Scared
Authors: Sarah Masters
loveyoudivine
www.loveyoudivine.com
Copyright ©2010 by Sarah Masters
First published in 2010, 2010
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
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Published by
loveyoudivine Alterotica 2010
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The boy hunched deeper into his bright red coat. It had seen better days. The stuffing had flattened, the outer material bore a few rips and scratches, and the removable hood had lost two of its buttons. Still, at least he
had
a coat, one he'd pinched from the sale rack outside Debenhams when no one was looking. Of course, he'd run like the wind once the coat was in his hand, legging it through the crowd of shoppers who didn't seem to have any urgency about them. Millers, that's what he called them. People who milled about without a care in the goddamn world.
The boy should be so lucky.
As he leaned against the underside of the bridge wall, darkness bringing the usual fears that gnawed his gut, he admitted picking a red coat hadn't been one of his better choices. Mind you, it wasn't really red now, more of a dull burgundy due to the filth he'd picked up over the past year.
He stared out across the way, taking in the stench of the dirty river meandering beneath the bridge. The brown water reminded him of melted milk chocolate, the ripples ghosts blowing the surface instead of the wind. He stood on a path that ran alongside it, wide enough that he could stretch out if he had a mind. Not that he could do
that
very often. Better to be curled into a ball. Invisible.
A fire blazed halfway down the path beneath the bridge, and he smelled the tang of it, watched a blackened piece of paper fly up into the air, swirling in the breeze. The old man had set it inside a rusty oil barrel, using newspaper and the dried-up sticks he always collected by day. The boy had latched onto him not long after he'd run away. Pete reminded him of his granddad. The boy had always felt comfortable around old people. They didn't hurt him. Didn't expect anything of him except good manners and respect. The boy could do that,
did
that for them—for anyone who gave a shit.
Unfortunately, not many people did.
Still staring out of the archway, he took in the bright lights of London, spots of white, yellow, and red. He could see the London Eye from here, something he dreamed of going on but couldn't afford the fare. He just about made enough money to eat, and on the days he didn't, the bins outside the many MacDonald's in the city provided scraps to fill his aching, empty belly.
There were people in that vast place who lived in warm houses and smiled a lot. Mothers who tucked their children into bed, sitting there to read them a story. A kiss to the forehead, a ruffle of their hair, and the mother left the child feeling happy and content to fall asleep knowing love surrounded them.
The boy knew this utopia existed. He'd watched TV. Saw what went on beyond the realms of his own existence. His reality, though, had been very different. Mum, with her brown, broken teeth and stinging slaps, had a love affair with drugs. She took them, sold them, and spent the majority of her time off her head. He wasn't sure how she'd got into that kind of life—it had been all he'd known—but surely once upon a time she'd been happy. Clean.
Yeah, she always had looked dirty. Greasy blonde hair stuffed back into a ponytail, the skin of her face a sickly grey pallor that bled into the darker circles beneath her eyes. During the last few months of the boy being at home, he'd noticed wrinkles, deep and ravine-like. When she hit him, her eyes bunched in spite, and those wrinkles reminded him of Granddad's ancient concertina.
Dad...he was another story. He loved the drink, loved the money the drugs brought in, and his fists turned to iron when he had a mind. The boy's parents had never worked, although they said they did. Drug running was a lucrative business that kept them on their toes, they reckoned, keeping them up long into the night. As far back as the boy could remember, people had knocked on their front door way past sundown, entering the flat along with the scent of outdoors and other, indefinable smells. He used to sit in the corner of the itchy, hessian couch, springs bursting through the fabric to poke him in the arse. And he watched what went on, knowing the people would leave once they'd got what they came for. Small transparent bags containing white power or what looked like dried grass.
Dad had been pissed out of his head most of the time, and Mum was usually high. Granddad had once said, “How you've never been robbed is anyone's guess.” Dad reckoned it was because he had a name for himself. No, people wouldn't mess with him. The boy knew otherwise. Once a week a man arrived, his pristine suit marking him out as someone altogether different from the usual visitors. Mum handed him money, and the man slapped her bony arse and told her that cash was what kept the sharks from their door. She used to titter at him, a sound that grated on the boy's nerves, and Dad would laugh. His smile didn't reach his eyes, though, and the boy instinctually knew his father didn't like the man slapping Mum.
Granddad tried to protect the boy, risking the slaps and fists himself, and toward the end when...yeah, toward the end, the old man kind of gave up. Once Granddad had gone, the boy knew he'd have to follow his brother out into the city, leaving behind the filth and spite.
Entering a different kind of filth and spite.
He'd hoped to find his brother, gone a long time now, on the streets he walked day in, day out.
He hadn't found him.
The boy shook off the memories.
"Reckon it's about time the black van made its rounds,” Pete said from behind him.
Something in the fire crackled, and a flurry of blackened paper specks sifted out into the open air. The boy watched them go, wishing he could fly away like that.
"Yeah,” the boy said. “That van don't worry me."
He was good at lying.
"Well, it should. You know what happens when it's on the prowl.” Pete coughed, hard and racking, phlegm catching in his throat.
The boy turned to face him, studied how he appeared a brown bundle of rags with a grey-haired head sitting on top. Pete's hair hung in lank strips, the ends well past his shoulders. A straggly beard and moustache hid a mouth that was capable of giving the boy a cheesy grin from time to time. All right, the teeth were chipped and dirty like Mum's, but the boy loved
that
particular smile.
"They won't get me,” the boy said, confident he had his wits about him enough to evade capture.
"That's what the others said, and where are they now, eh?” Pete drew one arm out of the many folds of fabric around him and stood from his crouch. He took an ancient-looking metal pole in hand and poked inside the oil drum. Orange sparks flew up, the cold air dousing them to nothing. “We don't know where they are because they were taken somewhere, weren't they. One minute they're round and about, and the next, the van comes and them kids are gone."
"Maybe they moved on elsewhere.” The boy didn't believe that.
"Maybe they did, but you and I know the truth. Like I told you, that van comes every six months. I see it out there on the streets. Like a big monster, it is, kissing the damn curb, all slow-like. Whoever's inside, it ain't right. They're up to something."
The boy pushed off the bridge and walked toward the fire. He held his hands out over the heat, grateful that his fingers began to thaw. He ought to get some gloves, and his shoes needed replacing. His had holes in the bottoms. Wasn't so bad if it didn't rain, but getting small stones inside them was a right bitch.
"If I stay with you, I'll be safe, so the van isn't a problem for me.” The boy rubbed his hands together.
"Yeah, well, you know how it goes. Some nights we sleep in different places. There'll be a time that van'll come for you.” Pete leaned the pole against the wall and resumed his former position, knees clicking as he lowered to the ground.
The boy's stomach contracted, and he swallowed bile. “I'm not scared."
"Oh, you're scared, all right. You just don't show it."
"Nah, I'm not scared.” He hunkered down on the other side of the oil drum, so Pete couldn't see him. Dad always said he could tell when the boy lied because his face went red. Granted, the fire had warmed his face just then, but he didn't fancy Pete knowing the real reason his face burned.
"I reckon you ought to tell me your name, boy. Just in case the van comes for you."
"I don't need to tell you, ‘cos the van ain't coming for me. Told you that already.” He pulled his arms out of his sleeves and hugged himself inside his coat. For warmth, that's all. Warmth. “Besides, if I told you my name, who would give a shit I was gone anyway?"
"The police, boy, that's who. I been talking to them about this for years. Told them about the van. But they ain't listening. Reckon I'm mad, crazy, whatever the fuck they call me. But if I had a name I could give them... Yeah, they'd listen then."
Would
the van come for the boy? He hugged himself tighter and stared across the river to a disused car park. Long, ratty, yellowed grass shielded his view of the asphalt, and streetlights, no longer lit, stood around the edge like charred fingers pointing at the sky. He shivered.
From the cold.
Two shafts of light split the darkness, filtering through the strands of grass, showing them up for the unkempt mess they were. The boy couldn't see the vehicle the lights belonged to, what with the opposite side of the bridge being in the way. He stood and walked back to the opening, squinted and saw the dark silhouette of a van that was blacker than the darkness beyond. It idled, a menacing hulk of unanswered questions. A light rain had begun to fall, the tiny droplets showcased by the headlights, coming down in diagonal lines until a shunting breeze jostled them to dancing.
The van door opened, the interior light coming on, a shout of brightness in the dark. The tinted windshield only gave the boy a glimpse of two shadowy forms inside. One—the driver—got out and strode toward the grass, an aura of light around him from the headlights. He stopped, hands in coat pockets, and stared at the boy.
Heart thumping hard, the boy stared back. He wasn't scared. No, he could take care of himself all right. His breaths left him in stuttered gasps, grey clouds puffing out of his mouth and dissipating the higher they climbed. Okay, so his legs had weakened a little bit, but that was because he hadn't eaten anything since this morning. He was hungry, that was all.
The man turned away, going back to the van and getting inside. He closed the door, the interior light winking out, and reversed back the way he'd come. The car park looked better now, in complete darkness.
A shuffle sounded behind him, and the boy turned to see Pete gazing over the river.
"It was the van, wasn't it?” he asked. “I'd know them headlights anywhere."
