The Sting

by Kimberley Chambers

  ‘My mum was in love with you, she would have run away with you.’

  ‘Where you getting your information from?’

  Not wanting to get Lisa into trouble, Tommy said, ‘My mum told me you were a bare-knuckle fighter and you’d met me as a baby. Is that true? Only I’m a good boxer myself, ya know.’

  ‘It was an affair, Tommy. Nothing more, nothing less. Yes, me and your mum had some laughs. But, I would never have left my wife and kids for Valerie and she knew that. I only ever saw you the once as a baby. Your mum turned up in a pub I was drinking in with you in her arms and a mate in tow. I told her there and then I could never be a father to you, and I still can’t. One day when you have a family of your own, you’ll understand.’

  Near to tears, Tommy sank the rest of his pint, put the empty glass on the rubber mat and opened the passenger door. His dad hadn’t even bothered asking him about his boxing, where he lived, school, his aspirations in life, nothing. It was clear he was an arsehole who was totally disinterested in him.

  When Tommy got out of the car and slammed the door, Patrick felt a twinge of guilt. He leapt out himself. ‘Hang on, lad. Not so fast.’

  Tommy turned around, his face contorted with anger. ‘What? Gonna ask about my wonderful fucking life in a children’s home, are ya?’

  Patrick pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket and peeled off five twenties. He hadn’t known the boy lived in a children’s home. ‘Treat yourself to something nice, lad. Sorry I can’t be any more help, but you’re a survivor. I can see it in your eyes.’

  Tommy wanted to tell him where to shove his money, but a hundred quid was a fortune to him and he’d been desperate for ages to get a decent record player for his room. The communal one was crap.

  ‘Bye, Tommy. Be lucky in life,’ Patrick said, as the money was literally snatched out of his hand.

  Tommy pocketed the dosh and took one long last look at his father. He said nothing as he walked away. There was sod all left to say.

  Feeling as deflated as a burst balloon, Tommy got off the train at Dagenham Heathway and trudged dejectedly down the hill. No way was he going to Leys to meet the others. He wasn’t in the mood for Benny’s pranks, Smiffy’s endless questions or Dumbo’s thickness today. He wanted to be alone. Not long before she died, his mum had said to him, ‘Tommy, life is full of obstacles. We have to learn how to overcome them.’

  Tommy had no idea what he’d done in life that was so terrible to make him deserve it, but he’d literally had an assault course load to deal with. Would his luck ever change? Last night he’d lain in bed imagining this bare-knuckle-fighting hero of a father who would actually want to be a part of his life. Instead, he’d learned not only had his dad never really loved his mother, he had seen his son as some nuisance he could rid himself of with a pint and a hundred quid.

  As he reached Oxlow Lane, Tommy heard his name called. He turned and was surprised to see Scratch running towards him. ‘All right? What you up to?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Fancy getting some cider and chilling over the park? I got some money and I know an offie that’ll serve me.’

  Tommy shrugged. He knew from past experience that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t the answer. ‘Yeah, sod it. Why not? But I’ll pay for the cider.’

  ‘Nah. I don’t take nothing from no one, me. We’ll go halves.’

  It had been a hot summer so far and today seemed even warmer than usual. Tommy took his T-shirt off. They’d come to Central Park and had found some shade under a tree.

  ‘What’s your real name?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Rosie. I hate it. It’s an old lady’s name. I hate my surname too. It’s Peacock.’

  ‘What you done to your arm?’ Tommy asked, when Scratch finally took off her Fred Perry cardigan.

  ‘Arms,’ Scratch replied, showing him the inside of the other. ‘I cut meself. That’s how I got my nickname.’

  ‘Why?’

  Scratch shrugged. ‘It’s a habit, that’s all. Makes me feel good at the time. So, tell me about Maylands. How long you been there? What’s it really like?’

  Scratch was surprisingly easy to talk to and the more cider he sank, the more Tommy found himself opening up to her. He spoke openly about his mum, sisters, Rex, and even told her about his meeting with his real father.

  ‘My real dad got murdered when I was four. He was stabbed outside a pub in East Ham,’ Scratch said without a hint of emotion. ‘I don’t really remember him, but I’ve been told he was a good bloke.’

  ‘Your mum alive?’ Tommy enquired.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. She went off the rails after my dad died, not that I remember her ever being on the rails. She’s a smackhead. Will sell anything for her next hit, me included.’

  ‘Whaddya mean by that?’

  ‘Long story. Can’t be arsed talking about it, if I’m honest. I hate my mother. If she dropped dead tomorrow I would fucking celebrate.’

  ‘Sorry you’ve had such a shit time of it.’

  Scratch shrugged. ‘That’s life, innit. I was taken away from her when I was twelve. I’ve spent the past few years living with different foster carers. I had grief at my last placement though. The eldest son was a nonce, so I ended up stabbing him in the eye with a screwdriver.’

  ‘Wow!’ Tommy was impressed. ‘Did you get arrested?’

  ‘I got questioned, but not charged. Then I was taken to stay with Maureen for eight days before I turned up at Maylands.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The nonce you stabbed?’

  ‘Twenty. Horrible bastard. Blind in one eye now. Shame I never stabbed him in both.’

  Tommy chuckled. ‘I like you. You’re cool.’

  Scratch grinned. ‘Is it all right if I hang out with you and your mates? I ain’t a girlie girl. I’m a tomboy. I won’t cramp your style. Promise.’

  Tommy wasn’t too sure if Smiffy, Benny and Dumbo would want a girl knocking around with them, but tough shit if they didn’t. He was the one who called the shots.

  He returned the grin. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.

  The rest of the afternoon flew by. Bumping into Scratch had been fate, Tommy reckoned. She was the tonic he needed after the knock-back his father had given him.

  Tommy had never met a girl like Scratch. Not only did she love Ska music, Westerns and football, she was also partial to a spot of pilfering.

  Scratch turned on her front, dug her elbows into the grass and rested her chin in her hands. ‘So, what’s your long-term plan, then?’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘I mean, where do you see yourself in, say, five years’ time?’

  ‘Already told ya. I wanna be a pro boxer.’

  ‘But what if you don’t cut the mustard? Not saying you won’t, but you need to have a back-up plan, just in case.’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Probably have a bash at the building game, or roofing. What about you?’

  ‘I want to join the army.’

  Tommy burst out laughing. ‘And do what? Women can’t fight in wars.’

  ‘There’s other jobs women can do in the army.’

  ‘Yeah, cook.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Tommy grinned. ‘I’m only messing with ya. I can see you in combat gear, as it goes.’

  ‘So can I. Be guaranteed a roof over me head an’ all. Where you gonna live when you leave Maylands? When do you turn sixteen?’

  ‘Next March. Smiffy’ll be the first to leave and he’s gonna find us a gaff to share.’

  ‘How’s he gonna afford it?’

  ‘I dunno. He’ll get a job, I suppose. He’s no idiot, Smiffy. He’s a good lad.’

  ‘What’s the time, Tommy? The park looks empty all of a sudden.’

  Tommy glanced at his watch. ‘Shit! Time we made a move; else we’ll miss out on getting fed.’

  Scratch put on her cardigan and stood up. ‘All that stuff I told you earlier about my mum, a
nd me being in foster care, d’ya think we can keep it between ourselves?’

  Tommy grabbed Scratch in a gentle headlock. ‘Yeah, course we can. Same goes for me meeting me dad today. I never told the lads where I was going, pretended I was visiting me mum’s mate. I might tell ’em she gave me the money to get a record player. I don’t really fancy explaining the whole sorry saga to anyone else. No point, is there?’

  ‘Not really. Worst ways, you can always say I chored the record player when you get one.’

  Tommy chuckled. ‘That actually ain’t a bad idea, ya nutter. The boys’ll be well impressed with that one.’

  As the pair of merry misfits left Central Park the one thing both were sure of at that point was they’d probably be pals for life.

  What they didn’t know back then was that they would actually prove to be one another’s downfall.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It’s funny the things you remember when you’ve got a gun pointed at your head.

  For me, it seems it all begins – and ends – with Scratch. When we first met, it soon became apparent she had a crush on me. The lads at Shitlands used to rib me over it something chronic. I used to laugh along with them, but inside I felt a bit embarrassed if I’m honest.

  I only saw Scratch as a mate. She had a pretty face, but with her skinhead and Dr Martens she was the ultimate tomboy. She fitted in well with our little gang. Like the rest of us, she didn’t give a shit and was good fun to be around. She was also fearless, an unusual quality in a girl.

  One evening that sticks in my mind in particular is when Scratch and I watched The Godfather together. I can’t remember where the other lads were, but I know it was just the two of us. Neither of us had seen the film before and were that glued to the TV that Ray allowed us to stay up past our bedtime to watch the end. Scratch quickly became engrossed by the character that Al Pacino played, Michael Corleone. ‘I’d like to marry a man like him one day and live that kind of life,’ she announced.

  I can’t remember the exact wording of the rest of our conversation, but it went something like this.

  ‘No. You bloody wouldn’t,’ I retorted. ‘You’d be looking over your shoulder every minute of every day waiting to get shot or arrested.’ I then had to cover my eyes at that now-infamous horse head scene in the bedroom.

  ‘I bloody well would,’ Scratch insisted. ‘Better than leading a boring life like my junkie mother and her scumbag pals. I love power, guns and excitement.’

  I honestly thought Scratch was winding me up, but when I uncovered my eyes and clocked the defiant look on her face, I realized she was serious.

  ‘Well, rather you than me,’ I laughed. ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers.’ She laughed too and then made me feel awkward by resting her head on my shoulder.

  Of course I had no inkling at that point that I would be leading a similar kind of life in the not-too-distant future. Not quite Mafia level. But I’d be involved in organized crime, and looking over my shoulder would become a necessity …

  Tommy Boyle studied himself in the communal mirror. They weren’t allowed mirrors in their rooms any more. Ray and Connie deemed them too dangerous, ever since Trish Johnson had topped herself by slitting her wrists with one.

  ‘Looking as gay as ever, Tommy lad. Going to the Town Show with your new bird, are ya? I know your type. You’re only knocking around with her to hide your natural queerness,’ taunted Wayne Bradley.

  ‘Do one, prick!’ Tommy hissed.

  ‘You wanna start showing me some respect, Tommy lad. Otherwise your little girlfriend might suffer the same fate as Patch did.’

  When Tommy flew at Wayne, Smiffy grabbed hold of his pal. ‘Leave it, mate. He’s goading you on purpose. He wants you to clump him so you ain’t allowed to go to the Town Show. I overheard him telling Fat Brian his plan.’

  Fat Brian poked his head around the door of the games room. ‘Who you calling fucking fat?’

  ‘You, ya tub of lard,’ Smiffy retaliated.

  ‘Nobody likes a snitch, do they, Brian?’ Wayne sneered. ‘See you later at the fairground, bum boys. I’d watch me back, if I were you.’

  ‘Behave yourselves. No drinking alcohol and make sure you have something to eat. I don’t mean candyfloss either,’ Connie smiled. She knew how important attending the Town Show was to the kids, therefore the older ones were allowed to skip dinner today, providing they spent the extra pocket money they’d been given on food.

  ‘Have fun, guys. Make sure you look after Scratch, and you’re to be back here no later than ten,’ Ray added. Aware of what a difficult life Scratch had endured, both Ray and Connie were thrilled with how she’d settled in. Tommy had well and truly taken her under his wing. So much so, he’d pretended his new record player was her old one to increase her popularity with the other lads.

  ‘Candyfloss,’ Benny chuckled as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I ain’t eaten that shit since I was about ten.’

  ‘What we got in the kitty?’ Smiffy asked.

  ‘Thirty-nine pound, twenty-two pence,’ Scratch grinned. She’d known Smiffy in particular wasn’t keen on her knocking about with them at first, but he’d changed his tune since Tommy had pretended she’d chored that record player.

  ‘Let’s get some marijuana, eh?’ Benny suggested.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Smiffy replied.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ Dumbo grinned.

  ‘No,’ Tommy snapped. ‘If we bump into Bradley and his cronies later, we’ll need to have our wits about us.’

  ‘I’ve got me penknife on me,’ Smiffy announced.

  ‘Me too,’ Benny replied.

  Tommy said nothing. Most of the lads he knew carried a penknife, but he never did. He’d got away with stabbing the perve, but knew he’d never get away with such a crime twice.

  ‘Is it too early for alcohol?’ Scratch asked.

  Tommy smirked. ‘Nah. Never too early for a cider.’

  ‘No way! Look at ’em spinning around. I’d be sick if I was inside that,’ Dumbo said, his eyes transfixed by the Red Devils flying display.

  ‘Look, one’s jumped out. Imagine if his parachute didn’t open. He’d land in the crowd and splatter ’em,’ Benny pointed out.

  ‘If that were to happen, let’s hope Wayne Bradley and Fat Brian are standing directly beneath,’ Tommy retorted.

  Everybody creased up, bar Dumbo. Even the mention of Wayne’s name sent shivers down his spine. He wished he was brave like Tommy and not scared, but he couldn’t help the way he was. He’d been beaten senseless by his alcoholic parents on a regular basis as a child. That’s where his fear of violence originated from.

  Another baking hot day, lots of families were leaving the Town Show as Tommy and his pals arrived. Some carrying coconuts, others goldfishes in plastic see-through bags. Tommy had no interest in any of the tents. It was all about the fairground for him and that only came alive of an evening.

  ‘Mmm, I love the smell of fried onions. Who fancies a hot dog?’ Smiffy asked.

  As they made their way towards the hot-dog stall, Dumbo grasped Tommy’s arm. ‘Please don’t look round, but Wayne Bradley is standing by the bumper cars and he’s spotted us.’

  Scratch whooped with joy as the guy spun their car around on the Waltzer. Tommy grinned. At least she was enjoying herself. The lads were all ill at ease, he could tell. Ever since Wayne Bradley had laid eyes on them earlier, he, Fat Brian and another lad had been following them around the fairground. There was no sign of the little gang Bradley usually knocked around with. Tommy had ordered his pals to stay calm and act normal, but it had most definitely spoiled their day. Nobody could relax, himself included.

  Scratch and Tommy got off the ride and walked over to where the others were. ‘Right, where are they?’

  ‘Opposite. They’ve been dossing us out,’ Benny informed Tommy. Benny was a lover not a fighter. He didn’t like the sight of blood, especially his own.

  ‘How we gonna get out of here, Tommy? They’l
l follow us across the park, I know they will,’ Dumbo warned.

  Tommy glanced around. The fair was still quite busy, but it was dark now. ‘Right, this is the plan. You know them caravans we walked round earlier, the furthest away?’

  Smiffy nodded.

  ‘We’re heading back there, OK? I’ll take on Bradley. If Fat Brian joins in, you clump him, Smiffy. Same goes for the other bloke, Benny. If he starts, smack him one. You stay ’ere with Scratch, Dumbo, and look after her,’ Tommy ordered.

  ‘I don’t need looking after. I want to see this. I’m coming with you,’ Scratch replied obstinately.

  ‘Can’t we just walk out the park with a load of other people?’ Dumbo pleaded. He was shitting himself.

  ‘No. We fucking can’t. Months we’ve been looking forward to today and those pricks have ruined it. I ain’t scared of Bradley or the other two. Confronting ’em is the only way to end this.’

  Smiffy shrugged. ‘OK. Let’s do it.’

  ‘You in?’ Tommy asked Benny.

  ‘Yeah. Course.’

  ‘No knives though, lads. Give those to Dumbo to look after,’ Tommy instructed.

  ‘Say they pull knives on us though?’ Benny asked.

  ‘Bradley’s too clever to use a blade. He’s sixteen in a few months, and then he’ll be let loose into the big wide world. He ain’t gonna get himself banged up and jeopardize that. As for Fat Brian, he ain’t got the bottle to use his fucking fist, let alone a blade. Dunno about the other fella, obviously, but hopefully yous won’t get involved anyway. If I take out Bradley, that should be the end of it.’

  Benny and Smiffy discreetly handed Dumbo their penknives.

  Tommy looked across the Waltzer and locked eyes with Wayne. He held his stare for about five seconds, then turned back to his pals. ‘OK. Let’s start walking.’

  Dumbo hadn’t felt as terrified in years as Tommy led them away from the bright lights of the fair. He could still hear the music; the Bay City Rollers were playing in the distance.

  ‘This way,’ Tommy hissed, darting between a couple of caravans. He then broke into a run, to the furthest. Tommy leaned his back against the caravan and put his finger to his lips. The element of surprise was always the best tactic.