Authors: Steve Tasane
What you see?
ask Mus.
I see myself gettin’ in a strop with my irritatin’ friend. But I put my eye to the slot, and take a good peek.
Through the hallway, I can see straight through into Mr Bush’s livin’ room. It still light outside, so I see his sofa nice and clear, couple of bright red cushions on it, Bible balanced on the armrest, edge of a table, bottom corner of a picture frame on the wall. Besides that, nothin’.
What you see?
ask Mus.
I tilt my face up so I can see Mustaph’s ugly mug.
Nothin
’.
He ain’t home
.
You sure?
I sigh, and take another look, though it be the biggest waste of time this side of school uniform. But this second look, somethin’ wrong. Only I ain’t sure what. The scene look exactly the same, still no sign of Mr Bush. So, what wrong? I can’t tell: picture frame, table, Bible, cushion.
Holy Mother
. I got it. That
cushion
–
one
cushion.
I stare up at Mustapha.
Somebody in there, someone gone move a cushion
.
I take another look.
Ohh
. Now the second red cushion gone and be moved.
This is weird
.
Lemme see
.
I step aside so he can see for himself.
Well?
I say.
He look back up at me like I am some sort of simpleton.
Ain’t nothin’ to see
.
Ain’t nobody in there movin’ things around? What about the cushions?
But Mustaph jus’ repeat
Ain’t nothin’ to see
.
I shove the fool aside and take another look. I almost fall backwards in shock. There ain’t no view but blackness itself, like somebody jus’ draped a curtain right across the inside of the letter box. It feels like somebody standin’ there, on the other side of the wooden door, listenin’.
I wait. Put my head against the door, listen back. Mustaph listen too.
You hear that?
he whisper.
What?
Listen
.
I hear it.
Pitter-pat
.
Pitter-pat
.
Pitter-pat
. On the other side of the door. Against the door.
Mustaph push me aside, put his eye to the letter box.
Ohhh
he say,
now I can see
.
What?
I push Mustaph aside. The view is back – picture frame, table, Bible … and now one of them bright red cushions lyin’ on the floor.
I hammer on the door, hard as I can.
Mr Bush! Mr Bush! Open up! Mr Bush! Mr Bush!
A door clunk open across the way and a woman pop her head out, scowlin’. I bash harder still.
He ain’t well. You boys leave him in peace. Tormentin’ him. Get on back to your own floor, stop disturbin’ the peace. Some of us tryin’ to watch the TV! Go on, scat! Scat!
I ain’t done. Man ain’t been carried out yet by no meat men. But I remember his eyes in the park. Put my eyes to the letter box one final time.
Mr Bush?
Cushion come flyin’ straight up at the inside of the letter box.
Aargh!
I fall on my ass.
It ain’t no cushion.
Go on, get out of here, or I’ll call the police!
I don’ need tellin’ twice. I’m clawin’ at Mustaph’s leg, tryin’ to get back to my feet.
We’re goin’! We’re goin’!
Mus tug me up. I push him over in my hurry. We scramble.
Run!
I say to Mus.
Run!
Scat! Thieves! Scat!
We don’t look back.
What happens is, we run smack-bang into guess who?
Least,
I
run into him, on account of havin’ the scaredest legs. I dunno what I saw in Mr Bush’s flat, but it mos’ def’ was not a pet Chiwowow leapin’ up to amputate postman fingers. Nor no bad-attitude kitty cat after slicin’ off your fingertips. If Mr Bush got a pet, it ain’t somethin’ you buy from no petshop.
What leap up at the letter box wanted to do more than snip my fingernails. I been in battles, I ain’t scared of no boy, nor no man. But what was
that
?
Aaargh!
My heart freeze with fright when I turn the corner and leap straight up into Compo’s flash-buttoned jacket.
Mustaph – who shoulda been right behind me – suddenly ain’t there. I don’ hear him turnin’ round and fleein’, don’ see him sneakin’ through into a neighbourly flat, or edgin’ all innocent roun’ the side of Compo’s fat, stairwell-blockin’ hips. Boy jus’ gone. He a genius at makin’ himself disappear.
Compo squeezin’ my shoulders with his pudgy fingers, grippin’ like a vice. Fat man stronger than he look.
Well
he say.
Well?
I smartback.
He squeeze a little harder, glarin’ at me. I glare back. He squeeze harder yet and I gasp. He smile, release his grip.
I could headbutt him and he’d drop like a sack of fat. Then one kick in the gut, I stroll away easy, he wouldn’t be back on his feet for five minutes.
Mum would love that, when the proper cops turn up half an hour later, haul me off down the station.
I rub my shoulders. He likes that, steps forward, backs me into the corner.
Well
he say again, ’ticulate as well as pretty.
Place for drawin’ water in the desert
I say.
He sighs.
Once, I thought you and I might be friends
.
I ain’t that kind of boy
.
No. What kind are you? The kind that takes a keen interest in their neighbours, I hear?
If Compo half the Great Detective he reckon, The Finger would be clean of undesirables. Sadly, he like a littl’un playin’ Piggy in the Middle, always turnin’ in time to face the direction the ball just flew
from
.
He look down at my jeans.
All right. What have you got?
I get it. Fool think I been dealin’.
Naughty
. I wink at him.
Gonna frisk me and find out?
Sure
he says,
so you can say I touched you up. Have all the infants yelling
Jimmy Savile
every time I show my face. Empty them
.
I pull out my phone, hold it up, away from him. No way he’s gettin’ his stubbies on that.
Outta the other pocket I pull a fistful of change. Open my hand, show him.
Damn.
I slipped one of Connor’s toy soldiers in there when we was messin’ with Mum.
Compo snatch it, his eyes lightin’ up all sarcastic, pinch it between finger and thumb, aimin’ the soldier’s rifle at my face.
Pow!
he mock me.
Pow! Pow!
While he busy makin’ me the fool, my thumb hardworkin’ also. I bring my phone down, show him the picture of his fool face. While his piggy brain takin’ that in, I press a couple more buttons.
Send.
Sis got that now
I say.
You snoop on us. We snoop on you
.
He darkens.
I know you’ve been dealing. Where’s the gear? Is your simple friend carrying it? Is he your mule?
Mustaph isn’t simple
. I’m tirin’ of this.
He just ain’t complicated. Why you thinkin’ we dealin’ anyways?
He steps forward. No choice but to edge further back.
I saw you. In the park. One minute you’re handing stuff to Mr Bush, the next minute the poor man’s on another planet
.
Oh, they teach you nothin’ in policin’ class? Only planet
that
man on be Planet Pain. He needed a hospital, Comp. What’d you do? Drag him back here, make it all the worse for him
.
What do you mean?
You wanna knock on that man’s door. Better, knock it down. Go on, call some proper police, ambulance too. I tell you, that man in trouble
.
Doubt and hesitation cloudin’ his ugly mug. I help him along.
Go on, Comp. You wanna help the community, man in desperate need of help right now. Number 66
.
He steps back. But before he trots off, he turns around.
Don’t think I’m finished with you, O’Connor
he says.
I’ll be having a word with your mother
.
Give me strength. I notice he slipped the toy soldier into his Batman belt. Add to his toy collection. I call after him.
Hey, what make you think you responsible for cleanin’ up The Finger anyways?
His chest rise and fall, like he sighin’. I notice a sadness in his eyes.
Duty
he says.
And he gone.
Nex’ thing I know I’m slammin’ the door shut, inside our own flat – safe – breathin’ deep, suckin’ in home smell.
Con is curled up in Mum’s lap, restin’ after Play War, nappin’. He clutchin’ a Transformer like it a teddy, and his head is rested on her belly. Ain’t he too big for that these days?
Mum catch my eye. She tries a smile, but I can tell by the way her eyes gleamin’ that she been havin’ a cry. She been thinkin’ about my suspension. I open my mouth to tell her – what? Before I even form a word that gonna make any sense, she say
In for the night?
Too bright. Too light. She terrified of what I get up to when I’m outta her sight. But she scared of sayin’ so.
We can have ice cream
.
Ice cream. The only weapon she got.
She don’ mention no meat wagons, no stiffs bein’ carried out on stretchers. Maybe she hopin’ we ain’t noticed, don’ wanna be stressin’ us. Protec’ us from drugs business oozin’ roun’ The Finger. She always used to say if me or Con-Con ever dip into that stuff she goin’ to put us in a kids’ home, but kill us half dead first.
She think it drugs right now. She runnin’ scared. Don’ think straight. Think we can just ask them council bureau-cats to sort everythin’. So long as we say
Please
and
Thanks
and
Yes sir three bags full sir
everythin’ gonna be sweet.
She start on about the bugs predicament. She say
Hey, Marshy, guess what? We’re going to sort out this bug problem once and for all. I rang Big Auntie, and tomorrow me and her are going to see the council in person. We’re going to demand they inspect the whole block, and get the lift fixed up properly this time. What do you think?
Con-Con awake now, and Mum look from one of us to the other. I ain’t givin’ no approval. Con won’t look up from his Transformer toy. I can see he’s got a bug bite on his arm. He been scratchin’.
Now
. She claps her hands together.
Who’s for ice cream?
She puts her hand in her pocket and pushes a fiver in my direction.
Marshmallow? You and Sabre can do the honours
.
So tragic. Back in the day, me and the mutt wouldn’t need tellin’ twice. That dog actually
know
the word
ice cream
and immediately start runnin’ round in circles, yappin’ like a loon. There ain’t nothin’ Sabreboy likes more than an ice cream cone, ’cept a double ice cream cone with a flake. These days, I ain’t so easily diverted. My brain grown a little bit bigger than a dog’s. But I gotta think. So I play along.
All right!
I break into a big, fake smile.
’Cept it ain’t entirely fake, ’cos a big tub of ice cream right now is appealin’ comfort. I’ll think
better
with ice cream. Day been another scorcher. Time to cool things down.
Me and Sabes gallop down the stairs headin’ straight for the local shops. Fresh air. Forget about Compo and bugs and drugs. Make ice cream be Top Priority Number One. Sabe trots on the spot when I tie him up outside. Corner shop sits in the shadow of The Finger, but it out of spittin’ distance. I hear Sabe whinin’ and frettin’ as I pay the girl, ’cos he know what he got comin’. I almost whinin’ myself. By the time I come out the shop, my dog is slobberatin’ all over the pavement.
I walk slow as I can back to The Finger, my dog runnin’ greedy circles roun’ me, tryin’ to hurry me on. Con-Con waves down at us from the balcony and I hold up the tub like First Prize I won in a race. Choc chip. We will have us a eatin’ race.
The sun is shiftin’ round to behind the block. As I’m squintin’ up somethin’ ain’t right. A shadow is movin’ around on the concrete walls. I stop in my tracks. Can’t be no shadow. There ain’t nothin’ to cast no shadow. It’s about the size and shape of a dinner plate, and movin’ around and around. But it ain’t no dinner plate, on account of that bein’ impossible. Make no sense. I’m standin’ blinkin’ up at it, ice cream tub condensatin’ in my hands, like my forehead condensatin’ sweat into my eyes. Cold sweat. See that shadow joined by a second shadow, movin’ round the same way. I see a couple more. Nex’ thing, I’m seein’ five, no,
six
of ’em, dark red splodges. I cup my hands round my eyes and try to focus better.
Call me simpleton if it give you satisfaction, but at this moment I am in confusion, ’cos what I’m seein’ is Mr Bush’s
cushions
, movin’ about on their own account, up and down the side of the tower block.
I been sniffin’ too much fume from Mustaph’s spray cans. I gotta be ’lucinatin’.
Cushions. Cushions from Mr B’s livin’ room. Cushions with legs?
You know what?
Ding dong!
Call the men in white coats.
These be
bugs
I am lookin’ at. Bugs the size of rugby balls. Freeze frame. Rewind. Zoom. I am lookin’ at bugs. Like when you see ’em crawlin’ aroun’ the wallpaper in your bedroom. But these bugs ain’t right. Like I say, they – what? Foot long? Ten inches wide? Even down here I see their nasty li’l legs wigglin’ as they make their way along the wall, their suckers – what’s the word? –
proboscis
feelin’ aroun’ like tryin’ to sniff out hot fresh blood to suck.
Hungry bugs.
I see them gettin’ all frisky as suddenly they begin crawlin’ in one direction, headin’ towards the same balcony.
It be our own balcony, with Connor still standin’ at it. The bugs start headin’ fast, zonin’ in like they got themselves fresh scent. Connor wavin’ down at me, lickin’ his lips like he already slurpin’ this ice cream by ozzymosis. I’m focusin’ in and all of them proboscises a-twitchin’ in Con-Con’s direction like they slurpin’
him
by ozzymosis.