Lamb (16 page)

When he got back to the hotel he went to check how Owen was. The boy had switched the television off and was sitting on the bed crying.

‘You big bastard. Where were you?' Owen screamed. He jumped up and began to punch at Michael. Michael bent down to try and pinion his arms in a kind of embrace, but a fist struck him on the lip.

‘Easy, easy, Owen,' he said. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Where were you? I thought you'd run away from me.'

‘Never, never. I just went for a walk with a bloke.'

The boy stopped struggling, but stayed in Michael's arms.

‘You took the fags with you.' Owen was giving little shudders after his long bout of crying. ‘I went down to the bar to get them from you but you weren't there. I thought you'd run away.'

‘Look, Owen, I love you. I will not run away from you because I love you. You must trust me. Anyway, I've got some good news for you.'

‘What?'

‘We've got a place to stay – for good.' Michael held him at arm's length to see the reaction on his face. There was none. But then the boy had no idea that he had been spared the plan, no idea that the money was so low. To him it was just another move.

‘Where?' he asked.

‘Not far from here.'

‘For good?'

‘Until we get something better.'

‘Then we're not going to fly?' His voice was still snagging after the tears.

‘No – sorry about that. But it can't be helped.'

‘What's it like?'

‘A bit grotty. It's a room in a house that's going to be knocked down in a year or two. It's full of weirdos, but that shouldn't affect us.'

‘What kind of weirdos?'

‘Freaky weirdos,' said Michael and they both laughed. He hugged him close, the boy's face against his chest. The boy hugged him back and he felt the salt taste of blood on his lips.

This was the easiest move of all because they only had their original bag left. When Michael settled the bill he made a roll of the tenners left and put it away in his ‘untouchable pocket'. For the rainy day. He thought for a moment, then took two ten-pound notes out and put them with his other money. They would need things.

When they reached the house, Owen walked the plank with the bag slung across his shoulders and once upstairs he immediately sat in the deck-chair.

‘This is just like home,' he said, laughing. ‘Crap.'

Michael chugged the curtain open. In the daylight the place looked even more bleak than it had the night before.

‘Let's get to work on it then.'

There was no sign of Haddock or any of the others. In the fireplace Michael made a fire of the papers and cigarette packets. He used a piece of cardboard to sweep up all the rubbish. The fire blazed briefly and Owen pulled his deck-chair up close to it.

‘Do some work,' said Michael.

‘What is there to do?'

Michael went down to the kitchen and soaked a handkerchief and gave it to Owen to get some of the dirt off the window. He made a list of things they would need. A torch, a quilt, cups, some food. He asked Owen for suggestions.

‘Coal. Let's get one of those wee bags of coal and have a fire, eh?'

The papers had burnt out and were now black and feathery, stirring in the draught. Tiny beads of red appeared here and there on them.

They went shopping together and came back laden, Owen barely able to see where he was going from behind the box of the quilt. Still there was no sign of Haddock. Michael got a good fire blazing in the grate and made beans, fried chopped ham and bread, and they sat listening to Radio One on the transistor, eating with their fingers, their feet in the hearth.

‘This is smashin',' said Owen. ‘Better'n a hotel any day.'

Michael nodded, his mouth full.

Just then they heard a footstep outside and the door opened. It was Haddock.

‘I wondered who it was,' he said.

He stood, his hands in his pockets, his face still puffy with sleep. He seemed different from the previous night.

‘Well, we're here,' said Michael.

‘So I see.'

‘This is Owen.'

‘Hi,' said Haddock. ‘I had too much to drink last night.'

Michael wiped up the last of his bean juice with his bread.

‘You want tea?' he asked.

‘Don't let the fuzz see that boy coming in here,' said Haddock. ‘He's under age.'

He turned and left, yawning and scratching his head with both hands.

That night they slept on the single mattress, snug under the quilt, watching the last of the flames flickering on the ceiling. Michael explained to Owen why he would have to get a job if they were going to have any sort of permanence in this set-up. Owen agreed but didn't fancy the idea much. They would have to try it for a week to see if it worked. Owen yawned and Michael followed him. He could get a job on a building site somewhere, give a false name. He could say he had never worked in England before.

‘Grandma and me used to make spoons,' said Owen.

So they ‘made spoons', Owen bending his knees and Michael slotting into his shape.

‘You're all bones,' said Michael. He put his arm around him and eventually they fell asleep.

The next day Michael took Owen with him and they spent most of the day job hunting. He described himself as a carpenter and got a job on a site about six miles away from the squat. Owen waited for him on the pavement while he went to see the foreman.

They bought an alarm clock and pencils and jotters to help Owen pass the time while Michael was away. He set him an essay to write about the Home. That night he made sandwiches and wrapped them in tin foil to keep them fresh for Owen's lunch. He wondered about the fire and in the end told Owen not to light it. There was no other way he could damage himself, even if he had a fit. He warned him to take his tablets.

Earlier, while he had been in the kitchen, he had met Barry and Keith. They both wore coats with straggly hair like goat beards round the hems. They were drunk or on drugs and staggered about the place laughing. From their talk he gathered they were on drugs. He felt distinctly uneasy with these two and was glad that Owen was upstairs. As they prepared their meal they kept goosing each other and whooping with mock surprise and embarrassment. They were both talking like ‘nice boys' and flapping their hands about.

In the morning the alarm rang and he left Owen sleeping. There were a number of Irishmen working on the site and during the morning tea break they asked him a lot of awkward questions, so at lunchtime he avoided them and worked through the next tea break. Not being used to a full day's physical labour, he was totally exhausted when five o'clock came. It was well after six by the time he got back to the squat.

When he went into the room he was surprised to find Haddock being friendly again. He stood by the fireplace, his hand on his hip.

‘Wotcha, mate,' he said.

Owen was sitting on the mattress.

‘Hello,' said Michael. ‘How did you get on today, Owen?'

‘O.K.'

‘He was fine,' said Haddock. ‘Just fine. We got on well together, didn't we?'

‘Where's your friend?' asked Michael.

‘Nutan? He works. Keeps me in pocket money.'

There was a strange undefinable sweetish smell in the room. Haddock was wearing a lime green scarf knotted about his neck.

‘I see you're settling nicely,' he said.

‘Yes, thanks again. It solved our problems just at the right time.'

When Haddock had gone Michael lay down on the bed, his hands cupped behind his head. He said.

‘Well, how did you pass the day?'

‘Smoking . . . talking . . . eating. I was bored, then he came in.

‘Did you do any writing?'

‘A bit. But your man told me not to bother.'

‘He did, did he?'

‘Said it was a crap idea.'

‘Well I give the orders around here. I'm the captain. You do it tomorrow.'

Michael felt on edge. He put it down to tiredness and hunger but basically he knew it was about this place. Haddock had not actually done anything yet, but Michael knew that he was capable of it. His euphoria of the previous day had gone. The drink that he had taken the night he met Haddock had suppressed any misgivings he had had about the man. Sober and unsmiling, Haddock had a lean and sly look about him. Slimy. But what could Michael do? He couldn't take the boy to work with him, neither could he let him roam the streets all day – he would be sure to get lost or have an attack somewhere awkward. Haddock was as queer as a fourpenny piece. But queers were all right. He didn't think he had met one before. You could leave a little girl with a man and that would be all right – most times. Would it be the same with Owen and Haddock? Would the consequences of ‘wait and see' be worth it? How would it affect the boy if Haddock tried something indescribable? His mind swivelled away from the thought.

‘I don't think this is going to work out,' he said.

‘Why not?'

‘I don't like leaving you alone for so long. Anything could happen.'

‘Haddock is here all day.'

For a while Michael said nothing. Then, ‘That's what I'm afraid of.'

‘He's a laugh.'

‘Maybe,' said Michael. ‘I'm going to get something to eat.'

He heaved himself to his feet, his bones creaking, and went down to the kitchen. And yet Haddock could be useful to them, maybe. He was what Michael imagined a small-time crook to be. He seemed to know his way around the regulations, social security regulations and the like. Perhaps after a week or so he could help fix them up with a new identity – and Owen could go to school, come September, with no questions asked. They would live on here until he had gathered enough money to get a real place on a permanent basis.

But the next day he went to work with the conviction that it was pointless. They could not go on living like this. The previous night Owen and he had barely spoken and anything that Michael had said had been irritable. He had gone to bed shortly after nine o'clock and fallen asleep immediately. To leave the boy in that house for ten or eleven hours was asking for trouble. All day as he worked his mind went back to the plan and he hated himself for it. But the alternative was too awful to consider. That the boy should return to the Home and then after, maybe, years go back to his totally inadequate and snivelling mother and live with her in some Dublin slum. Since they had run away together, Owen had tasted freedom and, Michael hoped, love, and it would be doubly difficult to return to the warping influence and viciousness of Benedict and the taunts and sneers of the older boys. Owen was without a future – either way. But Michael's way had something to recommend it. Owen's mother hated him. She had tried to kill him. The thought lodged in Michael's mind like a fishbone in his throat and all day as he worked he was conscious of it. She had tried to kill Owen from hate.

He knew he was sliding back into his depression and could get no purchase anywhere to prevent himself.

That night when he crossed the plank he heard pop music from the transistor in their room. If Haddock was there again he knew he would get angry. He opened the door and went in. Haddock was sitting on the mattress with his arm around Owen's shoulders. He was wearing a red silk dressing gown and his bent knee stuck whitely out of it. Owen was sucking on a loose, soggy cigarette.

‘The breadwinner is back,' said Haddock and let his head roll to one side.

‘What are you doing?' Michael was incredulous.

‘Smoking,' said Owen. His words were slurred and his eyes were heavy-lidded. The air had that sweetish smell in it.

‘Smoking what?'

‘Pot,' said Haddock. ‘The best of shit.'

‘What?' Michael walked over to them and took the cigarette off Owen and threw it in the fireplace. ‘Don't let me catch you at that again. And as for you, Haddock, I've never heard anything so . . . so incredible. Teaching a boy of his age.'

‘Jesus, Paddy, you sound like my mother.'

‘Will you stop calling me Paddy? Get out before I hit you.'

Haddock put his hands up defensively.

‘Doctors say there's no harm in it.' He took his arm from around Owen's shoulders. ‘We had a nice time, didn't we, Owen?' He got up awkwardly.

‘Indeedwedid.' Owen ran the words together.

‘Heard a few
interesting
things, too,' said Haddock.

Michael bunched his fists and faced Haddock, who moved past him smiling. When he walked his bare leg came out of his dressing gown. He sang, ‘Brother, can you spare a dime?' softly as he went to the door.

Michael followed him. Outside he spun him by the shoulder.

‘Did you touch that boy?'

‘Now, Paddy, would oi do a ting like dat?'

‘Did you?'

‘You should try a joint with us next time.' He was swaying and smiling. His unkempt hair was falling in his eyes.

‘Go back to your boyfriend,' hissed Michael, ‘and if I get you in that room again, I'll thump your teeth down your throat. You hear me?'

Still Haddock smiled, and turned and waved each individual finger as he walked drifting back into his own room. Michael stood looking after him, his fists knotted.

When he went back to Owen, the boy was dancing by himself to the music, his head loose and wobbling. Michael grabbed him by the shoulders.

‘You're not to let that guy back in here.'

Owen looked hard at him.