in and out of each garden, doesn’t give them an opportunity.
The sky pale now. Light filtering through the cloud, spilling over the horizon. A paperboy scoots past with his bag of twenty papers. Jammy bastard. He’ll be home with his brekky in no time, all done for the day. There’ll be Saturday ahead of him, no school, a wander around to his mates, perhaps a kickabout in the park, home for the footy results, tea on the table, a chance to do it all again the next day. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him around the corner. He doesn’t have a clue.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
8 a.m. One third complete. At his parents’ place. A cup of tea on the table, the biscuit tin full to the brim after the weekly shop. He grabs a handful of digestives, gulps the tea down. He could kill half an hour here, bury himself in the sports pages, lose the will to venture back out. But not today. He’s back on it before the pulverised biscuits reach his intestines.
‘You’re going then?’
His mam, as concerned now as when he was ten years old and heading off fishing with the lads. ’10.10 to King’s Cross.’
Spitting biscuit crumbs.
‘Is it open?’
‘What?’
‘King’s Cross.’
‘I should fucking well hope so.’
She looks at him.
‘But the fire…’
‘It’s a big place.’
‘There’s no bus?’
‘No, there’s no bus.’
He’s still her boy, always will be. She wants to stop him. But she can’t. She’s done it before, a long time before, Villa away to be precise, but he was younger then, still beholden. He’d no money of his own. Now he has money. And if she still has the right, she no longer has the will. Villa away. It still fucking irks him. Villa 0 Forest 5. He fucking missed it, sat at home listening to the score rack up on the radio. The house was a fucking warzone that day. A fucking warzone.
The home straight. Council semis all lined up in rows, some facing the street, some facing other semis across bare patches of earth that were once seeded with grass. A maze of alleyways dissects the lot, severing them apart. Some face on to the metal fence that marks the boundary of the high school. The steel fence with the spiked top is a new addition, a replacement for the wire fencing that lost its battle with the kids of the estate years ago. Now there are no rabbit runs through the undergrowth. No way in, no way out. He’s a product of the local grammar himself, a nameless entity. Here he is delivering his letters in his postie uniform. None of the other fuckers in his year at school are doing anything like it. They’re wrapped up warm in their beds, enjoying a day off from the sixth form, another day on their long and prosperous journey through academia. But they don’t have football on a Saturday. They don’t have that.
The last letter, the last letter box.
9.20 a.m.
Fucking A.
Fifty minutes to change, drop off his bike and the mailbag and launch himself up to the station where the others will be waiting. Fifty minutes to become the man. He pushes open the bag and fishes around inside it. His hand comes to rest on a packet no bigger than his fist. He turns it over, reads the address. A top-floor flat. He looks at the sender’s address. Fucking Persil. A free fucking sample?
Fuck!
No, fuck it.
He buries it in the fold of the bag. It can wait until Monday. If Harcross checks his bag on the way in he’ll plead the innocent, pretend he hasn’t seen it. It’s hardly fucking urgent, a fucking free sample of Persil for a single mum in a top-floor flat. She’ll hardly be pacing the fucking hallway in anticipation.
He stops at the mailbox, takes the key from the cloth bag and pulls open the door, empties the contents on top of the fucking Persil packet, cycles home, changes into his Pepe Jeans and Pringle polo shirt.
Casual.
Always casual.
He takes his Forest scarf too, for later, picks up his railcard, shoots out the door again. Then it’s back on the bike, back to the PO, legs
The sky pale now. Light filtering through the cloud, spilling over the horizon. A paperboy scoots past with his bag of twenty papers. Jammy bastard. He’ll be home with his brekky in no time, all done for the day. There’ll be Saturday ahead of him, no school, a wander around to his mates, perhaps a kickabout in the park, home for the footy results, tea on the table, a chance to do it all again the next day. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him around the corner. He doesn’t have a clue.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
8 a.m. One third complete. At his parents’ place. A cup of tea on the table, the biscuit tin full to the brim after the weekly shop. He grabs a handful of digestives, gulps the tea down. He could kill half an hour here, bury himself in the sports pages, lose the will to venture back out. But not today. He’s back on it before the pulverised biscuits reach his intestines.
‘You’re going then?’
His mam, as concerned now as when he was ten years old and heading off fishing with the lads. ’10.10 to King’s Cross.’
Spitting biscuit crumbs.
‘Is it open?’
‘What?’
‘King’s Cross.’
‘I should fucking well hope so.’
She looks at him.
‘But the fire…’
‘It’s a big place.’
‘There’s no bus?’
‘No, there’s no bus.’
He’s still her boy, always will be. She wants to stop him. But she can’t. She’s done it before, a long time before, Villa away to be precise, but he was younger then, still beholden. He’d no money of his own. Now he has money. And if she still has the right, she no longer has the will. Villa away. It still fucking irks him. Villa 0 Forest 5. He fucking missed it, sat at home listening to the score rack up on the radio. The house was a fucking warzone that day. A fucking warzone.
The home straight. Council semis all lined up in rows, some facing the street, some facing other semis across bare patches of earth that were once seeded with grass. A maze of alleyways dissects the lot, severing them apart. Some face on to the metal fence that marks the boundary of the high school. The steel fence with the spiked top is a new addition, a replacement for the wire fencing that lost its battle with the kids of the estate years ago. Now there are no rabbit runs through the undergrowth. No way in, no way out. He’s a product of the local grammar himself, a nameless entity. Here he is delivering his letters in his postie uniform. None of the other fuckers in his year at school are doing anything like it. They’re wrapped up warm in their beds, enjoying a day off from the sixth form, another day on their long and prosperous journey through academia. But they don’t have football on a Saturday. They don’t have that.
The last letter, the last letter box.
9.20 a.m.
Fucking A.
Fifty minutes to change, drop off his bike and the mailbag and launch himself up to the station where the others will be waiting. Fifty minutes to become the man. He pushes open the bag and fishes around inside it. His hand comes to rest on a packet no bigger than his fist. He turns it over, reads the address. A top-floor flat. He looks at the sender’s address. Fucking Persil. A free fucking sample?
Fuck!
No, fuck it.
He buries it in the fold of the bag. It can wait until Monday. If Harcross checks his bag on the way in he’ll plead the innocent, pretend he hasn’t seen it. It’s hardly fucking urgent, a fucking free sample of Persil for a single mum in a top-floor flat. She’ll hardly be pacing the fucking hallway in anticipation.
He stops at the mailbox, takes the key from the cloth bag and pulls open the door, empties the contents on top of the fucking Persil packet, cycles home, changes into his Pepe Jeans and Pringle polo shirt.
Casual.
Always casual.
He takes his Forest scarf too, for later, picks up his railcard, shoots out the door again. Then it’s back on the bike, back to the PO, legs
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