White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  ‘Cowards.’

  ‘What?’

  Rory abruptly stopped fussing over Jim and looked at me, eyes sharp again.

  ‘What did you call me?’

  I repeated myself, wondering where this was going.

  ‘Cowards,’ I said.

  All three became still and I felt just a little of that joint-freezing fear return.

  I had missed my chance to escape; maybe I had also underestimated the extent to which they were prepared to go.

  ‘Really?’ said Rory. ‘We’ll see.’ With that, he put two hands on the rope again and gave it one large tug.

  Yet, I was liberated once again: a force to be reckoned with put their boots into the shed door, splitting it open and roared into the cold, shit-stenched echo of the outhouse.

  ‘WHICH ONE OF YOU CUNTS PISSED ON MY LAD??!!’

  They appeared to leave in seconds. If they also pissed or shat themselves with fear, I didn’t see. But all three were clearly scared of Adrian Tankard, Roy was even snivelling. Adrian didn’t do a thing: didn’t touch them; didn’t threaten them; apart from those first nine words, he didn’t say anything to them. It was just the thought of what he could do, this mighty man that everyone was frightened of.

  ‘Take your brother home, clean him up and then come and see me,’ Adrian instructed Ian, and Ian did as he was told: this was Adrian Tankard after all and you didn’t argue with him. You didn’t even think it in your head.

  Once home, bathed and changed, I told Ian everything. We were sitting on my bed, both crying, as I recalled the full details of Justin’s attack.

  ‘They must have seen Justin when you were attacked at the crematorium, that’s how they made the mistake,’ I mumbled through tears. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop, but it felt good. I hadn’t really cried about anything that had happened, not really: not about Mum going, or Nan Buckley dying, or her replacement, Sylvie. Not true tears. ‘I’ve lost my friend, too, Ian. I didn’t do anything to help him. I just let it happen. Didn’t know they were really after me, not till after. But I still just sat back and watched.’

  ‘I wasn’t there to help you, either,’ Ian said, pulling me close to him.

  On his way back to get the float, he’d bumped into Uncle Gary. My comment about Della going shopping with Auntie Stella had come back to him and he’d stopped to ask if the days had changed. No, Uncle Gary had confirmed, they were still meeting on the Thursday; today Auntie Stella was having a perm and then off to buy their weekly groceries.

  ‘If I hadn’t stopped for a chat, I’d have been there sooner,’ he apologised, but it didn’t matter. Not now. It was odd, but I was feeling better. I knew Adrian had terrified the boys, just by his presence. And I was hopeful they’d be keeping away from me. I still had questions, though.

  ‘What is it you owe them?’ I asked Ian.

  He turned his head away.

  ‘Ian?’

  It was a sobering question and our tears seemed to stop.

  ‘What they said to Justin. They said tell Ian we want that money.’

  He shrugged, still not facing me.

  ‘What money? Did you take it from them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what-.’

  ‘I didn’t take their money, okay?’ He was facing me. His eyes were red from all the crying, but now they glared at me in anger. I considered just letting it go, but I wanted to know more: I felt I had a right to understand why I had suffered shitting my pants in public.

  ‘Who did then?’ I asked him, and he went to say. He really was going to tell me, but the name stuck in his throat at the last second.

  I knew though: I knew instinctively.

  ‘I’m going to see Adrian,’ Ian announced, standing. ‘He wants to talk to me about this. You don’t refuse Adrian Tankard, now do you?’

  As he reached the door, I had another question on my lips.

  ‘Why won’t anyone talk about him?’

  Ian wasn’t expecting that. He stopped where he was; took in a deep breath. He didn’t look at me. Just stayed where he was for a few seconds. Mulling it over; thinking through a possible response.

  ‘Don’t tell Dad about any of this,’ he warned, moving again, his voice going down the stairs, as he headed for the front door.

  The mystery behind Della’s white lies – the mix up over the day she was shopping with Auntie Stella – was soon uncovered. Over the remaining days of the holidays, we became increasingly suspicious that something-was-going-on and this provided a good distraction from what I had encountered.

  On the Thursday, she went shopping with Auntie Stella as previously arranged. She came back with several bags we were-not-to-look-into, so it had clearly gone ahead. She offered no explanation for where she had been on the Wednesday; then again, no one asked her directly.

  On the Friday, she said she had to go into town to meet Julie, although this Julie wasn’t someone we had heard of before.

  ‘She’s new at school,’ Della explained, but the blush in her cheeks told us she was lying.

  ‘It’s got to be a boyfriend,’ Ian said, once she had gone.

  We were back to being normal again. When he came back from seeing Adrian, I didn’t ask him what had gone on. And I didn’t question him about anything else, either. As for the incident in the pub shed, we didn’t talk about it. I didn’t want too, either. So, it was as though it hadn’t happened at all. Almost. Ian wouldn’t let me out of his sight.

  ‘We’ll hang out,’ he told me. ‘And we’ll walk to school together, when it starts up again.’

  I normally walked with Justin and Ian went his own way.

  ‘What about your mates?’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘So, about this boyfriend,’ Ian said, his voice all sparky, upbeat. ‘How about we find out who he is?’

  On the Saturday, we got our opportunity: Della was off into town, to meet Julie again.

  We gave Della a five-minute start: let her leave the house and then peeked out to see which way she was heading.

  ‘She turned right at the end of the road,’ I reported back, and then we grabbed our coats.

  At the top of St James Road, she turned left, as if heading for Beverly Courts, where Nan Buckley and Sylvie had lived. Yet, she didn’t go quite that far – she turned off down an alley, just before the shop that was adjacent to the old people’s flats.

  ‘That leads to the Sheffield Road Estate,’ Ian said, something giving in his voice. His excitement dropped a notch.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, but he didn’t answer.

  ‘Let’s get our speed up, before we lose her.’

  So, we sped up to a gentle run, following her down the alleyway, waiting and watching at its opening, as Della continued towards her destination. The path led to a main road. Della went straight across and then cut down another alley, taking us into the warren of houses and flats that was the Sheffield Road Estate.

  ‘You were right,’ I said, feeling a little uneasy. It was still only three days since the attack, and, in spite of the release I had found afterwards, and the fact that I knew I had Adrian Tankard’s protection, I wasn’t completely confident. It had been fine on the main streets, fine when I thought we were heading into town. I paused, and Ian read my mind.

  ‘They don’t live here,’ he said, halting briefly, before tugging at my coat sleeve. ‘Come on.’

  And so we continued in our pursuit of Della, right into the heart of the concrete jungle of the estate, where breezeblock after breezeblock presented itself as a house, flat or bungalow. I found myself lost very quickly: I’d never come this far before. I didn’t have any friends this side of town, so I didn’t know it well. Ian did, though. He was very confident about what path or road led where and, after a while, it seemed he was pretty certain of where Della was heading. I knew this because he began to slow down.

  ‘She might see us,’ he gave as an excuse, but Della hadn’t looked back once. Her head was elsewhere
; she wasn’t thinking about who might be following – she was just thinking about where she was heading.

  After a while, we lost her completely, but Ian kept going.

  ‘Come on, this way,’ he’d say, and we’d turn down another road, cut across another muddy green.

  Eventually, we came to a row of shops – a florist, a hairdresser’s, and a newsagent – and Ian made us stop and wait on the other side of the road. Above the shops were flats and this was where he thought Della had gone.

  ‘You sure?’ I said and Ian nodded.

  And he was right, too. Just ten minutes later, Della came out of one of the flats, followed an older boy I recognised. Ian recognised him too, but he didn’t look pleased.

  Ian knew the Sheffield Road Estate well because he had come here a lot. He had a friend who lived here. And that friend was Della’s secret boyfriend: Russell Dunbar. The boy who had come to my rescue at the swimming pool that afternoon.

  ‘What’s wrong with Russell?’ I asked, as we watched them descend the steps down from the flats, and head off back into town. If they saw us, they didn’t make it known.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ian said, watching them. His eyes were cold and glaring. ‘Nothing at all, Scot.’

  And it was true: there was nothing wrong with Russell. Nothing wrong at all. The problem lay elsewhere: with Ian.

  13.

  First Sunday after we were back at school, we went to visit Mum again.

  Della refused to come with us.

  ‘Not if he’s wearing it like that,’ she told Ian, before heading off in a different direction - the Sheffield Road Estate.

  She was referring to me. I had my new parka on again, with the hood up, zipped to the full, so a circumference of fur encircled my face. I wore it whenever I could, maximising the opportunity for protection, as it kept me hidden. The boys, including Roy Fallick and Clint, hadn’t been anywhere near me since Adrian had scared them off, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

  ‘But only you wear that stupid bloody coat, so they’ll know it’s you,’ Della had cried at me, but I ignored her. I knew it kept me safe; bad things only happened when I didn’t have it; when I took it off. ‘It’s not even the one Mum bought you,’ she had continued. I’d ignored that too; blocked it out, pretending she’d never said it.

  ‘Just you and me then,’ Ian had said aloud, looking at Della, as she cleared off to meet Julie. We still hadn’t told her we knew. ‘Come on, let’s go and see Mum.’

  So, we continued on – just the-two-of-us – taking our usual short cut through the crematorium, out through the back and towards Mum’s new residence.

  ‘You okay?’ Ian kept checking, as we got closer and closer.

  Once through the front gates, we located the right building. Next, we had to sign in at reception, and Ian did this on behalf of us both.

  ‘Take your hood off, lad,’ the man behind the reception desk told me, and so I pulled down the zip and slid it off my head. Suddenly, my little world got bigger: my small circle view becoming panoramic and I saw things I hadn’t seen before.

  Behind the reception, there were pigeon holes, with files stacked in them. Towards the right, there was a door that led to an office out the back, where the receptionist had disappeared to the very first time we had visited. He had made a phone call, double-checking who we were, I guess, before allowing us. This time, he seemed to recognise us.

  To the left of the reception desk, there was a locked door; it had a window in it, the glass reinforced with wire. Once we signed in, the receptionist would unlock it and another person would take us on in to see Mum.

  However, that wasn’t all I could see. To the adjacent right were French doors that led to a garden, and through the doors I could see someone I knew. Someone I hadn’t expected to see there.

  ‘I’m afraid your mum won’t be allowed out there yet,’ the receptionist said, noting my interest, jumping to the wrong conclusion. ‘You’ll have to see her inside for now, in the secure visiting area.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, taking my eyes away from the woman outside. I wasn’t the only one to notice her, though. Ian was staring too. And, without thinking, without realising he was doing it, a name slipped from his lips. A name no one would usually utter.

  ‘Jackie,’ he said, in a barely audible whisper, staring at the woman in the garden.

  My brow crinkled up with confusion and I looked again, as Ian broke his gaze, heading for the now unlocked door that led to our mother.

  ‘Come on, Scot,’ he called after me.

  But I stalled, caught in a moment. Confused by what I could see and what Ian had whispered.

  He’d clearly said the name Jackie; but the only person I could see through those French doors was Shirley White.

  After the visit, once we were home, I snuck up to my bedroom and took the item I’d stolen from Uncle Gary from its hiding place and checked it over again. A simple white envelope, sealed, with just one name written on the front. I’d told myself I wouldn’t open it, that I’d keep it as I’d found it; that when I eventually gave it back to Uncle Gary, the secrets that were scrawled within would be just that: secrets.

  But the sighting of Shirley White that day changed things. I found myself confused by events; I didn’t understand what was happening and I needed to. And the letter I’d stolen from Uncle Gary’s flat just might have had the answers I needed.

  The envelope was stuck down with sellotape, suggesting its seal had previously come away. So, I had to hook my finger under the seal and rip it open along the top. I slid out a single sheet of writing paper. A letter; a letter Uncle Gary didn’t want me to have. A letter to Jackie written by Mum.

  ‘Dear Jackie,’ it began, ‘this is the last time you’ll ever hear from me. You mustn’t visit anymore. Not after what you did. You must stay away. But I have enclosed what you asked for, and hopefully it is enough, this time, to see off your debts…’

  The letter didn’t tell me everything I needed to know. Not after what you did, she’d written – what had Jackie done exactly? What was so bad that my family did their very best to ensure Jackie all but never existed? But the letter did make that reference to money. Had Ian somehow been dragged into what Jackie owed? Were those older boys after Ian, when they should have been after Jackie? It had me thinking; it also had me more confused, like I now had too many clues and far less answers than ever.

  However, there was one vital piece of information at the end of the letter that took me closer to the truth.

  So that’s who you are, I thought, smiling to myself, overjoyed by this small triumph, thinking how I’d had the answer at my fingertips all along. Of course that’s who you are…

  14.

  Another memory; another Polaroid coming back to life.

  I’m in a house; not the house with the white picket fence and purple room. A different one. I’m not on my own though, I’m with Jackie. Just the-two-of-us.

  ‘In you go, it’ll be alright,’ Jackie coaxes, pushing me forward.

  We are just inside the house, in the hallway. The wallpaper is brown and mustard, in vertical stripes. There’s a smell, a damp, thick smell. To my left, there is a door leading to another room, where the purpose of the visit awaits me.

  ‘Go on, he’s in there. He’s a nice man. Go on.’

  And because Jackie is asking me, I do as I’m told. Lovely Jackie, who we all look up to. Lovely Jackie, who wouldn’t hurt me. Wouldn’t put any one of us in any danger.

  ‘I’ll be out here all the time, okay?’

  There’s a man in the room, sitting on a large sofa that has a pattern like the hallway wallpaper: brown and mustard stripes. The room appears smoky; the man has been smoking. He smiles at me, welcoming me in.

  When I’m in the room, he asks me to sit next to him on the sofa. I’m cold with fear, and I want to go back into the hallway. Jackie is there, just outside, looking back into the room. He nods at me, encouragingly, so I know I should do as I’m told.

&nb
sp; And Jackie is still there, so I’m still safe.

  Then the door back into the hallway slowly closes, and the image of Jackie gets smaller and smaller, until he is just a sliver peering through a crack.

  And Jackie is gone.

  And then it’s just me, in the smoky, dingy room, sitting next to the man on the brown and mustard settee.

  15.

  Three weeks later and we were visiting Mum again. This time, it was all three of us. Russell was seeing his nan, so Della was available for once. Plus, I’d agreed to keep the hood down on my parka, so she didn’t have to be constantly mortified by my appearance.

  ‘So good of you to drag yourself away from Casanova,’ Ian had said, all sarky, when she announced she was coming along.

  There had been a run of similar jeers from Ian since Della had finally come clean about her relationship. She was ignoring him on the whole; she knew there was something up between Ian and Russell, but she wasn’t-been-dragged-in and, as far as she was concerned it-was-his-problem-not-hers. This didn’t stop Ian’s resolve to insult at any given opportunity and the mocking jibes continued.

  Della’s phantom friend Julie had finally transformed into flesh-and-blood Russell the previous weekend. Della had brought him home Saturday afternoon, having spent the morning ‘make-up shopping’ with his alter-ego. Ian aside, Russell received a positive welcome: Dad said he was glad to see him back. I felt the same, but just expressed myself with a warm smile and Auntie Stella had him on her evening-do invite list within 30 minutes.

  ‘We’ll have to make sure Della catches my bouquet!’ she’d enthused, causing much embarrassment all round.

  On the journey to Mum’s residence, we were all a bit glum and silent, apart from Ian’s predictable boyfriend sneers. You got permission to be away from Romeo? Whilst visiting Mum was getting a bit easier, especially for me, it was never exactly fun. It was similar to dropping in on Nan Buckley: a bit of a squeeze in a tiny room and you didn’t always have something to say; she didn’t always know who you were and sometimes she was asleep, too. Unlike Nan Buckley, though, Mum wasn’t dead; not entirely. So, that was one clear difference.