by Emlyn Rees
Fred and I were just sneaking along under the dartboard, when the back door of the pub swung open and a draft blew right through us.
‘Where are those bleedin’ kids?’ yelled Jimmy Dughead.
Quick as lightening, Fred yanked me down by my sleeve and we dived under the end table. Through the crack between the long paper tablecloths we watched as Eric, the landlord of the Gordon Arms, puffed out his barrel chest.
‘There’s no children in here, Jim.’
‘They’ve done in Hercules,’ raged Jimmy Dughead. ‘My prize bull,’ he added, striding into the pub. ‘I’m going to skin the little sods alive,’ he boomed and even the faces on the toby jugs hanging on the beam above the bar seemed to grimace with terror. ‘They’ve shot him.’
The atmosphere seemed to freeze for a second as the happy burble of voices cut abruptly. We were trapped. We couldn’t go back out the way we’d come in without being seen. The only way was forward.
‘Shot him? With a gun?’ asked the landlady, Sue, coming out from behind the bar.
‘Come on!’ hissed Fred, and I followed him, as we crawled on our hands and knees under the long line of tables.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jimmy.’
I heard Miles’s familiar laugh above me. Sure enough, next to me were Miles’s fashionable tasselled shoes. For a second I froze, but then I yanked his trouser leg and he lifted up the tablecloth. Silently, I raised the gun so that Miles could see it. For a split second I thought he was going to pull me out by my ear and expose me to the wrath of Jimmy Dughead, but instead his face remained blank as, without a word, he took the gun from me and tucked it inside his coat as if nothing had happened. The flick of his head was barely perceptible as he ordered me to go and I felt the firm force of his shoe on my bum as I scampered after Fred.
I could see Jimmy Dughead’s thick legs striding towards the table.
‘It was your nipper, Roper. I swear it. And yer neighbours’.’
‘Now, how would kids get hold of a gun, Jim?’ I heard Miles say calmly, as I raced after Fred, my hands and knees scraping on the joins between the brown carpet and the maroon tiles as we reached the end of the line of tables where I bumped into Fred’s behind.
Spotting our opportunity, as Two Ton Teresa, the school dinner lady, swung through the kitchen door with a tray full of hot dog buns, I pushed Fred up and in a second we’d dodged through into the pub kitchen. Crouching down, we scampered under the level of the stainless-steel unit and bundled out of the back door into the garden, darting under a line of damp tea towels blowing on the line.
We were back on the bridge before we stopped for breath, folding over double.
Fred looked up at me, his hands on his knees. ‘What shall we do with the gun?’
‘I gave it back to Miles, in the pub,’ I panted, my heart hammering with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
Fred looked truly shocked at this. ‘Oh, Mickey. We’re going to get into so much trouble. Miles made me promise never to touch it.’
I stood up and took a deep breath, pushing my hair back from my face with both hands. ‘Well, he shouldn’t have a gun in the first place,’ I said. ‘Guns are illegal.’
‘Do you think he’ll get in trouble with the police?’ asked Fred.
I shrugged my shoulders.
Fred sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on his cagoule sleeve. His pale cheeks had bright-red blotches on them. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’ll have to run away,’ I said.
Running away was a situation I’d often imagined, except that every time I thought about doing it, I spent so long composing my goodbye note and planning which essentials to take, that by the time I got round to contemplating the small leather suitcase on top of my wardrobe I’d usually gone off the idea. Either that, or got hungry.
I’d certainly never considered what it would be like to run away on the spur of the moment, like this. But now, with no treasure, being wanted for the murder of Hercules by Jimmy Dughead, and being in so much trouble with Miles and my parents, who’d banish me to my room for a whole year once they found out, going away suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.
‘A car will be along,’ I said, squiggling my toes against the wet ends of my socks inside my wellies.
‘But it could be ages,’ Fred protested, his face solemn as he realised how serious I was.
‘Well, we’ll just have to wait,’ I said, jumping up so I was sitting on the wall, feeling the cold stones press into the back of my thighs. I folded my arms round me, but I couldn’t help shivering.
We were silent for a long time.
Kicking our heels and feeling bored, we both stared at the river. I’d never seen it this high. Usually, in the summer, clear water trickled over the moss-covered stones on the river bed, and you could see the little black fish as they battled against the current. Today, though, the water was at least five feet deep and flowing fast, leaves and twigs caught up in the murky swill so that it looked like chocolate milkshake.
‘Saved your life,’ Fred said eventually, catching my arm with a jolt, as he jumped up on the wall next to me, but we could barely smile at each other. He’d picked up a stick from somewhere and made it clatter against the shiny stones. Then, nudging me, he threw the stick behind him into the river.
‘I’ll race you,’ he challenged, already flipping himself off the wall, pelting across the bridge to see the stick come under the other side.
‘Not fair,’ I said, skipping after him and catching up, relieved to have something to do as we both stretched over the wide bridge wall and looked down into the water. A second later Fred’s twig came out from under the bridge, darting in the mini-waves.
‘More!’ I demanded, allowing Fred to cheer me up with our old childhood game.
We dashed down to the side of the bridge and collected twigs. Then we went back to the right spot on the bridge and stood with one twig each.
‘Ready … steady …’ teased Fred. ‘Go!’ he added suddenly and we both hurled our twigs into the water, before darting back across the road to the other side of the bridge and peering down.
‘I can’t see them,’ said Fred, hoisting himself over the wall to get a better look, his feet lifting off the road as he looked down into the water.
I looked too, but I still couldn’t see, so Fred wriggled further over and made a funny noise that echoed on the underside of the bridge.
‘Saved your life,’ I laughed, pushing him playfully. But this time, I didn’t catch him. I meant to, but maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I wasn’t quick enough, because it had been an exhausting day, and maybe Fred couldn’t hold on for the same reason but, like a sack of potatoes, he overbalanced and, in a blink, was gone with a huge splash.
‘Fred!’ I screamed, throwing myself on to the wall to see over the edge. ‘Fred?’
But he’d already been carried downstream, his head bobbing in the water, his arm shooting up as he tried to hold on to something – anything – in the swirling torrent, his orange cagoule rising up round his chest.
I looked around me frantically, my heart pounding with a new kind of terror. ‘Help! Help! Someone help me!’ I shouted, but no one was in sight. It was getting dark and they would all be in the village already. I rushed to the other side of the bridge and back again, panic overwhelming me.
Running across the bridge and scrambling down the river bank, I scanned the water, knowing that with each precious second Fred was in more and more danger. He was a terrible swimmer. He’s come last in the fifty-metres breaststroke at school, while I had already done my bronze survival badge.
‘Help!’ he screamed, with a strangled gurgle.
‘Hang on, hang on, I’m coming,’ I yelled, spotting him and trying to keep up with his tumbling form, as his head disappeared below the water.
Kicking off my wellies and pulling off my parka, I launched myself from the bank into the brown foam. Immediately, I felt heavy as the water seeped into my clothes, freezing my skin. I
yelped as the river dragged my feet from under me and whipped me away from the bank. Blinking and spluttering with the cold, I tried to clear the water from my eyes and called out for Fred.
I felt like I’d been carried along for ages before I saw an orange flash of Fred’s cagoule. I launched myself at it, grabbing it and clinging on for dear life, as I dragged him towards me. Thankfully, the weight of us both hindered our progress in the fast flow. Coughing, I ducked under a tree branch and a second later, dragging Fred under his chin and swimming for my life, I had my footing.
‘Fred … No …’ I screamed, pushing him roughly against the river bank and watching in horror as his head lolled to one side. Keeping hold of his hood, I pulled myself on to the sloping grass verge, before kneeling down and grabbing him under his arms to pull him out. I could barely lift him. He was so heavy with his clothes bogged down with water. I was crying and breathless, slipping on the bank, my teeth chattering with cold and fright. Eventually I pulled Fred up as far as I could and cradled him in my arms.
‘Fred,’ I sobbed, slapping his face with my blue fingers, before remembering the thing we’d learnt in the survival course. Making my hands into one fist, I put them on Fred’s stomach and pulled up towards his ribs. ‘Fred, come on … Fred … it’s going to be all right.’
Suddenly, he lurched on to his side and threw up a great stomach-load of river water, before convulsing into a coughing fit. I didn’t mind, though. I was so relieved he was alive and I hadn’t killed him.
‘Oh, Fred, oh, Fred,’ I cried, rubbing his back as he coughed.
Eventually he stopped and fell back exhausted on my lap, his hair plastered to his pale face as he looked up at me. ‘Did my stick win?’ he asked in a small voice.
And then I collapsed next to him, laughing as we clung on to each other.
‘Yes, Fred, you won, this time,’ I said, ‘You won, you won.’ And above us, over the village, a firework exploded in a bright green shower of sparkles.
The bin men wake me up. Joe’s sitting next to me on my bed, his legs stretched out. He’s fully dressed and is riffling through a pack of cards. I dig the earplugs out of my ears.
‘You were giggling in your sleep,’ he says.
‘Hm. Was I?’ I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven thirty. You didn’t hear the alarm. Can I have breakfast?’
I nod and pat Joe on the leg. He slips off my bed, still engrossed in the cards, and goes through to the kitchen. I hear him opening the fridge and I yawn and sit up. The duvet is on the floor and I pull it back up on the bed, before heading for the bathroom.
It’s only since I’ve been single that I sleep like a mad woman, flailing my arms around, kicking and (according to Joe) muttering and grunting. When I was married to Martin I didn’t stir in the night, but then I didn’t sleep much, either. I just lay on my side of the bed and looked at the clock.
I still find it spooky that I was ever married, but then I was pretty much as close as you can get to being clinically brain-dead without anyone noticing. By twenty-one I’d made lots of decisions based on flawed logic, rather than logical feelings, but even I had to admit that my betrothal to a man I wasn’t in love with in return for his promise to be a father to Joe and provide a home away from the suffocation of Rushton was one of the worst. Yet, despite my sense of foreboding, I plunged into my wedlock-up, only to realise that no amount of new carpeting or self-assembly furniture could make up for the fact that Martin’s hairy back made my toenails itch underneath. I also learnt that there’s nothing as lonely as sleeping next to someone you don’t love.
I shower quickly, brush my teeth and join Joe in the kitchen. He’s looking at the instructions for the kite. I think he feels guilty about yesterday. I, on the other hand, feel guilty about today. It’s Saturday and I’m going to have to help Lisa since Marge has a hospital appointment. It’s something to do her varicose veins and she did start to tell me, but I’d rather not know. Marge gets a kick out of all things medical and if she could have more operations, she would. The gorier and more personal, the better.
The upshot is that Joe will be on his own, at least until mid-afternoon. He doesn’t seem as bothered as I am and I make promises about taking him out to the park later, but I think he’s relieved that he can play on the computer in peace.
The morning passes in a blur and I’m pleased that the shop is so busy. It’s just gone one o’clock when Fred walks in.
‘Hi,’ he says bashfully, pointing at the door. ‘I was just passing, so I thought …’
He’s wearing shorts and sunglasses on a thick rubber strap round his neck. I realise that I’m staring at him with my mouth open. ‘Hi,’ I say stupidly, feeling shocked and unprepared. I’m also embarrassed. After thinking about him last night, I feel somehow caught out and exposed.
Lisa is looking between us, but I can’t look at her. I feel too flustered to explain.
‘It’s a great shop,’ says Fred.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble.
‘Are you busy? Only I can come back …’
‘No. No. Not at all,’ I gush, remembering my manners. ‘Come up to the flat for a coffee. You don’t mind, do you?’ I ask Lisa, turning my head away from Fred and widening my eyes at her.
She raises her eyebrows mischievously in reply. ‘No problem,’ she says.
Jittery with nerves, I walk past her and Fred follows me up the stairs. I’m conscious of the scuffed carpet, flaking paint and exposed pipes. For some reason I want to make a good impression. I want to prove that I’ve made it as an adult.
Fred follows me into the living room and, with difficulty, I open the window to let some air in. In the kitchen, the sink is full of washing up and the side is covered with smears of butter, Marmite and a jumble of bread crusts where Joe must have made a sandwich earlier.
‘Sorry about the mess, I’m not used to having visitors. In fact, you’re the first person to drop by,’ I say sheepishly as I fill up the kettle. ‘Kids, eh?’ I joke, ripping off a piece of kitchen roll and wiping the kitchen counter. ‘Are yours as bad as this?’
‘I don’t have any,’ says Fred, looking confused.
‘I thought … well, last night at ToyZone? You were buying games …’
Fred scratches the back of his neck. ‘I was looking at them for me. For me and my flatmate, Eddie …’
‘Oh, I see,’ I say, except that I don’t. The way he says it makes it sound like such a normal thing to do that it occurs to me that Fred might be gay.
I watch as he cranes his neck and looks between the kitchen and living room. Suddenly, seeing it through his eyes, it seems incredibly small and poky.
‘It’s nice,’ he says. ‘You live here on your own?’
‘No. Lisa lodges here, but apart from her it’s just Joe and me. I was married, but um … well, it didn’t work out. I don’t think marriage was really my thing. You …?’
‘Engaged.’
‘Oh,’ I say, folding my arms. I can’t seem to stop putting my foot in it. Thank God I’ve only got two, otherwise who knows what damage I might cause. ‘Well, congratulations.’
Fred nods. ‘Thanks.’
‘When’s the big day?’
‘A month.’
‘Oh.’ I nod. ‘Soon.’
There’s a pause as Fred stares at me and I feel myself flushing. We both laugh nervously.
‘Mum?’ It’s Joe, calling from his bedroom.
‘Come and meet Joe,’ I say, trying to sound breezy and normal, but feeling anything but.
I hate introducing Joe to men. The few times I’ve seen people, it’s been a disaster. The last one was Tom, about a year ago. He was very nice, in a kind of laddish way, but he couldn’t accept that I had a child. Instead, he tried his best to ignore it and then he got angry when any weekend plans we made needed to include Joe. Unsurprisingly, he and Joe hated each other on sight and I had to finish it almost as soon as it had started.
‘Joe, this is Fred,’
I begin, as Fred and I stand at his bedroom door. ‘He’s an old friend of mine.’ I sound Victorian and prissy, even to myself. ‘We once knew each other in Rushton …’
Joe and Fred both ignore me. Instead, they nod at each other and both say, ‘All right,’ in the same tone. Maybe it’s a boy thing, but they seem very cool and easy with the situation. They turn their attention to the computer.
‘What are you playing?’ asks Fred, before I get the chance to explain things further.
Joe mumbles the name of the game and Fred nods.
‘I’ve got that,’ he says, walking into the room as if he’s known Joe for ever. ‘What level are you on?’
‘I’m stuck on three,’ says Joe nonchalantly, as if a total stranger walking towards him across the sacred carpet of his private space is a normal, everyday occurrence. I practically have to get a papal dispensation signed just to vacuum in here.
‘I can get to the mutants, but then the skateboarders get me,’ says Joe, as if it’s no big deal.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Joe’s been tearing his hair out for a week now, unable to move on with the game. How come he’s suddenly so calm?
‘I know what you mean,’ says Fred. ‘It’s a bummer, isn’t it? It took me ages to suss it, but it’s easy once you know how. Do you want me to show you?’
Joe nods.
‘Budge up, then,’ says Fred and Joe slides along the end of his bed, where he’s sitting, to make room, before handing Fred the paddle as he sits down. Within seconds they’re both staring at the screen and Fred is patiently explaining to Joe what he’s doing.
I retreat, feeling redundant and perplexed. In the kitchen I clear things up a bit, but I’m being extra quiet, trying to earwig on what’s going on in Joe’s room. It’s odd having Fred in our flat. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, but at the same time I’m aware that I hardly know anything about him. For all I know he could have spent the last fifteen years being a child molester. He could be anyone but the Fred Roper I used to know.
The kettle boils.
‘Fred?’ I call, looking up at the ceiling. It feels as if I’m calling for Joe, but when I get no response I sneak back to Joe’s room to check on progress.