A Place of Hiding (59 page)

Chapter 23

“S
O THAT
'
S THE FACT
of it, lad,” Paul's dad said to him. He clasped Paul's ankle and smiled fondly, but Paul could see the regret in his eyes. He'd seen it even before his father had asked him to come upstairs to his bedroom for “a bit of a heart-to-heart, Paulie.” The telephone had rung, Ol Fielder had answered it, had said, “Yessir, Mr. Forrest. Boy's sitting right here,” and had listened long, his face going through a slow alteration from pleasure to concern to veiled disappointment. “Ah well,” he'd said at the conclusion of Dominic Forrest's comments, “it's still a good sum, and you won't see our Paul turning his nose up at it, I can tell you that.”

Afterwards, he'd asked Paul to follow him upstairs, ignoring Billy's “Wha's this about, then? Our Paulie not turning into the next Richard Branson af'er all?”

They'd gone to Paul's room, where Paul had sat with his back to the headboard of his bed. His father sat on the edge of it, explaining to him that what Mr. Forrest had previously thought would be an inheritance of some seven hundred thousand pounds had in reality turned out to be an amount in the vicinity of sixty thousand. A good deal less than Mr. Forrest had led them to expect, to be sure, but still a sum not to sniff at. Paul could use it in any number of ways, couldn't he: technical college, university, travel. He could buy himself a car so he wouldn't have to rely on that old bike any longer. He could set himself up in a little business if he liked. He might even purchase a cottage somewhere. Not a nice one, true, not even a big one, but one he could work on, fixing it up, making it real sweet over time so when he married someday . . . Ah well, it was all dreams, wasn't it? But dreams were good. We all have them, don't we?

“Hadn't got that money all spent in your head, had you, lad?” Ol Fielder asked Paul kindly when he'd concluded his explanation. He gave Paul a pat on the leg. “No? I didn't think so, son. You've got some wisdom about these things. Good it was left to you, Paulie, and not to . . . Well, you know what I mean.”

“So, tha's the news, is it? What a bloody good laugh.”

Paul looked to see his brother had joined them, uninvited as usual. Billy lolled in the doorway, against the jamb. He was licking the frosting from an untoasted Pop-Tart. “Sounds like our Paulie's not going somewheres else to live the high life after all. Well, all's I c'n say is I like that, I do. Can't think what it'd be like round here without Paulie wanking off in his bed every night.”

“That'll do, Bill.” Ol Fielder rose and stretched his back. “I expect you've some sort of business to see to this morning, like the rest of us.”

“You expect that, do you?” Billy said. “No. I don't have no business to
see
to. Guess I'm different to you lot, huh? Not so easy for me to get employment.”

“You could try,” Ol Fielder said to Billy. “Tha's the only difference between us, Bill.”

Paul shifted his gaze between his brother and his father. Then he lowered it to observe his trouser knees. He saw they were thin to the point of shredding at a touch. Too much wear, he thought, with nothing else to choose from.

“Oh, tha's the case, is it?” Billy asked. Paul flinched at the tone because he knew that his father's declaration, while completely well meaning, was the invitation Billy wanted to spar. He'd been carrying his anger round for months, just waiting for an excuse to let it fly. It had only got worse when their dad had got himself taken on by the road crew, leaving Billy behind to pick at his wounds. “Tha's the
only
difference, is it, Dad? Nothing else, is there?”

“You know the fact of it, Bill.”

Billy took a step into the bedroom. Paul shrank into the bed. Billy was of a height with their father and although Ol outweighed him, he was far too mild. Besides, he couldn't waste the energy to spar. He needed all the resources he had to hold his part with the road crew every day, and even if that hadn't been the case, he wasn't ever a man to brawl.

That, of course, had been the problem in Billy's eyes: the fact that there was no fight in their father. All of the stalls in the St. Peter Port market had got the word that their leases would not be renewed because the whole place was going to be shut down, to make way for a redevelopment scheme that meant trendy boutiques, antiques dealers, cappuccino stalls, and tourist shops. They would be displaced—the whole lot of butchers, fishmongers, and green grocers—and they could take it in the neck one at a time as their leases came up, or they could go at once. It hadn't mattered to the Powers That Be, as long as they were gone when they were ordered to be gone.

“We'll fight 'em,” Billy had vowed at the dinner table. Night after night, he'd laid his plans. If they couldn't win, they'd burn the place down because
no one
took away the Fielder family business without paying the price.

He'd reckoned without his dad, though. Ol Fielder had long been a man of peace.

As he was at this moment, with Billy in front of him, itching to get into it and looking for an opening.

He said, “Got to get to work, Bill. You'd do best to find yourself a job.”

“I had a job,” Billy told him. “Just like you. Just like my granddad and great-granddad as well.”

Ol shook his head. “That time's past, son.” He made a move towards the door.

Billy took him by the arm. “You,” Billy said to his father, “are a useless piece of shit,” and as Paul gave a strangled cry of protest, Billy snarled at him, “And
you
stay out of it, you wanking little twit.”

“I'm off to work, Bill,” their father said.

“You're off to nowhere. We're talking about this, we are. Right now. And
you
are looking at what you done.”

“Things change,” Ol Fielder said to his son.

“You let them change,” Billy said. “That was ours. Our work. Our money. Our
business.
Granddad left it to you.
His
dad built it up and he left it to him. But did you fight for it? Did you try to save it?”

“Had no grounds for saving it. You know that, Bill.”

“It was meant to be
mine
like it was yours. It was what I was s'posed to bloody do.”

“I'm sorry,” Ol said.

“Sorry?”
Billy jerked his father's arm. “Sorry won't do shit. Won't change what is.”

“And what'll change that?” Ol Fielder asked. “Let go m' arm.”

“Why? You scared of a little pain? That why you didn't want to take them on? Scared you might've got messed with, Dad? Little bunged up, maybe? Little bruised?”

“I got work to go to, lad. Let me go. Don't push at this, Billy.”

“I'll push when I push. And you'll go when I say you c'n go. Right now we're talking this out.”

“No purpose to that. It is what it is.”

“Don't you
say
that!” Billy's voice rose. “Don't you sodding tell me. I worked the meat since I was ten years old. I learned the trade. I did it good. For all them years, Dad. Blood on my hands and on my clothes, the smell of it so strong that they called me Roadkill. You know that, Dad? But I di'n't mind 'cause it was a life. That's what I was building, a life. That stall was mine and now it's nothing and that's what I'm left with. You let it all get snatched away 'cause you di'n't want to get your hair mussed. So what've I got left? You tell me, Dad.”

“It happens, Bill.”

“Not to me!” Billy shouted. He released his father's arm and shoved him. He shoved him once, then twice, then a third time, and Ol Fielder did nothing to stop him. “Fight me, you fuck.” Billy cried with each shove. “Fight me.
Fight
me.”

On the bed Paul watched this through a blur. Dimly somewhere else in the house, he heard Taboo barking and voices going on. Telly, he thought. And, Where's Mum? Can't she
hear
? Won't she come to stop him?

Not that she could. Not that anyone could, now or ever. Billy had liked the violence of butchering, implied though it had been. He had liked the cleavers and the blows to the meat that severed flesh from bone or bone itself into pieces. That being gone from his life, he'd had an itch for months to feel the power once again of decimating something, of slicing it down till there was nothing left. It was all pent up inside him—this need to do harm—and he was about to gratify it.

“Won't fight with you, Billy,” Ol Fielder said as his son shoved him a final time. The backs of his legs were against the side of the bed, and he sank down onto it. “Won't fight you, son.”

“Too afraid you'd lose? Come on. Get up.” And Billy used the heel of his hand sharply against his father's shoulder. Ol Fielder winced. Billy grinned without humour. “Yeah. Tha's it. Have a taste of it now? Get up, you sod. Get up. Get
up.
”

Paul reached for his father, to pull him to a safety that didn't exist. Billy turned on him next. “You keep away, wanker. Out of this. Hear? We got business, him and me.” He grabbed his father's jaw and squeezed it, twisting his head to one side so Paul could clearly see his father's face. “Check this mug out,” Billy told him. “Pathetic worm. Won't fight no one.”

Taboo's barking got louder. Voices came near.

Bill brought his father's face back around. He pinched his nose and grabbed both of his ears. “Wha's it going to take?” he mocked him. “What makes you into a real man, Dad?”

Ol shoved his son's hands away from his head. “Enough!” His voice was loud.

“Already?” Billy laughed. “Dad, Dad. We're just starting up.”

“I said enough!” Ol Fielder shouted.

This was what Billy wanted and he danced away in delight. His hands made fists and he laughed, punching triumphantly at the air. He turned back to his father and mimicked the fancy footwork of a boxer. He said, “Where d'you want it, then? In here or outside?”

He advanced on the bed, throwing jabs and thrusts. But only one of them connected with their father's body—a blow to the temple—before the room seemed full of people. Blue-uniformed men came crashing through the door, followed by Mave Fielder carrying Paul's youngest sibling. Right behind her were the two middle boys, jam on their faces and toast in their hands.

Paul thought they'd come to separate his father and his oldest brother. Somehow someone had rung the police and they'd been nearby, so close as to be able to get here in record time. They would take care of matters and drag Billy away. They'd lock him up, and there'd be peace in the house at last.

But what happened was something far different. One said, “Paul Fielder?” to Billy. “You Paul Fielder?” as the other advanced on Paul's brother. That one said, “What's going on here, sir?” to Paul's father. “Is there some sort of trouble?”

Ol Fielder said no. No, there was no trouble here, just a family squabble that was being sorted out.

This your boy Paul, the constable wanted to know.

“They want our Paulie,” Mave Fielder said to her husband. “They won't say why, Ol.”

Billy crowed. “Caught you at last, you tosser,” he said to Paul. “Been making a real spectacle of yourself at the public loo? Warned you about hanging about down there, di'n't I?”

Paul quivered against the headboard of his bed. He saw that one of his younger brothers was holding on to Taboo's collar. The dog was continuing to bark, and one of the constables said, “Will you shut that thing up?”

“Got a gun?” Billy asked with a laugh.

“Bill!” Mave cried. Then, “Ol? Ol? What's this about?”

But, of course, Ol Fielder knew no more than anyone else.

Taboo continued to bark. He squirmed, trying to get away from Paul's youngest brother.

The constable ordered, “Do something about that bloody animal!”

Taboo just wanted to be released, Paul knew. He just wanted to reassure himself that Paul wasn't hurt.

The other constable said, “Here. Let me . . .” And he grabbed Taboo's collar to drag him away.

The dog bared his teeth. He snapped at him. The constable gave a cry and kicked him soundly. Paul flew off the bed to go to his dog, but Taboo ran yelping down the stairs.

Paul tried to follow, but he found himself held back. His mother was crying, “What's he done? What's he done?” as Billy laughed wildly. Paul's feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor, one of them accidentally kicking a constable's leg. That man grunted and his grip on Paul loosened. Which gave Paul time to grab his rucksack and make for the door.

“Stop him!” someone yelled.

It was a small matter to do so. The room was so crowded that there was nowhere to go and certainly no place to hide. In short order Paul was being marched down the stairs and out of the house.

He existed within a whirlwind of images and sounds from that moment forward. He could hear his mum continuing to ask what they wanted with her little Paulie, he could hear his dad saying, “Mave. Girl, try to be calm.” He could hear Billy laughing and, somewhere, Taboo barking, and outside he could see the neighbours lined up. Above them, he could see the sky was blue for the first time in days, and against it the trees that edged the lumpy car park looked like impressions rendered in charcoal.

Before he knew what was happening to him, he was in the back of a police car with his rucksack clutched to his chest. His feet were cold and he looked down at them to realise he had on no shoes. He was still in his tattered bedroom slippers, and no one had thought to give him time to put on a jacket.

The car door slammed and the engine roared. Paul heard his mother continue her shouting. He screwed his head round as the car began to move. He watched his family fade away.

Then from round the side of the crowd, Taboo came running after them. He was barking furiously and his ears were flapping.

“Damn fool dog,” the constable who was driving murmured. “'F he doesn't go back home—”

“Not our problem,” the other said.

They pulled out of the Bouet into Pitronnerie Road. When they reached
Le Grand Bouet
and picked up speed, Taboo was still frantically running behind them.