smoking, reading an Argos catalogue and watching Trisha on television. A glass ashtray rested on her belly. She inclined her head. ‘Hello, love, who are you?’
‘Ashley.’ Sophie answered for him. ‘The kid from Stirchley. I told you. His dad’s inside. Mom’s dead with cancer. Wanna cup of coffee, Ash?’
‘Ta.’
‘I’ll have another Oxo while you’re in the kitchen, Bab.’ Mel lifted a mug from the floor beside her. She turned to Ashley. ‘I’m off work today, love, with a migraine.’ Sophie mouthed hangover above her mother’s head. ‘Feel like death warmed up. And not that warm either.’ She took a drag from her cigarette and patted it on the edge of the ashtray.
A woman on Trisha had started screaming, a lot of her words bleeped out. ‘You tell him love. You tell the bastard,’ Mel called to the television. This made her cough.
‘Come in the kitchen with me, Ash.’ Ashley followed Sophie.
‘And no more cigarettes this morning,’ Mel called. ‘You’ve had two already. I’ve put her on six a day, Ashley. Don’t let her smoke in there will you, love? Or Christ knows what she’ll give birth to.’ She began to cough again. A deep rattling noise. ‘Oh God!’ She rapped on her chest with the side of her fist. ‘Die, bitch, die.’
In the kitchen Ashley watched Sophie unpeel an Oxo cube and crumble it into Mel’s mug, spoon coffee into two others, pour boiling water into all three. While Sophie took the hot Oxo to her mother Ashley put milk and sugar into their coffees. He looked out of the kitchen window at the estate and beyond it. In the distance stood the metal fretwork of three enormous horseshoes, the new hospital they were building. And above the frameworks, cranes, five of them, reaching high into the cold silver sky then dipping down into the nest of the construction site.
When Sophie returned to the kitchen Ashley stuck his hand up his hoodie. Sophie watched him pull out a red Babygro and put it on the kitchen counter. Then another, white this time. A white cardigan. A blue one. Some white booties. ‘Present for you.’
‘Nicked.’
‘Nah.’ He grinned.
‘Course they ain’t.’ She was grinning too.
‘The market. I tried Mother’s Pride. But everything’s tagged so—’
‘Mother’s Pride?’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Mothercare.’
‘Yeah. Well I need to do that when it’s crowded. People to weave in and out of. So I can do a runner. I reckon I can get you a buggy though.’
Sophie collected up the baby clothes. ‘I’ll show these to Mel.’ Ashley frowned. ‘It’s okay. She’s cool.’ Ashley followed Sophie but remained standing in the doorway. ‘Look, Mel. What Ash got me.’
Mel slid her head away from the television and pushed her shades above her eyes. In her other hand she held the remote. She muted the sound. ‘Oh Christ. Baby clothes. That’s really cheered me up. I feel about forty now.’ She reached for the bundle. ‘Nan. Christ.’ She examined the clothes. ‘Nice though. Useful.’ She looked towards Ashley still in the doorway. ‘Where you knock these from?’
‘Market.’
‘Be careful.’ Then, to Sophie, ‘Some people think it’s unlucky to get stuff too early. Still. Useful though. Thanks, love. I couldn’t half do with a new leather purse next time you’re down that way.’ She handed the clothes back to Sophie. ‘The Somali lads, at the end of the curtains row, do some nice ones.’ She returned her shades to her nose, her head to the arm of the settee and sound to the television.
There was confusion in Mrs Graham’s eyes. She looked around. ‘The dogs. Where are they?’ The woman’s face seemed to grow. A monster. The giant’s wife. Ashley could see the small lines around the mouth, pouches at the end of the lips, some tiny hairs beneath the make-up. When she opened it again he was sure he would fall in.
‘Nicked.’
‘Nicked?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Mrs Graham.’
Her hand reached for support, but she was further from the door than she thought, and she stumbled against it. ‘What do you mean? Nicked? Three Staffs, nicked?’
Ashley stopped trying to fight the tears and let them fall. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Graham. Really.’ He started to shake. ‘A bloke I see sometimes when I’m walking them down the canal. He’s all right. Least I thought he was. Always stops and talks, plays with the dogs. Friendly. This morning when he was playing with them, two other blokes, well one was a kid really, jumped out of the bushes and got hold of me. The kid had a knife. He held me round the neck. The other punched me, twice, in the belly. They leashed the dogs and took them up the towpath a bit and through the bushes. The kid was saying things like—’ Ashley started sobbing. ‘Things like could I swim. He pulled me to the edge of the canal and said, it’s more difficult with a cut throat. I thought he was going to do it, Mrs Graham.’ Sobs halted him again. His body shook. ‘I really did. I thought he was going to cut me. But he just pushed me in, and ran after the others.’
Ashley stood crying before Mrs Graham. He wanted her to reach out and forgive him. Tell him it would be all right. It wasn’t his fault. Take him inside and be nice to him.
‘He pushed you in the canal? But you’re not wet.’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I went home and had a wash. I was covered in shit. Changed.’
The backhanded blow from the woman caught Ashley across the mouth. He staggered.
‘You stupid little bastard. Two of those dogs are supposed to be breeding this weekend. Two hundred quid each. And we can get more for Sergeant.’
Ashley could hardly see Mrs Graham through his tears. He didn’t know what to say now. She grabbed his arm. ‘You’d better stay in the shed.’ She started to pull him towards it. ‘I’ll phone Benjy. Jesus Christ, he’s going to do his nut. Murder you he will. Probably have another stroke.’
Ashley broke away. Ran. Mrs Graham was shouting at him to come back, shouting threats. He just ran.
The lake in Kinny Park was frozen. Smooth, and grey as gunmetal, the same as the sky. Ducks huddled together at the end where reeds grew. Today they looked like silver spears guarding the birds. But not very well. On the ice were a couple of dead ones, and there was another on the path. Ashley looked down at it, turned it over with his foot. Airguns; kids with airguns. He bet there would be a couple of squirrels around, and he was right, he found two, one taken right through the head, lying under a tree. A squirrel right through the head, that’s not easy.
Ashley stamped into the grey frost-covered grass forming patterns: a zig-zag, a question mark. He started on his name, but got bored after the A. As he got closer to the small wall that edged the park he spotted Karl on the pavement beyond, walking at a pace, Blues scarf round his neck, head down, schoolbag bouncing against his leg.
‘Karl!’ Ashley’s yell disappeared into the frozen air unheard by Karl. He yelled again. Nothing. He started to run. Yelling, ‘Karl! Karl!’ At last the boy halted, turned, saw nothing behind him, made to start again, then heard another yell from the park. He saw Ashley, stood and waited as he ran towards him.
‘Where you going?’ Ashley asked.
‘School.’
‘Bit late aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been to the doctor. About my verrucas. I thought you was in Ireland.’
‘You what?’
‘They said at school you’d gone to Ireland. To live with your uncle.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Whittaker. Said they’d got a letter. Taken you off the register.’
Ashley was uneasy at this. Glad he was off the register, but unsure about the letter. Perhaps the school was just saying that so they could get rid of him. Forget about him. Or he wondered if his dad might have written it, if Kieran had told his dad he had stopped going to school. Or maybe Kieran himself. ‘I’ve got some money. D’you want a cup of tea? My bollocks are freezing off.’
‘All right then.’
Ashley drew a question mark on the steamed-up window they sat beside, then erased it into an irregular smear showing the world beyond the café, but with soft edges, like it was melting, oozing away. Both boys cradled their cups of tea, letting the warmth seep into the palms of their hands. ‘There’s no point going back to school now. Let’s go into town. Pick up some things.’
Karl blew across the surface of his tea. ‘No. I want to get my tech project marked.’
Ashley lit a cigarette. ‘What you done?’
‘The bird box. Level 3. He’s grading today.’
5
Ashley didn’t recognise the white van parked opposite his house in Cecil Road. There was no reason why he should. Just another van in the string of parked vehicles that always line roads of terraced houses. There were no front gardens in Cecil Road to be concreted and turned into drives, so there were always cars parked, even though half the houses in the street were let to students or gangs of Polish building workers.
Ashley was listening through his headphones to music Sophie had given him. DJ Ironic. He didn’t see Benjy getting out of the van until it was too late. Benjy was mouthing something at him, shouting it looked like. His mouth open wide, half his head it looked like. Like Jaws coming up for the kill.
Ashley made a dash for the front door and managed to get it open before Benjy reached him. Grabbed for him. Caught the headphones. They slipped to Ashley’s neck. ‘You little cunt.’ Benjy caught his shoulder, shoved him into the house. Ashley ran down the hall to the back room. Tried to slam the door in Benjy’s face, but the man was through, banging the door behind him before the boy could stop him. ‘You stupid little bastard.’
He seized Ashley one-handed by the collar, dragged him so his face was up close. Benjy’s face was red and sweating. Ashley couldn’t breath. He whimpered, ‘I’m sorry Benjy. It wasn’t my fault. There was three of them. It was too quick to …’
‘Not your fault!’ Benjy bellowed, flecking Ashley’s face with spit. Ashley squirmed in the man’s grasp. ‘Course it was your fucking fault, ya cunt. Whose fucking fault was it? Mine?’ And he nutted the boy, who fell away from him toppling a chair, knocking a cup and a radio from the table.
‘I should kill you, ya little fuck.’ Benjy pointed at Ashley. ‘You were responsible for those dogs. I trusted you with ’em.’
‘Thirty quid. I get two hundred before one of those dogs gets a hard-on.’ He kicked out. His boot hit Ashley’s ribs.
‘Please. Benjy.’
Benjy kicked again. Ashley squealed. Benjy kicked again. Ashley curled up to protect himself. His arms wrapped round his head, knees into his chest.
‘I’m sorry, Benjy. Really I am.’
Benjy bent over him. ‘Shut up, you little cunt.’ Ashley sobbed, blood and snot seeping into his mouth. His body shook. Benjy kicked at his knee. ‘Listen.’ He was panting. ‘Tell me exactly—’ The door behind Benjy opened. Benjy turned. Ashley turned his head, looked up. Saw legs. Benjy straightened up. There was silence. A man stood in the doorway. Suited. Booted. No tie, just an open-necked shirt. Smart though. He was Chinese. Ashley turned to see properly. The man held a gun. A small silver pistol, no bigger than a fist. Benjy was panting. Wheezing.
‘Open your mouth,’ said the Chinese. The mouth stayed shut. Benjy was confused. Scared to shit. He couldn’t keep up. A gun. A Chinese bloke. In a suit. Here. The kid’s place. The Weasel’s place. Where had he come from? What was happening?
Ashley didn’t care where he had come from. ‘Let him have it,’ he shouted. ‘Blow the bastard’s head off.’ Benjy’s appalled face turned to Ashley. Turned back to the Chinese bloke. Now he began to shake.
‘Open your mouth.’
Nothing.
The Chinese took a step towards Benjy and lifted the gun a little, no more than a tilt really. ‘You had no trouble opening it a moment ago. Mouth. Fist. Feet. All in working order.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Benjy whimpered.
The Chinese guy moved. Grabbed the neck of Benjy’s shirt, bunched in one hand. The gun came to Benjy’s temple. The man whelped. The Chinese spoke. Right into Benjy’s ear. ‘I’m going to let you live. It’s more than you deserve, but I am. But that mouth.’ The gun pushed against it. Ashley saw Benjy’s legs shaking like shit. He’d probably piss himself in a minute. ‘You open your mouth, breathe a word of anything you’ve seen here and you’re dead. Get it?’