Humber Boy B (7 page)

I turn, hot and sweaty, confused about which way to go, wishing I was back at the flat, but the crowd moves me along and I walk past shops I haven’t seen in years, Poundland, WHSmith, shops they had in the centre of Hull. We had a corner shop on our estate, with a sweet counter. I went there with Adam if either of us had any coins, and if we didn’t we’d slip a chew in our pockets or dare each other to grab a Mars bar. We were never caught, or maybe Mrs Patel who owned the shop felt too sorry for us to say anything.

And then I see it. McDonald’s. Red and white and yellow, glass frosted with condensation.

I’ve seen the adverts and can whistle the theme tune, but I’ve never been in one and the door is unexpectedly heavy. Inside are lines of customers, so long I can’t see the till, and I’m unsure which line I should join. One moves forward and I stand behind an old woman who leans heavily on a walking stick which is pressed into a sachet of tomato sauce that someone dropped on the way to the bin. The woman’s head is shaking as she peers into a battered leather purse.

“Oh, my eyes,” she mutters, then offers the open purse to me. “Which is the two pound coin, dear? They all look the same without my glasses.”

I hesitate, doesn’t she know I’m not to be trusted? And then I worry that I’m also unfamiliar with coins. Luckily, there are only a few in the purse so I reach for the largest and place it in her palm. “Bless you,” she says, and I feel something weaken, right under my hoodie, under my skin, inside my ribs. Because she trusted me and now she’s blessed me and I’m about to have a burger.

The menu is mind-boggling, choices and options, meals and sizes. In the end I order the simplest thing I can see, a hamburger, and still a torrent of questions are fired at me about fries and sauce and meal deals and drinks, and I just nod, say yes to everything, watching as the bored-looking server presses buttons and shouts my order with a speed that leaves me breathless. This is one place I know I couldn’t work.

With the paper bag in my hand, I leave McDonald’s, hoping to find somewhere cool to eat my meal. There are benches along the high street, but I daren’t risk sitting on one, it’s too exposed with all the people passing by, prams and dogs and wheelchairs. So many of them are peering at their phones and I wonder if any of them is on Facebook, right this moment looking at my photo. I want to get back to my flat.

I walk back quickly, urged on by the thought of food. The burger wrapped in its white paper, the carton of yellow chips, a few of which I can hear rattling at the bottom of the bag. In my other hand is the sweating cup of coke, and I sip it as I walk, tasting how the melted ice has watered the drink but glad of it all the same. The traffic is less now, though the sun is as strong, and I keep to the shadows where it’s cooler. Finally, I’m back at Wolsey block, wearily climbing the stairs as though I’ve run a marathon. My arms tingle with the effort, and I wish I was brave enough to use the lift. I wonder if I’ll ever conquer my fear.

Inside the flat is cool and, when I split open the bag, so are the chips and burger but I’m determined to enjoy them. I sit on the sofa, the torn bag in my lap, first sucking the salt from the chips. I bite their crispy layer and tell myself they’re delicious while a part of me is wondering what the fuss is about. The burger isn’t thick, either, but a floppy slice of meat under an orange gummy slice of processed cheese. It tastes of nothing, sweet and salty, greasy, but no real food flavours as it hits my tongue in all the right spots. In twenty seconds the whole meal is gone and I still feel hungry but I have nothing in the kitchen. I crunch the bag into a ball, ready to toss, then reach into my jean pocket and look at how much money I have left. Thirty-two pounds and eighty pence. It sounds a lot, but in prison the wages were low and all there was to buy was shower gel and chocolate. I look around my new home and think of all the things I’d like to buy. Top of the list is a TV. Every day, after tea, we watched the telly in the association room and I miss this dip into life, the news, EastEnders, Coronation Street. I don’t know how much a TV would cost, but it must be more than what I’ve got. And anyway, my priority should be bowls and cutlery and proper food. If I’m going to make a life for myself, I need to stop eating like an animal. I put the rubbish in the kitchen bin and tell myself that, from now on, I only eat on a plate.

13

The Day Of

It was only when Roger Palmer led his daughter from the house to the car that he saw she was wearing a thin party dress, white and delicate, with sequins along the hem. He saw too how her flesh was pressing into the fabric, new breasts spilling out of the sides of the straps.

“Go get changed, Cheryl. Now!” He was annoyed with her, embarrassing him like this. She had surely done it deliberately.

“I like this dress.” She tugged it down so it sat better at the waist, but it was still hopelessly small for her and revealed too much thigh. He saw, as he’d seen a few times the last few months, that she was changing. No longer his little girl, but a teenager. Puberty had filled her out and she had started to adopt that stubborn expression, so very like her mother, that he had to fight the urge to shake her.

“We’re going fishing, it’ll be muddy. Please go get changed.”

“Alright! Why are you so narky?”

Cheryl didn’t wait for his reply, turning quickly as if afraid of his response. He watched her walk back towards the house as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders, and felt a sting of guilt. This was her day off too, and his breakup with Jess wasn’t her fault. She wanted a step-mum as much as he wanted a wife, maybe more. To have another female around, someone to chat with about what was happening to her body, about boys. Someone she could talk to.

“And bring a towel,” he called, as a peace offering.

She turned, her face broken by a half-smile, not quite believing her luck.

“We’re going swimming?”

“We’re going to the river, so you can paddle. Now quick quick!”

If Roger switched on the TV he’d no doubt see coverage of the rally, which would have reached Trafalgar Square by now. His teaching colleagues campaigning for a pay rise that he certainly wanted, and believed that all teachers deserved, but he wouldn’t be missed in the crowd. Was Jess missing him? She’d said she loved him, even last night, when she was breaking his heart.

It hadn’t meant to be so serious. He was a middle-aged divorcee who knew his best years were behind him and Jess was a newly promoted bright young thing, still in her twenties despite having a ten-year-old son. A woman who’d made a mistake at seventeen and was making her life count for something, and she looked up to Roger. He had supervised her final placement when she was a trainee, interviewed her for the role of teacher after she qualified. He already admired her, but hadn’t acted on it until then. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.

But she was wrong to think she could just walk away. Jess needed an older man like him, she was frustrated with Dave, and she had so much still to learn. He enjoyed taking her to films at the art house cinema, recommending books she should read. And now she was being silly, saying she was going to stay with Dave. As if a man like that could give her what she needed. Just like Rachel, these women never knew what was good for them. And Cheryl looked in danger of going the same way, if he didn’t start to take action.

Cheryl ran back out, dressed more suitably in denim shorts, though they were too skimpy for his liking, and there was a smattering of sequins on her vest top. She was also clutching her swimsuit and a towel. “Let’s go, Dad,” she said, as though it was she who had been waiting.

Roger drove carefully, pausing at junctions, getting petrol even though the tank was half-full, and finally stopping at Mrs Patel’s shop for drinks and sandwiches.

“Wait here,” he told his daughter. “I won’t be a minute.”

Alone in the car, Cheryl reached to the driver’s side and tugged the indicator switch, then fiddled with the headlight lever, but nothing happened as the ignition was dead. She pulled down the mirror and studied her face, touched the sticky lip gloss, peeled a flake of blue mascara from her eyelash and regretted picking the spot on her chin which was now a red sore. She put her feet on the dashboard and tried to touch her toes but it made her stomach ache. Now she thought about it, her stomach had ached since she woke up. She looked out of the window and saw three boys from the rough part of the estate. Adam was in her school year, and she’d known him for years, and she also recognised his kid brother. But it was the younger boy who took her attention, Jessica’s son, Noah.
Little wanker
, she thought, though it was hardly his fault that his mum was a bitch.

Her dad was stupid if he thought Cheryl hadn’t noticed what was going on, she’d known he hadn’t been to the snooker club when he came back smelling of perfume, she’d seen the way he suddenly wore trendier clothes to work. She wasn’t an idiot, and she liked Jess. Liked that her dad wasn’t on her case so much, that he had someone else to think about. This was the main reason Cheryl more than liked her, she needed her. But Jess had gone, just like her mum. Jess was a bitch.

Noah was pushing a silver scooter, but the other boys were walking. Adam had his hands in his pockets, kicking the grass as he tagged along behind.

She opened the car door and stood behind it, one foot stretched out like a ballerina, using the car door as a barre.

“And where are you going?” she demanded, with the tone of a child who had been raised by a teacher.

Adam looked up, startled, then seemed to realise she was speaking to him. He was a bit of a nothing, a gap in her knowledge, since he never went for school plays, didn’t play in the orchestra and only did the egg and spoon race on Sport’s Day. He was barely at school come to think of it. She’d heard her dad talking about his family to other teachers and knew social workers had been involved, but there her knowledge stopped. Today was the first time she’d ever spoken to him directly.

“Answer me, then. What you lot up to?”

“We’re having us a little holiday.” Though he was fighting it, Adam looked bored, or sad, she didn’t know him well enough to know which. “You?”

“Nowt.” Cheryl gave up on the ballet and kicked the tyre of her dad’s car. “Fishing. Boooring.”

Noah, who had been standing with Adam’s kid brother, both of them listening, suddenly perked up. “I love to fish. Where you going to do it?”

The last thing Cheryl wanted was her dad’s ex-girlfriend’s son joining them so she ignored his question and said to Adam, “I’d rather go to town but he won’t let us.”

“We can do what us likes,” said Adam. “No-one cares.”

She was interested in this, and stepped closer to him. He was wearing a rugby top, Hull Rovers, like all the boys did. It looked like it needed a wash.

“No-one cares what you do?”

“That’s right.”

Cheryl had just grabbed Noah’s scooter from him, and was scooting in perfect circles around Adam, when her dad came out of the shop carrying two bags of food. He stopped still, staring at his daughter.

“I told you to wait in the car, girl.”

“But you were ages.”

Roger hadn’t noticed Noah until he said, “Hello, Mr Palmer.”

“Oh, hello, er… ” It was awkward, seeing him like this, though of course the boy had no idea about his relationship with Jess. Until yesterday evening, Roger had hoped he would be his step-son, and now he was just another pupil. “Hello Noah.”

Then, in a more sarcastic and definitely less reverential tone, Adam said, “Hello, Sir.”

“Adam. How are things at high school?”

“Pretty shite.”

Roger looked at his daughter, “Come on, Cheryl, give the lads their scooter back. It’s fishing time,” he said sharply.

“Where’ll you fish, sir?” asked Noah.

“The Humber,” said Roger, warming to the idea once again, settling his purchases onto the back seat of the car where his rod and bucket waited. “Under the bridge.”

14

Now

FACEBOOK PAGE: FIND HUMBER BOY B

Noah’s mum:
September is always a hard month for me. The local children have just gone back to school and it makes me think about what Noah should be doing now. He’d be nearly eighteen, probably about to start university or college. Leaving home for the first time, instead of leaving me forever when he was just ten years old. Sometimes I allow myself to think about it, how he’d look, what he’d wear. Other times it’s too painful to even remember that I had a son. People say it gets easier but it never seems to. People at church are always praying for me, and that never helps either. What would help is for HBB to be back behind bars, where he belongs. Then I could rest.

Jenny:
So sorry to read this. Sending you hugs, and a reminder that you are STRONG.

Silent Friend:
Help doesn’t come from the heavens, but from your friends. I would do anything to take your pain away. I hope one day soon I get that chance.

15

Cate

“It’s so stuffy in here. Bet it’s nice outside, though.”

Cate cracked open the window of her office and bunched her hair into her hands, lifted it from her neck and waited for a breeze. The weather showed no sign of breaking, yet Ben was wearing his jumper, the hood pulled up so it covered his head and fell on his forehead. With his pale face and wisps of blond hair he looked like a ghost. Or an angel.

“So, you survived your first week of freedom?” As soon as she said this Cate regretted it, not meaning to remind Ben of the danger he may be in. “How’s it been?”

“Alright.”

Ben looked tired, there were dark shadows under his eyes and he’d lost weight – it showed in his cheeks.

“Are you eating enough, looking after yourself?” Even as she said it, she knew she sounded like a mother. Not a probation officer.

“Yes, I’m really fine.”

Cate smiled at his bravado, a trait that must have helped Ben cope while locked up. No vulnerability can be shown in prison, as she well knew, and he had survived his sentence in text book style. No adjudications. No back-staging. Always returning to the prison on time after any trip out. And everyone, from the chaplain to the PE staff, had said he deserved parole.