Piggies (2 page)

3 No place like home

Home.

Everything would be okay at home.

He just had to head back to the High Street and turn left into Lyme’s Street just past the Cottage Bakery. Then head down the narrow pavement past the big windows and hairspray smells of Cut and Dried and turn right into Duke Street.

Home.

His parents would be there. Everything would be okay then.

He reached the bakery and turned left. In Cut and Dried a woman was tipped back with her head in a basin, having the shampoo rinsed from her hair.

Ben hurried on, heading for home – he had walked this way so many times before!

~

Duke Street. That was where Ben lived, but there was no Duke Street in this twisted world he found himself in. Just as the map had shown, the road that cut between Lyme’s Street and New Street was called Tanner’s Cut. The houses were different, too: a cramped double row of Victorian terraced houses, none of them looking like the modern, converted shop where Ben lived.

He walked from end to end of Tanner’s Cut, again and again, as if somehow it would all suddenly change back to the street he knew.

People started to look at him strangely. An old woman peered out from behind a lacy curtain, eyes following him as he walked. A middle-aged man watched him from under the bonnet of a battered estate.

Everything looked so familiar, yet everything had changed.

A third of the way along. Number 27. There should have been a large double window that had once been a shop front. The bricks should have been straight-edged and modern, where the front wall had been re-built when the shop had been converted into a house, not rounded and age-worn.

He knocked on the door, not daring to try his key.

After a short time, the door opened and an old man peered out. Ben didn’t recognise him.

“Yes?” the man said, squinting at Ben.

The door was open far enough for Ben to see some of the hallway. The wallpaper was textured with a clam-like pattern and painted a faded peach. Dozens of small photographs hung from the wall, some with extra, presumably newer, pictures tucked into their frames. The hallway must have been like that for years...

Ben looked at the man again.

Just then a woman’s voice came from the depths of the house. “Is that the heater man, Tom?”

They were complete strangers. In
his
house – although it was
not
his house – waiting for someone to come and fix their heating.

“What is it?” asked the man. “Lost your tongue?”

“I... I think I’ve come to the wrong house.” The wrong
everything
.

He backed away. Up until the door had opened he had been convinced that Mum or Dad would be there and that although the house and the town had changed, his parents, at least, would be here for him.

He turned and ran, aware all the time of the eyes watching him, the people thinking,
He’s not from round here. He’s not one of us
.

~

When darkness fell, more people came onto the streets.

Ben walked aimlessly around the town, his mind numbed by the helplessness of his situation. What do you do when all that you know has suddenly become unreliable? Where do you turn?

He tried to keep away from the busiest areas. He didn’t want people looking at him, didn’t want them to see that he was new, that he didn’t fit in.

And he tried desperately hard not to think of what had happened at the recreation ground. He tried not to use the V-word. Rachel, Stacker and Lenny: did they drink each other’s blood because they wanted to, or was it just some kind of game they’d used to frighten the new boy?

What about all these other people in the town? Were Rachel, Stacker and Lenny the freaks or, in this strange, twisted world, was it Ben who was the freak...?

~

He must have been in a state of delayed shock, or they would never have caught him so easily.

He walked past the Stonemason’s Arms on High Street. As he passed the open door the smell of cigarettes and beer and the sound of the people inside made him feel suddenly, intensely homesick.

It was late in the evening by now. His parents must be worried sick.

Wherever they were.

Ben was tired and hungry and he had no idea what to do.

Just after he had passed the pub doorway, two men burst out onto the street, laughing drunkenly.

Ben started to walk faster.

“Hey, kid! What you doing out at night, eh?”

He crossed the street, but the two men followed.

“Shouldn’t be out at night, kid. Never know what might happen.”

He turned down a side street and that was his mistake. As soon as they were off the High Street, the two drunks grew more confident.

“Hey, kid. C’mon, kid. We’re only having a bit of fun, kid.”

They were closer behind him now. Ben took a deep breath, ready to run.

A big hand landed on his shoulder and swung him round to face the two men.

They were in their twenties, with shaven heads and ripped tee-shirts and jeans. The one who had a hold of Ben’s shoulder had words tattooed across his forehead where his eyebrows should have been: PURE OF BLOOD.

He was grinning, revealing slightly pointed canine teeth.

“C’mon,” said the man. “Kid out on the street this late on a feast night. Looking for a bit of fun, right?”

Ben was up against the wall of a terraced house.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s teeth. “Let me go,” he managed to gasp.

“Ooooh,” mocked the man. “We will, we will. In a little while...”

Across the street there was sudden light as curtains were pulled back from a window. A face peered out at them. Ben tried to call, but his throat was dry, blocked. All that emerged was a pathetic croak.

“C’mon.” The man changed his grip, so that he had hold of a handful of Ben’s jacket, at the back of his neck. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The man pushed and Ben had to walk in front of him.

In the houses they passed all the curtains were drawn. Ben imagined the people inside, watching TV, reading, maybe eating a meal. Normal life was so close, and yet... The hand at the back of his neck drove him on.

There was a churchyard down the street. That must be where these two were taking him: away from the street lights, away from the twitching curtains.

Ben drove an elbow hard and fast into his captor’s side.

It was like elbowing a brick wall.

The man laughed. “This one’s got spirit, hasn’t he?” he said to his friend, who was lagging a few paces behind.

Just then a car came slowly up the street, headlights blazing. While the two men were distracted, Ben managed to duck down, pulling his arms clear of the jacket.

He was free!

He started to run, as fast as he’d ever run in his life.

After a few seconds he glanced back. The two men hadn’t given chase: they were too drunk, Ben guessed. They were arguing now. One of them was holding Ben’s jacket in the air and gesturing angrily at the other.

Ben slowed his pace a little, but kept running. He came to a junction and turned right. As he ran he tried to work out where to go. He needed to find somewhere to hide for the night. Somewhere he could relax and try to work out what had happened to him.

He turned another corner.

“Hey!”

He stopped, ready to turn back. He’d almost run into someone.

A man. Tall, with a dark blue uniform. A policeman.

“What’s going on?” the policeman said. “What’s all the hurry?”

“I... There were some men. Two men. They... They grabbed me, tried to take me somewhere.”

“Okay, okay,” said the policeman. “Calm yourself, will you? What’s your name, son?”

“Ben. Ben Aynsley.”

“Right, Ben. Where do you live? Let’s get you home. I’d like a word with your parents – letting a kid your age out on a feast night. Asking for trouble. So where do you live, Ben?”

Ben stared at the policeman. “I... I don’t know,” he said, finally. “I don’t know
where
I live.”

~

The police station was in the right place: a modern red brick building across Victoria Gardens from the council offices. Except they were called Beaumont Gardens now.

Sergeant Adams had led Ben through to the office behind the reception desk and now he was boiling a kettle and washing some cups.

“So,” said the Sergeant. “Are you going to tell me what you were running from?”

Ben hadn’t worked out how much he could tell the policeman, but this was safe enough, he thought. “Two men,” he told him. “Skinheads. One had a tattoo where his eyebrows should have been. It said ‘pure of blood’. He grabbed me, but I managed to get away and then I ran for it. I wouldn’t let them...”

Sergeant Adams nodded. “I know the lad you mean,” he said. “He’s spent a few nights in this place, when he’s had a few beers inside him. I’ll have a word with him.”

The policeman came over and placed a steaming mug and a plate of sandwiches on the table before Ben. “I don’t know what your parents are up to, letting you out tonight. Asking for trouble on a feast night.” He stopped and looked closely at Ben. “You don’t understand, do you? The first of the month: a time of celebration, but some people get carried away. Thugs like your shaven-headed friend go looking for trouble. Are you going to tell me what really happened, Ben Aynsley? Are you going to tell me why you’re so muddled you don’t even know what night it is or where you live?”

Ben dipped his head. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “My name’s Ben Aynsley. I live at number 27 Duke Street. My father is a chartered surveyor and my mother works part-time at the university. That’s the truth.”

Sergeant Adams sat opposite Ben. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You’ve already told me all that. But, Ben,” he said softly, “there
is
no Duke Street. There
are
no Aynsleys in the telephone book, or in any of the local records I can check from the computer. My brother works at a surveyors’ firm and I’ve just called him: he doesn’t know of anyone called Aynsley, either.

“You don’t exist, Ben Aynsley. Now are you going to start telling me the truth?”

~

Ben managed to eavesdrop on part of the telephone conversation.

“...no name, no records ... doesn’t exist.”

“If he’s a liar, he’s a good one. I tell you, he’s just a confused kid. He doesn’t seem to understand much.”

“Yes, I’m serious. He might be a feral. Wouldn’t be the first...”

Shortly afterwards, Sergeant Adams came back into the office. He sat down across from Ben again. “That was Doctor Macreedie on the ’phone. He’s my cousin – a good man. We were talking about you, Ben. You see, I don’t really know what to do with you. There are procedures, of course. I could play it by the rule book.”

Ben met his look. “What does that mean?”

“You’re an unknown, Ben. You’re either lying or suffering some kind of mental block. I believe it’s the latter. I believe you’re trying to tell the truth, but you’re clearly confused and disorientated. You’ve had a shock and you need help. Correct procedure would have me on the ’phone to Social Services, arranging for a temporary care order. But I’ve had dealings with them before, Ben. You need help – you don’t want to get caught up in a lot of red tape. I can’t just hand you over to the Social. I want to do what’s best for you. So I called my cousin, Tom Macreedie. He’s a good man and a very fine doctor. He’ll be able to help. He’s said you can stay with him tonight. He’ll make sure you’re okay. You’ll be much safer in the care of my family.”

~

“Feast nights can be wild, wild nights,” said Doctor Macreedie. “You’re lucky my cousin found you when he did.”

Doctor Macreedie was a portly man, the shiny flesh of his neck bulging over a white collar, where a dark tie was pulled tight. He was sweating, as if nervous, and his dark eyes were never still behind tiny half-moon spectacles. Ben was in the passenger seat of the doctor’s small hatchback. They had just passed a rowdy group of people emerging from one of the pubs on High Street.

“If you’d been out on your own much longer, you could have ended up anywhere. You’d be waking up in a ditch tomorrow morning, wondering what had hit you.”

“It’s a feast night,” said Ben. “I should have known.” But he didn’t know anything.

Doctor Macreedie nodded. “These nights were always the busiest when I used to work in Accident and Emergency,” he said. “People with no self-restraint... they get carried away these days. Children should be protected from over-indulgence: sharing is a family thing. That’s why you should have been safely at home tonight, Ben. Unfortunately, that view is not as widely held in the modern world as it once was. Listen to me: I’m preaching at you. I should have been a priest!” He chuckled. He was trying to put Ben at ease, and struggling.

Ben thought of Rachel, Stacker and Lenny this afternoon. What would Doctor Macreedie have made of what they did to each other, he wondered? Would he count that as “over-indulgence” or would he dismiss it as youthful fun?

Ben shuddered.

How could he be thinking so calmly about his situation? Only a few hours ago he had been watching the football on satellite TV with his best friend. Now he was sitting in a stranger’s car, being driven through a town that was not-quite-Kirby, where all the rules of life seemed to have been distorted...

The car swung into a driveway, its wheels crunching on gravel. It stopped before a red-brick building, with a modern, flat-roofed extension to one side.

Ben undid his seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

The doctor’s family were waiting in the doorway. His wife was a tall, thin woman, with dark hair tied tightly back from her face. She was carrying a toddler. All Ben could see of the child was its pale blue sleepsuit and mass of golden curls.

Its face was buried at its mother’s neck. Its head was making steady suckling movements.

Ben saw that Doctor Macreedie was studying his reactions. He suddenly felt that this might be some kind of test. He did his best to look blank.

“Ben,” said the doctor. “This is Jillian, my wife, and our son Adam – who should really be asleep by this time but never is. He has more energy than the two of us! Adam will be two next month, won’t you Addie?”