White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  ‘And she followed us home,’ I said, completing my recent history with Shirley. ‘I saw her out the front, looking in at me.’

  ‘She followed you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did she say.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you see where she went?’

  ‘No.’

  Ian was lost in his own mind for a bit, his questioning at a close. So, I asked one of my own.

  ‘Ian, why is it so important?’

  ‘It isn’t; I’m just curious,’ he reassured me, looking at me quickly, then darting his eyes away again. ‘It’s not important at all.’

  Boring Monday was eventually over, replaced by Tuesday, which was like a normal Monday: shops open, people out and about, kids making noise in the street again, everyone back to work.

  ‘You boys, too,’ Dad informed me and Ian, before he set off himself. ‘Those left-over Easter eggs and Basil Brushes won’t shift themselves. I’ll give you a fair cut of any profits.’ Dad drained the last of his breakfast tea in a second and left by the back door, before Ian had a chance to clarify the-exact-details-of-our-employment-contract, as he put it.

  I hadn’t been out selling before; Ian had on a couple of occasions, only when Dad had too much stock in the house and needed to move it on swiftly.

  ‘We’ll just try door to door,’ Ian suggested as a starting point. ‘See how far that gets us.’

  ‘But we can’t carry them all.’

  He grinned at me. There was a wheelbarrow at the end of our garden, parked next to the shed. We gave it a bit of a clean and lined it with an old blanket from the airing cupboard, before we loaded it with an equal amount of eggs and Basils.

  ‘Right, let’s make our first million,’ Ian chirped, as we wheeled it out the back, cutting across our neighbours’ garden to reach the alleyway that brought us out to the front. ‘You okay?’ he checked with me, as we came out into the street.

  It was the first time I had ventured further than our house since the Easter holidays had begun. If I appeared nervous on the outside, I was petrified inside. I looked about - our road was empty. In any case, I’d not seen either of Justin’s attackers near our part of town before.

  All the time we were out, I kept my eyes peeled, looking out for those older boys. We took the goods up both sides of our road and along to the nice end of the estate where Auntie Stella and Uncle Gary lived. Ian suggested venturing into the rough side, but I shook my head.

  ‘They won’t have any money,’ I insisted, fearful of heading in that direction. That was a step too far for me. Roy hung out in the rough end of the estate. And if Roy hung out there, so did his soon-to-be step-brother, Clint. And Clint was the link to the other boys.

  I was certain I’d been found out by then; that they’d realised they had beaten the wrong boy. Roy had asked about it at school and seemed suspicious about my apparent good health.

  ‘Heard you got a beating, nancy boy,’ he’d said, catching me as I left the canteen one lunch time. ‘Where you hiding your bruises?’

  ‘He didn’t get any,’ Justin had piped up, abruptly appearing behind Roy, and I wondered what he was going to say next. Was he going to land me in it? He still had a fat lip himself at that point. ‘They didn’t hit him hard enough,’ he finished off and I wasn’t sure how to take his words. I couldn’t ask him, either, as he had quickly disappeared, not interested in hanging around me for too long.

  Roy hadn’t said anything else, but I could tell he was thinking about Justin’s response. He knew something was up and it wouldn’t take him long to work it out. Any idiot could have done that, so Roy was more than qualified.

  ‘It’s the Easter holidays, the kids there will have spare cash to splash,’ Ian said, still insisting we hit the rough end of Uncle Gary’s estate, pushing the wheelbarrow, contemplating our dire sales record. So far, we had sold five boxes of eggs and only two Basil Brushes – both to our immediate neighbour, Mad Barbara, who had bought them as a surprise for her other half, Silent Dan. ‘It’s worth a try, in any case.’

  ‘I don’t want to go there, Ian,’ I told him, not sounding like myself. Noting the serious edge in my voice, Ian stopped pushing and looked at me.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, concern in his face, his brow creasing. But I couldn’t answer. The time for telling him and for posing my own questions to him had passed and I didn’t feel ready. I wasn’t sure how he’d react when I told him he had a part in it. ‘Tell Ian we still want that money.’ So, I simply walked off. Left Ian standing, shaking his head no doubt. I didn’t look back, so I can’t tell you if he was, but I could feel him doing it.

  ‘Scot!’ he cried out once, trying to get me to turn back.

  But I was resolved to get myself back to safety as soon as I could. I’d come out without the coat, too. It wasn’t like the first parka I’d had – it didn’t have the same pull, it didn’t fulfil the same urgent need. But I still turned to it when I needed a safe place to hide. It took me just ten minutes to get home and back in the house. When Ian eventually caught up me, I was on my bed, my parka on and the hood up.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, but I had decided to keep my silence. I was inside the coat. I was safe. I wanted to stay that way. Keep everything settled and safe. So, I kept it all to myself.

  Ian tried a different tack.

  ‘Been speaking to Mad Barbara, next door,’ he ventured, sitting down next to me. ‘She’s cleaning at the Barley Mow three times a week. She’s gonna ask the landlord if we can set up a stall out the back. Tempt the lunchtime punters. Better than walking the streets, eh?’

  It was and I nodded a yes in acceptance.

  ‘Okay,’ he added, and gave me a light pat on the shoulder, before leaving me.

  Mad Barbara came up trumps – Bernie, the landlord at the Barley Mow, had agreed that we could set up our stall during the lunch period the very next day.

  ‘As a favour to your dad,’ he told us when we arrived, late on the Wednesday morning. He pointed us to a small patch of grass towards the rear of the pub. ‘There’s a decorating table in the shed, if you want something to put them on.’

  ‘We’re outside,’ I said to Ian, a little nervous of the exposure and the isolation of being pushed to the rear of the building. I thought we would have been inside; I hadn’t minded the thought of that as much. Whilst I’d be out in public and in full view of any would-be attackers, the Barley Mow was a busy place and full of Dad’s mates. Full of allies. The boys who had beaten both Ian and Justin up wouldn’t have dared come near me, assuming they would have been allowed on the premises; they were older than me, but not enough to get served.

  But out the back, hidden in the beer garden, that was different. That didn’t feel public enough.

  ‘So what?’ Ian had responded.

  ‘It might rain.’

  ‘It won’t. It’ll be fine.’

  Ian retrieved the foldaway table from Bernie’s shed and we set out our goods. We’d only brought what Ian could fit in the wheelbarrow and what I could carry, so he suggested going back for more.

  ‘You stay here,’ he instructed, taking the wheelbarrow, pushing it away without looking back. I simply let him go and hid my fear. The chance to tell Ian the truth, to share my fears, had come and gone again. ‘And if it rains whilst I’m gone, you can put the hood up on your parka.’

  I heard a laugh in his voice. Then he turned the corner and was gone.

  It felt like a year or so before he came back round it, pushing the wheelbarrow, which looked full to the brim. Della was in tow.

  ‘You sold any yet?’ she asked, standing with her arms crossed, whilst Ian and me unloaded the extra stock.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Well, I can’t stand around waiting for you to be millionaires,’ she huffed, turning to leave us almost as soon as she arrived. ‘I’ve got a bridesmaid dress to choose.’ As she walked off, Ian stacked the last of the boxes onto the table, completing our display.
r />   ‘Thought she was meeting Auntie Stella on Thursday,’ I said, mulling over Della’s parting words.

  ‘What?’ asked Ian, distracted, patting himself down, checking his pockets.

  ‘She and Auntie Stella had arranged to meet tomorrow, not today,’ I explained, but Ian wasn’t paying any attention.

  ‘I forgot to pick up my wallet,’ he said, explaining his preoccupation. ‘I took it out to check how much change we had and forgot to put it back. I’m gonna have to go back home again. You be alright here?’

  I nodded. Nothing had happened the last time he went and I could hear people in the pub – it was busy enough that I’d get some support if anything kicked off and not too busy that no one would hear me.

  ‘Okay. I’ll be five minutes.’

  But five minutes was all it took for some visitors to show up.

  First up was a trio of Tankards. Sharon and Stevie-the-little-shit, with a subdued Justin at their tail. Justin’s siblings strode right up to our stall.

  ‘What you selling?’ Stevie asked, immediately picking up a Basil Brush and pulling its string. Dirty-Gertie-from-number-30 filled an otherwise frosty silence.

  ‘Looks like a load of shit,’ Sharon snarled, looking at me cold, and my worst fears were realised: the whole Tankard crew knew about the beating Justin took in my place.

  Justin said nothing; just lurked at the back of them.

  ‘Don’t think we’ll waste any of our money on this crap,’ Sharon continued and I wondered if she or Stevie might do something, either to me or the stock. However, before anything else could occur, they were summoned away.

  ‘Come on you three,’ the voice of their mother, Chrissie, called out.

  She was standing by the back entrance to the pub.

  ‘Your dad’s got drinks and crisps in,’ she told them, before disappearing inside again.

  So, the three of them left me, slinking away into the smoky hole of the Barley Mow, where no doubt they’d spend the afternoon on the fruit machines or playing pool. Justin turned back to look at me, just at the last minute, and I wondered if I might get a nod or some recognition that his frosty temperament might be thawing. But he simply gave me the blank, icy stare I was getting used to.

  I didn’t see my next visitors arrive. I’d been nosing in the shed when they turned up. It was a big, brick out-house, really, not a shed, with a stable-style door and a ceiling with old, black beams across it. It was crammed full of interesting things. As well as a chest freezer, where Bernie kept all the frozen pub grub, there were rows upon rows of deck chairs, with faded, stripy fabric, stacked at the far end, and there were two big yellow umbrella sunshades that he used in the summer. Most of his stuff was thick with grey, dust-catcher cobwebs. There were tools in there too – hammers, saws, spanners, screwdrivers – all were hanging from nails banged into the wall. There was an axe, too, sticking out of the very bottom of a tree trunk, slammed in there with one big chop. From the ceiling’s central beam, there hung three big, thick, iron hooks, like something from an abattoir. I wondered what they were for and what Bernie would hang from there.

  ‘Look, it’s a little boy.’

  The voice came from nowhere. I hadn’t heard any footsteps on the gravel at the back of the pub; hadn’t heard any movement at all. I had my back to whoever owned the voice and I didn’t want to turn around. I wanted to stay where I was, wanted to hide: pull up the hood and zip on my parka and hide. Become safe, invisible.

  ‘What we gonna do with him?’ posed a second voice.

  Just two voices: a pair. A pair I recognised.

  Rory and Jim: the older boys who attacked Justin in the public toilets, in Jubilee Park.

  ‘This definitely him?’ Rory asked. ‘I don’t want to make another mistake.’

  ‘Yes.’ This answer came from a third voice.

  ‘Yeah, it’s definitely him.’ A fourth.

  The third belonged to Roy Fallick; the fourth his almost-step-brother, Clint.

  Keeping my back to them all, I wondered what I could do. There didn’t seem to be any real escape; hiding in my parka was just a fantasy. In front of me was a load of grubby garden furniture, Bernie’s rusty tools and the chest freezer. I thought about the axe, but, even if it hadn’t been wedged into the tree stump, it would have been too heavy to lift. And would that really scare them off? I was the boy who hid in the toilet cubicle and watched whilst his friend was beaten up and pissed on. They knew I was easily scared; that I was a coward.

  So I did the one thing they wouldn’t be expecting: I turned to face them.

  ‘Can’t promise we won’t hurt you, little boy,’ the one called Rory told me.

  I got a better look at him this time. Rory had a crew cut, but what you could see of his hair was mousy, a grey-brown colour. His blue eyes instantly cut you with their razor-cold glare. In his left ear was a gold stud.

  ‘Rory’s got a knife,’ Roy perked up, grinning evilly. Roy was full of confidence, I could tell. He was surrounded by his own bullying kind. ‘A flick knife.’

  ‘But I’m not going to use it. Not on you,’ Rory confirmed, but I didn’t feel any better for it.

  Jim, the other boy who had attacked Justin, had a carrier bag, which he passed to Rory. They had come prepared. I didn’t really think about it at the time, but they must have been watching me all along, waiting for the opportunity to finally get me.

  ‘Thought we’d try something different,’ Rory continued, taking something out of the bag. Something that was coiled up into a tight circle.

  ‘Fucking hell, Rory,’ Clint cried out, alarmed by the sight of the item. ‘Shit, that’s a bit far.’

  ‘Fuck off then, if you can’t handle it. Fuck off out of here.’

  ‘I’m going, I’m fucking going,’ Clint mumbled, tugging at Roy’s coat, coaxing him to go with him. But Roy stood firm. My mind flicked back to pushing Roy over that day in the playground; the day I’d made him cry. Roy was there to pay me back.

  ‘Good lad,’ Jim said, patting Roy’s shoulder. He gave Clint a stern glare. ‘Fuck off then, you queer cunt. Go on, fuck off.’ And Clint was gone.

  All the while, I stood, petrified to the spot, looking at what was in Rory’s hands. Wondering what he was going to do with it. The sick snarl on his face gave me an indication.

  ‘You got nothing to say, little boy? Nothing you wanna say to me?’

  What was keeping Ian? Five minutes, he said. He should’ve been back by then. Maybe he was just out of sight, watching, waiting for the right opportunity to intervene? Or maybe he’d seen and gone back into the pub for help? If he had, I’d be safe in seconds. But seconds kept passing and I felt no safer. No help was coming.

  ‘That Ian of yours, he busy, is he? Not here to help you? Not much of a brother, is he? Leaving you defenceless. Leaving you to us.’

  As he spoke, Rory was uncurling the item in his hands, letting most of it fall to the ground, whilst he found the end.

  ‘What’s with the coat, Scotty?’ he asked me, taking steps forward and I found myself automatically taking steps backwards. ‘It’s not that cold, you know. You can’t be that cold.’ He paused, thinking, then smiled again. ‘You will be though, very cold.’

  My eyes darted to the chest freezer and, for a moment, I had wondered. But it had a padlock on it.

  Rory saw me glance that way and laughed.

  ‘Not a bad idea, I guess,’ he uttered, still inching forwards, with me inching back again. Then I realised what I’d done: I’d moved right inside the shed, into its shadow and I’d made it easy for them.

  Suddenly, all four of us were in the shed and the door was closed. I was completely trapped.

  ‘Take the coat off.’

  It was only Rory talking: Jim and Roy simply stared at me. I wondered if either of them would step in; stop this going too far. But their faces were blank, giving nothing away.

  ‘Come on, take it off.’

  I unzipped it, very slowly, and let it fall to the floor. A
s it did, I heard them all snigger – taking off the parka had revealed the wet patch on the front of my trousers.

  ‘Looks like we don’t need to piss on this one,’ Rory sneered and the other two joined him, laughing.

  Then Rory stepped forward again and I tried to go back further, but there was nowhere to go – I was up against the first row of folded deckchairs. He came right up to me and looked down; then he looked straight up, moving his eyes slowly, ensuring mine followed. We were stood right underneath one of the meat hooks in the ceiling.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  And then his hands came up and I realised he’d made a noose with the rope they’d brought with them, which he was gently, ever-so-gently placing over my head.

  ‘You’ll soon feel the chill.’

  It was the last thing he said, before he tossed the other end of the rope up. After three attempts, he got it on the hook above me and was ready to pull.

  Then two things happened that saved me.

  When Ian came back, he found me sitting in one of the deckchairs, with Adrian Tankard standing over me. Adrian had pulled it out of the shed and told me to sit in it, despite the fact that my pants were both wet and soiled.

  The soiling was the first thing that aided my rescue. As Rory went to pull on the rope, I felt a bit of sick in my mouth and then my bowels exploded of their own accord.

  ‘Fear does that,’ Adrian told me afterwards. ‘There’s no shame in it. No shame.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Roy had cried out, covering his mouth, turning for the doorway. Jim had reacted similarly, only the smell of my shit had made him sick. He had vomited a measure to equal mine on Rory’s boots.

  ‘Jesus, Jim!’ Rory had cursed him. He still had one hand on the rope, but he was distracted enough for me to consider my own attack. A swift kick in the balls? Or one almighty push to see if I could knock them out of the way. Crapping myself had brought me back to life somehow; a bit of my petrifaction flooding away with my waste. And the group’s sudden disjointed panic over the smell and the sick took away a bit of their menace. They wouldn’t kill me. I was sure. Yes, this was just scare tactics. No, not killers, just bullies. Just-.