Rocks in the Belly (20 page)

He can't see me out here with those lights blazing inside. I put the phone to my ear and listen to Mum again, watching the
photographer step back to admire his work, wringing his hands a little in a cloth he's holding.

‘Shall I, Mum?' I say, staring at the photographer I vandalised but listening to the sound of all that distance, the call signal travelling much further probably than the actual distance involved. The sounds converted into binary information in order to fly through the air and along those lines, so that I'm standing here listening to the ones and zeroes of Mum.

I knock on the shop door, a
Closed
sign looking at me, my innards rallying. He squints to see out into the dark where we are, Mum and me. Now he's coming over. I fidget, doing up my shirt collar, undoing it.

He peers through the glass, a hand cupped to block out the light behind him. I'm wearing my best reassuring grin, trying to stop my body swaying, the phone still at my ear.

He unbolts the door then makes a show of switching the
Closed
sign over to
Open
, gives me a wide grin, the smell of marijuana coming out along with his head when he pokes it round the door. ‘Can I help you?'

‘You the owner?'

‘I am. Everything alright?'

‘Is that one of yours there you're framing?' I point in at the picture on the desk.

‘Sorry?'

‘That arty picture. It's not like these other ones. Is it one of your own you've taken?'

He's looking at me, his eye drawn to the phone in my unsteady hand. ‘Yes I took it, it's —'

‘How much d'you want for it?'

‘You can barely see it from here. Why would you —'

‘I saw what happened to your window.
Terrible.
' I give him a rock solid tut-tut and a shake of my head. ‘Kids, I s'pose?'

I'm picturing Mum listening in from her bedroom darkness, eyes open, mesmerised. Like this is a seminal radio broadcast I'm giving. The photographer staring at me, along with those airbrushed, framed, fakey faces in his window.

‘Do you mind if I pop in for a look? I'm an art dealer.' I pat my pockets. ‘Don't have a business card on me just now but — I'm not interested in these happy-clappy ones in the window, you must have more as good as that one there you're framing.' I put a palm in the air to show him I come in peace, then cover the phone's mouthpiece with my finger. ‘I'm interested in what you're smoking n' all.'

We're ensconced now, empty beers all over the table, I'm rolling a joint, he's putting one out. Both of us with that bodily abandon of the inebriated — seated unorthodoxly on our chairs, tilted back on two legs. Elbows draped. My phone over on a ledge by the door. I don't want her hearing this.

‘Hey, I lied about being an art dealer.'

‘No shit,' he says. ‘You're still my first buyer though,' his face beaming at the picture, also by the door. ‘For one of my own, anyway.'

‘I won't be the last,' I tell him, pausing mid-lick of the rolling paper. ‘Were you insured?'

‘Insured?' he says, picking absentmindedly at something caught in his back teeth.

‘The window.'

He nods, fingers still in his mouth, those eyes of his sneaking a look over at me from time to time. Even with all this inebriated camaraderie we've established, he keeps doing that, looking at me like I'm dodgy.

I sneak stares at him too. Watching this man I wronged but
feeling like I've righted some of that wrong with the arm and a leg I just spent on his picture.

‘What work
do
you do?' he says. I glance over at my mobile – drop the unfinished joint on the table, go fetch her. ‘Nothing. I lost my job.' I look at the phone screen for a reaction.

In his drunkenness the photographer laughs at me. ‘What d'you do, shag the boss?'

‘Ah, you wouldn't understand.' I'm regretting embarking on this with him — a little flexing waking up in my innards. I sit heavily back down in my chair, set Mum on the table.

‘You did didn't you, you
dirty dog
,' he says, all lecherous and lit up. ‘I bet a face like that would get you into big trouble with the ladies. Look at yer neck.'

I push my beer away, pushing away the emotions, telling myself this is the last smoke and drink if I'm going to be on form for Patricia.

‘Mind if I save this for the road?' I say, gesturing with the joint, and eyeing his big bag of weed. ‘I worked in the prison system as a guard. A paedophile was beaten to death, I got the blame.'

‘They deserve exactly what they get.' He fidgets, leaning closer. ‘Did you though, you know, bust him up?'

I put the joint behind my ear, a little claustrophobic suddenly — standing up, feeling how much more overcooked I am now, reaching for his stash and grabbing a good pinch. ‘A small sweetener for all that money I just spent on your new career?'

He wafts the question quickly away. ‘Sure, but what did you do to him?'

I lean on the table, supporting my weight, ‘What would
you
do? Not what you like to think you'd do, what you'd actually be able to do. With these.' I show him my hands, letting him notice the scar. ‘Locked up in a ten by seven, just you and a terrified old man. No repercussions.' I straighten again, looking at him.

I don't tell him (and Mum) how the prison system is what used
to keep me going. How much I loved being part of that clumsy brotherhood. I loved it. As small-minded and brutal as it could be, it was all I had for a while.

I don't tell him how obvious it is that someone like me worked with the guilty.

‘In fact,' I say, quieter now, pocketing some tobacco and rolling papers, ‘What would you do if you were alone in a room with the person who broke your window?'

I light the joint, the flame warming my face for a second, making the room vanish, my hands shaky.

‘What if it was just an eight-year-old boy who broke it? Would you punish an eight-year-old?'

I exhale the smoke, suck in another lungful, sucking back the tears – children looking at me from the walls, all of them forced into formal, scratchy clothes, hair pulled back, tied up, flattened down, squashed.

‘I don't get it,' he says, a long swallow running down him, his body right back against his chair.

‘I was angry, but I didn't mean to hurt him. It was an accident. Even Robert knew that. I've never meant to hurt anyone.'

Again, it's her reaction I'm after, not his. Now I'm hiding mine by heading for the door, opening it – struggling to gather the enormous picture I bought.

‘See you, mate,' I say to the street, my back to him in the open doorway. ‘I'm sorry about your window.'

Dad is singing Hey Now My Wife-friend's Back and laughing at his jokes more than usual, which is a lot. Plus cleaning like a madman and making me do a thousand jobs. Robert doesn't have to and it's not fair but Dad says I can either do the chores or he can tell Mum I tried to put Alfie through the washing machine.

Leeks or broccoli.

‘
Where's the washing powder, Dad?
' he says then looks at me all seriously even though his good mood is shining through. ‘I see you with that cat again and I'll have your guts for garters.'

I'm doing horrid jobs when I should be in my lion's den with my Transformer. Today it's the monster.

When I grow up I'm not going to have any feelings at all. I'll be a computer or a robot. And I'll know everything too like the computers on telly that can have a conversation and fly the spaceship even while solving big problems. Unlike Dad who talks slower when he's pulling out of a junction.

Robert wants to go along to get Mum from the hospital but Dad just rubs his head and smiles.

Now Robert and me are sitting at the kitchen table and listening to Dad's reversing noise which sort of sounds horrid right now,
maybe cos I hear it when it's time to get up in the mornings.

Robert is having trouble sitting still. So is my tummy.

‘Do you want me to make you something?' he says, pointing towards the kitchen.

I shake my head. I'm turning my Transformer from a monster to a robot, back to a monster. My hand is healing nicely but still looks a bit scarred for life.

‘Which one are you and which one is me?' I say, showing him the robot, then put a finger up to make him wait. I change the robot really quick as I can, keeping my tongue in. Robert looks impressed.

I show him the monster.

He shrugs. ‘Which one do you think?'

I don't know. I'm too busy staring at how happy and excited he is. I turn it back to the robot. Meanwhile it's really quiet in the house between us like we're divers in one of those pressurised tanks they have to sit in for days. Like me and Robert have got the bends.

The whole house is one of those metal pressure containers with bolts in it that could fly out any minute.

I stand up to get away from my tummy, go into the kitchen. I turn on the gas burner and light it with the special lighting thing. I like doing that when Mum's out, burning the gas.

I hover the robot high above the flame then take it away, feeling the face and how hot it is. A bit sticky too. I do it again, feeling excited, putting the robot-robert face right inside the hot blue flame and it turns it purpley green. Black smoke. The face is burning. I like that. I LIKE it.

‘What's that smell?' Robot comes in.

I hide it behind my back. ‘I'm off on me bike then.'

I cycle really fast up our hill as if there are enemies chasing me and I'm in a film. Or Dad is timing me.

Maybe me and Dad could go away and leave Mum and Robert. Like when sometimes I run away and take water and fruit to stay
missing a really long time so they worry.

Sometimes I just hide in the washing basket, or go down the garden and climb the plum tree if it's summer and the leaves can hide me. Unless the plums are ripe cos then there are too many wasps. Bees die when they sting you.

Normally I just get too bored and come home and they don't seem to feel punished or have missed me at all. But if Dad and me went away we would be really missed and I wouldn't be bored or lonely like when I run away on my own. We'd come back weeks or maybe months later, years, and Mum would sob and hug me and Robert would shake my hand and be all ‘Hey kid I missed you, you know.'

Or maybe he'd be gone already if his parents somehow realise it isn't the 60s anymore.

I cycle across Malfour Park and think about stopping to throw stones at the pigeons but I feel brave enough for the bomb crater.

The bomb crater is a double scoop left behind by a gas explosion but Dad likes to pretend it was from war. Bombers dropping their bombs.

One crater scoop is bigger than the other like ears and eyes and boobs and balls are.

I'm a bit scared of the craters and sit at the edge first. Scope it out. Three Lips Macavoy wouldn't be scared.

There's some new junk dumped down there, and the same old fridges and metal containers, as if the war bombers dropped junk bombs.

I wish I hadn't burnt my robot. I turn it to the monster but it got burnt too. Robert's fault. I cycle down into the crater even though it's quite steep and I can't breathe until I reach the bottom and go up the other side, almost to the top just from the downhill speed.

I set my monster on an old fridge to guard me, then cycle around the crater sides like a stunt rider. I even go down the steepest hill,
Everest, then Round The World which is the big arc at the bottom with a tree growing at the centre. My monster is watching me and my tummy feels like it has that junk in it too. Old rusty metal and bits of wire and fridges poking out the thin pink of my stomach.

The crater is making the back of my neck stand up. I drop my bike and stop the wheel turning. Someone could hide in a fridge and catch little boys. I kick the side of a fridge and it dents a bit. I kick it again and there's some more dent and the white coating cracks and is rusty underneath.

I'm riding home fast as I can with my monster because I think maybe Mum might be home by now and Robert grinning and being all Robert and everyone hugging then going indoors and Mum not noticed I'm gone. They'll just shut the door and the knocker will do that thing where it lifts and taps, depending on how hard you slam it.

They'll be inside together and I'll just be stuck on the outside looking in.

I cycle through Malfour Park faster than lightning, war planes diving overhead and bombs going off, fridges and metal containers landing all around me and denting the grass, soil flying and I'm swerving and leaning forward with the monster in my pocket poking my tummy. I go like the crappers past the park benches and the duck pond where there's no ducks really anymore, the metal bombs dropping and I can hear the pilots talking into their radios.

I am the special war baddie they're after, and Mum and Dad are hugging Robert while he's pointing at a book he's holding and Mum and Dad look like they're off an advert they're so happy about what Robert is telling them. I'm the only one who knows that Robert is a robot spy. But the bombs are dropping around me not Mum and Dad and Robert who are getting into bed and snuggling up and watching TV together. Dolphins on the telly.

I go through the park gate and a woman has to get out my way
and says something telling off. She doesn't know about Robert and the bombs.

I stop at the junction, waiting for the traffic lights, planes flying over. Imagine if a fridge landed on the road right now, in front of a posh car. Imagine.

Come on, lights!

I'm bouncing and fidgeting like I need the toilet or the ants are in my pants, and I'm pretending I can smell bomb smoke like firework in the air.

The lights change and I'm pedalling through the war again, planes dive bombing and Mum coming home.

At the top of our hill I stop, my shoes scratching on the tarmac. Even the war has stopped cos I can see our garden down there and the stepladder glinting, a bit of sound coming from the hedge-trimmer. Me and the monster watching Robot down there trimming Dad's hedges.