‘It’s not right. It’s not ours.’
Pete’s stomach growls loudly.
Drover looks at him and then looks into the fridge. ‘You gunna say no?’
He reaches in and pulls out a bottle of milk, large pieces of rare roast beef, a bowl of salad, a leg of lamb and some cold sausages. He puts the salad back in and brings the meat to the table.
Drover doesn’t hold back, he can’t. He is thanking a god he doesn’t believe in and stuffing the beef into his face not caring what misses and falls to the floor. He’s slurping milk and spilling it down his already filthy jacket, and he is pressing food into Pete’s hands. And now Pete is eating, despite himself, gorging away his starvation until he too is dripping milk and saliva and all other kinds of stuff down his tatty old coat, and smiling as he rips some of the meat from the bone.
Blood dribbles through his fingers. The meat is very rare.
They do this until they feel sick, which actually doesn’t take very long.
‘We should find something to put the rest in,’ Drover says. ‘We can take it with us.’
‘Ice cream,’ Pete says, wiping his mouth. ‘Have they got ice cream?’
‘I dunno mate, have a look. I’m gunna find a bag or something.’
Drover starts opening cupboards and closing them again with clicks that increase in volume as his excitement grows and his strength returns. Pete too has forgotten that they are in someone else’s house as he kneels and pulls open the bottom half of the fridge to find the freezer.
‘Look here, Drover,’ he says, and Drover comes over.
He pulls out a drawer and sees more meat, frozen and wrapped in cellophane.
‘We could take this with us,’ Pete is saying.
‘It won’t stay frozen,’ Drover says.
‘No, but when it’s not frozen then we can cook it, can’t we? You got your lighter. Some of it might last a couple of days, yeah?’
‘You’re a genius, Pete.’
Drover squats down and starts pulling out the frozen joints. There are a lot of them.
‘Am I?’ Pete asks, sitting back on the floor and looking proud. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Jesus Christ!’
Drover hits the floor, his palms slapping down on the tiles as he pushes himself away from the freezer.
‘What’s up?’ Pete asks, instantly worried. ‘What is it Drover?’
Drover recovers, wipes his mouth, swallows hard and inches back towards the open compartment.
He is so focused on what he can’t believe he is seeing that he doesn’t hear the creak of a floorboard overhead.
‘What is it?’ Pete demands, quiet now and creeping forward.
Drover reaches into the freezer and tentatively takes hold of the corner of a freezer bag. He swallows again, trying to push down whatever it is that’s in his throat. Excitement? Bile? He slowly draws the bag from the freezer and holds it up.
‘What is it, Drover?’
Drover looks at Pete, his face white.
‘I’d say it was about five hundred quid, Pete,’ he says. He holds up the transparent bag full of banknotes and lets the sight sink in for a moment. ‘We’re fucking rich!’
Immediately he reaches into the freezer again and pulls out another bag about the same size. He hands that to Pete and loves the way Pete’s face is all confusion.
‘We can’t take this,’ Pete says.
Drover’s not listening. He’s up on his feet; he’s foraging through the fridge.
‘Nope, nothing there.’
He goes to the cupboards, opening and closing them. Nothing there, either. There’s a larger cupboard for brooms and stuff and there’s a kind of duffle bag in there. He throws it across to Pete.
‘Stuff that in there with some food,’ he hisses, his mind set on finding more cash. ‘Anyone who shoves that amount of money in their freezer…’ He looks around the room. Sees the cupboard under the sink and opens it.
‘Yes! Result.’ More bags of money.
He slides them across the floor beneath the table to Pete over at the fridge.
‘Slip that in, Pete, mate,’ he says, quickly. ‘Our troubles are over.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Think, Pete!’
Pete shakes his head. ‘We should leave.’
‘Think of what we’ve been dreaming of. Getting a place to live. We can do it, now.’
‘It’s not ours.’
‘You could find a girlfriend. Shuck it, mate, you could buy one.’ Drover laughs.
‘Drover, put it back. It’s not right.’
‘Keep looking. We could buy a whole fairground.’
‘I dunno, Drover.’
Drover pulls yet another bag of money from under the sink and slides it across the floor.
‘Whoever stashes this much away, Pete, they aint gunna go to the police if we have a bit, are they? I mean, think about it.’
Drover can see that Pete is working it through.
‘You mean we could get a ghost train?’
‘And those gold rings I always wanted.’
‘But we could still live together though, you and me?’
‘Always, mate. We could find a really nice place. And far away, Pete, where I wouldn’t be recognised.’
‘So, there would be no chance of you being sent away?’
‘No, mate. Here, catch this. Fill the bag.’
Drover slides another wad of cash under the table, and, although he knows it is wrong, Pete starts filling the bag with frozen food and cash.
‘Hey, Drover,’ he says, smiling. ‘We’re gunna be okay, aren’t we?’
Drover doesn’t reply. He has stopped moving.
Someone is standing in the doorway.
Five
PETE FREEZES IN SHOCK and feels his skin turn cold. He has only felt like this once before, when his father caught him stealing biscuits from the tin in the kitchen. Pete doesn’t steal. Pete doesn’t do bad things. So when he is in a house that he should not be in, about to put someone else’s money into a bag, and sees a man’s slippered feet in the doorway, he knows he is doing wrong. His thoughts are flying around so panicked they don’t know where to land, and that means he doesn’t know what to do.
He stares at the feet, not daring to look up. His innocent mind is thinking that if he doesn’t look at the person then that person will not notice him. If he keeps very still and quiet then Drover will sort it out. Drover will know what to do.
Drover has gone quiet. He is not saying anything. The man is not saying anything. Pete knows he must not say anything. Just sit and wait and it will all go right. He slowly puts down the wad of money he is holding and turns so that his back is to the kitchen cupboard. His mind tries to work things out. Only a few seconds ago he was being praised for getting something right. They can take the frozen food and let it defrost as they walk. No, that’s not important now. They can’t take the food anyways. It’s not theirs, they should not have broke in, he tells himself. But that’s not mattering now ‘cos they have broke in and someone has caught them, and someone’s got to do something right now or they will get in trouble and Drover will be sent down and Pete will have no-one. No-one.
The gun.
He looks up, a flash of a glance to the person who is still standing there waiting for something to happen. Why is no one moving? He realises that the man has only just appeared. Pete’s thinking fast; so much in his mind and all so fast. What to do? He wants to go to the toilet. He thinks he will have to let it go in his pants.
The gun.
A look towards the table where Drover put it down. From his position on the floor he can see the end of the handle just sticking out over the edge of the table. He looks
beneath the table across the room to Drover’s feet. His friend is standing up, keeping his back to the sink. One of the cupboard doors is still open and Pete knows that there is no way they are going to be able to explain this away. The door is open. Shut the door, Drover, it’s giving you away. Just being here is giving us away, Pete, don’t be thick. He scolds himself and starts biting the edge of a nail.
The gun.
Pete is nearest. The man (it must be a man, the slippers, the trousers, it feels like there is a giant in the doorway beside him and towering over him), has not seen the gun yet. Maybe. If Pete is very fast he could jump up, grab it and… What? What you gunna do, Pete? Turn it around and point it at someone and pull the trigger? No, throw it to Drover. He’ll know what to do.
But if he moves he’s going to wet himself. Pete wants to cry. He is ashamed to have been caught doing something bad.
He hears Drover’s voice:
‘Pete!’
And then another voice, deeper than Drover’s, gruffer, like the trolls in fairy stories, like a monster in cartoons, low, growling:
‘What do you want?’ the voice asks, and Pete thinks it sounds strange but it doesn’t sound angry.
‘Look, mate,’ Drover says, ‘sorry, yeah? We was hungry and we didn’t think…’
‘What have you eaten?’ The voice says, and Pete thinks it’s actually quite a nice voice, once you get through the first shock of hearing it.
‘Not much, mate, honest. Look, sorry, we didn’t know…’
‘What have you eaten?’
Why does it keep asking that? Pete thinks. Why does this voice keep asking that? He sounds reasonable, so if Drover told the truth he’d probably be okay with it. Perhaps, Pete thinks, he should look at the man and explain the truth.
‘Nothing much, mate,’ Drover is saying. ‘Just some milk and stuff. Look, we’ve been in the woods for three days, we’re just trying to get to…’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just something to eat, please, then we’ll go.’
The man takes a step into the room and Pete looks up and sideways to catch a glimpse. He is not sure what he expected to see but it wasn’t this old man in slippers, with tatty old jeans, and a jumper. He thought he would actually see some kind of ogre, and although the man is tall, and big, and actually fills the doorframe, he doesn’t look scary. He has a kind face, with grey hair and a bit of a wobbly chin. Not as kind looking as Pete’s dad was, but he doesn’t look like he would do them any harm.
The man looks down at Pete. All thoughts of explaining their story flee Pete’s mind and he has to really concentrate so as not to wet himself. The man may look kindly at first, but there is something threatening in his eyes that Pete doesn’t like.
‘Let’s go, Pete,’ Drover says, and Pete is glad to hear him say it. Drover will make it all okay. ‘Alright, mate? Sorry, we’ll just go. Sorry about the piece of glass. Grab the bag and we’ll go, Pete.’
Pete hesitates.
‘Get the bag, Pete, c’mon.’
Pete wraps his fingers around the handle and it feels unfamiliar; it is not his. It’s like it’s burning him and telling him no, you can’t take me, I am not yours. And then the pain in his stomach intensifies and he knows that he has to take the bag or starve. He grips the handle and can feel the man watching him as get gets to his feet.
‘Why did you come here?’ the man says, and Pete looks at Drover.
Drover is inching slowly towards the table in the middle of the room. Why is he heading that way and not back, towards the door?
‘We was hungry,’ he is saying. ‘Honest, we didn’t mean no harm, mate. Just wanted something to eat.’
Pete is now on his feet and looking at the man who is looking at Drover. It’s like he has realised that Drover is the leader here, he’s the threat. Pete feels the bag in his hand and wants to drop it.
‘Did you like it?’ the man asks, and this seems to stop Drover for a moment.
‘What?’ he says, and Pete sees his eyes flick to the gun.
‘Did you like it?’ the man asks again, and it sounds like he is smiling now.
‘Yes, mate,’ Drover says. ‘We ain’t eaten in three days. We loved it.’
Not the gun, Pete silently pleads. Leave it, Drover, don’t go for the gun.
‘You loved it, did you?’ the man asks, and he takes a step closer to the table, further into the room, but he is still a long way from the gun.
If they are going to race for it, Pete thinks, then Drover will get there first. But don’t, he wants to say, don’t use the gun. Leave it, run, I’ve got the bag, there is food and money, Drover, don’t.
Drover takes another step towards the table. Two more and he will be there.
‘Loved it,’ the man says again, and it sounds like he is saying something dirty, or mocking, like he’s taking the piss out of Drover. That thought hurts Pete.
‘Just something to eat, mate,’ Drover says, and takes a step. One more.
Don’t take it. Just go to the door.
Pete sees the man’s dark eyes flash to the table and to the gun. He has just realised how close Drover is to it. He looks at Pete, and Pete quickly puts the bag behind his back.
‘That isn’t yours, son,’ the man says, and Pete knows. ‘Put it down.’
‘Keep it, Pete,’ Drover orders.
Drover’s right arm is coming up from his side, slowly and carefully. He is watching the man who is now boring his eyes into Pete. Pete doesn’t know which one to look at. Drover is very slowly reaching for the gun and taking a last step towards it. But the old man is also moving towards it. Pete is frozen to the spot.
‘Put the bag down, son, and you’ll be alright.’
‘Go, Pete. Just walk out, you’re okay. Trust me.’
‘Leave it, or you’ll get hurt.’ The man says this like he knows what he is talking about. It’s not a suggestion, he means it.
‘It’s only a few quid and some meat, mate,’ Drover is trying to reason. ‘You won’t miss it, would you?’
‘Put it back.’
Drover’s hand is level with the table top. The man has also found his way right to the edge of the table. He is inches away from the end of the shotgun. Drover is closest to the barrels.
‘Come on, mate, we don’t mean no harm.’
‘Who breaks into a house with a shotgun and don’t mean no harm?’ the man says, and his eyes are now fixed on Drover.
It wouldn’t matter what Pete did now. No-one is interested in him. He could slip away to the door and run, take the bag and wait for Drover out in the woods. But then, what if Drover needed him? He can’t leave him, not like this.
A memory bubbles up.
Pete opens his mouth to yell. As Drover make a grab for the gun the big man slams his hand down on the handle and grips it.
The memory explodes:
School, playground, aged thirteen, first day in a new school, feeling lost, being scared. Pete was trying to find his class. He had only just moved to this new town, so they could make a fresh start after Pete’s mum died. It was an adventure. But it was a scary one. Unfamiliar buildings, threatening doorways, hostile faces and other children looking at him as if he was dirt. There were names thrown at him even before he got to the assembly hall: ‘Diddycoy, Scumbag, Gypsy, Drongo, Thick-ead.’
His trousers were too short and too tight at the waist He’d grown up fast in the past few months. Last year’s trousers showed off grey school socks. But his dad had not had time to organise new ones. He had no idea where mum bought them, or what size they should be. He had things to deal with: funeral, new house to rent, moving jobs, and all at the same time. Trousers had to wait. They hurt Pete and showed off how his flabby tummy rolled over the belt. It was a stretchy belt, blue and white wit
h a metal clasp. Old.
His shirt collar was too small as well and the top button wouldn’t do up. He had to cover the gap with his tie as best he could. But it was the wrong tie; wrong school.
During the first lunch break he was set upon by a group of boys from his class. They teased him at first and then got bolder. He knew what was coming. It felt too expected for it not to happen. They kicked him and pushed him to the ground where his trousers ripped underneath. He saw gravel in the heel of his hand and it burned him. When he was standing up the ground had looked smooth. But when he was suddenly down there, at eye level with it, he could see that it was covered in tiny stones and grit. It was a warm day, he could smell tarmac. Someone spat on him, someone threw some dirt at him because he was crying and he knew that he’d let go of his bladder and there was a wet patch on his trousers now. He might even have done worse but the situation suddenly changed.
One minute there was the group of jeering, loud, spiteful boys around him and he was looking up at them like they were tall trees in a forest, and he was lying on his back, the sky was white, he remembers, and cloudy. His face hurt; there was a burning feeling on his knees, too, where he had scraped them. Someone was pointing to the front of his trousers and laughing. He thought he was going to die.
And then it changed. One of the bigger boys went flying backwards like some invisible hand had grabbed him and yanked him away. It had, but it wasn’t invisible. It belonged to another boy, dark, and with green eyes that looked like Christmas lights. His face was screwed up and he was swearing, using loads of words that Pete had never heard before but knew were bad. The words drove the other boys away. Some ran, others were pushed, some were kicked out of the way by this tough, older boy who waded in and knocked the bullies away like they were skittles.
Whoever he was, he was like one of the creatures from Pete’s fantasy stories, a hulking warrior with a great round shield and wild hair, dragging his enemies away like toys, flinging them to the ground as he stomped his way into the circle for his turn with the kill.
Lonely House Page 5