White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  He turned up one more time. It was a Christmas. Guess he was hoping the season of goodwill would stretch to him. It didn’t. Dad saw him off without even letting him in. Next time I saw him, he was a corpse in our kitchen, face down in his own blood.

  ‘Can we have sweets, Uncle Ian?’ the boy asked me, still holding my hand, as we headed towards Nan Buckley’s old home, approaching the newsagents adjacent to Beverly Courts.

  I conceded with a yes. They didn’t know me in the shop; it had been Scot who had frequented it to spend his pocket money there, after his visits to Nan and to the old lady he pretended was Nan, after she had died.

  ‘Can I pay?’ the boy asked and I could see no harm, so once he had chosen his confectionary – a packet of Spangles and a Curly-Whirly – I gave him some change. Whilst he completed the transaction, I studied him and was amazed at the family resemblance. No wonder Shirley had called him Jackie as well; there was no doubting his parentage. Seeing his image alive in the boy’s face sent a shiver through me; I felt a mix of familial admiration for this child and a strong urge to crush what he represented.

  ‘Where we going now?’ he asked, as we came back outside.

  Finally, I knew. Knew exactly what I needed to do. I wanted to get my own back. I wanted revenge for what had happened to me. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed Shirley White, and, rightly or wrongly, I knew I could use the boy to exact the revenge I craved.

  Had to do the one thing I was certain his mother wouldn’t forgive or forget.

  ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ I told him.

  ‘What you gonna show me?’ he asked, eyes eager, trusting.

  ‘I’m going to show you the truth.’

  With that, still holding hands, I led him back up the road, in the direction of death.

  It was the news about Shirley that set it all off; once Scotty had mentioned she was back, that he’d seen her and started asking about who she was. That’s when my memory rapidly unscrambled a past I had long ago disarranged. Just glimpses to start with, snapshots, rather than full scenes. The memory of Crinky’s house and the cellar where I slept. Jackie meeting me at the Wavy Line shop that day and leading me away. And what happened next: with the man, in the house with the brown and mustard wallpaper and sofa. Of course, I hadn’t really forgotten; I had just pushed them away, forcing them to sit quietly in a distant corner, where I could safely ignore them.

  With a clear head full of clearer pictures, I realised there was much to be avenged.

  Not just what happened when I was seven.

  There was Mum’s decline over the years; her mental health had been exacerbated by the problems with Jackie. She was terrified he’d get his hands on Scotty, too. Take him away, sell him to fat, dirty men – and worse. She feared the worst, and it ate away at her. Her bravado of cigarettes, lipstick and sharp comments about the Tankards was just that: bravado.

  When he came to the house that day, demanding the money again, money she thought he’d already had from her, she had had no choice in what she did. Picking up the faulty electric heater, bashing him about the head until he submitted, it was the only way to end it. That’s what I kept telling her, as I waited for Dad to come home, reassuring her, as the ruby pool of Jackie’s blood widened across the kitchen floor. Waiting for Dad to clear up the mess. And he did, swiftly.

  Whilst I answered the door, seeing off Russell as quickly as I could – hissing at him through the glass of the front door, not daring to give him a glimpse of the scene beyond, Dad did exactly that. Upon my return, the body was gone, along with Dad. When he came back, he asked me to start a bath for Mum and then he began to clear the remaining mess up.

  An hour later, Mum was clean, in bed, but she had a permanent numb veneer over her face. Like she had gone out inside.

  ‘I need to talk to Adrian,’ Dad said, still calm, despite what we had walked into. ‘Will you be okay? To stay with her? Here on your own?’

  I agreed. I understood why he had to see Adrian. And I didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to see anyone else. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to think. I’d found Mum in the kitchen, cuts about her face, where my older brother, Jackie, had attacked her. But she had clearly given better than she’d got: before her, on the kitchen floor, she had left him lifeless, bludgeoned by a cheap electric heater, drowning in a red sea of his own fluid.

  ‘Can’t believe she had the strength to do it,’ Dad had later commented, as the shock subsided, but the disbelief remained.

  No, I didn’t want to go out.

  ‘I’ll be glad to stay, Dad,’ I told him, promising to keep an eye on her.

  But I failed. I checked on her once after Dad left: she was asleep, looking quite at peace, her eyes closed, head facing the door when I entered. I thought she would sleep for hours; she had looked exhausted with trauma when I’d found her. So, I didn’t think twice about staying in my room, listening to Eat to the Beat on the dodgy Walkman Dad had acquired from what Scotty called Dontask, hoping it might drown out the image in my head, hoping it would form some kind of distraction.

  And it did: I was completely distracted when she got herself up, dressed and snuck out the house without a goodbye or a note to explain.

  We never did find out where she went, what she did. When she returned on the day of Nan Buckley’s funeral, it was clear from the state of her that she’d been sleeping rough. When the police escorted Dad to the police station, I feared that she had confessed to Jackie’s murder. Whilst we were left at home - clearing up the mess from Nan’s wake, Della and Scotty doing their very best to stay up as late as possible, enjoying the novelty of Dad’s absence so late in the day, ignoring any authority Gary tried to exert - I kept hearing her imaginary admission in my head.

  I killed my son, officer. He was a bad boy, a very bad boy, so I killed him.

  And I wasn’t just worried for her: there was Dad to consider, and me too. Even Adrian Tankard was implicated, as Dad had told him everything. When Dad returned – face covered in scratches from an unexpected, frenzied attack from Mum when she first caught sight of him – and told us she had been sectioned, locked away for her own safety, I felt a huge sense of relief. I was sad – we had effectively lost our mum for good – but we got to keep our dad, and our freedom, too.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. Jackie’s secret killing and Mum’s return – albeit as a zombie version of herself – was only the start of troubles to come. Of trouble that I could trace back to a root cause: Shirley White. Dead or alive, Jackie owed drug money to Rory Jackson and his crowd of teenage gangsters. He must have been desperate to get involved with them; then again, he’d been desperate enough to go back to Shirley again and again, so his poor judgement was to be expected.

  They had no idea that he was dead, of course. Even if they had, I don’t believe they would have taken that as an adequate excuse not to pay the debt. So, they came after me: Ian Buckley, an easy target, I guess. Not known for being tough; not renowned for fighting back. If it had stopped at just me, maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible. Maybe I wouldn’t have done what I did; said what I said to Sharon Tankard. But the attack on Justin, on Scotty, and then Crinky’s murder. Someone had to stop them. Killing Crinky was too scary, it showed they had lost all control. Of course, I didn’t know for absolute certain that they had killed Crinky Crunkle, electrocuting him in that big walk-in bath. But I was certain enough and my white lie to Sharon was justified; their first attack on me was enough to warrant that.

  Overheard them, I told her, planting seeds, hoping for a rapid and bountiful harvest. Bragging about it. Sick, twisted fuckers. Someone needs to sort them out. Teach them a lesson.

  Had I realised how far they would take it, the trouble it would lead the Tankard kids into, I might have thought twice about my little white lies. Might have.

  The attacks I suffered at the hands of Rory’s gang still left me cold with fear; could still disrupt a peaceful sleep in the night. The incident on our
last caravan holiday – the year before Jackie’s death and Mum’s half-death – was the worst. Thinking about it still left me feeling sick, exposed.

  It was just Rory and Jim. I first saw them the afternoon before the talent competition. I’d taken Scotty for a shower and just glimpsed them in the distance, not really sure if I had seen things properly. Had they really followed me here? How the hell did they know where I was? That in itself was enough to make me edgy.

  It turned out later that someone had overheard me telling Russell about the trip. Someone who was in their pocket.

  The caravan holiday was the first time they had attacked me. Whilst Jackie wasn’t dead at that point, he was still missing. We genuinely had no idea where he was – although we suspected that Mum might be in contact. When his old mate Gary Perkins had started working with Dad and Adrian, we all got a bit suspicious. She took quite a bit of interest in him, asking him questions about Jackie: was he in contact, had he heard from him at all, knew his address? But the questioning soon stopped, as did our concerns.

  Rory and Jim didn’t believe me, though. They started following me home, finding opportunities to delay me, asking me questions, insisting I let Jackie know they meant business. Suggesting if they didn’t hear from him soon, they might have to take a more aggressive approach: did I understand?

  That more aggressive approach was realised on the night of the talent show. I was on edge throughout the build-up. Doing the show itself was nerve-racking enough. Mum’s and Della’s fancy-dress antics made it even worse. But it was the thought of Rory and Jim out there somewhere, potentially coming along that left me just short of frantic. How I got through my performance without a glitch I don’t know. I didn’t really remember it afterwards. Heard the applause, saw the silent pride emanating from my family, so I must have done well. But the rest I had simply forgotten, fear blocking it out; another talent I had perfected long ago.

  I hadn’t seen either lad in the audience, but they were about. As we left at the end of the evening, Rory brushed against me and popped a brief note in the pocket of my shirt. Gave me a hard stare, too, but that was it. Taking myself off to the toilets, I took it out and read it: meet at 2am or we torch the caravan. Whilst shocked, I had almost dismissed the threat. To date, their approach had been limited to snarled comments and shoulder nudges, so the threatened inferno lacked credibility. However, there was no doubting what I smelt when Dad and I returned to the caravan with the fish and chip supper: an overwhelming stench of petrol. Dad was too pissed to notice, but I realised instantly that this was no empty threat. The caravan was probably surrounded by a trail of fuel; I would have to meet them.

  They were just outside the caravan, when I crept out in the early hours. Rory had a lighter in one hand, which he kept flicking on and off, emphasising his intention. They had a dog with them, too: a little bull terrier, that Jim had on a tight lead, a lead that appeared to be choking the small creature. Both details intensified my nerves; both details guaranteed my compliance.

  They insisted we went down to the Castle, where we could conduct our business in private. Like we were handling some kind of illicit transaction.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ I’d asked, initially reluctant to go. They wouldn’t say; wouldn’t be specific.

  ‘Not here,’ was the best Rory would offer. The continued threat on my family – the flick-flick-flick of the lighter – and the way Jim pulled on the dog’s lead, making it yelp as he strangled it, staring at me throughout, was sufficient for me to agree in the end.

  I should have ended it there. Should have cried out for Dad and Gary. They would have been quick to join me. Would have jumped out of their beds and put an end to the nonsense. It would have put a stop to everything that followed: all the attacks, all the lives ruined, all the lives ended. But I didn’t. In the moment, complying with their demands seemed the safest option. So far, it had been threats and nudges, after all; what did I really have to fear?

  Once we were inside the Castle – using keys they must have stolen - they insisted we returned to the ballroom, insisted I returned to my position on the stage.

  ‘We missed it earlier, see.’

  ‘We were busy at your caravan. Setting things up.’

  ‘Turned up too late. You’d finished.’

  ‘So, we thought you could do it again.’

  ‘Just for us.’

  ‘Sing a little song did we?’

  ‘You gone quiet, Buckley. Jim asked you a question. Be rude not to answer.’

  I went to answer, but they both just laughed, and made to join me on the stage.

  ‘Don’t worry, we don’t want to hear your little ditty. We’ve got a different show in mind.’

  ‘Yeah, something a little more adult.’

  ‘Something for the ladies.’

  They were laughing again and I felt cold. I was caught between two poles: having no idea what would happen next; fearing I knew exactly where this was heading.

  ‘Take it all off, Ian,’ Rory instructed, his laughter abruptly gone, staring at me hard.

  Jim pulled at the dog’s lead, making it cry in pain.

  ‘What-?’ I uttered, barely audible.

  ‘We’re gonna do a strip search. Just to check,’ Rory explained, matter of fact.

  ‘Check what?’ I asked, my voice thick with a rising sick. Where was this going, a terrified voice asked inside. What the fuck were they going to do to me?

  ‘For the money. One of you must have it. Jackie’s buggered off, but we’re not convinced he didn’t leave it with one of you.’

  ‘So, we just need a bit of proof. You say you ain’t got the money, so what’s the harm in proving it.’

  Flick-flick-flick. A tug on a cruel lead. Two sets of cold eyes on me. I looked around. We were alone; the castle was dead for the night. In the vast, empty shadow that was the ballroom, it was just the four of us: two boys and a snarling, tortured dog against one. Once inside, we had gone through several doors and corridors before reaching the ballroom; there was no quick and easy escape. I had left that opportunity back at the caravan, asleep, undisturbed. Flick-flick-flick.

  ‘What the fuck you waiting for?’

  I took everything off, apart from my socks and pants. Rory took my pile of clothes and went through it quickly, shaking his head at Jim when he had finished.

  ‘Nothing in there,’ he said aloud, dropping my clothes at his feet. ‘Best get the rest off, Ian’

  ‘You can see I’ve not got-,’ I began, but he cut me short.

  ‘Can’t see a thing, Ian,’ Rory stated. ‘Not for certain.’

  Flick-flick-flick.

  I removed my underwear quickly, wanting this over, trembling with fear and cold as I fully exposed myself. Rory indicated I should throw it on the floor with the rest. Cupping myself, churning with apprehension, I waited for their next instalment. I didn’t have to wait long. Rory unzipped himself and within seconds was splattering my clothes with an arc of hot piss. Jim had taken something from the pile, but I didn’t see what; I was too distracted by Rory’s vile act to pay proper attention. Once he had finished, he zipped himself up and invited me to pick up my stuff.

  ‘Sorry about that, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘You can get dressed now.’

  I did nothing at first. Caught again; a catch-22.

  ‘Did you not hear me, Buckley? You have my permission to get dressed. You’ll catch a cold out there naked, this time of night. You’re not thinking of walking back starkers, are you?’

  As I slowly pulled on my heavy, urine-slick items, I felt bitter with resentment and furiously weak. My pants and the crotch of my trousers were sopping, touching my private areas as I drew them over my flesh. The soaked fabric stuck to my clammy skin as I hauled them on, dragging out the agony of redressing. It was hard not to cry, but I managed to hold back, despite the fact that Rory was laughing throughout my struggle. I couldn’t fight these guys, but I couldn’t let them w
in with every blow.

  As I pulled on the last item in the pile, I realised what Jim had taken from it: one of my socks.

  ‘You want it back?’ Jim asked me, and I was about to reply, when he hit me with it full in the face. It was wet, heavy and thick inside with dog shit; this smeared across my face and I was instantly sick.

  Whilst Rory had distracted me with one nasty trick, Jim had been getting his long-suffering animal to do another.

  They left me like that: wet with piss, stinking of shit, standing in a pool of my own puke.

  It was the worst of their attacks. It was also the last for a while. Mum knew something had happened to me. Whilst I washed myself as well as I could at the shower block before sneaking back into the caravan, there was no getting my clothes clean and dry. And when Scotty woke everyone up after the incident with Della, I watched her checking me out, instinctively knowing something was wrong. Later, I suspected that she had made contact with Jackie. Maybe she had assumed a connection between him and the attack on me. In any case, that was the only incident for a long time. The boys even stopped hassling me about where Jackie was. Until he died, and then it started up again. Where was he? And where was the rest of the money he owed them?

  One of the worst things about the attack at the caravan holiday was knowing Scotty had seen it happen. I don’t know how much he saw, as we never really talked about it. But I knew he’d been trying to wake Della to tell her what he’d seen; I sneaked back inside as the fuss erupted, unnoticed by everyone bar him.

  ‘You don’t say a word,’ I warned him later, once everyone was back to sleep, smothering his innocent face with a washed yet stinky hand. ‘OK?’

  All down to Shirley White, as far as I was concerned. Every action; every consequence.

  It wasn’t until I started following her home that I found out about the boy. He’d been kept a secret from us all until then. Even though I’d been following her, working out where she lived, it wasn’t until I plucked up the nerve to knock on her door that I finally got to see him.