Underdog (8 page)

‘Tom,’ he shouted. ‘Tom, you there?’

The house was silent. He washed and shaved, put on some jeans and a T-shirt, then went downstairs. It had gone five. Tom should have been back.

The last of the evening sunlight bathed the floor and walls a fiery red as it bled through the kitchen window. Keith placed the bottle next to the kitchen basin. He took a deep breath as though mustering some hidden strength, then turned around, heading out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Dismissing the prickle of guilt, he opened Tom’s bedroom door and stepped inside. The untidy room was small enough to be filled by his meagre belongings and unmade bed. Clothes and comics lay strewn over the floor.

Keith edged his way further inside, resting Tom’s guitar against the wall. He picked up the sheets from the floor, laying them on the mattress, then sat down on the edge of the bed. The hit of alcohol inside him made it feel less of a betrayal as he reached over to the bedside drawer and pulled it open. Much like the room, the inside of the drawer was a mess. Beneath the used writing pads and scraps of old paper, he found some adult magazines, the old and well-fingered copies idly stashed. He took them out, flicking through a couple.

Putting these aside, he rifled through what was left in the drawer, finally tipping out all of the contents onto the bed. It didn’t take long before he found an empty cigarette packet. It was carefully and pointlessly wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, the gold packaging clearly visible.

‘Stupid sod,’ he said under his breath.

Keith searched through the other items on the bed, taken aback when he unearthed the crumpled, bloodstained tissues beside Tom’s black penknife. He pulled open its longest blade. The edge was stained dark red. Just as he was about to check the other blade, Keith heard the front door open. He threw everything back in the drawer, quietly enough to be able to hear Tom kicking off his shoes downstairs and skidding his way into the kitchen. The drawer back in place, he left the room, taking the cigarette packet and knife with him.

‘Hi Dad,’ said Tom, rooting around in the fridge as Keith entered the kitchen. ‘Thought you’d be at work by now.’

The look on his dad’s face made Tom tense up. He avoided looking directly into Keith’s eyes in case it angered him further.

‘I bet you bloody did. I’m off till next week, remember?’ The venom coating the words paralysed Tom, his cheeks blushing a guilty red without his even knowing why. ‘Where’ve you been? You should’ve been back hours ago.’ Keith noticed the redness around Tom’s eye. ‘And what happened to your face?’

‘It’s nothing. The coldroom door at work shut on me,’ Tom lied, not about mention the fight or the joint he’d shared with Stevo. ‘Mr. Fenton let me stay on for the afternoon. I helped out after closing. Then I went and had some chips. Didn’t think it’d matter.’

‘Get in the front room …’

Tom caught a whiff of alcohol as he slunk past into the hallway, the smell of it sending a chill through him. He wondered what had set his dad off; whatever it was, it was going to be bad. It always was with the drink.

Keith picked up the bottle once Tom was out of the kitchen, filling his shot glass to the top. He threw it back in one, the fresh hit of alcohol only fuelling his anger. He waited for a moment, steadying himself before gathering the evidence from the table and making his way through to the front room.

Tom was sitting in the chair by the window, usual position: head down, eyes on the floor. Keith turned on the table lamp, then sat down on the tired leather sofa opposite his son. He threw down the envelope on the coffee table between them.

‘What’s the matter, Dad? What’s happened?’ asked Tom, biting nervously into a thumbnail.

‘Right,’ said Keith, fixing his gaze on him. ‘You can sit in that chair until you’ve told me exactly what you think you’re playing at.’

It didn’t matter what he had done. When it started like this, Tom knew it was pointless trying to say anything; the sound of his voice would only make things worse. Any protest, defence or admission would be shouted down as soon as it began. Instead, he sat motionless, his eyes on anything but his dad.

Keith threw the packet of cigarettes at him, hard and without warning. It struck Tom’s chest and fell into his lap. He looked down at it, his lowered head hiding his embarrassment.

‘What are those, then?’ demanded Keith. He leant forward in his seat, hunched over his knees like he was about to pounce. ‘Well, what’ve you got to say about it? Come on, let’s hear it.’

‘You’ve shouldn’t have gone in my room.’

‘In this house, where I pay all the bills, I go where I sodding well like. And you can wipe that look off your face when I’m talking to you,’ he added, pointing his finger threateningly. ‘So? Come on, then. Out with it.’

‘They’re fags,’ answered Tom sullenly. He flicked a strand of tobacco from his sweatshirt, then picked up the packet, putting it down on the wooden table between them, hoping his dad wouldn’t go too far. But he could tell what was going to happen. It felt like every hair on his body was rising to attention.

‘They’re not mine. I haven’t had any. I—’

‘Fucking little liar!’ bellowed Keith, rapping the envelope on the table. ‘I know you’ve been smoking. It’s all in this fucking useless report the school’s sent.’

His top lip drew back, exposing his clenched teeth, then he clapped his hands together loudly, startling Tom into looking at him directly.

‘You’re pushing your luck,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you see what those things did to your mum?’

His stare seemed almost to be daring Tom to answer him. Tom’s cheeks turned beet red.

‘For Christ’s sake, Tom,’ said Keith, his bloodshot eyes livid. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’ll get expelled if you carry on like this. Then what are you going to do?’

Tom shuffled uneasily in his seat, not knowing where to look, nothing to say. The only relief was that his dad didn’t know about the cigarettes, hash and skins that were already burning a hole in his pocket. He rubbed his hand slowly over the unseen items, pushing them deeper, making sure that there was no way anything could fall out.

‘Your Mum’d be ashamed,’ Keith continued, his words slurring slightly. ‘I’m just glad she’s not around for any of this. Don’t you care about anything? What she’d think? How disappointed she’d be? How disappointed I am?’

‘It’s no different …’ said Tom, instantly stung by the use of his mum against him.

‘No different to what?’

‘To you. You drinking all the time.’ Tom glared up at him, a sudden bite to his voice.

‘I drink because I’m allowed to!’ Keith pounded his fist on the table. ‘I’m not the one breaking the law. And with you for a son, I need a bloody drink. Cheeky little bastard …’

He fumbled about in his other pocket and brought out the knife. Tom’s blood froze when he saw it, and tears started welling up behind his eyes. But he was determined not to cry.

‘And what’ve you been doing with this?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’ve been chopping?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ Keith pulled open the long blade, making sure that Tom could clearly see the blood on it. ‘What’s that, then?’

Tom said nothing. But just the way he sat, huddled over his crossed arms, suddenly reminded Keith of himself as a child, and the similarity immediately checked his anger. He closed the knife and placed it beside him on the sofa, his thigh shielding it from further view.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Tom,’ he sighed, lowering his voice. ‘But you’ve got to get over it sometime, son. Your mum’s gone and isn’t coming back. Hurting yourself won’t change it. Nothing’s going to change it.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Your mum’d want us to be doing well. Want us to be happy. You must know that.’

‘It’s not just her …’

‘Well, what else is it?’

‘You!’ screamed Tom, his voice and eyes filled with such anger it knocked Keith back into his seat. ‘It’s you that’s changed! You never asked me about coming here, never let me say goodbye … You never let me …’ His words trailed off as his tears started to fall. He wiped his face into his sleeve as he summoned up the courage to carry on, wanting to hit back. ‘You’re a bully. Just like she said. I know she was going to leave before she got ill. I was meant to go with her. I should’ve been with her. Not you.’

Tom leapt up from the chair and rushed upstairs. He dashed into his room and slammed the door, thankful for the lock as the stomp of his dad’s heavy footsteps reached the landing.

‘Let me in, you little sod,’ shouted Keith, banging on the door.

Tom stayed put on his bed, knees hugged to his chest, letting go only to press his hands over his ears as Keith continued pounding.

‘Don’t you ever say that about your mum! You don’t know anything. Anything about us. I loved her. I loved her before you were even thought of! And she … She loved …’

A sharp kick rattled the door. Silence followed, but Tom was sure he could hear his dad sobbing as his footsteps retreated down the stairs. For a moment he felt happy to have got his own back, but the feeling was short-lived, and he was suddenly overcome with a dreadful feeling of regret.

The front door slammed so hard the floor shook. From his window, he could see his dad storming down the street, head down, not looking where he was going. Tom guessed it would be straight to the pub. His guilt rapidly turned to anger for being left again, left alone with the feeling that all that was wrong in their lives was somehow his doing, everything his fault. As he watched his dad disappear into the night, he could feel his rage turning inwards, until the dark thoughts and emotions flooding his mind became so intense, it was as if they were urging him on, making him do it.

He thrust out his hand, his fist smashing through the window. There was no immediate pain, just a sensation of cold sharpness. Pulling back his hand, Tom drew it close, holding it against his chest, not daring to look.

‘What happened to you?’ asked Sam, noticing Tom’s bloodstained bandage as he walked into the shop. ‘Been fighting again?’

‘Nah, nothing like that,’ replied Tom. ‘I cut it trying to fix my bike. Caught the back of my hand.’

Sam stopped what he was doing and came round from behind the counter. He took hold of Tom’s injured hand: the meagre strip of bandage had been carelessly wrapped, and the swollen red knuckles protruded from under the edge of the tatty dressing. A dark, dry stain was edged with a fresh seep of blood.

‘Better get this rag off for a start,’ he suggested, arching his eyebrows as he let go of Tom’s hand. ‘Talk about botching it. Come on, let’s have a proper look before we open up.’

He led Tom through the fly curtains into the back, straight to the basins. When he started removing the bandage, Tom flinched, worried that each slow turn might open the cut and make it bleed like the night before.

‘Sorry, lad’ said Sam. ‘We’ll be there in a mo’.’

He stopped on the last wind. The material was stuck to the dried edges of the wound.

‘Take a breath and grit your teeth; this might hurt a little.’

Before Tom had time to think about it, Sam pulled the bandage clean off, taking a sticky scab with it.

‘Ouch,’ winced Tom. He pulled his hand from Sam’s grip and shook the pain from it, spotting the edge of the steel basin with blood.

‘What were you doing with that bike of yours?’ asked Sam, tutting as he eyed the wound. ‘It’s a right mess, this.’

There was a deep gash, about an inch long, in the flesh between Tom’s outstretched thumb and forefinger. The back of his hand was caked with blood. No sign of any grease or bike oil.

‘You’ve given yourself a right stabbing there,’ Sam continued, wondering what Tom had really done. ‘Could’ve done with a stitch or two by the looks of it. Why didn’t your dad get you to hospital?’

‘Didn’t see him last night. He was out late. Asleep when I left this morning.’

Sam leant in to inspect the damage more closely. ‘Well, it won’t kill you,’ he said, finally. ‘I’ll get it cleaned and wrapped up properly. Dealt with worse.’

‘You’re not going to try and stitch it, are you?’ asked Tom, a nervous look in his eyes.

‘No, nothing so exotic. But I know how to clean up a scratch like this.’ Sam turned on the tap. ‘Might leave a bit of a scar, though.’

‘Don’t mind.’

‘Alright, then. Get it under that water.’

Tom did as he was told. The wound stung as the cold water splashed over it, the pain making him shudder. As he held his hand under the flow, Sam opened the cupboard beneath the basin and brought out the first-aid tin. He took a piece of cotton wool from it, which he wet with antiseptic.

‘This’ll smart a bit.’

The cotton wool turned pink as it was dabbed into the cut. Tom’s hand trembled a little with each wipe.

‘Now, keep some pressure on it.’

Tom placed his hand flat on the work surface next to the basin, squeezing the cotton wool onto his wound as Sam went into the coldroom. He returned a few moments later, carrying a small metal pot. It was marked, ‘Goose Fat’.

‘You’re not going to put that in it, are you?’ asked Tom, anxiously.

‘No, lad.’ Sam laughed. ‘Just the coldest thing I could find. I’m going to apply some pressure with it. The cold should stop the bleeding in a minute or two.
Cut-men
used to use cold coins on boxer’s eyes in the old days. Bet you didn’t know that, huh?’

Sam removed the cotton wool and pressed the pot down hard on the flesh of Tom’s hand. Tom grimaced.

‘Just a little longer,’ promised Sam. ‘Not hurting too bad, is it?’

‘Can hardly feel it,’ said Tom, surprised how quickly the pain was being numbed.

Sam eventually lifted the pot away, giving them both an opportunity to look at the cleaned cut. It was deeper and longer than Tom had imagined it would be, dull pink round the edges and whitish in the centre. The visible capillaries were tiny red dots, just a little blood coming from them.

‘See? That looks better already,’ said Sam, pleased his cut-man technique had been successful.

He took out a large plaster from the first-aid tin and cut it into strips, using them to butterfly-stitch the wound, before re-bandaging Tom’s hand with a length of clean dressing, fixing everything in place with a safety pin.

‘Wasn’t too painful, was it?’

‘Nah,’ replied Tom bravely, drawing his hand up in front of him. He cradled it with his other as the numbness began to wear off. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re going to be neither use nor ornament with that on,’ said Sam, thinking about the day ahead. ‘You can help me out front and work the till. Reckon you can manage it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Tom, happy at the prospect of an easy morning’s work. He had seen enough blood for one day.

‘Right, then. Get changed and get to it.’

The shift seemed to pass quicker than usual, the steady stream of people in and out of the shop keeping Tom too busy to worry about his throbbing hand. It only seemed a moment before it was time for his mid-morning break.

‘How’s it bearing up?’ asked Sam.

‘Not bad.’

‘Well, it’s slowing down here. You can get off if you want; Kev and me can cope.’

‘Can I stay? I’m meant to be meeting Stevo. He said he’d be in at lunchtime.’

‘Ah, Stevo,’ said Sam, the tone in his voice implying he knew something Tom didn’t. ‘He’s a bit of a tearaway, that one. Mind he doesn’t go getting you in any trouble.’

‘He’s alright,’ Tom insisted. ‘You should’ve seen the way he sorted out that bloke from my school. It was great.’

‘Aye, I can believe it. Fighting runs in that family. You just watch yourself with him. Don’t let him get you into anything you shouldn’t. It’s all I’m saying.’

Tom took his break, then manned the till for the rest of the morning. Right on time, the doorbell rang and Stevo strutted in, a smug grin on his face.

‘What’re you looking so pleased about?’ asked Sam.

‘Have a look at these.’

Stevo pointed at his feet and thrust a foot forward. He lifted one leg of his baggy jeans to reveal a brand-new trainer.

‘Just got ’em. What d’you reckon?’

Tom leant over the counter to take a look. They were just like the ones he had seen in the shop window.

‘Wicked,’ he said.

‘Very nice,’ agreed Sam, a wry smile on his face. ‘Suit you down to the ground.’

‘You ready to go?’ asked Stevo. Tom looked to Sam.

‘Yeah, he’s done.’

Tom dashed through the fly curtains and got out of his work clothes. He was back in the shop in under a minute. As they stood in front of him, Sam could not help but notice how different the two boys seemed: Stevo full of himself, strapping and decked in the latest gear; Tom self-conscious next to him, skinny and scruffy from top to bottom. Tom’s old jeans were shredded at the ankles and hung over his worn shoes. His sweatshirt was dirty.

‘Hang on a minute before you go,’ Sam said, opening the cash register. The drawer shot out with a clatter of coins, rattling when he dipped his fingers into them.

‘Here’s some of that pay I owe you. You can have it early.’ He handed Tom five crisp notes and a couple of pound coins. ‘There’s a little bit extra. You’ve earned it.’

Tom smiled. He was not expecting to be paid so soon, and the amount was much more than he had anticipated.

‘Nice one,’ said Stevo, his eyes lighting up. ‘I’ll help with that.’

‘Get those shoes you’ve been after, and don’t go wasting it on rubbish.’ Sam looked Tom up and down. ‘And whilst you’re at it, you could do with getting yourself some new threads.’ He smiled, then looked over at Stevo. ‘I thought your dad was coming in this week.’

‘Guess so. He said he was. I’ll tell him you’re after him.’

‘Go on, then. On your way.’ Sam nodded at Tom, a knowing look on his face. ‘Remember what I said: no funny business. See you Saturday.’

‘How d’you do that?’ asked Stevo as they left the shop and started walking down the busy high street, eyeing the bandage around Tom’s hand. ‘Wanking?’

‘No.’ Tom laughed. ‘I did it this morning cutting up some steaks. Knife slipped. It’s nothing.’

‘Yeah?’ asked Stevo, distracted as Tom folded and stuffed the money into his pocket. ‘What you going to do with all of that, then?’

‘Get some new shoes. Maybe some clothes. Like Mr. Fenton said.’

‘Don’t blame you. You look like a fucking tramp, mate.’ They both laughed.

‘So where are we going? We’re not in a hurry, are we?’

‘Nah,’ said Stevo. ‘Can hang around if you like. We’ll have to wait for an hour or so before we go up anyway. Make sure the old bastard won’t be around. He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve taken anyone up there.’

‘Up where?’

‘You’ll see.’ Stevo shot him a sly grin. ‘But if I take you, you’ve got to promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone. Otherwise we’ll be in the shit.’

‘I won’t say anything.’

‘Fancy getting something to eat, then? I’m starving.’

‘What about my shoes?’

‘You can get those any time. Just not today, eh?’ Stevo fumbled around in the pockets of his jeans and brought out a packet of Marlboro. ‘Let’s have a smoke first.’

Tom thought about his dad, and wondered about accepting the offer. Before he could decide, he found himself following Stevo down one of the shop alleyways, scuttling behind some bins for cover. Crouching down and opening the packet, Stevo pulled out a joint and lit it.

‘I thought you meant a cigarette.’

‘I told you before, Tom. Those things’ll kill you.’ Stevo screwed up his face. ‘For someone with ears as big as yours, you don’t hear too much, do you? This is much better for you.’

‘I don’t think I want any.’

‘Go on, mate. Thought we were going to have some fun today?’ Stevo sounded disappointed. ‘Not scared of it, are you?’

It took a moment before Tom rose to the challenge. Taking the joint, he made sure he only took a couple of small puffs, just enough to please Stevo. The smoke tasted different; it was sweet and fruity, stronger than the hash had been. He passed it back, happy to be rid of both it and the hash and Rizlas Stevo had given him, which he’d dumped on the way to work.

‘Save this for later, eh?’ Stevo took a quick puff before flicking off the end with his finger. He slipped what was left back into the cigarette packet.

By the time they entered the burger bar, Tom was already feeling the effects from the dope. The whole place seemed to vibrate as he walked to the counter; the mirrored walls and white tiled floor reflected the shimmer of the strip-lighting above. It was making him feel light-headed. When he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror beside the counter, his face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot and red. It reminded him of how his dad looked when he had way too much to drink. Disliking the similarity, he rested his arms on the counter and lowered his head, taking some deep breaths as he tried to control his growing feelings of paranoia. When finally asked for his order, he mumbled his way through the items Stevo had suggested, not even sure if he was hungry.

When the food came, Tom paid and took the tray, avoiding any eye contact with the waitress. The tray shook in his hands, the large cups of cola wobbling precariously as they went and sat down, safely away from the other customers. He looked at the food, then out of the window onto the high street, wanting to be back outside in the sunshine.

‘That were some skunk we just smoked,’ said Stevo, already into one of the burgers and grinning at Tom with his cheeks full.

His eyes were as red and doped up as Tom’s, but he was clearly enjoying being so out of it, and amused seeing it have such an effect on someone else.

‘Home-grown hydro. No wonder we’re stoned, eh? Strongest you can get. My stepdad’s mate grows it. Got it special for you. Makes that hash look like nothing.’ He sniggered at Tom’s dazed expression. ‘You look trashed, mate. Well wrecked.’

‘I don’t feel too good.’ Tom could feel the blood draining from his face and he stuffed more fries into his mouth, quickly washing them down with some cola. It felt like his heart was about to stop beating. ‘Can’t we get out of here?’

‘Get that food down you first,’ Stevo advised. ‘You’ll feel alright in a minute. Trust me.’

Tom began to shiver. Closing his eyes, he took a small bite of his burger, chewing it with difficulty as the bun soaked up the last drop of moisture inside his mouth. He forced the mouthful down.

‘Ain’t that your bird?’ blurted out Stevo, suddenly.

Tom nearly choked. He looked through the window just in time to see the back of a blond-haired girl walking past. His heart leapt into his throat.

‘Don’t think so,’ he said, trying to sound as casual as he could. ‘Wasn’t her.’

‘Yeah, it was. No way I’d forget a face like that.’

Stevo was beaming. He was suddenly full of energy. ‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘Let’s go and check her out.’

‘But it wasn’t her. Honest.’

‘You know it was, you johnny. This is your chance. You can get her number, find out where she lives. Don’t be a dick. Come on!’

In an instant, Stevo was up, pulling at the shoulder of Tom’s sweatshirt. He practically lifted Tom out of his seat.

‘Come on, or we’ll lose her.’

Tom dropped his burger, grabbed his coke, and stumbled out after him.

‘There,’ said Stevo excitedly, pointing at the two girls heading down the high street towards the traffic lights. He started jogging his way up the road after them.

‘Oi!’

Alison and her friend stopped and turned around.

‘Hello, darlin’,’ said Stevo, as he bounded up to them. ‘Remember me?’

As Stevo smiled and rocked on his feet in front of the girls, Tom hung back, feeling slightly nauseous, his head all over the place. He slid his bandaged hand behind his back, unable to think of anything to say, overcome by stoned shyness. His ears started to feel hot and a prickling sensation spread over his face. He looked down at his feet, the sight of his old shoes making him wish he had bought those new trainers when he had the chance.

‘Who’s your friend, then?’ asked Stevo, eyeing up the attractive girl standing next to Alison.