The Talisman (2 page)

Alex was terrified, but he never showed it. His fear made him silent, a loner. His manners, his gentleness and his obvious intelligence set him apart. He was a grammar-school boy, and that was something in itself. During classes, Alex soon learned not to answer all the questions put to them by the teacher. Any boy standing out as ‘different’ or ‘special’ would be tormented. He learned fast, even going so far as to make deliberate spelling mistakes in his essays. At grammar school he had been at the top of his class in maths, but at Rochester House he made sure he achieved only average marks.

The boys had little or no privacy. Throughout their waking hours they were watched and monitored by the warders. The head warder of the school, Major Kelly, was a threat to all the boys living under him. If they didn’t behave, the staff would report them to ‘The Major’, whose name was enough to instil order.

Even at night Alex could find no comfort in sleep. He tried to blank out from his mind the terrible pictures of his dying father wrapped in his mother’s arms, tried not to hear the sounds of his mother’s weeping. He willed himself once more to conjure the dream he had dreamed when he had first been held in jail. The dream that had given him peace, had comforted and cleansed him.

In the dream Alex had been running up a mountain bathed in sunlight, lush green grass beneath his feet, and above him a brilliant blue sky. It was surreal and yet tangible, and running he had felt free, heading towards the very peak of the towering, magnificent mountain. Then he heard the thunder of hooves, ringing and echoing around the mountainside. Still he ran on, filled with joy, breathing the sweet, clean air . . . and then he saw, breaking through the clouds with his raised hooves, a black, shining stallion galloping towards him. Astride the horse sat a man with flowing, blue-black hair, at one with the beast. Alex lifted his arms to the man, calling to him as if he represented his own free spirit. The rider was his father, he was Freedom . . . ‘Don’t go, don’t go,’ Alex cried. But the rider had passed by, into the clouds, which closed like a grey curtain behind him.

Alex had recaptured his dream, but now it turned into a nightmare. There was no rider, no stallion, just the suffocating, grey cloud enveloping him. He was awakened by his own cry, his body drenched in sweat. He pulled the rough blanket around him, shivering now, afraid his cry had been heard by the other boys in the dormitory. He was not alone. Around him he could hear the muffled sobs of boys as frightened as himself hiding beneath their sheets, all of them afraid of tomorrow.

Fights broke out in class, and in the yard at recreation time. Bullies, already hardened to the system, took delight in tormenting first offenders.

Alex watched closely and remained apart, ignoring taunts, ignoring any incitements to argument. He had heard the whispers behind his back. Somehow the boys had learned why he was there, that he had committed murder. This gave him some standing among them, and a slight aura of menace.

Wally Simpson was the same age as Alex but only half his size, which earned him the nickname ‘the Shrimp’. He had the next bed to Alex. A cheeky, cocky little chap, he took a lot of beatings from the bigger boys, but he always fought back, if not with his fists then with his sharp wits.

Often during the long, lonely nights Wally would try to make contact with Alex. ‘Psssst, hey, Alex, can yer ’ear me, mate? Yer got anyone visitin’ yer? Psssst . . .’

Alex feigned sleep, facing the wall, glad he was in the last bed.

‘Is it true what they say? You in fer murder? Alex . . .?’

With one eye on the door, Wally slipped out of his bed, crept over to Alex’s and tapped him on the shoulder. Alex whipped round, and Wally stepped back sharply.

‘Stay away from me, stay away.’

‘All right, mate, only offerin’ ter be friendly – sod ya!’

Alex drew his blanket over his head and snuggled down. He wished his brother, Edward, was with him, wished it was all a nightmare, but the stink of the blanket brought it home to him that this was reality. No matter how hard it was, he would do just as his mother had told him.

Alex’s mother, Evelyne, had come to the police station on the morning after Freedom’s death. Only twenty-four hours had passed since the murder, and yet she seemed to have aged. Her son was deeply shocked by the change in her. Evelyne had always been thin, but her tall, angular frame had never stooped before. She had always stood upright, her big-boned hands strong, a firmness and strength to her that had set her apart from an early age, even in the small Welsh mining village where she had been born. She had never been known as a beautiful woman; her cheekbones were too prominent, her face appeared carved rather than moulded, and her face had always lacked youthfulness. But her dark green eyes, set off by wild red hair – her ‘crowning glory’ as her mother used to say – made one turn to look again. She was striking, and with that hair one knew she had a fiery temper. She could be disdainful, even arrogant, when she wanted, but when she smiled that fierceness disappeared, and then she was simply lovely.

It was this picture of her that Alex had held in his mind since the murder, the face he loved so much and was so desperate to see again.

The twenty-four hours since Freedom’s death were etched in her face. The brightness was gone from her eyes, her shoulders were bent and her hands constantly fumbled with the strap of her worn handbag. He reached out to hold her, but she stepped back, hugging the bag to her chest. There was no colour to her, she was drab and empty, and even her lovely, lilting voice had changed. When she spoke she sounded hoarse . . . he could hardly believe that this was his mother; all her strength had seeped away.

‘I’ve a lawyer. He says for you to tell him everything. They’ll send you to Rochester House. You’ll be evaluated there, so it will be up to you, son. Do whatever they tell you, and don’t mix with the other boys – keep yourself apart. When it’s over we’ll start afresh, you and me – when you come out.’

Although distraught with worry for her, he was so upset himself he couldn’t think how to comfort her. She continued to hug her handbag, hunched in the chair.

‘I’ll visit. I know the truth, I know it was Edward, I know, but you tell the lawyers what you have to.’

Alex bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood. ‘How’s Edward, Ma? How’s he taking it?’

Her face twisted, her mouth turned down. ‘It’s just you and me now, Alex, just you and me. Don’t ever mention his name, not yet. I can’t stand the sound of his name.’

He choked back the tears and his lips trembled. There was an awful, heartbreaking silence, then he remembered his beloved dog, Rex. His father had bought him the puppy one Christmas. He leaned forward. ‘Will you take care of Rex for me, Ma? Tell him I’ll be home soon to take him for walks.’

Evelyne shook her head and made a strange, small moaning sound. Then she pushed her chair back and walked away, without touching him, without kissing him. When she finally spoke, there was the strange hoarseness in her voice again.

‘Rex followed the ambulance, after your Da, followed it until he dropped. They said his paws were bloody. God knows how many miles he must have followed . . . He loved him so, he loved . . . He’s not come home, nobody’s at home.’

The warder opened the door to let her out, and Alex knew she was crying. He shouted after her.

‘Mum! Mama! I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry!’

The warder had to prise Alex away from the door. He was as gentle as possible; the boy seemed so young, so distraught.

‘Your Ma’s gone now, lad. Now quieten down, don’t go making a fuss.’

Alex flung himself down on his bunk and cried his heart out. He cried for his father, he wept for his beloved dog, and he sobbed for his mother until he lay, face down, head buried in the pillow, exhausted. Then he whispered over and over, ‘Eddie . . . Eddie? Why did you do it, Eddie? Why?’

At weekends the boys had more recreation time. They could play football games in the yard, and billiards in the main hall. Parents arrived to visit their sons in shifts, as they could not all be accommodated at once. They were led into the dining hall, which doubled as the visiting room. The boys sat on one side of the long row of tables, parents on the other.

‘Alex Stubbs to the dining hall!’

Alex ran from the yard into the hall. He had to search almost the entire row of parents before he found his mother near the far end. She wore her best brown coat and hat, and sat erect with her usual handbag and a paper carrier bag on her lap.

‘Hello, Ma, everything all right, is it?’

She held out her hand and gripped his tight, lifted it to her lips and kissed it. Alex looked covertly around, not wanting the other lads to see.

‘You’re eating all right, are you? I’ve brought a bag of fruit and nuts for you.’ She passed him the bag in which she’d also put a chocolate bar and a few shillings in case he needed them. She sighed and told him that Mrs Harris’ youngest, Dora, was giving her a terrible time, getting up to all sorts of tricks. ‘She’s out all hours in high heels and little else, according to her mother. She’s been nothing but trouble, that one.’

Alex enjoyed her gossip, not wanting to talk about anything serious.

‘I’ll be here next weekend. You behave yourself and there’ll be no reform school – that’s what the social worker said – so be a good boy. They’re just assessing you in here, that’s all, then they’ll let you come home!’

Alex murmured that he always behaved himself, and had no intention of doing anything else. The bell rang for the end of the visit, and Alex asked quickly if Evelyne had heard from Edward. She flushed and pulled at her hat. He knew she was trying not to let him see the tears in her eyes.

‘Edward’s just fine, thanks to you, and he knows he’s got to make this up to you, he knows.’

Alex wanted to ask her if he could write to his brother, but the warders were already ordering the boys out of the hall. He stood up and gave Evelyne a wink, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled out, head high. He kept it up right to the door, then turned; she could see the tears on his cheeks before he hurried out.

Evelyne tried to stand, but had to sit down again. It had been so hard, so hard not to wrap him in her arms. He had looked so tall, so thin, and his knees were red raw. He had just got into long trousers at grammar school, and now they had put him back into shorts. If he was suffering, he made no mention of it, only in his beautiful blue eyes could she see her son’s fear. She almost decided to go to the police and tell the truth, but then if it wasn’t Alex behind bars it would be Edward. At least for Alex it wouldn’t be long, she told herself.

Later that night, Alex was sitting in a corner of the games room reading a book. A snooker match was in progress, and a group of rowdy lads was arguing about whose turn it was. Kenny Baker, a big sixteen-year-old and the self-appointed ‘guv’nor’ of Rochester House, sauntered in. As he passed the snooker table he picked up one of the balls ‘the Shrimp’ was just about to take a shot at. He tossed the ball in the air, caught it, and held it just out of Wally’s reach. He turned to Alex. ‘Hey, you, skinny Jim, wanna game of snooker wiv me?’

‘You give us the ball back, Kenny, or I’ll stick this cue up your arse. Way I hears it, that’s just what yer like.’ With three boys grouped around him, Wally was full of bravado, but he shrank as they moved quickly to avoid trouble.

‘Well, ain’t yer got a big gob on yer fer a shrimp? Wanna say that again, eh? You wanna say it again?’

Wally sprang around the table, and tried to wheedle his way out of it. ‘I were just jokin’, Kenny, honest!’

Whack! The cue came down across Wally’s shoulders. Next minute Kenny had him lying across the table, and was pushing him down, trying to stuff a billiard ball into Wally’s mouth. None of the other boys did anything to help. Alex watched for a moment, then went back to reading his book. The screams and scuffles got louder as Wally struggled.

‘Leave him alone.’

Kenny turned round and gave Alex a nasty, sickly smile. ‘Well, well, the beanpole can talk! Well I never, yer got yerself a champion, Wally . . .’

Wally slunk away from the table and closer to Alex. Kenny leered at the boys behind him, keeping a watch on the doors. ‘You fink yer boss around ’ere, do yer, Stubbs?’

The printed page blurred before Alex’s eyes, but he refused to look up, pretending to continue reading. The next moment the billiard cue cracked down on his knee. Slowly, he closed his book and stood up, as Wally danced around, his little fists up. ‘Come on, Alex, we can take ’im. He finks ’e’s so bleedin’ tough, we all know he’s only in ’ere fer nickin’ shillings from ’is granny’s gas meter . . .’

Alex stepped behind Wally, heading for the door. The boys on guard promptly shut it and stood in his way, arms folded. Pushing Wally aside, Kenny faced Alex, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Least I didn’t knife me old man,’ Kenny sneered. ‘That’s what you done, ain’t it, Stubbs? We all taken a beatin’ from our Dads, ain’t we, lads, but knockin’ off yer old man . . .’

Alex could feel the fury building inside him, and he spoke through clenched teeth, ‘Will you get away from the doors?’

He felt a blow on the back of his neck, and saw stars. He knew he couldn’t take Kenny on, he was so much bigger, so he had to get out. He tried to reach for the door handle, and one of the boys on guard pushed him. He sprawled backwards on the floor. Kenny kicked him hard in the ribs, so hard his breath caught and he coughed and spluttered.

Laughing, Kenny picked up Alex’s book and tossed it aside, then saw the brown paper bag. He tore it open and held the chocolate bar aloft. ‘Gor blimey, what else yer got in ’ere, Stubbs?’

Alex picked up the pool cue and brought it crashing down on Kenny’s head, then held it crosswise and hit him in the throat. He was caught red-handed with the cue by the warders as they burst into the games room and saw Kenny screaming and clutching his throat.

‘Right, who started this? I want the truth, which boy started this?’

Kenny, Wally and the other witnesses remained silent. The Major rose to his feet behind his desk. He was a massive man, with a vast barrel chest and a waxed, grey moustache. His left arm was stiff, pressed to his side, and a brown leather glove covered his false steel hand. ‘Put them in the detention block . . . all of them. You’ll be a damned sight sorrier in there. Go on, get out of my sight.’