Brenton Brown (19 page)

‘You animal!’ Miss Hills shrieked. ‘You animal!’  

She rushed towards Brenton flailing her arms, punching and slapping him with all her might. He tried to defend himself with his arms but it was useless.  

‘You’re nothing but an animal! A bloody animal!’  

Brenton’s left eye was already closing. He sustained a gash to his right eyebrow. His nose was bleeding.  

When Georgie came rushing into the lounge, he found Brenton cornered against a bending Christmas tree. Baubles and tinsel were falling to the floor. Presents were scattered. The angel, losing its wings, fell off the top of the Christmas tree and landed on her head.  

‘Get him out of here!’ Miss Hills screamed. ‘Get that animal out of here!’  

She backed off. Brenton curled up into a ball on the floor. He covered his face. His nose was still bleeding. His blood spotted the carpet and a few presents.  

‘Get him out of here!’ Miss Hills demanded. ‘Just look what he’s done! Look what he’s done!’  

Georgie tried to pull Brenton to his feet but he refused to move. He wanted to remain on the floor, curled up as tightly as he could manage.

‘He won’t move,’ said Georgie.

‘Get him out of my front room before I kill him!’ screamed Miss Hills.

Brenton felt a punch behind his right ear. As he moved his hands to rub his head, he felt himself being lifted. His waist was almost crushed in Georgie’s hold. He took him out of the house through the back door. The cold air stroked Brenton’s feet and hands and then he felt it on his chest. His eyes began to water. He was dizzy

‘Put him in the outhouse,’ ordered Miss Hills. ‘I just can’t believe what that animal has done! Broke the game! He broke the Subbuteo game!’

Deciding not to struggle in Georgie’s grip, Brenton could only think why he went downstairs without his dressing gown. He could now feel the cold on his nose and lips. His toes were feeling funny. His head felt heavy, like someone had poured something warm and horrible into the top of his brain.

As Georgie opened the outhouse door, Brenton wondered if he’d ever be allowed out again.

‘Let him stay there till breakfast,’ said Miss Hills. ‘He’s gone too far this time. Smashing other kids’ presents. Too bloody far! If he wants to behave like an animal then we’ll treat him like an animal. Make sure you lock it, Georgie.’

Shoving Brenton inside, Georgie secured the lock.

‘That’ll teach him,’ said Miss Hills. ‘Come on, Georgie, I’ll make us a pot of tea. I need it. We’ll have a couple of mince pies too. It’s Christmas Day now. I don’t know what we’re going to do about the Subbuteo game? I’ll have to buy another one to replace it. By the saints! That child will be the ruin of me! I have a good mind to take it out of his clothing allowance. Animal he is. An animal!’

‘Shall I get his dressing gown?’ Georgie asked. ‘It’s a bit nippy tonight.’

‘
No!
’ Miss Hills snapped. ‘Let the cold air bite the little black bastard. It might put some sense into him. Honestly, Georgie! What are we going to do with him? He fouled the Father’s front door with his own poo and now this. Disgusting he is.
Bloody
disgusting. When the Christmas holiday is over I’ll have to talk to the senior social worker at Blue Star House. I’m
not
putting up with this behaviour. I’m not having it, I tell you, Georgie.’

Brenton heard Miss Hills and Georgie walk away. He heard the opening of the back door and the closing of it. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. He could feel a
swelling
. He looked at the palm of his right hand and was relieved to find he wasn’t bleeding. He stood up and switched on the light: cobwebs in high corners; the old lounge sofa upside down in the middle of the room; a baby’s high chair on its side; rusting bike parts and broken prams; biscuit tins full of nuts, screws, bolts and spanners; a chipped rounders bat on a window ledge. He could smell oil and something else that he couldn’t quite place. He placed a hand on the wall. It was damp. He took his hand off the wall and his palm was caked in dust. Resting against the same wall was a blackboard. It was detached from its easel. Someone had played noughts and crosses on the blackboard and Brenton rubbed it off with the palm of his right hand. He found a small bit of white chalk on the floor. He picked it up and started to draw something. He sang a song. ‘
Tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree
…’ He couldn’t remember the rest of the words so he thought of another song.
‘We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine
…’

He paused as he looked at what he had sketched. It was a woman with big eyes and a big smile. She had an Afro that was much too large for her head. Underneath the drawing he wrote
Mum
. He smiled.

STRUGGLING TO KEEP THE SHUTTLECOCK
in play, Tessa lunged and slipped on the badminton court in the sports hall. She slowly got to her feet, rubbed her knees and swept her hair out of her eyes. Tessa looked around to see if anyone had seen her fall. A young Indian boy, walking by in his white vest and shorts, covered his mouth with his hands, trying to stifle his laughter. Tessa, mockingly, bared her teeth at him and raised a fist.

‘14–4,’ said Juliet, walking to pick up the shuttlecock.

Tessa readied herself to receive Juliet’s serve. The subsequent rally lasted seven shots with Juliet winning the point with an overhead smash. ‘15–4,’ she proclaimed.

Breathing heavily, Tessa offered Juliet a long glare before walking off court to find her bottle of water. She threw her racquet on the floor and sat against a wall beside a folded-up trampoline swigging her drink. Her sports top and baggy
tracksuit
bottoms were stained with sweat. She poured a little water over her head before drinking again from her bottle.

‘You’re not going to play the next set?’ asked Juliet.

‘Lay off, Jules,’ Tessa answered. ‘I’m knackered. You might have to carry me into the changing rooms. I think I’m gonna be sick. Either that or I’m dying.’

Joining Tessa by the wall, Juliet sat down beside her and took out a pink towel from her bag. She swabbed the sweat off her face and draped it around her shoulders. Her red sports top was not as wet as Tessa’s and her tight black leggings had drawn glances from every man she passed. She took an energy drink
from her bag, took a sip and sighed. She could hear the thwack of racquets, the groans and the pounding of feet from the other badminton court. At the other end of the hall, four Chinese men were playing a serious game of table tennis doubles.

‘Needed that workout,’ Juliet said.

‘I didn’t,’ replied Tessa. ‘Why couldn’t we do what most
forty-odd
women do? Go shopping, have lunch somewhere and then enjoy a massage from a fit bloke?’

‘Badminton is good for your heart rate.’

‘Good to kill me!’

‘Stop moaning, Tess. Didn’t you say to me that you need someone to drag you out of the house to do more exercise?’

‘Yeah, I said it. Doesn’t mean I meant it though. Now take a stroll and leave me to die in peace. I’m seeing that white light thing.’

Juliet laughed. ‘Oh come on, Tess. Couldn’t have been that bad.’

‘Do you wanna bet? If Antonio Banderas walked up to me right now, swinging his bits, undressing me with his sword and offering the hottest sex ever, I still couldn’t stand up.’

‘When you have your shower, Tess, make sure it’s a cold one,’ laughed Juliet. ‘We’ll go for a meal when we get out of here. Lounge Bar? At the top of Atlantic Road?’

‘It’s not a long walk from here, is it? OK, as long as you’re willing to carry me there … Jules, you haven’t said anything to me yet about what’s nagging you. Don’t even think about not telling me! If I’ve coughed up my guts for nothing I’m gonna kill you.’

‘What makes you so sure that something is nagging me?’ said Juliet sipping her drink.

The sweat was still pouring from Juliet’s forehead. She wiped it with her towel.

‘Cos I’ve never seen you hit that shuttlecock so bloody hard,’
answered Tessa. ‘I kept on wishing it was Graham’s dick! It’s obvious you’ve got issues. Then again, you’ve always got issues. If you was American you’d have a psycho-what-you-call-it.’

‘Psychologist,’ Juliet corrected.

‘Miss Drama I should call you.’

‘Miss Drama? I’m not the one who burned my ex-husband’s Crystal Palace football shirts on the barbecue in front of the kids.’

‘You was egging me on.’

‘No I wasn’t,’ Juliet chuckled. ‘I just, I just couldn’t stop laughing.’

‘That’s nice, Jules. My marriage was going down the plug hole and all you could do was laugh.’

‘If you could have seen yourself,’ said Juliet. ‘The lighter in your hand, your crazy face and the kids looking all confused … it was funny.’

From trying to keep a serious face Tessa suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Yeah, I s’pose it was funny. I shoulda burned all his bloody clothes, especially that Bugs Bunny T-shirt that he really loves and his precious Adidas trainers; that was the only thing he ever washed in the washing machine. He didn’t worry about the kids’ clothes or anything; he would just throw his bloody
trainers
in the thing and switch the machine on! Shoulda burned his Coldplay and Morrisey CDs an’ all, and his World Cup 1990 DVD. Shoulda smashed his Crystal Palace mug an’ all. Fucking cheating slag!’

Juliet took another sip of her drink. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘He was one of the good ones, wasn’t he? He didn’t seem to be the cheating kind. Not as far as I know anyway. Still can’t get my head round it, Tess.’

‘He’s a man,’ Tessa stressed. ‘Men
cheat
. They can’t help it.’

‘Not all men cheat, Tess.’

‘Don’t they?’ Tessa chuckled. ‘Trust me, if they’re given the
chance they’ll cheat. It’s in their DNA. You could get the most devoted husband in the world, married to his lovely wife for twenty-five years. Two point five kids and all that. Living in a nice house with their Boxing Day-sales furniture and widescreen TV. But if Beyonce whispered in his ear,
I’ll give you the most mind-blowing night of sex and dirtyness you will never believe and never forget and no one will ever get to know
, he’ll take it. And even if he didn’t take it he’ll agonise over it and then regret not taking it till he’s six foot under. Believe me, Jules. Men would fuck as much as they could if they knew they would get away with it.’

‘But Graham?’ Juliet queried, shaking her head. ‘He seemed so … shy?’

‘You think shy men don’t wanna fuck around, Jules? What planet are you ringing me from? You think that slag that’s with him now woulda been interested in him if he didn’t get a
promotion
? You think that whore woulda fucked up my marriage if Graham was just another one of the lads and wasn’t allowed to park in one of the bosses’ parking bays? When Graham became general manager that slag started to give him attention. She wasn’t fucking interested before, the fucking slut. She saw pound signs and her future slag babies going to some posh fucking nursery. So she made her play for Graham by standing up and pushing her tits in his face every time he went by. And men being men, Graham let his dick do the talking. The both of them are slags. Fuck ’em both.’

‘The kids coping OK?’

‘Yeah, they are,’ Tessa answered. ‘And it’s bloody annoying. A small part of my head doesn’t want them to cope. That same small … well I said small but if I was honest it’s a big part, wants my kids to hate him. I want them to not stand the very sight of him. Am I making sense, Jules?’

‘Yes. You’re still raging, Tess. Understandable. Don’t know what I’d do if Clayton fucked around.’

‘Clayton fucking around?’ laughed Tessa. ‘No danger of that. More chance of Skinny Spice eating a fat hog.’

‘Men are men as you say,’ argued Juliet. ‘Doesn’t Clayton think with his dick too?’

‘Yes he does,’ giggled Tessa. ‘But he’s gay.’

‘Clayton is
not
fucking gay!’

‘Yes he is. He’s as gay as a cream suit, a yellow handkerchief and light blue flip-flops. He uses the fact that he’s married to a beautiful woman as a cover-up.’

‘Oh give it a break, Tess!’

‘It’s true!’ argued Tessa. ‘Think about it. A man like Clayton. He’s not what I call absolutely fuckable with his weird,
pear-shaped
head and his please-respect-me suits but he’s very
successful
, right? Earns loads of money. Looks don’t come into it for a lot of slags. Trust me, Jules, slags must fling themselves at him twenty-four seven. Slags want the easy life, Jules. They wanna live in a nice house and not go to work. They wanna drive their 4×4s and listen to the latest pop crap. They wanna go shopping in the West End but go to the posh part of it. They wanna walk up and down the high street with their Chanel and Harrods bags pouting like Skinny Spice. And they don’t care who they have to fuck to get that. Married or not. And because, as I said, men think with their dicks, most slags, if they got a bit up front and a face that they can make look decent with a bit of plaster, live the life they don’t fucking deserve.’

‘So have they set up home?’

‘Yep. Let them stew together. As soon as her tits begin to drop when she pushes out her first sprog and when she can’t get away looking decent with her cheap make-up, Graham will lose
interest
. They haven’t got nothing in common. I heard her on her mobile once. All she ever talks about is
Footballers Wives
and
Hollyoaks
. Graham likes watching
Newsnight
in the evening and
Question Time
. The very thought of watching those programmes
in bed with him will do her slag brain in. Mark my words, Jules, when Graham gets bored with her she’ll be shopping for her slag knickers in Primark again.’

Juliet bent over with laughter. ‘She that shallow?’

‘A hoodie’s spit on a kerb has got more depth than that slag.’

Juliet laughed again and had to place her right hand on her stomach to compose herself.

‘How did we get around talking about Graham and his slag?’ Tessa asked. ‘I want to know what is nagging you.’

Taking in a deep breath and staring at her racquet, Juliet thought of Brenton. She then took another sip of water. ‘Brenton,’ she answered.

‘Brenton?’ Tessa repeated. ‘Oh for crying out loud! Not that again.’

Juliet nodded.

‘What now?’ Tessa asked. ‘He was running and tripped over and now you wanna put a little plaster on his leg and kiss it better?’

‘Tess!’

‘Then what is it?’

Juliet took in another breath. ‘He’s leaving.’

‘Leaving? So?’

‘He’s going to start a new life abroad,’ Juliet announced.

‘That’s a good thing, ain’t it?’

Juliet didn’t reply. Instead she stared at her racquet again.

‘It’s about time Brenton had a life without you in it,’ Tessa added. ‘He needs to be away from you. Maybe find a girl and make sprogs of his own. Let’s hope none of his own sprogs get biblical with each other!’

‘I don’t know if he can form a stable relationship,’ said Juliet.

‘Why not? He functions, doesn’t he? Everything’s in … working order?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I’ve ruined him, Tess.’

‘What do you mean you’ve ruined him?’

‘He’s still carrying something for me. He still can’t get over …’

‘Twaddle!’ laughed Tessa. ‘He’s a grown man, for God’s sake. He runs his own business. All that fiddling abuse stuff happened years ago …’

‘Tess! How many times do I have to tell you? He wasn’t fiddled with. He was physically abused.’

‘Yeah, yeah. If you prefer it that way. Anyway, he should’ve got over that by now. And besides, he’s
not
your responsibility. No one gave you a job to make your half-brother happy in his private life.’

‘But I can’t help feeling … it’s all my fault. Like I really fucked up his life because, er, what we had.’

‘That’s long gone, Jules,’ said Tessa shaking her head. ‘He’s gotta find his own way now. What’s with you and this guilt thing? I’d understand if you were Catholic but you ain’t. Listen to me, Jules. It’s best that you just let him go. Who knows? In a couple of years’ time you might get a letter from him from Jamaica or wherever telling you he’s married and got a sprog on the way.’

‘Brenton married,’ Juliet said, now staring at her racquet again.

‘Yes, married,’ repeated Tessa. ‘You know? That age-old excuse to buy a white dress and eat a cake with too much icing? And then your husband can’t keep his dick in his trousers when a slag winks at him at the reception.’

Juliet thought of Brenton walking down the aisle with someone. He would look so good in a suit, she imagined. How could she just sit there in the front row looking on as he got married? Would she be able to keep her emotions in check? She’d have to.

‘Jules?’ Tessa called. ‘You don’t like the idea of Brenton
marrying
, do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ Juliet insisted. ‘I want him to be happy.’

‘Total twaddle!’ Tessa raised her voice.

Juliet looked around the hall to see if anyone overheard.

‘Jules, my girl,’ Tessa continued. ‘I’m about to give you a few reality checks.’

‘I need reality checking?’

‘Yes, you bloody do! Someone’s gotta do it so it might as well come from me.’

Juliet picked up her racquet and twirled it around in her fingers. She stared into space. Tessa finished the rest of her drink and looked at Juliet.

‘Things have been so cosy for you,’ Tessa started. ‘Keeping the secret of Breanna’s dad, Brenton not living far from you.
Whenever
he’s sick you going around to his gaff to make sure he’s alright, tucking him up in bed and all that twaddle. You helping out with his taxes and advising him when he started his business. For crying out loud, you even told him what colour scheme to have in his flat!’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Juliet.

‘You shoulda let him stand on his own two feet! And when he was sick it wasn’t your job to go around there and give him his medicine. He had a mother. And it wasn’t
you!
But I s’pose it eased your guilt looking after him and helping him. It probably made you feel all good by helping him out. Felt all good inside, did you?’

‘I didn’t do it for my guilt,’ Juliet argued, still spinning the racquet in her hands. ‘After all he’s been through he needed my help, encouragement.’

‘Up to a certain point, Jules! Whatever happened in his past is not your responsibility to put right, for crying out loud.’

‘Mum’s gone,’ Juliet said, now looking at the floor. ‘I’m all he’s got.’

‘Twaddle!’ Tessa said. ‘He’s got his mates, he’s got his business
and he’s got his own life. At least he should have his own life. He’s a grown man now. Grief! He ain’t that sixteen- or
seventeen-year
-old who turned up at your gaff with a sob story and a crappy violin.’