Humber Boy B (14 page)

“I brought these from home,” he says, pushing a scone my way. Made sure Issi packed enough for two.”

“Tell her thanks.”

“Tell her yourself. Come round and see us again. She’d like that.”

I get a glass of water without asking, because I know that Leon won’t mind, he wants me to feel relaxed here. I’m always respectful about Leon’s tea and milk, though. I know how much these things cost and prison taught me not to take anyone else’s things. But Issi has made scones, enough for two, already thick with butter and jam. I bite into it, delighted, my eyes following James Bond as he jumps and weaves over high buildings.

Leon is watching me, I can see it in the glass of the screen, and I wonder what it is he thinks I am, where he thinks I’ve been. He knows I’ve been in trouble, because I’m here through the Community Punishment programme, but he’s never asked me what I did. Roy – the prison librarian – got me into Dickens, and I wonder if Leon thinks I’m like Oliver or the Artful Dodger, a bit of a scallywag but no more.

When the villain reveals himself on the derelict island I can’t take my eyes from the screen. He’s polite, dressed well, not like most of the criminals I’ve met. He seems friendly to James Bond, and then he asks him to play a mad game and see who can shoot a glass of whisky that has been balanced on the head of a beautiful woman. James deliberately misses, his bullet goes wide so the glass remains, but the villain shoots the woman right in the chest. She slumps to the ground, a bloody mess, as the glass shatters on the ground. ‘I win. What do you have to say to that?’ he asks.

What I have to say is that I think murder could be like that, like a game, and it’s only afterwards when the body is on the floor and doesn’t get up that it feels real. And you keep thinking, he’ll get up, any minute now I’ll see his head bob on the surface. But he doesn’t, and then you’re up on the Humber Bridge with your brother and it still feels like a game, because there’s no blood, and you think that if you go home and don’t say anything that everything will be alright.

“Ben? You okay, mate?”

I arrange my face to ‘normal’, bite into my scone and nod.

33

The Day Of

Hull Palladium wasn’t the newest cinema in town, and round the back were the bins and a stinking mess of empty cans and wrappers and things that squelched underfoot.

“My mum would clout us if she knew I was here,” Noah said quietly, then with more force, “she thinks I’m at your house, and your mam is looking after us.”

“Shush! If they hear us we’ll have no chance.”

Adam moved closer to the younger boys and gestured to the grey door, which was open slightly, propped at the base with a brick. “Thank God for smokers, hey?”

Ben didn’t see what smokers had to do with it, but he said nothing as Adam was pulling open the door.

“Help me,” he hissed. “This is bloody heavy.”

The door led into a corridor, dark and narrow, and the boys instinctively huddled together. They inched along to another door.

“Now when we get past this we have to act like we’re meant to be here, okay? Like we paid.”

The door opened and the boys were suddenly deafened by the booming noises of what sounded like a storm overhead and then shouting. They were behind the screen, just a few steps and they’d be in the audience. Adam grinned at the other boys, triumphant. “Best bastard place on earth, this. Let’s go see a film!”

The boys slipped into an empty row towards the front, trying not to be too obvious, but luckily the cinema looked almost empty so there was no-one to complain. Inside, the film was already playing though at first they couldn’t tell because the screen was so dark. The only giveaway was the sinister music, and Noah started to back away.

“No you don’t!” said Adam, giving Noah a hard shove. “All for one and one for all, remember?”

The screen became alive with a sharp blade and dark blood, then the sinister soundtrack turned to screaming. Ben and Noah sunk in their seats and even Adam looked shocked.

The film was a good way in, so it was hard to follow, but they soon became hypnotised by the darkness, the shared heat, and the wrap-around noise of the horror unfolding on screen.

By the time the credits rolled all three boys were wobbly on their feet, eyes dilated and senses spun out with blood and gore, their hearts hurting from the strain of palpitations. Behind them the few people began to move, the doors opened at the top to the exit. Adam placed a hand across the laps of Noah and Ben to stop them. “Be careful,” he said, “and follow me.”

But Noah didn’t budge, he still stared at the screen. His hands were clammy in his lap and his body was bunched up small, into the padding of the seat. He was too scared to move.

Adam pulled Noah from his seat by the neck of his T-shirt and pushed him back in the direction they came from. To leave by the main exit was too risky, so instead of heading up the ramp to the foyer, Adam pushed them back to the screen.

“That was something else,” Noah said, his voice quiet and unsteady but edged with awe. “It makes me want to do something crazy. I want to see if it’s real.”

“It’s all real,” said Adam, making his voice sound like a narrator from a horror film, “The Devil is in us all.”

Noah’s eyes glint. His breathing is shallow.

“Let’s go do it then,” he says.

The two brothers glance at each other, and follow where Noah leads.

34

Now

FACEBOOK: FIND HUMBER BOY B

Noah’s mum:
After the court case, I thought about leaving Hull. It was too much, walking past Noah’s old school, going to the same shops and having to put up with the pity of strangers. But now I think it helps, that he was here, that he is somehow still here. The lovely woman at the corner shop has put up one of my posters about the fundraising event at the church, and seeing how people care makes such a difference. I was living a life, as best I could, before HBB was free. Now the world seems an awful place, knowing he’s out there. But I won’t forget the kindness of people in Hull. In case I don’t get another chance, let me say thank you.

Nazma Patel:
My mum was happy to do it. She doesn’t like the Internet, but I tell her about your site and we are hoping you get some results from it. She will never forget that day, as she was one of the last people to see Noah. It haunts her that she didn’t stop him running off with those boys.

Noah’s mum:
Tell your mum that she couldn’t have known what was going to happen. She isn’t one of the people who should have intervened. And there are plenty who should have.

35

Cate

Paul grasped his ribs, he thought it was so funny. “So women can’t be vigilantes. He actually said that? Christ, that’s good. Suggest your French bloke spends a week in this office and we’ll show him otherwise.”

“He must think all women care about is getting a man and having babies. It’s like he’s living in the 1950s.”

But rather than focusing on what Cate was saying, Paul had suddenly noticed the green silk blouse she was wearing and a look appeared on his face that suggested the penny had dropped.

“But that’s not why you’re pissed off, is it? Not really. It’s because Olivier wasn’t struck dumb by your fantastic outfit and the fact that you look beautiful.”

Cate pulled a face, “He didn’t even look up when I entered the room.”

“I knew it!” Paul started laughing again, “So much for your feminist outrage. Maybe you aren’t so evolved from those fifties housewives after all.”

“Sod off, Paul.”

He looked triumphant. “See? You really like this man.”

“I have work to do, Paul.” Her phone vibrated on the desk, but she pointedly ignored it, sitting back in her seat and turning to her laptop screen. The phone stopped vibrating, then pinged to say a message had been received. She didn’t even glance at it, pretending that she was engrossed in the screen of her computer.

“I take it that’s the very devil of whom we speak?”

She continued to stare at the screen, but Paul could see her face in the reflection. She looked upset and angry, a fatal combination for Cate who would cut off her own nose to spite her face.

“He’s called four times, but I’m not picking up. He wants to take me out tonight.”

Paul sighed and gave her a quick hug, kissing her cheek. “Darling girl, it is he who wants to pick
you
up, you just have to settle your fiery temper enough to let him.”

“Even though he’s a dickhead?”

“We all have our crosses to bear, and I grant you he is a sexist Frenchman, but if he is half as sexy as you describe then I think that is a flaw that should be overlooked. Now do I have to send a reply for you, or are you going to be good and do what you’re told for once? Go to dinner, Cate. Give the poor man a chance!”

“You’re being very attentive,” Cate said, as Olivier poured her a glass of wine, red as rubies in a glistening glass. It tasted of plums and caramel.

Olivier looked surprised. “But of course.”

“Different from in the meeting this morning,” she said, hearing herself how sulky she sounded and hating herself for it. “You were a bit cool with me.”

“Cate,” Olivier looked perplexed, “I had a very nice time with you at the ski centre, and I am happy to be with you now, but please understand, at work I am a very different man.”

“That seems odd to me. I mean, I’m the same wherever I am. Why do you need to act different?”

“It is the way it is, for me. And Cate, we agreed that our friendship must be a separate thing. When it is me and you, whether we slide on ice inside plastic tyres or drink wine, we never speak of Ben. But at work, we must be our professional selves.”

“But I can’t cut myself in half that way.”

“As you English like to say, there can be no buts.”

She bit her lip, frustrated. But then she decided that Olivier was wrong; Penny had been friendly, so had Steve. And she was damn sure that Ged was his real self at the meeting, he was grumpy but no actor. The wine loosened her tongue.

“You were a total dick this morning. All that nonsense about women not being vigilantes.”

There. She’d said it. She gulped more wine and looked into the burgundy depths, thinking she might have blown the romance before it had even begun.

Olivier looked agitated then amused. “So you say. But I am police, and you are probation, so it is natural that you think this. We see things differently in these roles. But here, now, we are not these things – police, probation. You are a beautiful and funny and slightly strange woman and I am a man who lives in a mediocre hotel on a roundabout and is rubbish at ringoing.”

She lifted her glass and touched his. “I’ll drink to that. But I don’t know what makes me strange.”

“Perhaps this is a translation error. I mean to say, unusual. I would like to say one thing, and then we can close this subject. You may think I am a dick, but the police are very necessary in managing this case and we cannot all see Ben in the same way. But without you, without you to see beyond the evil murderer that we police see, then there would be no point at all. We will keep Ben safe, but you will save his soul.”

And saying this, he leaned across the table and kissed her, once, on the temple. In that moment she felt every inch the 1950s housewife who only cared about what her man thought of her. Fortunately, the waiter soon appeared with the food and the moment was broken.

36

Ben

I wake to the sound of angry buzzing and the constant drilling noise sends me straight back to the prison, to the shrill cry of a wing alarm, the sign that there’s a fight or an accident, and I sit upright in panic before remembering that I am free. There is silence in the flat, and my heart steadies.

I fall back on the bed in relief, gazing at the white ceiling where the paint sticks in clumps. Mr May in the painting and decorating workshop at Swinfen wouldn’t have stood for that, he’d have demanded it was done again, with a roller for a smoother finish.

Buzz. Buzzzz
.

This time the noise carries on, loud and insistent, clearly here, inside my flat. It’s the doorbell. Someone wants me.

In the prison there was constant noise, doors got opened and shut, but I was never the one with the keys or the responsibility, but here no-one else is going to check what’s wrong. I pad to the door, shivering in prison boxers and my Superman T-shirt.

“Hello?”

My voice is weedy, whoever is standing on the other side of the door certainly can’t hear it. Only me, as if I’m greeting myself – free and newly named and pathetic. With that thought I steel my nerves and open the door.

The navy uniform is the first shock, so is the man’s stern face, his gritty eyes that already judge me. I think straight away it must be the police. The police officer who came when Noah’s blood was still on my T-shirt, he looked like this. But this is a different man, older and greyer, a different uniform. I think I recognise him, but I can’t be sure if my mind is just playing tricks again.

“Hello?”

“Here to read your meter, mate.”

Mate. Other boys in prison called me mate, but they usually weren’t friends. It was a word that meant they wanted something: cigs, a phone-card, a magazine.

The man looks me up and down with an interest that makes my skin crawl, then says, “You going to show me where it is, or do I have to guess?”

Not knowing what it is I’m supposed to do, I stand aside and let the man into the flat.

“In the kitchen, is it?”

He strides through the flat into the tiny space. He looks at the worktop, along which is a neat line of tins: tomato soup, carrots, new potatoes. Things I can heat and eat, cooking being a skill no-one ever taught me. There’s a second line on the other worktop: bread, jam, a box of cornflakes. The man takes his time as he considers the two lines, and I know he’s seeing something wrong, though I’m not sure what. In prison we all kept our belongings in a line along the window ledge.

Then he turns and on his face is a cruel smirk. He has worked me out, I’m weak, I’m a freak. I think then that I’m not paranoid: this man knows who I am.