White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  And I followed. Followed on blindly, not realising what was ahead. Not realising that the fires of bedlam were about to re-ignite within the shadowy ruins of that old house. Not realising that the body count was about to go up.

  And up.

  21.

  Gradually, it was all coming back. Image by image. Polaroid by Polaroid. Every day, one revelation triggered another, opening up doors that had been locked, recalling memories that had been lost. Shirley White reappearing was the start – the initial catalyst. But finding the cellar – the purple room that had been a dark, claustrophobic shadow in my head for so long – had completed the process.

  I remembered it all.

  Every single detail.

  And I knew whom to blame.

  It was mid-week, the day he came to get me. A school day. About four o’clock. Early summer, but late in the term. I was seven.

  He said it was going to be an adventure. That’s how he pitched it to me. It was just between me and him, and I wasn’t to tell anyone.

  ‘What about Mum?’ I had asked.

  No, not even Mum. It was just between the two of us.

  ‘We’re not going to tell anyone. It’s going to be our little secret.’

  He was waiting for me when I came out of the shop. Mum was having a bad spell and had tasked me with popping to the Wavy Line to get a few things for our tea. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked me to go. It was only five minutes round the corner and I knew the route well. So, there was little to worry about. But after that day, after my little adventure, she didn’t ask me to go again. Not on my own.

  ‘What you got in there?’ he asked, as I came out from the harsh lighting of the little shop into the bright glare of the sunlight. He was to my right, leaning against a cylindrical red post box. On seeing him, I grinned.

  ‘Tea,’ I beamed, expelling it like an announcement; just seeing him made me excited.

  I hadn’t seen him in months. I wasn’t supposed to see him at all. None of us were. But Mum would sneak us all off from time to time, behind Dad’s back. You have a right to know him, whatever your father thinks. I never saw him on my own, though. I knew he lived nearby, but I’d never been to visit. Seeing him on your own hadn’t been encouraged.

  ‘Tea, eh? What’s on the menu tonight?’

  ‘Chops. Arctic Roll for afters. Can you come?’

  ‘You know I can’t. Tony wouldn’t allow that.’

  ‘He’s not there at the moment.’

  ‘He’s not?’

  ‘He’s out doing business with Adrian.’

  ‘Big Adrian? They’ve still got the business then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mum?’

  ‘She’s at home, but she’s-.’ I paused, not sure what to say. I knew he was family, but we weren’t supposed to talk about her. Even though we all knew about Mum’s problems, we were just supposed to work round her, as if she was heavy, awkward furniture that couldn’t be moved.

  ‘You don’t have to say,’ he said, saving me from an explanation, changing the conversation quickly. ‘So, how’s that baby coming along? How’s he doing?’

  It made me smile. Jackie always referred to Scot as the baby. ‘He’s three now, not a baby.’

  ‘Is he?’ he said, smiling too, like he’d enjoyed his own joke.

  ‘Why don’t you come and see him?’ I suggested, but as soon as the words left my lips, I knew the answer – he’d said it already: Tony wouldn’t allow that. ‘I could walk you home, though. Would you like that?’

  I nodded and he held out a hand to take the bag of groceries from me. Then, he held out the other one, encouraging me to take it in mine. Accepting the warm, brotherly gesture, I put my small, seven-year-old hand into his, and felt safe in his grasp, unaware of the danger that lay just ahead of me.

  It was during that five-minute walk home that he convinced me to go with him. Just for a bit. Wouldn’t it be good to spend a bit of time together? When was the last time we had done that? Just because he’d fallen out with Tony shouldn’t mean we couldn’t see each other, should it? What harm could a few hours do? And no one would need to know, would they? Probably wouldn’t even notice, would they? Just our little game. Just a little adventure for the two of us.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it. Just for a little bit, yeah?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’ll walk me back, if it’s late?’

  ‘Right to the door.’

  Back at the house, I dropped off the food, putting the chops in the fridge and the Arctic Roll in the freezer box. Mum was lying on the sofa, her eyes were open, but she was somewhere else.

  ‘Is that you?’ she asked, looking in my direction, straining to see through the haze that was clouding her mind.

  ‘Yes, just going back out to play,’ I told her, testing to see if she would object.

  ‘Make sure you’re back in for tea,’ she requested.

  ‘Yes,’ I promised, telling myself I wouldn’t be long, before I dashed back out into the street, looking for him. He was at the top of the road, sitting on the front wall of the very first house. I hurried towards him, knowing my time with him was short.

  ‘So,’ he said, taking my hand again, ‘you ready for an adventure?’

  That night I slept on the small camp bed in the cellar at Crinky Crunkle’s place, surrounded by damp, purple walls, with the glare of a strip light burning down on me.

  And the night after that, Jackie took me to the house with the mustard and brown stripy wallpaper and left me with a stranger.

  On the third night, he dropped me back home and told me to forget everything that had happened. And for a long time, I did exactly as he asked.

  Years later, standing across the road from the crematorium, thinking about the mental hospital just beyond it, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to make her pay. I was going to show her how it felt to lose your childhood. I was going to let her know how it felt like to lose something and never get it back.

  Waiting for a gap in the traffic, I crossed the two lanes of tarmac, cut through the crematorium and headed towards the secure unit at its rear.

  22.

  I didn’t follow the Tankards right inside the derelict house. A few things told me to hold back. Firstly, I wasn’t invited – if Justin had wanted me there, he’d have let me know about it. But he hadn’t. Bit busy today, was all he had said. Secondly, the Tankard kids never went off together like this. They were usually only united under the supervision of Chrissie or Adrian; rarely did they freely choose this option. Thirdly, recent experience had proven there were some advantages to staying out of sight: people cared less about what they were saying and, if you were patient, there was a greater chance the truth would come your way. So, instead of doing as the Tankard trio did – pulling back the corrugated iron makeshift door that sealed the dilapidated building and squeezing through the gap – I moved round to the right side of the house. There, several windows were boarded up, again with corrugated iron. Yet, there were a few rust holes in the sheets, big enough to let in sprays of light. Big enough for me to see in, if I squinted.

  I couldn’t see much to start with; whilst my eyes adjusted from sunlight to shadows, everything looked fuzzy and brown. Yet, eventually, I made out Sharon Tankard. I couldn’t see Justin or Stevie-the-little-shit at all. Sharon was standing at the bottom of the staircase that went up through the middle of the room: leaning on one hip, with her arms crossed, there was something odd about her face. My first thought was that she looked like a cartoon. Once my eyes were fully accustomed to the gloom, I realised the truth: she was wearing makeup. Quite a lot. Her lips, eyelids and lashes, even her cheeks, were heavy with colour. In the shadowy view I had, her lips looked thicker than usual, as if too much lipstick had been applied and spilled over the edges.

  ‘What time they coming?’

  The voice was Stevie-the-little-shit’s. I still couldn’t see him, but his voice appeared to be coming from above. He must
have climbed the crumbling staircase, something I never dared, although Justin always ventured up there when we came to hang out. My guess was Justin was up there too. He spoke next.

  ‘Shush! They might be outside already. We just need to stay quiet.’

  The brief conversation ceased and I had to wait in silence, peering in at Sharon, wondering who they were and why the Tankard boys were hiding away, whilst Sharon remained on show.

  Like a cheap prozzie, I imagined Justin sniping.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Whilst the Tankard clan kept still and silent, the people they were waiting for arrived without a care for who heard or saw them. They turned out to be a familiar foursome. A foursome whose mere sight or sound of was enough to churn my stomach with fear and nausea. As they approached the house, trampling through the tall weeds that surrounded the ruin, bringing with them the scent of cigarettes, I felt an invisible rope contract around my neck again.

  ‘Did the slapper say what she wanted?’ Roy.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear.’ Rory.

  ‘You sure you want us here?’ Clint.

  ‘You never know, Clinty boy, she might let you have a go.’ Jim.

  ‘Just shut it, all of you. You’ll blow it. Roy, Clint – you weren’t invited, so just behave yourselves. She wants to see me and Jim. So, just keep it shut whilst we’re in there.’

  Thirty seconds later and the four boys had joined the dusty tableaux. I was relieved that they went inside, fearing for a minute they might take a more cautious approach – find some peep holes and check out the scene before entering, blowing my cover at the same time. Dragging me into the shadowy scene. Sharon looked less than pleased though.

  ‘I didn’t invite them. I just said you two. What they doing here?’

  ‘We’re babysitting,’ Jim replied, a grin in his tone.

  ‘Fuck off.’ A snarl from Roy, put out by the put down.

  ‘You can fuck off, if you like?’ Jim offered and that was enough to shut Roy up. Clint stayed silent throughout; grateful to remain included, following his running off when they had threatened to hang me. ‘Want some?’

  I saw Jim hold something out to Sharon - a can of something. She shrugged, arms still crossed.

  ‘Got a fag?’

  ‘Roy’s got my last one. Roy – hand it over.’

  And so, Roy Fallick stepped into the scene, reluctantly handing over the cigarette he’d been puffing on.

  ‘Hope he hasn’t bummed it,’ Sharon said, taking it from him, putting it between her lips and sucking in the smoke. She kept her mouth closed and let it out through her nose. She didn’t splutter or cough once. Like she had done it a thousand times.

  ‘So, is our Roy a bummer or not?’ Jim joked and I expected another fuck-off from Roy, but I guess he knew his place now, because he kept quiet. Reluctantly, I reckoned.

  Sharon shrugged again, taking another tug on the stick, making the end glow amber through the shadows.

  ‘So, what did you want?’ Rory asked, stepping a little closer to her. ‘Said you wanted to meet up. So, what do you want?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want an audience, that’s for sure,’ she replied, finishing the fag, stubbing it out on the ground with a heel. I took in her shoes for the first time: they were stilettoes, black and a little too big for her feet.

  Chrissie’s, I thought to myself.

  ‘Can’t you ask them to go? I just wanted you and Jim here.’

  ‘Wanted?’ Jim.

  ‘What is it you wanted then, Sharon?’ Rory. ‘You got quite a reputation, did you know that? That Lee bloke you been seeing had quite a bit to say about that, you know. Reckoned you got up to all sorts.’

  Another shrug from Sharon. She was gazing down, avoiding looking at them.

  ‘Sure you don’t want some of this?’

  Jim held the can out again. This time, Sharon took it from him and took a big swig from it. She winced as it went down, handing the can straight back.

  ‘So, you gonna end this little mystery, Sharon, and let us know what you want?’ Rory asked this, moving a little further forward, standing between Sharon and my eye-line. ‘Although, if your reputation is anything to go by, I think it’s pretty obvious.’

  With my view blocked, I couldn’t see exactly what Rory did, but it was enough to make Sharon stumble back, falling into the fragile remains of the stairs.

  I wondered if her brothers might react to this; join the scene and intervene. But they held back. Whatever they were planning to do, the time wasn’t right yet.

  ‘Did I say you could touch me?’ Sharon retorted, coming back to her feet.

  ‘Sorry, you see I thought you wanted a bit of-.’

  ‘I want some information. First.’ Sharon added the first as an afterthought, suggesting there would be a return on anything they gave.

  ‘Information?’ Jim questioned.

  ‘About what?’ Back to Rory.

  ‘What you’ve been up to. I wanna know what you boys have been up to.’

  ‘Really? That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. Yeah.’

  ‘And what do we get in return?’ This came from Roy, reaffirming his presence by joining the banter.

  ‘You get to watch, if you’re lucky.’ Sharon.

  Rory and Jim laughed at this, Sharon’s snipe bringing them onto her side a little.

  ‘What do I get?’ Rory asked, direct, as if the others suddenly weren’t involved, weren’t there. ‘What does Rory get?’ He had moved in close again and I wondered if we’d get a repeat of earlier, but Sharon stood her ground.

  ‘If you’ve heard my reputation,’ she replied, taking the can from him again, taking another swig, swallowing easily this time, ‘then surely you don’t need to ask.’

  Rory turned back to Jim, grinning and shrugged.

  ‘Sounds like it could be fun. What do you think, Jim?’

  ‘Think you could be right, Rory. If the reputation can be lived up to, might be worth telling her what we know.’

  Rory turned back to Sharon.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’

  This time Sharon didn’t shrug, wasn’t evasive, but came right out with the question.

  ‘I want to know why you killed Crinky.’

  Rory stepped back, as if stunned by the question. He wasn’t expecting this. But he quickly recovered himself, and covered up any hesitation by laughing. He gave Jim a nudge, as if to get him to join in. But Jim just looked nervous. In turn, Roy and Clint began to look about themselves, checking who else might be in the shadows: it was just Sharon Tankard in there with them, wasn’t it?

  ‘So, if I tell you what I know, you’ll deliver the goods?’ Rory asked, suddenly edgy, but still laughing. His voice became a little louder, as if he wanted it to carry. As if he wanted everyone to hear him. As if he knew it wasn’t just Sharon who wanted to hear him. He glanced at Jim and pointed upwards. It was a swift movement, quick enough that only Jim saw. So, they had rumbled the Tankard boys.

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘And you want to know about fat old Crinky Crunkle? A stupid fat old pervert with an equally stupid name. And you think we killed him? And if I tell you that we did – if I tell you – you still expect to me to believe I’ll get what I’m owed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’ He delivered the question whilst looking up, checking the holes in the ceiling, trying to locate the brothers he believed were above him somewhere. ‘I thought he was a close member of your family?’

  ‘We knew him, doesn’t mean we liked him.’

  This stopped Rory for a minute, made him question his assumptions. He threw Jim a glance.

  ‘So, you gonna answer my question or not?’

  Rory grinned again, began laughing too; caught somewhere between finding Sharon funny, absurd and wondering what she was really up to. I heard the crack of a can being ripped, followed by the hiss of beer, as Jim started another one. He passed it to Rory, who took a long gulp, contemplating Shar
on’s question and how his answer would correspond.

  ‘It was my idea.’

  A voice, almost forgotten, spoke out from the shadows.

  ‘Something I heard in the playground.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up-.’ Rory began, turning to the source of this unexpected confession. But Roy wanted his moment. He wanted to take some of the credit for this.

  ‘The fat bastard had to know where that money was. That Jackie used to live with him, so he had to know something. But he kept squealing that he knew nothing, that he hadn’t seen him for months. Like that other one, like that Ian, making out he knew nothing.’

  ‘Roy, shut it! Clint, get him out of here!’

  Clint made to grab Roy, but now he had started, he wanted to finish. I’m not sure if he was bragging or confessing, or something in between, but he was determined to have his say, stake his claim on what they had done. He shook his almost-step-brother off and moved further into the room, taking his place centre stage.

  ‘So, we had to make a point. Had to make that bunch realise we meant business! That we were prepared to do whatever it took to get that money back! Can’t just take our stuff and not expect to cough up!’

  ‘Roy, enough.’ Jim.

  Rory just looked stunned, his laughter at an end. He finished off his can of beer, and then crushed the empty between his palms, before tossing it into a corner. Then he looked directly at Sharon and smiled. A cold, cruel slit of smile.

  ‘Well, there you go, Sharon. There’s your answer. According to young Roy, that is. But maybe he’s just got a vivid imagination,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Whatever, looks like he answered your question, so I guess it’s over to you?’ He was cocky again, switching emotions, acting as if he was untouchable. As if what Roy had just revealed counted for nothing. ‘Guess it’s payback time, Sharon? I mean, we just delivered the goods, didn’t we? Might just be a young lad’s overactive imagination, but we delivered all the same. We answered your little question, didn’t we? So, it must be your turn. What you gonna give us in return, Sharon?’