White Goods (41 page)

My last hope was Justin.
Maybe he’d picked up some nugget from Adrian? So, I pulled on my
trainers and headed off for the Tankards. But the reception was
similar there.

‘
Bit busy
today,’ Justin said when he answered the door. He didn’t invite me
in; didn’t really want to open the front door. He just peered round
it, keeping his body out of sight, as if he was hiding
something.

‘
Just thought
we could hang out?’

‘
Sorry. Can’t
today.’

And that was it. Door
closed.

With nothing
else to do, I decided to head home. However, as I reached the
Chequers pub, I had a change of heart. There was one other person I
could see, someone who might just answer my questions. Turning on
my heel, I pointed myself back in the direction of the Tankard
house, intending to go past it, down Church Lane, past the dump and
onto the short-cut through the crematorium until I reached Mum’s
hospital. That’s when I saw them, the Tankard trio: Justin, Sharon
and Stevie-the-little-shit. They were heading in exactly that
direction. I considered running after them, catching them
up.
Bit busy today,
Justin had said. So I knew I wasn’t welcome. Whatever they
were doing, I wasn’t to be included.

Instead, I
held back, keeping my distance, as they made their way along Church
Lane. They seemed to be heading in the direction I had intended for
myself – Church Lane, Crinky’s, the dump. As I followed them,
forgetting about my intention to visit Mum, I kept just out of
sight. Their journey came to an end at the dump, when they reached
the derelict house where I’d met
Uncle
Gary just the day before. Once
there, they went inside.

And I followed. Followed
on blindly, not realising what was ahead. Not realising that the
fires of bedlam were about to re-ignite within the shadowy ruins of
that old house. Not realising that the body count was about to go
up.

And up.

21.

Gradually, it was all
coming back. Image by image. Polaroid by Polaroid. Every day, one
revelation triggered another, opening up doors that had been
locked, recalling memories that had been lost. Shirley White
reappearing was the start – the initial catalyst. But finding the
cellar – the purple room that had been a dark, claustrophobic
shadow in my head for so long – had completed the
process.

I remembered it
all.

Every single
detail.

And I knew whom to
blame.

It was mid-week, the day
he came to get me. A school day. About four o’clock. Early summer,
but late in the term. I was seven.

He said it was going to be
an adventure. That’s how he pitched it to me. It was just between
me and him, and I wasn’t to tell anyone.

‘What about Mum?’ I had
asked.

No, not even Mum. It was
just between the two of us.

‘We’re not going to tell
anyone. It’s going to be our little secret.’

He was
waiting for me when I came out of the shop. Mum was having a bad
spell and had tasked me with popping to the
Wavy Line
to get a few things for
our tea. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked me to go. It was only
five minutes round the corner and I knew the route well. So, there
was little to worry about. But after that day, after my little
adventure, she didn’t ask me to go again. Not on my own.

‘What you got in there?’
he asked, as I came out from the harsh lighting of the little shop
into the bright glare of the sunlight. He was to my right, leaning
against a cylindrical red post box. On seeing him, I
grinned.

‘Tea,’ I beamed,
expelling it like an announcement; just seeing him made me
excited.

I hadn’t seen
him in months. I wasn’t supposed to see him at all. None of us
were. But Mum would sneak us all off from time to time, behind
Dad’s back.
You have a right to know him,
whatever your father thinks.
I never saw
him on my own, though. I knew he lived nearby, but I’d never been
to visit. Seeing him on your own hadn’t been encouraged.

‘Tea, eh? What’s on the
menu tonight?’

‘Chops. Arctic Roll for
afters. Can you come?’

‘You know I can’t. Tony
wouldn’t allow that.’

‘He’s not there at the
moment.’

‘He’s not?’

‘He’s out doing business
with Adrian.’

‘Big Adrian? They’ve
still got the business then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Mum?’

‘She’s at home, but
she’s-.’ I paused, not sure what to say. I knew he was family, but
we weren’t supposed to talk about her. Even though we all knew
about Mum’s problems, we were just supposed to work round her, as
if she was heavy, awkward furniture that couldn’t be
moved.

‘You don’t have to say,’
he said, saving me from an explanation, changing the conversation
quickly. ‘So, how’s that baby coming along? How’s he
doing?’

It made me smile. Jackie
always referred to Scot as the baby. ‘He’s three now, not a
baby.’

‘Is he?’ he said, smiling
too, like he’d enjoyed his own joke.

‘
Why don’t you
come and see him?’ I suggested, but as soon as the words left my
lips, I knew the answer – he’d said it already:
Tony wouldn’t allow that.
‘I could
walk you home, though. Would you like that?’

I nodded and he held out
a hand to take the bag of groceries from me. Then, he held out the
other one, encouraging me to take it in mine. Accepting the warm,
brotherly gesture, I put my small, seven-year-old hand into his,
and felt safe in his grasp, unaware of the danger that lay just
ahead of me.

It was during
that five-minute walk home that he convinced me to go with him.
Just for a bit.
Wouldn’t it be good to
spend a bit of time together? When was the last time we had done
that? Just because he’d fallen out with Tony shouldn’t mean we
couldn’t see each other, should it? What harm could a few hours do?
And no one would need to know, would they? Probably wouldn’t even
notice, would they? Just our little game. Just a little adventure
for the two of us.

‘Okay, I’ll do it. Just
for a little bit, yeah?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’ll walk me back,
if it’s late?’

‘Right to the
door.’

Back at the house, I
dropped off the food, putting the chops in the fridge and the
Arctic Roll in the freezer box. Mum was lying on the sofa, her eyes
were open, but she was somewhere else.

‘Is that you?’ she asked,
looking in my direction, straining to see through the haze that was
clouding her mind.

‘Yes, just going back out
to play,’ I told her, testing to see if she would
object.

‘Make sure you’re back in
for tea,’ she requested.

‘Yes,’ I promised,
telling myself I wouldn’t be long, before I dashed back out into
the street, looking for him. He was at the top of the road, sitting
on the front wall of the very first house. I hurried towards him,
knowing my time with him was short.

‘So,’ he said, taking my
hand again, ‘you ready for an adventure?’

That night I slept on the
small camp bed in the cellar at Crinky Crunkle’s place, surrounded
by damp, purple walls, with the glare of a strip light burning down
on me.

And the night after that,
Jackie took me to the house with the mustard and brown stripy
wallpaper and left me with a stranger.

On the third night, he
dropped me back home and told me to forget everything that had
happened. And for a long time, I did exactly as he
asked.

Years later, standing
across the road from the crematorium, thinking about the mental
hospital just beyond it, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I
was going to make her pay. I was going to show her how it felt to
lose your childhood. I was going to let her know how it felt like
to lose something and never get it back.

Waiting for a gap in the
traffic, I crossed the two lanes of tarmac, cut through the
crematorium and headed towards the secure unit at its
rear.

22.

I didn’t
follow the Tankards right inside the derelict house. A few things
told me to hold back. Firstly, I wasn’t invited – if Justin had
wanted me there, he’d have let me know about it. But he
hadn’t.
Bit busy today,
was all he had said. Secondly, the Tankard kids
never went off together like this. They were usually only united
under the supervision of Chrissie or Adrian; rarely did they freely
choose this option. Thirdly, recent experience had proven there
were some advantages to staying out of sight: people cared less
about what they were saying and, if you were patient, there was a
greater chance the truth would come your way. So, instead of doing
as the Tankard trio did – pulling back the corrugated iron
makeshift door that sealed the dilapidated building and squeezing
through the gap – I moved round to the right side of the house.
There, several windows were boarded up, again with corrugated iron.
Yet, there were a few rust holes in the sheets, big enough to let
in sprays of light. Big enough for me to see in, if I
squinted.

I couldn’t see much to
start with; whilst my eyes adjusted from sunlight to shadows,
everything looked fuzzy and brown. Yet, eventually, I made out
Sharon Tankard. I couldn’t see Justin or Stevie-the-little-shit at
all. Sharon was standing at the bottom of the staircase that went
up through the middle of the room: leaning on one hip, with her
arms crossed, there was something odd about her face. My first
thought was that she looked like a cartoon. Once my eyes were fully
accustomed to the gloom, I realised the truth: she was wearing
makeup. Quite a lot. Her lips, eyelids and lashes, even her cheeks,
were heavy with colour. In the shadowy view I had, her lips looked
thicker than usual, as if too much lipstick had been applied and
spilled over the edges.

‘What time they
coming?’

The voice was
Stevie-the-little-shit’s. I still couldn’t see him, but his voice
appeared to be coming from above. He must have climbed the
crumbling staircase, something I never dared, although Justin
always ventured up there when we came to hang out. My guess was
Justin was up there too. He spoke next.

‘Shush! They might be
outside already. We just need to stay quiet.’

The brief
conversation ceased and I had to wait in silence, peering in at
Sharon, wondering who
they
were and why the Tankard boys were hiding away,
whilst Sharon remained on show.

Like a cheap
prozzie,
I imagined Justin
sniping.

I didn’t have
to wait long. Whilst the Tankard clan kept still and silent, the
people they were waiting for arrived without a care for who heard
or saw them.
They
turned out to be a familiar foursome. A foursome whose mere
sight or sound of was enough to churn my stomach with fear and
nausea. As they approached the house, trampling through the tall
weeds that surrounded the ruin, bringing with them the scent of
cigarettes, I felt an invisible rope contract around my neck
again.

‘Did the slapper say what
she wanted?’ Roy.

‘Shut the fuck up, she’ll
hear.’ Rory.

‘You sure you want us
here?’ Clint.

‘You never know, Clinty
boy, she might let you have a go.’ Jim.

‘Just shut it, all of
you. You’ll blow it. Roy, Clint – you weren’t invited, so just
behave yourselves. She wants to see me and Jim. So, just keep it
shut whilst we’re in there.’

Thirty seconds later and
the four boys had joined the dusty tableaux. I was relieved that
they went inside, fearing for a minute they might take a more
cautious approach – find some peep holes and check out the scene
before entering, blowing my cover at the same time. Dragging me
into the shadowy scene. Sharon looked less than pleased
though.

‘I didn’t invite them. I
just said you two. What they doing here?’

‘We’re babysitting,’ Jim
replied, a grin in his tone.

‘Fuck off.’ A snarl from
Roy, put out by the put down.

‘You can fuck off, if you
like?’ Jim offered and that was enough to shut Roy up. Clint stayed
silent throughout; grateful to remain included, following his
running off when they had threatened to hang me. ‘Want
some?’

I saw Jim hold something
out to Sharon - a can of something. She shrugged, arms still
crossed.

‘Got a fag?’

‘Roy’s got my last one.
Roy – hand it over.’

And so, Roy Fallick
stepped into the scene, reluctantly handing over the cigarette he’d
been puffing on.

‘Hope he hasn’t bummed
it,’ Sharon said, taking it from him, putting it between her lips
and sucking in the smoke. She kept her mouth closed and let it out
through her nose. She didn’t splutter or cough once. Like she had
done it a thousand times.