Lottery Boy (22 page)

“Put that on toast, eh?” he said, nodding at the dog food. It was only after Bully left the shop that he realized that this was a joke.

Outside the shop someone slapped him on the back, hard. He twitched forward onto his toes, pulling away, already off and running in his head.

“Heh, heh! Slow down, man. Where you been?”

It was Chris. He looked shorter and fatter with his pirate rag on his head, like someone had stood on him and only just taken their foot off, and he had a bit of a beard, just fuzzy stuff, so it took Bully a second to recognize him.

“I said we’d find him, didn’t I, Tiggs?”

And Tiggs was there too, with his ears round his neck, feeding Jack chocolate. “Where you been hanging? You got your phone off? What’s happenin’? What’s going
down
?” he said in a voice that was not exactly his.

“Listen, listen…” said Chris. Bully unconsciously lowered his head a little. “You got to get out of town, man.”

“Yeah, I know. I seen Janks and—” He paused, left out what Janks had done to the man in the park.

“Did yer? What you been up to, Bully?”

“Nothin’.”

“Must be something. If he’s after you.”

“What? Who?”

“You, man…
You
.” said Chris. He got his phone out and showed Bully a text.

Bully couldn’t work out what it meant. And then he realized
he
was the stray.

“What’s
that
about?” said Chris.

“I owe him.”

“OK…” said Chris. “What? Back tax?”

“Yeah, yeah. Back tax.”

“How much? What you been doing? Partying it up?” Chris laughed like he didn’t really think that but Bully shook his head anyway.

“Nothing,” he said. He didn’t need to tell Chris or Tiggs about his ticket now – he could cash it in himself. He would keep it quiet until he got to Camelot. No publicity. He’d learned that now.

“All right. Whatever. You don’t want to tell, but it’s all over town. That’s all I’m saying. You gotta get out.”

Chris nodded to Tiggs, who untied Jack’s lead, and they began to walk Bully away from the shop.

“Where you going?”

“This way. Come on, we got a motor.”

This was good news! Chris could just drive him there and drop him off at Camelot and he could give him something later, for petrol.

“It’s down here,” Chris said. Bully took the lead off Tiggs because he could walk his own dog. And they started walking back towards the house, down Swain’s Lane.

“Can you drop me at Watford?”

“What? Watford? What you want to go there for?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” echoed Chris. “Must be
something
, Bully boy…”

“I’m meeting up.”

“Oh yeah? Who with?”

He tried to think of someone, to catch up with his lie running ahead of him. “My dad. My dad lives there. In Watford.”

“Oh right. We didn’t know you had a dad, did we, Tiggs?” Tiggs was nodding but only to what was playing out in his head, now he had his ears on. “Oh right, Tiggs knows all about it. Anyways, we’ll get you there, won’t we, Tiggs? We’ll get you sorted.”

“Yeah?” said Bully.

“Yeah. No problem, my man.”

They went past the corner of Jo’s street and Bully looked down in case anyone was watching from the window. He was pleased that the blue van was gone, didn’t want to see John. Bully stopped right where it had been parked.

“I just got to go and drop this off.” He lifted the plastic bag up in the air.

“What?”

“I been shopping for some people.” He pointed across the gardens.

“Whatever, we haven’t got time for that. You know if Janks gets hold of you he’s going to set the dogs on you? You know that’s what he does to late payers? Come on! We’re parked up.”

Bully stopped again. “I’ll just drop it off.”

“
Drop it!
Dump it, man, come on! We gotta get movin’.”

“Hold on…”

Chris gave him the dead look to show he was getting impatient. “We ain’t got
time
.”

Bully ignored him, eyed up the distance to the wall three houses away and started to loop the plastic bag round and round in a circle, to wrist-rocket it into their garden.

“Come on…”

Round and round the plastic bag went, faster and faster, but Bully didn’t want to let go.

“Bully! Hurry the f—”

The bag flew up, cleared the first fence, carried on rising over the second, but he didn’t wait to see it fall. When he heard the
thump
he remembered that Jack’s dog food was still in the bag. He would come back with the change later, with lots more money. Lots more bread too. As brown as he could get it.

The car was a big old Granada estate, with loose leather seats cracked and messed up by the sun, and they reminded Bully of the old Davey in the hospital. Bully sat in the back, cleared a space in the rubbish, and kicked green and brown bottles underneath the seat. Tiggs didn’t sit shotgun with Chris but sat next to him and Jack. He kept his headphones on.

“We’ll get there before tonight, yeah?” asked Bully.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Chris.

They drove down Swain’s Lane, back down towards the city. Bully had never seen anywhere in London in a car before, just in a bus. And he decided he liked being in a car in London because it wasn’t the same as crossing roads on your feet. He kept stretching his neck to take in the unfamiliar view of the road between the seats – still missing bits of where they were going – had to keep leaning from one side to another, with Chris throwing the car about in the corners and going
whooah
…

After a while, despite all the twists and turns, he still couldn’t help noticing something about their direction. The little arrow on his compass was pointing almost exactly the wrong way.

“It’s north, Chris. Watford’s north. We gotta go north,” he said.

Chris looked round. “What you got there? You a little boy scout? Let’s have a look.” Bully passed the penknife over and Chris put it where he kept his cigarettes, in the ashtray, not looking at all.

“You can tell your little compass that we’ve got to get on the motorway first, yeah? And the motorway is south, yeah? We’re gunna pick it up at Brent Cross.”

“Oh yeah?” said Bully. He’d always wanted to go to Brent Cross. And now he still just about had time.

“Can we stop off?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Chris.

He could get his photos done there. He wasn’t going to tell Chris why if he asked, but he didn’t seem to want to know.

A bus went past, putting out the sun. He looked up to the top deck, and suddenly wished he was up there, seeing more. He wound down the window so that Jack could poke her head out. She had never been in a car either. Not in London, not anywhere. And then Bully remembered that she must have, at least once, because of where he’d found her, under the 4x4. He didn’t know how someone could leave a dog like that, dumped in a car park, all ready to be run over.

Chris turned round when he heard the outside rushing in. “Bully boy! What you doin’? Wind it up, man. Wind it up! Don’t want anyone seeing you, do we? It’s secret squirrel.”

“What?” said Bully, hadn’t heard of that.

“Sick … listen up, this a
barking
beat,” said Tiggs. And Chris looked round, and Tiggs started giggling and clamped the big headphones over Bully’s head. He didn’t know this one, didn’t like things on his ears. There were no words in it and he didn’t think that much of the beat. Bully liked words; he liked rap but his favourite song was “Under the Boardwalk”. He didn’t know what a boardwalk was but his mum used to like it because it made her cry – why that would be a good song for her, he didn’t understand.

He looked out, squinted hard and thought he saw a sign for Romford, and that sounded like Watford and made him feel better for a bit.

“Yeah, sick.” He felt his heart beating along. “How long do you reckon to get there?” he said, but even though he was the one with the headphones on, neither of them seemed to hear what he was saying, so he took them off.

Slowing down for the traffic lights he caught sight of seagulls and then between the buildings, smudges of the river. He thought perhaps it was a different one to his river. He tried to get a proper look but Chris was wheel-spinning away towards the next set of lights.

Then the roads got smaller, narrower, and he could read the signs. They took a sharp turn up
Gutter Lane
and then down
Milk Street
, with Chris hitting the kerb, texting as he drove. It was like they were in some sort of game with funny names but one that he had stopped wanting to play.

“We nearly there?” He knew they weren’t anywhere near anywhere but he didn’t have the heart to tell himself the truth. And he pictured his knights checking their watches, getting itchy under their armour, almost ready to wind up the drawbridge when tomorrow came to an end.

“Bloody kids,” Chris said and Bully realized he meant him. It was quiet then in the car until Chris pulled up on the kerb.

Chris leaned over the back seat. “We just got to stop here, drop something off. Five minutes. And then we’re off to Brent Cross. You go in with Tiggs and give him a hand. You know what he’s like, eh?” He smiled, raised his eyebrows, making Bully feel like perhaps Chris had meant Tiggs was the kid and not him after all.

Bully looked in the car rubbish for what it was they were dropping off, peering over the back seat into the boot.

“What you dropping off?” he asked as he opened the car door.

“Nah, I meant we’re picking somin’ up. Leave Jacky with me,” said Chris.

Bully hesitated. “What?” he said because no one else in London had ever called her that. And for some reason it made him feel very, very sad.

“I said leave the dog.”

“I dunno…”

“It’ll be five minutes. Go on. Get your arse moving.”

“OK, but don’t feed her no more chocolate though.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said.

Bully and Tiggs got out, went towards the empty face of an office block being built, the windows missing, and lots of noise coming out of the gaps that Bully didn’t like – pile-driving –
thump, thump, thump
– and drilling.

“Tiggs! Tiggs!” Chris had wound down his car window and was waving him back.

“What!” Tiggs took off his headphones. “Wait there,” he said to Bully and went back to the car.

“What did Chris want?” Bully asked when he came back.

“Nuthin’… Down here.” Tiggs motioned towards a narrow brick alleyway between the buildings.

“Where’s it go?” Bully shouted with his hands on his ears. Tiggs just pointed up ahead. And Bully looked up and saw the house then, a big house at the end of the alleyway with lots of chimneys at the top. And all the big square windows were boarded up with black sheet metal except for this one at the bottom.

They carried on past an old lamp-post in the alleyway, the glass in it smashed, no light there and the drilling getting louder and
thump, thump, thumpier
between the walls.

Up closer, Bully could see the window was wedged open with a stick. And he could see the alleyway didn’t end here but was blocked off to stop people getting through to the front of the house.

“In you get,” said Tiggs.

Bully was slow getting in, trying to keep his hands on his ears and climb with his elbows and knees and feet, and Tiggs swore and gave him a lift. He sat on the windowsill, still with his hands on his ears because the
thump, thump, thumping
was even worse inside, shaking through the whole house and into him. Tiggs gave him a nudge and followed him in. The room was empty apart from some ripped-up, soggy-looking sleeping bags. Bully could see from the fag ends around the sill that it was well used, like a doorway, a hang-out.

“It’s too
loud
,” said Bully and he went to go back out the window.

Tiggs grabbed Bully when he saw what he was doing. “No, wait! Wait. No, listen. Chris says you’ve
got
to give me a hand.” Bully shook his head, his palms flat on his ears. “You don’t like noises, do yer… Look, put these on. Come on… It won’t be long now,” Tiggs said and he clamped his headphones over Bully’s head and shoved the iPod in his pocket.

The same sick sound was playing.

“Yeah,” Bully said, nodding because the thumping and the drilling was deadened by the thick foam and he felt better for a little while, keeping what was outside his head from getting in. Tiggs motioned to keep them on as they walked through into the dark clattery house.

From what he could see by the glow of Tiggs’s mobile, they were in a hallway and just this bit of the house was huge, as big as his old flat. There were no carpets or rugs, only black wooden boards on the floor, like in a ship. And the walls were made of wood too, and looked like hundreds and hundreds of empty old picture frames stuck together.

“Up ’ere,” motioned Tiggs, waving his mobile. Bully saw in the darkness a little circle of light, like a spotlight, coming from a tiny round window at the top of the stairs that they had not bothered to board up, too small for even a skinny boy like him to fit through. Bully went up, not liking the dark. Tiggs prodded him in the back. Bully turned round and told him to cut it out.

“Can’t I wait
down
here
?” he mouthed. Tiggs shook his head. He mimed out the act of trying to lift a dead weight, hunching his shoulders and putting his hands to his knees, showing him just how much he needed his help. And then he pointed to Bully’s ears. “The real
sick
bit …” Tiggs shouted, so that Bully could just about hear, “it’s coming up…”

Bully nodded and sniffed. He didn’t care about the sick beat. He would take the headphones off as soon as they found what they were looking for and got out of this place. He wiped his nose with his hand. His cold was getting worse but something familiar was squirming up his nose, a smell that he couldn’t quite put his finger on with the beat in his head messing with his senses.

He sniffed again, rubbed his nose again. Something oily and warm was in the air around him … a scent. The smell was there in his head now, desperately tugging at his memory, but he was almost too embarrassed to tell himself what it was. Like those questions at school that the teacher doesn’t tell you the answer to because it’s so obvious, right there in front of you.