White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  ‘Jesus, what does she want? COMING! ALRIGHT?’

  Auntie Stella hurtled into the room with a similar intensity to Dad, but where he was all flames, her fury had unleashed itself in the form of tears and snot.

  ‘Where is that little bugger!? Where is he? I want him to explain himself! I want him to tell me why he did it. Scot! Scot! Where are you hiding that little shit? Where is he?!’

  She saw me instantly. I was standing, my head poking just above the stack of white boxes under the lean to. I had come to my feet when Dad had charged for the front door, wondering just what or who was battering it down. I couldn’t see much; the fur hood on my parka had limited my vision. But when they all stared back at me, I could read their expressions. I saw what each one of them was asking: how long had I been standing there? how much had I heard?

  ‘You little shit! He’s gone! Gone! Left me this note, said you knew all about it! Said it was all your idea! Said you could explain the whole bloody charade!’

  She made her way through the back room, slamming past Dad, Della, Ian and Russell, who readily stepped out of her way, not wanting to be sucked any further into our family wreckage. I tried to retreat, but like Ian earlier, I had little room in which to manoeuvre. Like the back room, the alleyway that led to our garden was over populated, cluttered with piles of boxes, outdoor bins, a bike no one used or admitted to owning, a couple of brooms.

  ‘You nasty little bugger!’ she continued, charging forward, after my explanation, after my blood. ‘You just had to go and ruin it, didn’t you? Didn’t you? I just hope you’re satisfied, you nasty little shit!’

  At that point, she sprung forward. Came out through the back door, past the piles of white goods, and lunged as I retreated. None of my family tried to stop her. Auntie Stella was rabid with anger: it frothed at her mouth and would have scratched its way free with her long, glossy-red fingernails if anyone had tried to contain it. So, they simply let her slip through: stunned, apathetic or simply incapable? I couldn’t tell; didn’t really have a chance to look. As she came at me, I instinctively stepped back, falling into the abandoned bike. Crashing to the ground, it both broke my fall and bashed into my body, as I collapsed on top of it. But that didn’t stop her. For a few more seconds, she kept coming at me.

  ‘You owe me an explanation, you nasty little bugger! I knew something was going on! I knew it, and now you’re going to tell me! You’re going to explain, you nasty little shit! And you’re going to pay! I’m going to rip you out of that fucking coat and make you fucking pay!’

  And I really thought that that was it; really thought my frenzied aunt was going to kill me with her bare fists, whilst the rest of my family looked on and let it happen. But at the very last minute, something stopped her. Someone stopped her. Someone who appeared on the scene behind us.

  ‘What the hell-.’

  I turned my furry-snorkelled head right and looked up, over my shoulder.

  There loomed Adrian Tankard. He was covered in blood and held his thick, trunk like arms in front of him. She lay across them; her head hung back, her torso ripped open.

  ‘I’ve killed her,’ he said and for the second time that year, Adrian Tankard saved my life.

  I guess I need to take you back to earlier that day. To explain Auntie Stella’s fury. To explain why she had every right to it. To fill in the gaps, as well. You see, I knew a lot more now. Uncle Gary had been very generous with his information. And, in return, I’d been quite generous myself: I’d given him the letter I’d taken from his kinky red bedroom and let him off the hook. For good, I promised him.

  When I think back, it seems too much, the events too squeezed-in, like our back room; it all happened in such a short space of time. Supermarket bingo with the Tankards; the visit to my shadow of a mother; Uncle Gary’s confession at the derelict house; the bedlam and bloodshed at 45 Victoria Avenue: that was all one day. The rest of it – what was yet to come – only took us to the end of the following day. Come the Friday, it was all over; and lives were ruined, or no more. All in a matter of days.

  And all because Della asked her questions, and Uncle Gary made his confession.

  ‘Tell me about Jackie.’ I’d demanded, boldly, certain he would tell me, convinced by my confident stance alone.

  For over a year before Mum had left us, they’d been using me to pass notes between them: his would have Theresa written on them, hers Jackie.

  Jackie. A mystery that had haunted me my whole life. A shadow in a doorway. A glimpse around a corner. A name muttered under breaths. And a silence, too. Yes, Jackie represented silence to me. Silence grown-ups assumed whenever I interrupted these Jackie moments. Jackie, a mystery that excluded me, until Mum needed my services.

  It’s a secret, Scotty. You mustn’t say anything. Ask no questions, either. And no mentioning this to your father.

  I had minded a bit, regarding the passing of letters, but I was always well rewarded. Mum would give me a fiver for any letters I brought back. And then, after a few months, I got the idea that I could make even more out of it. Uncle Gary was looking increasingly uneasy about the whole situation, particularly as Mum’s reasons for sending me off with Uncle Gary were not always very natural – Uncle Gary’ll give you a lift to school; why don’t you take Uncle Gary with you, to get me that milk? Dad had made a few funny comments about it too. You like spending time with kiddies, eh Gary? I knew from Dad’s tone and Uncle Gary’s reaction that this wasn’t a good thing. But still Mum kept giving me the notes and shoving me in his direction, increasing his nervousness. So, I went in for the kill: he was gonna have to cough up too, or I was telling everything to my Dad. Before I knew it, I was making ten quid a letter: five from Mum, five from him.

  ‘You must be really scared,’ I’d said to him once, pushing it, as he was still a grown up, whatever was going on. He didn’t reply, but I saw it in his face. Whatever it was between him and Mum, he definitely didn’t want Dad or anyone else to know about it.

  The day I suggested he move Auntie Stella in with him was the day I realised just what a hold I had on him.

  ‘Just move in?’ he had questioned, driving me home in his Mandarin Cortina. ‘Nothing else? That’s it? Just move her in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I had promised.

  ‘Then that’s it, Scotty. No more after that. She’s gone now, your Mum, so what was going on, it’s finished. You got it? Cos, if you bring it up, if you mention it to Tony, I’ll just deny it. I’ll deny it all. Got it?’

  I’d got it. And that’s why I searched his room for evidence, for back up, in case he tried to wriggle out of his promise. In case I needed his help or money again.

  But the day at the derelict house was different: once he had told me everything he knew, I really was going to let him go. Once he’d confessed, I wouldn’t need him for anything else.

  ‘Anything else?’ he’d asked me, as I handed over one of the letters: the one Mum had just written. The other I would part with later, once we were done.

  ‘Yes, I want to know who Shirley White is.’

  He’d nodded. There was a wooden crate in one corner of the room. He dragged this over, dusted it off as best as he could with his hands, and sat down. Then, he looked directly at me, trying to work something out.

  ‘You’ve really never met him?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Never.’

  He’s just someone I’ve overheard them talking about, I wanted to confess, but I know he’s important. I know he is. And now I’ve read Mum’s letter, I know just how important, but that’s it. That’s all I have. But I couldn’t say that; if he realised just how little I knew, he might not tell me anything else. Might not think it was his business after all. I had to play carefully.

  ‘Not even seen a picture or photo?’ Uncle Gary continued.

  ‘Not of him,’ I answered, and he squinted at me through the dusty shadows of the derelict room, as if that would help him understand my response. ‘I found some photographs. At Crinky’s. You were
in them, with Shirley. Years ago. I saw some at yours too. Under your bed, in that draw. So, I know you know Shirley, and I know you had the letters that Mum wrote to him.’

  Uncle Gary had nodded, as if he understood, as if he could appreciate my position of knowledge and my certainty that he was the one with the answers I needed to complete my story.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can,’ he said, pulling a cigarette out from a packet with his teeth, using a silver Zippo lighter to spark it up. ‘I knew Jackie. Knew Shirley, too. Those photos you got your hands on? Found them at Crinky’s gaff, did you?’ I confirmed with a furry, hooded nod. ‘Long time ago, that. We were mates, me and Jackie. Shirley, too, for a bit. Jackie and Shirley were a couple, but we were all mates to start with.’

  He drew hard on his cigarette and let the smoke come out through his nose, slowly, buying himself time to think his tale through.

  ‘At school, Jackie and me were best mates. Known him most of my life. Then, Shirley came along and we eventually lost him. Didn’t see him for years, but then he got in contact with me again, about two years ago. He wanted to see your mum. Wanted to come home. So, against my better judgement, I said I’d speak to her, speak to your mum.’

  Wanted to come home. I soaked up the significance of this phrase. My instincts had been right all along: Jackie was important to us, Jackie was family. The letter I’d stolen had suggested this too, there was an affirmation in the text.

  ‘I thought it would just be once or twice, and then I’d be out of it. I didn’t want to get caught up in a family dispute, particularly as it was your family. Your dad. But after a few messages, the letters started. And it got complicated – but you know about that bit?’

  I did. See, that’s where I came in. I wasn’t involved to start with – I wasn’t part of their letter exchange business at all. But, then I found one of the letter’s Mum had written, negligently left on the kitchen side when she wasn’t thinking. Saw the name written on the envelope: Jackie. Of course, I started asking her questions, questions she couldn’t and wouldn’t answer.

  ‘That really shitted her up,’ Uncle Gary continued. ‘The ease with which she made an error, the fact you’d come across it, the fears the others would, too, sooner or later. Including Tony. It was quite a clever move, getting you on-board. Tony would never have suspected she’d involve you. And she wouldn’t have – not directly. She wouldn’t have asked you to pass the notes directly to him. Never. That’s why she kept me involved. I wanted it to stop, but neither of them would let me. And there was always the threat of her telling Tony. Or of someone else telling him.’

  That comment was directed at me, I knew. I wanted to ask him what was so bad about Mum and Jackie being in contact? What would have been so bad about Dad finding out? What had Jackie done to make his disapproval so great? And why had this little business of passing letters given me such power; been such an easy money-spinner? Jackie was family, after all; where was the harm; why all the fear? But Uncle Gary was volunteering more information, so I let him carry on, uninterrupted. The questions might not be necessary, if I just listened.

  ‘But it didn’t stop at the notes, Scotty. There was more to it you didn’t know about. He wanted to see her again. She wanted the same, but it was him who insisted. See, he needed something from her. He needed money.’

  So we were back to the business of money again. Tell Ian we still want the money. It had to be connected, didn’t it? Ian had insisted it wasn’t him that owed the money, but he wouldn’t say who. What had Mum’s letter said? I have enclosed what you asked for, and hopefully it is enough, this time, to see off your debts. Yes, now I was making connections; now it was adding up and I was getting results.

  ‘Not sure how much more I should tell you,’ Uncle Gary continued, finishing off his fag, crushing it into the floor with a heel. ‘Not really my business, but I’ll tell you what I think is okay.’

  I nodded, accepting his compromise. Jackie was the big family mystery, and Uncle Gary wasn’t family, not really, So, it wasn’t his place.

  ‘It started with Shirley. Seemed like a nice girl to start with. Friendly, bubbly, a bit naughty, I guess. A rebel. But it went a bit deeper. Before long, she had dragged Jackie in with her. She got him into drugs, hard drugs and into all sorts. She’s the reason Jackie has been kept away from you all. All that business. And the damage he caused. Shirley was where it started, though. And it’s Shirley who got the blame. At least, that’s who your mum blamed – Shirley, not her precious Jackie. He was always the golden boy. Always had been. Probably where she went wrong. Too soft on the first born.’

  Uncle Gary looked directly at me, working out if the significance of his words had hit me. But this was something I already knew – from the letter I stolen from him and eventually read. The big clue had been in how she had signed off: with love, always, Mum.

  ‘They really haven’t told you any of this, have they?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, keeping my face neutral.

  ‘Jesus, shit.’ He shook his head, puffed out a long, heavy breath.

  ‘Can you tell me more?’ I asked, hoping this wasn’t the end. ‘So, Jackie’s my brother. He was Mum’s first born.’

  ‘Yes. Her first.’ He expelled the words slowly, reluctantly, cautious of the boundary he was crossing.

  ‘And Dad’s?’ I asked it without thinking; the words flying from my mouth like a reflex action.

  Uncle Gary lit another cigarette, using this break to contemplate the territory he was now invading.

  ‘No,’ he said, saying it quickly, getting it over with. But it was far from over; I had more questions.

  I hadn’t expected this; had just assumed Jackie belonged to them both.

  ‘Whose, then?’ I asked, fitting the latest pieces of the puzzle together as quickly as I could, grabbing the segments as soon as they shot from Uncle Gary’s mouth.

  ‘Can’t answer that one, Scotty.’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘Can’t. Won’t. Not my place.’

  ‘But you know?’

  Uncle Gary stared at the floor, drew on his cigarette again. No answer was coming. I tried a different question.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Not much. It’s just not for me to say, but I can tell you one thing: he’s missing. The day your Mum first went missing, Jackie went missing too. I know she turned up again, that the police found her on the day of your Nan’s funeral in that sorry state. But Jackie hasn’t turned up. I don’t know where he went or what happened. Just that I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’ He took in several drags of cigarette in a row, then tossed it across the room. It was a signal we were done. ‘That’s gotta be it, Scot. I can’t tell you anything else. You’ll have to ask your family now.’

  He stood, as if he was waiting for my permission; waiting for me to sign him out. Then I realised: I still had the letter I’d stolen. That’s what he was waiting for. As I dug it out of my pocket, another question sprung into my head.

  ‘You said Jackie needed money. From Mum,’ I said, keeping my hand in my pocket, holding onto my ticket to the truth until I was certain I was getting all I could. ‘What happened to it?’

  The beatings Ian had received; the attack on Justin at the Jubilee Park toilets; my near-hanging at the Barley Mow: it all had to be connected. Tell Ian we still want the money.

  ‘Did she give him the money, Uncle Gary?’ I asked, using the familial term on purpose, as I had before. ‘Did Jackie get the money he needed?’

  He stared back at me, but kept silent. I knew I was getting nothing else. But in that silence, I got the answer I needed. It was in his face. Uncle Gary had been trusted. He was the go-between between Mum and Jackie. Yet, both had gone missing, were still missing in my view, although a partial version of Mum was available for us to visit at the secure hospital. And money was still owed.

  Uncle Gary held out his hand – he was still waiting for the letter I’d taken. The letter I’d taken from
his plushly furnished flat. I thought about his fitted kitchen, his fancy bathroom, and his posh lounge/diner all in white. I thought about his flash new cars, too, and wondered just how much money was involved. How much was still owed.

  I considered pushing it further, asking for more information – about Jackie, about the money – but he had answered nearly all my questions to date and I wasn’t sure he would impart much else. So, I gave him the letter, as promised.

  He took it and nodded, appreciating that I was sticking to my end of the deal.

  ‘I’ll leave your Aunt a note,’ he offered, putting the letter in the back pocket of his trousers. ‘But you’ll have to explain some of it. You’ll have to take some responsibility.’

  Then he walked away, bending his bony frame up, so he could exit the derelict house through the gap in the corrugated iron that was the makeshift door.

  I stayed where I was for a while longer. Not sure how long, but I left enough time for him to get away. Despite being involved in whatever had happened between Mum and my newly revealed half-brother, I did feel sorry for him. They had dragged him into their affair and hadn’t let him go. I knew he’d taken the money that was meant for Jackie – no wonder he’d been worried about Dad finding out, and no wonder he’d so willingly bought my silence. But I still felt for him. I’d made him move in with Auntie Stella, too, and I understood first-hand what that demanded.

  As I waited, I thought over my action plan. Thought over what I would say when I got home. Thought over the questions I still had. And there were many. Why had Jackie been banished from our lives? Had his drug problem been that bad? Why wouldn’t anyone talk about him in front of me? Why had they acted like he hadn’t existed? There were other mysteries, too; connections I couldn’t link up. How was Crinky Crunkle involved in all this? What were the photos of Shirley and Uncle Gary doing at his place? And what about Shirley? Why had she been at the park, all those years ago, talking to Mum on the park bench? What had she wanted?