Lamb (8 page)

The boy curled his lip.

‘Knock it off,' he said.

‘You stick by me, you hear?'

They wandered down Regent Street until they came to a toy shop. The boy was excited looking in the window, pointing out things to Michael. He was jumping from one window to another.

‘Let's go in,' said Michael.

It was the biggest toy shop they had ever seen. Owen climbed on a rocking horse but got off when Michael told him it was only for young kids. He rushed up the stairs, hardly daring to think what would be on the next floor.

When they had seen it all Michael said that the boy could pick a couple of things. He suggested, thinking ahead to the days when it would be wet and they would be stuck in their hotel room, that he get something to make. He pointed out some glider kits. The boy chose the biggest one.

‘I'll help you make it,' said Michael. He pulled a bundle of notes from his pocket and peeled off two fivers. ‘And enough glue to stick it together,' he said to the assistant. He also bought him a gun, a realistic matt black Lüger, and a throwing knife.

The next big department store they came to they went in and bought a radio.

‘Will it lift Radio Eireann?' Michael asked the assistant.

‘Pardon?'

‘Can you get the Irish programmes on it?'

‘On the medium wave you should be able to.' She fiddled about with the controls, changed the position of the radio. Through a faint hiss Michael heard the familiar voice of Gay Byrne.

‘Yes, that's it,' he said. ‘Don't move it from there.'

He paid for the radio and the two of them walked through the store to the street.

In another shop he bought a small cash book and some reading books for Owen to practise on.

They came to Marble Arch and saw the green of Hyde Park behind it. They decided to get some hamburgers and Coke and eat in the park because it was such a nice day. They collapsed footsore on the grass among their parcels.

After a while Owen said, ‘Play a game of knifie?' Michael got slowly to his feet. He had not wanted to buy the knife but he put it down to being a matter of trust. He must trust the boy.

‘Stand with your feet together,' ordered Owen. They took turns at throwing the knife and sticking it in the ground a few inches from their feet. Each time they had to put their feet on the spot where the knife had stuck until eventually they were both doing the splits.

‘Remember Finbar Waters?'

‘Will I ever forget?'

Waters was a boy who, just over a year ago, had attacked Michael with a bread-knife in the dining hall. He was a boy on the verge of madness. He had thrown a potato at the boy opposite and when Michael had spoken to him he had screamed, run to the top table and grabbed a bread-knife. He kept screaming ‘Sebastian Bastard' over and over again as he tried to stab him. But Michael had the strength of him. He nearly broke his arm to get the knife off him. Afterwards Waters was sent to an asylum.

Brother Benedict's only comment on the affair was, ‘Waters – the universal image of affliction in the Bible. Thus – he is in it up to his neck.'

Michael asked the time and Owen told him it was one twenty-eight. Only two minutes to wait for the Radio Eireann News. He switched on and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Owen pulled the rings of the Coke cans. The radio was angled for the least interference. The news came on.

In Northern Ireland a girl of five had been shot dead in crossfire, but there was nothing about them.

‘Might we be on the news?'

Michael nodded. The boy was delighted with this idea.

‘Why do you think I bought the radio?'

In any case he was glad of it because it eased the silence between them as they ate. After a while ceilidh music came on and they both lay down, Michael his face to the sun, the boy on his belly.

Michael couldn't help feeling slightly annoyed at the boy, annoyed that Owen had not once thanked him for any of the presents that he had bought – the watch, nothing. He argued with himself that the boy had never been
taught
to thank people, that he had rarely, if ever, been given presents before. Nevertheless he felt irked that the boy had not the spontaneous goodwill to say thanks.

The ceilidh music drummed on at his ear. The tunes all seemed to be the same.

‘Is there no good music on that thing?' said Owen, as if echoing Michael's thought.

‘Hold it,' said Michael, getting up into a sitting position. He took a piece of still tacky Sellotape from the wrapping round one of the parcels and stuck it on to the perspex waveband of the radio to coincide with the pointer at Radio Eireann.

‘Now we'll never get lost,' he said and twiddled the knob until he heard sounds of rock music.

‘That's better,' said Owen.

Michael gathered up the litter they had created and stuffed it into a bag. He was on his knees and pretending to jive to the music.

‘Hey, Michael.'

‘What?' It was the first time Owen had used his real name.

‘Here's something for you.'

The boy extended his hand to Michael. In it was a cardboard and cellophane pack. It was a Papermate pen. He broke open the cellophane and took it out.

‘It's a beauty. Thanks.' The boy grinned. Michael's voice suddenly dropped a tone. ‘Where did you get it? You have no money.'

‘In the shop. Where you bought the cash book.'

‘But you have no money.'

The boy shrugged and smiled.

‘You can wipe that smile off your face,' shouted Michael. ‘Do you realize the risk you took? Jesus, Owen, if you're caught at that game and hauled into the manager's office it's the police.
COPS
. They'll be swarming all over us asking questions and
THAT'S IT
. Prison for me and an express trip back to the Home for you.'

Michael shook his head in disbelief and shuddered at what had nearly happened to them. When he looked back at the boy he saw he was crying. It was the first time he had ever seen him cry. Not even after the beatings in the Home, or the time his collar bone was broken had he seen tears come out of his eyes. He fiddled with the pen, not knowing what to do. The boy came towards him and Michael put his arms around him, He was still kneeling and the boy came to the height of his head. He encircled him with his arms and hugged him. He felt Owen relax into his hug and cry more bitterly, shuddering with each breath.

‘O.K., Mister,' Michael said. ‘It's the nicest present I ever got. But why didn't you nick a better one?'

The boy laugh-cried into his shoulder. Michael groped for a hanky and gave it to him. He noticed a park keeper walking in their direction. He held the boy at arm's length.

‘Dry up and let's go,' he said. Owen stopped crying and turned to watch the uniformed keeper walk past them.

‘Never again?' asked Michael.

‘Never again,' said Owen. ‘Your chin is rough.'

In the hotel before tea, listening to the Radio Eireann News, Michael heard that a man was wanted by the Gardai to help them with their enquiries into the disappearance of a twelve-year-old boy, Owen Kane. The Gardai, said the newscaster, were treating it as a case of kidnapping.

That night they were so tired with the walking they had done that they sat in the lounge and watched television. There was something wrong with the set and the people looked squashed and dwarfish. When they turned sideways they had green haloes down their spines. Michael suggested that they go to their room and begin building the plane. Owen shrugged, more in agreement than anything else.

Because of their lack of preparation it was some time before they got started. They had nothing to cut the light balsa wood, so Michael devised a tool from his shaving kit. A razor blade with one edge rendered safe with a double layer of sticking plaster. Owen laid out the kit on the desk but still they could not get started. Michael wanted to get something to stop them cutting through and ruining the desk top.

The girl at reception was removing the blue and silver speckled nail polish she had put on the night before. She raised one pencilled eyebrow when Michael asked her for the loan of a bread board from the kitchen, and the other when he asked for a ruler.

When Michael arrived back with the bread board and ruler Owen was sitting vacantly stroking his cheek with a small sheet of balsa wood.

‘It's like a feather, not like wood. Here, feel,' and he stroked the white light wood across Michael's cheek.

‘I can't feel it with three days' growth.'

‘Are you growing a beard?'

‘I think I might,' he said, kneading the stubble of his chin. ‘It might be safer.'

Owen let the balsa sheet fall and it zigzagged to the floor soundlessly. He stared at it fixedly against the gold of the carpet.

‘Come on. Snap out of it. I'll help you with the plans.'

Being with the boy continuously, he noticed these little trances more and more. After a moment's staring silence the boy would do a double-take.

‘What?'

‘Let's get to work.'

They pored over the unfolded sheet of instructions and Michael set Owen various things to do. He did not want to make the glider himself and yet he felt that if he didn't give him a guiding hand the boy would make a mess of it.

‘Can you read what it says?' asked Michael.

‘Yes.'

‘Liar,' said Michael and began to read the words and point to the diagrams. The exploded view simplified things. The boy began to measure and cut. A slight pressure on the blade and it just sank through the wood with a creaking sound, leaving a clean cut. The delicate skeleton of one of the wings began to build up. The glue left wisps, cobwebs hanging from it and stuck to their fingers. Every so often it had to be pulled away like a second skin.

Owen was good with his hands, working neatly and with precision. Michael began the second wing. They became absorbed in their work so that Michael noticed neither the silence between them nor the time. It was almost one o'clock when they decided to go to bed. The two wings, almost completed, stood propped in a V on the desk as if plummeting.

The room was saturated with the tangy smell of glue and they slept heavily that night and through the morning until almost lunchtime.

After what was a mixture of lunch and breakfast they sat alone in the chintz-covered armchairs in the lounge. The chairs were old-fashioned, with high sides which came up to Owen's shoulders. He sat looking boxed in, with just the tips of his toes touching the ground.

In the next room a children's party had started. The guests had been arriving throughout lunchtime in their tweedy coats and good clothes. Cars had pulled up outside and left them off. There were both boys and girls, and each one carried a parcel. The game that was being played now was noisy. The music, a pop record turned up to full volume, drummed so that they could hear the bass notes and the rhythm from where they sat. Every so often it would stop in the middle of the tune and be followed by a second's silence. Then they heard squeals and cries and laughter.

‘Would you like to go in?' he said to Owen. The boy nodded a slow definite no.

‘I could ask whoever is running it.'

‘I'd hate it.'

Again the music stopped, the stunned silence, the screaming.

‘Come on, I'm going to make you go in. All those nice wee girls? Come on, you'll love it.'

He took the boy by the arm and Owen began to fight him. He struggled and kicked and punched.

‘I don't wanna go,' he shouted. Michael saw that there were tears of embarrassment in his eyes and he stopped and laughed.

‘I'm only kidding,' he said. He lifted one of the cushions and threw it hard at him. It hit the boy softly in the face.

‘Big get,' said the boy, the words muffled in the cushion. Michael knew he was offended. He tried to win him round.

‘Right, young Kane. What are we going to do today?'

He didn't answer. He just lay in the chair, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head in the cushion.

‘Owen? What do you think? Eh?'

The boy said something inaudible into the cushion.

‘What was that?'

He lifted his head. He was smiling.

‘Go to the amusements.'

‘No, not again.'

‘The toy shop?'

‘We want to go
new
places. See
new
things.'

‘
You
do.'

‘I am the captain of this ship,' said Michael in his captain's voice, ‘and what I say . . . '

‘I want a smoke,' said Owen. They went up to their room and Owen smoked a cigarette. Then they went out to wherever Michael wanted to go.

This time Michael, with his
A–Z
in hand, walked away from Piccadilly. The day was good but just not so warm and bright as the previous one. They came to Leicester Square and Owen noticed a crowd of people at the side of the pavement. He tugged at Michael's sleeve and pointed. They moved over to see what was happening. A loud fairground voice was coming out from the middle of the crowd. Owen wormed his way in, pulling Michael after him. A man in a navy raincoat was standing in front of an upturned orange box, flicking cards about its surface. He kept up a constant patter:

‘Find the lady, find the lady. The simplest game in the world. Make yo'self a few quid. Just find the lady. I'll show 'er to ya just to make it easy.'

He showed the Queen of Hearts and two black Jacks, then flipped them down on top of the box.

‘Which one is it? Which one is it, ladies and gents? Put your money where your mouf is.'