you please.'
Stonewall Jones ran from the amusement arcade, left down the quay, left again and then cut through a crooked alley leading to the main street. On the way, he could nod in several directions to houses where various relatives lived, first his mother, out at work at the moment, her carefully made sandwiches mashed in his pocket, his baby brothers three doors up with Aunty Mary, Uncle Jack round the corner in the police station. The place was a mine of people who were good for a fifty-pence touch, and those who would, in various scolding ways, let him in had he asked, but not one compared with Cousin Rick.
Rick had his drawbacks, but as a hero he was faultless, while as a spy, Stonewall was the soul of discretion, with the added talent of being able to lie convincingly, although truth was his natural inclination. He also had a memory as long as his fleeting stride and a fine eye for detail. Which was why he was now so excited. The redhead.
The memory was visual rather than verbal. Stonewall talked all the time to Rick, sometimes to his mates at school, while anyone else got short shrift. The redhead girl came back before his eyes from a time when he had been smaller, but not such a baby he'd fail to remember a woman with her face full of stitches, coming out of the medical centre, crying. That was two years and a whole lifetime ago; but he never quite forgot because he had not had the chance. First he had found her credit cards and stuff with her photo on it hidden in the creeks. Then he and his stepdad found the body, exactly one year after.
Dad had been terribly sick, which Stonewall had not considered a good example. Tutored by illicit, adult videos, seen in the house of a mate, he wasn't that shocked himself. The redhead looked like a real dead dog, not a person, the impression accentuated by the long hair like red spaniel ears covered in muddy sand, floppy, silken, gritty and wet. She was a thing, not to be confused with anything live.
The man they had found a month later, well he was different. This time it had been him and Rick, the rovers of the creeks in their idle hours last summer, looking for flotsam, only Stonewall secretly hoping they'd find another corpse, because of all the fuss people made of him last time.
Being famous gave him a wonderful, fleeting insight into being noticed.
They'd been so brave, they could still make themselves shudder at the memory. The second body, a man, had only been in and out of the sea for two days and was so nearly alive they couldn't look at him. A man with his face in the rictus of a smile, another gob full of sand as he lay on a bank, sluiced with mud, his good trousers dragged off his ankles and his bottom a little white mountain.
Turned him over and his goolies fell out. Hung like a donkey, Rick said. They had sniggered while trembling, called Uncle Jack who panicked and talked about sending for the lifeboat. More sniggering, hugging themselves, as if anything more than a rowboat could get near at low water, he'd have to go by land. Seen one, seen 'em all, said Rick. They had stood in the tideless channel and rocked with mirth until the doctor came and seemed to know who it was. Then it was harder to laugh. In the end, it was he who carried the corpse away with their help, brought his car as far as he could, using a piece of Rick's dripping sail to lug the thing over two creeks and into the boot; it was all anyone could do with the tide rising all the time.
Mostly, though, it was left to the doc. Everyone else turned away; so had Rick and he, but not before they had both seen what they had seen: the doctor, kicking the corpse as if it had been a football. Just a couple of kicks, but hard. Stonewall could still hear the sound of a shoe going into a‘ waterlogged chest, could not quite recall the sight of it, since even he had turned his head, but he could always recall the sound. Schluck, schluck, schluck, the thudding of mad hatred.
Funny at the time.
Stonewall Jones ran from the amusement arcade, left down the quay, left again and then cut through a crooked alley leading to the main street. On the way, he could nod in several directions to houses where various relatives lived, first his mother, out at work at the moment, her carefully made sandwiches mashed in his pocket, his baby brothers three doors up with Aunty Mary, Uncle Jack round the corner in the police station. The place was a mine of people who were good for a fifty-pence touch, and those who would, in various scolding ways, let him in had he asked, but not one compared with Cousin Rick.
Rick had his drawbacks, but as a hero he was faultless, while as a spy, Stonewall was the soul of discretion, with the added talent of being able to lie convincingly, although truth was his natural inclination. He also had a memory as long as his fleeting stride and a fine eye for detail. Which was why he was now so excited. The redhead.
The memory was visual rather than verbal. Stonewall talked all the time to Rick, sometimes to his mates at school, while anyone else got short shrift. The redhead girl came back before his eyes from a time when he had been smaller, but not such a baby he'd fail to remember a woman with her face full of stitches, coming out of the medical centre, crying. That was two years and a whole lifetime ago; but he never quite forgot because he had not had the chance. First he had found her credit cards and stuff with her photo on it hidden in the creeks. Then he and his stepdad found the body, exactly one year after.
Dad had been terribly sick, which Stonewall had not considered a good example. Tutored by illicit, adult videos, seen in the house of a mate, he wasn't that shocked himself. The redhead looked like a real dead dog, not a person, the impression accentuated by the long hair like red spaniel ears covered in muddy sand, floppy, silken, gritty and wet. She was a thing, not to be confused with anything live.
The man they had found a month later, well he was different. This time it had been him and Rick, the rovers of the creeks in their idle hours last summer, looking for flotsam, only Stonewall secretly hoping they'd find another corpse, because of all the fuss people made of him last time.
Being famous gave him a wonderful, fleeting insight into being noticed.
They'd been so brave, they could still make themselves shudder at the memory. The second body, a man, had only been in and out of the sea for two days and was so nearly alive they couldn't look at him. A man with his face in the rictus of a smile, another gob full of sand as he lay on a bank, sluiced with mud, his good trousers dragged off his ankles and his bottom a little white mountain.
Turned him over and his goolies fell out. Hung like a donkey, Rick said. They had sniggered while trembling, called Uncle Jack who panicked and talked about sending for the lifeboat. More sniggering, hugging themselves, as if anything more than a rowboat could get near at low water, he'd have to go by land. Seen one, seen 'em all, said Rick. They had stood in the tideless channel and rocked with mirth until the doctor came and seemed to know who it was. Then it was harder to laugh. In the end, it was he who carried the corpse away with their help, brought his car as far as he could, using a piece of Rick's dripping sail to lug the thing over two creeks and into the boot; it was all anyone could do with the tide rising all the time.
Mostly, though, it was left to the doc. Everyone else turned away; so had Rick and he, but not before they had both seen what they had seen: the doctor, kicking the corpse as if it had been a football. Just a couple of kicks, but hard. Stonewall could still hear the sound of a shoe going into a‘ waterlogged chest, could not quite recall the sight of it, since even he had turned his head, but he could always recall the sound. Schluck, schluck, schluck, the thudding of mad hatred.
Funny at the time.
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