Southsiders (4 page)

He was finishing his cornflakes when the phone rang. 9:25 precisely. He supped the remaining milk from his bowl and picked up.

“Hello,” a lady said at the other end of the line. “It’s Miss Betts from Preston Street Primary here.” She sounded bored. No doubt she’d spent her morning chasing up kids who hadn’t turned up, just like she always did.

Jesse choked a little as one of the flakes caught on its way down.

“Is that Mr Spalding?” Miss Betts asked.

Her question helped him out. Allowed him to get away with the one syllable. “Aye.” He’d tried to get some depth into the word and was a little surprised by its tone, but it still didn’t sound much like a grown up.

“Could you tell me what’s wrong with Jesse today?”

“Pure dead with flu,” Jesse said. The accent was pretty good. All Glasgow, no mistake.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” There was a ring of sarcasm in her tone, like she could smell the rat from all that distance away. “If he’s not going to be in tomorrow, please call to let me know, otherwise you’re wasting an awful lot of the admin time. We do have other, more important things to do in the office.”

Jesse was about to answer when the phone went dead. He liked Miss Betts. She was always grumpy when she spoke to the teachers and always nice to the children. If she were a chocolate, she’d be a caramel. Hard at the beginning, but all soft and squidgy and warm when you got to work on it.

Soon as that phone call was out of the way, Jesse relaxed and set to work.

He sat on a stool at the window. It was horrible out there and he was glad that he hadn’t bothered with school. The snow that had fallen in the night had been turned into a grey sludge that piled itself up against the sides of the buildings and the gutters. Everyone was walking carefully to avoid the puddles and the most slippery sections.

He focussed his binoculars on the hole-in-the wall across the way, just outside Tesco.

Those who stopped to get cash went about it the same way. They put in their cards, pressed a few buttons, took their money and wandered off again. They all tried to hide their PIN numbers from view as they pressed the buttons, some of them with their hands and some by leaning right in, and mostly it probably worked. The thing was Jesse’s binoculars were strong enough for him to pick up some of the numbers from the ways the hands worked. It gave him the idea of stealing cards rather than cash, but it would have meant hanging around for days, taking photographs and having some kind of system. Besides, if they were getting out cash, they probably wouldn’t need more for ages and might not even use the same machine the next time. It was a definite no-go.

There were also no-go types. Anyone strong enough to beat the crap from his body, or fit enough to catch him. Even if they couldn’t, they could probably scream for Scotland.

That left the fat, the drunk and the elderly.

The fat didn’t come along all that often. Maybe they just couldn’t manage the hill up the Bridges or just had to stay home all day waiting for family members to bring them food or hoist them onto the toilet.

There weren’t too many drunks either, not during the day. Maybe if he waited till closing time, he’d have more chance, but he’d be nervous about going out when the pubs closed and didn’t fancy staying up that late.

Which left the old folk.

Jesse didn’t like the idea of robbing the elderly. Those he’d seen reminded him of his gran before she died. She’d seemed so frail and was always scared of everyone when she did venture out. Thing was, he needed the cash and he couldn’t see any other options.

*

E
ven though Jesse was wrapped up, the cold was getting to him. His fingers were stiff and slow inside his gloves and his ears were burning.

A light fall of snow had quietened the world. It slowed the traffic and made people walk faster as if everything was upside down.

The darkness was perfect for Jesse. A cloak to hide under, not that he was taking any chances. As soon as he had a target, he was going to hide his face and spring into action.

While he waited, he did a few tricks on his skateboard. Jumps and kerb-edging. It kept him busy and stopped the chill from getting any worse. It was in the middle of a 360 that he saw a suitable victim.

The old lady had a stoop that meant she was practically looking at the floor the whole time. In one hand she carried a walking stick. With the other, she pulled along a tartan shopping basket.

Jesse thought about it for a moment. Considered the possibility of the stick becoming a weapon, then dismissed the idea as crazy. If this old woman swung anything, she’d end up on her bahookie in the middle of a pile of slush. No, she was the one all right. Most definitely.

He watched her patiently. Waited for her to get up close to the cash machine. Stepped on the back of his board and let the front come up to his hand, then picked it up ready to use for his escape. He pulled the skull-print buff up from his neck so that it covered his face and then tightened his hood as a finishing touch. He walked in a small loop to make it look like he just happened to be passing and approached the lady as she keyed in the last number. It was going to be easy as pie.

As he got close, he saw the lady’s hand shaking as it waited to take the money. Beating her to it wasn’t going to be a problem.

The woman took her card and fumbled with it, trying to get it into a blue leather purse as the machine whirred and readied the cash.

Jesse was poised to swoop. He was close enough to get a whiff of her lavender perfume and the scent of the peppermint she was sucking when he saw her stick slip from her arm onto the floor just as the money appeared.

He raced in, reached over and grabbed at the stick. The old lady let out a whimper. The kind of frightened moan his gran used to let out when scary things happened on
River City
or
Eastenders
. It caught him off guard. Left him standing there with a stick in his hand, pulling the buff from his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I saw your stick falling and...”

The wrinkles of fear that had surrounded the old lady’s mouth turned into smile lines. She reached out, took the stick from him and held on to his arm for support. She didn’t seem to weigh anything at all. “Thanks,” she said. “I can’t bend down like I used to. It’s no fun getting old.”

“No worries.” Jesse reached out and took the money from the machine. Instead of speeding away on his board, he held it out to the woman. “You don’t want the machine swallowing it up. They do that sometimes if you’re not quick enough.”

She took the cash and put it into her purse while he stood ready to support her if there were any wobbles. When she was done, she turned her head upwards and Jesse could see the watery pools of her pale eyes. “Thank you young man. Thank you.”

His cheeks went warm when she spoke. Then hot, in spite of the weather. “It was nothing. Can I help you with anything else?” He didn’t want to be with her any longer than he had to be, but there was no way he was leaving her unless she felt strong enough to carry on.

“I’ll be fine. You get on with living your life. That’s what it’s for.” She gathered herself and her things together and headed for the supermarket entrance. “Merry Christmas,” she said to him as she scuttled inside through the automatic doors. “To you and yours.”

Jesse waved. Smiled. Set his board onto the ground and pushed himself along, hoping he’d be able to come up with a plan B before morning.

––––––––

T
he alarm woke Jesse early. Meant he was able to call the school before anyone was there and leave a message on the answer machine.

Once that was out of the way, he pulled up the blinds in the kitchen to find that it still looked like the middle of the night outside. He set to making breakfast – a mug of hot chocolate, a couple of croissants and a handful of Jaffa cakes.

The smashing little orangey bits in the middle and the warming of the chocolate raised his spirits and after he’d tidied up and swept the tiled floor, he went on a mission to find anything of value that his mum and dad possessed.

Before he went to bed, he’d dug out a grand total of £3.07 from down behind the cushions of the sofa. There was another 55p on his dad’s bedside table and the jackpot, a crumpled £5 note in one of his mum’s jacket pockets. It wasn’t enough to dig him out of the hole, but it gave him a momentum that he intended to use to salvage the situation.

The laptop was one of the most expensive items they possessed. It might have been worth a few quid if it hadn’t been for the cigarette burns on the top and the streak of purple nail-polish on the screen. Besides, he didn’t want to get rid of it – after the TV and his dad’s records, it was his only form of entertainment.

Instead of selling it, he set it up for a Google search and surrounded it with all of the ornaments, vases and antique-looking things he could find. The kitchen table looked like a stall at a car-boot sale by the time he’d finished, with all the tat collected together. He was sure he’d found something of value. After all, they always made a packet on
Cash In The Attic
.

The vase he started with was marked Made In China. So was the ceramic figure of the old man painting at his easel. The cutlery was all steel rather than silver. He found stamps for Tesco, Thailand and Tibet, but nothing suggesting age or good provenance. Just to be sure, he checked out the items on eBay. If he sold the lot and made a tenner after postage he’d be lucky. Except not that lucky, as the money would go into his dad’s account and he wouldn’t get a look in.

As the state of his inheritance became clear, Jesse’s bowels called out to him.

It was while he was sitting on the toilet that he realised that the one thing he’d been hoping to avoid had now become the only thing he could do.

To his dad, his records and music were everything. More important than football, more important than money, even more important than Jesse.

There were hundreds of them in the main bedroom, filling the bottoms of the wardrobe and most of the floor space on his dad’s side of the room.

Jesse had been taught to handle them with respect. He was never to touch the playing surface if he took a disc from its sleeve. They were never to be left lying flat. When they’d been played, they had to be replaced inside their sleeves before another one was selected and when they were being put back in their place, they had to be returned into the correct category and put into its position in alphabetical order.

The records were the only part of his dad’s life that Jesse really understood. They’d been the way Jesse had learned to read and write, and that after the school had told his parents that he was a hopeless case. He could read Gene Vincent, Little Richard, Elvis Presley, Bill Haley and ‘rock and roll’ way before he mastered Biff, Kipper and Chip.

There was some rubbish in the collection as far as Jesse was concerned. The Smiths, for example, were utter crap. The dance and hip-hop stuff gave him a headache. The pop music grated on his nerves and made him want to leave the house or chop his ears off. Worse than that, it wouldn’t be worth a penny.

Inside this mass of cardboard covers, though, were some rare gems that collectors would kill to get their hands on. Most of them had been bought by Jesse’s grandfather and passed down.

His grandad, Tam, had been a musician. A master of skiffle in his day. A legend of the Barrowlands by all accounts. He’d met some of the greats. There were photos to prove it. And there were signatures on some of the records just to make them all the more special.

These records should have been kept in a safe, but his dad always thought he knew better. He told Jesse that no burglar worth his salt would bother with a collection of vinyl these days. It was too big and cumbersome and there wasn’t a market for the average 45 single any more. The best place to hide his treasures was within a load of crap. Jesse tried to point out that there were other things that could happen. A fire, for example, or a flood from upstairs or something, but his dad still knew better.

They had a code for the really good stuff. A special category. They called it Solid Gold and it nestled between The Rolling Stones and Swing.

Jesse’s palms sweated and his heart beat a little faster than usual.

The thought of taking the gems out of the house made his eyes water. It wasn’t just that his dad would kill him if he came back and found them gone, it was that Jesse loved them just as much as his dad did. Loved them more than his skateboard, the computer and Archie put together.

He reached out to pick out the Solid Gold and then pulled his hands back like he’d been given an electric shock. It didn’t feel right.

“What else can you do?” he asked himself, then fell onto to the bed and set about harvesting the cream of the crop, his fingers delighting in the velvety softness of the record covers, his eyes feasting on the pictures of his heroes as they stared right at him as if they were telling him he was doing the right thing.

––––––––

“W
hat are you going to be up do today?” Izzy asked Ray while she ironed a pile of clothes as he minded Rose.

Ray shrugged. Tilted the baby’s bottle a little higher to get the last of it down into the rubber teat.

“You really should get out, you know. See the sights.” Izzy laughed at her words. She looked pretty when she smiled, her eyes lighting up and seeming to warm the room around her. “Most people like to look at the murals. Pretend that they’re in the middle of the troubles and all that.”

“Aye,” Ray said, putting the bottle down and lifting Rose to his shoulder. “I will. I just need...” He didn’t know exactly what he needed. The confidence, he supposed. Or just to lose the fear. So far he’d spent most of his time indoors, happy to help out with the baby while he watched the telly and got involved in a bit of idle chitchat with Izzy when the ads came on. They had a mug of tea every time things became too dull.

Looking after Rose was a treat. It brought so much of Jesse’s early days back to him. Days when there was still hope of something more. A life and a happy home and all the rest. At first, he’d loved the whole thing about being a dad. The memories, the ones he held on to, all felt warm and soft. Until he remembered the way Paula had been. That was when it had all started to go wrong. The booze took hold of her and anger burst out from her splitting seams. She’d doused his happiness just as effectively as if she’d poured icy water over his head.