Trash (14 page)

We got inside the gates all right. There was a police car parked up, doors open, and that gave me a turn. But the police were just chatting to the guards, all scratching their arses, and the dogs didn’t notice anything.

The truck took me past the Mission School, slowing down like it was my personal taxi. I was out fast, dropping and rolling, and I dived in under the building. The school is a big set of metal boxes, all bolted up together. The lower ones stand on legs, so there’s a little bit of space beneath. I curled up here and waited for my heart to slow down. Nobody was out, it seemed, so I uncurled and moved to the back.

There’s a guard at the front, but he dozes away, because
who’s going to break in? Who’s going to steal storybooks? It would be robbing from your own people, which is why I felt so low. I was about to thieve not just from the Behala people, where I’d lived, but from Father Juilliard, who had been about the closest thing to a father I’d had so far, never knowing my real father. He was a bit slow and a bit too trusting, of course – everyone knew that. But he was a good old boy and I loved him.

I started to climb the corner.

The windows downstairs all had shutters, which were locked up at night. The upstairs windows had bars and no shutters, and I’d always made sure of an entry point. The truth was that just now and then it was nice to sleep in a big room, but I didn’t make a habit of it. The other bit of truth is that I was in the bad, very bad habit of lifting money from the school safe – I did it once a month, just a little. So there were two bars I’d managed to bend so nobody would notice but my head would fit through. I was through now like a shadow, and down on the old man’s bit of carpet.

How did I steal from the safe?

OK. The safe is on a table, fastened to the wall. It’s not big, and it doesn’t need to be because it doesn’t hold much. I guess all the big money goes through banks, and they just keep a bit of cash for day-to-day stuff – a bit of cash for emergencies, I suppose – but we’re still talking twenty or twenty-five thousand, so I hoped. I would never take much, just a hundred or so, hoping Father Juilliard would
never miss it, and if he did, he’d think he’d miscounted. Once, twice a month at most – and that was how my little stash got to grow, which is what I didn’t tell Raphael, who’s more honest than me. But it’s coming out now.

You’re thinking,
How does a boy like a dumb rat get into a safe?
And the answer is so simple you could laugh. Father Juilliard, my friend, you must have a bad memory, because you write the lock combination in your diary. You change it every month, sir – at the end of the month – and write the new code down. I would always see it, open on your desk. I’d remember it. This month it was 20861 – I saw it when we were on the computer and you brought us that lemonade … but it wouldn’t be the same after All Souls’ Night – and that was why I’d had to make my mind up to come.

I put in that code, and the door clicked open. Inside I found twenty-three thousand and a bit more. So that was our Bible money for Mr Marco.

It went into my shorts, and I got ready to leave.

On a thought, because – please don’t think the worse of me – the shame was making me ache, I stopped again. The old man’s desk was full of paper, and there was a pen in the drawer. I hadn’t meant to, and I knew it was a risk, but I hated the thought of you never knowing, and wondering who had so betrayed you, so I drew you a picture. I could spell Jun-Jun, so I put the words over me and a big arrow. I tried to draw me like I was hugging Father Juilliard, who I gave a big crucifix to in case the likeness
was no good. I put lots of ‘x’s, because I knew people used them as kisses – and I put it in the safe. I had tears in my eyes. This was a goodbye, and though Behala dump could go up in flames and I’d just dance – the Mission School had been a good, safe, warm, friendly, happy, fun place. Sister Olivia had been one of the best, and the volunteers before her. Father Juilliard had told me stories, given me food, given me money. He’d even kissed me once, which nobody before or since ever has done.

When I thought of this, climbing down the wall was hard, but I thought about Raphael and Gardo and what we had to do. I thought about José Angelico too, smashed apart by police, and I carried on.

I waited for a garbage truck to come by. I waited for it to slow. I was up on the back and inside, and we sailed out of the gates onto the street. I reached our little house well before dawn, and slunk in next to the boys so they didn’t hear me. One of the nice things about Raphael is – because he slept with his little cousins, I guess – he’s in the habit of sleeping up close. I crawled in under the blanket, and at once felt an arm go round me, holding me tight – and I felt less like a mean, sly, traitorous, ungrateful thief.

And he had no nightmares that night – he slept easy till sunrise, breathing soft, right on my neck.

Gardo again.

Rat wouldn’t tell us where he got the money for two days, and when he finally did, it didn’t seem like such a big deal to me, but I could see he was feeling bad so we said that if we got the Bible, and if the Bible gave away the great José Angelico mystery – and if we got to that pile of money – we would put the twenty thou back in the Mission School, with some added as a gift.

Rat was happy again, and we made some careful treks out over the city to find the guard – which we did, and we fixed up for the handover, and I knew this was the most dangerous thing yet, because he knew I was desperate for that book, which meant first it was valuable, and second – he must know something very strange was going on.

I kept thinking of being in that prison with Sister Olivia, and how they had my picture taken, and I was
thinking all the time,
What if, what if, what if?
– till I couldn’t sleep.

What if they stake out the tea-house?

What if they get me?

What if they just shoot me?

What if they have the whole place surrounded?

What if they’re all there in plainclothes, waiting for me, and I don’t see them till it’s way too late?

They would break every bone in all our bodies, slow and mean and loving it.

Raphael had told me all about the window in the police room, and I knew if we were taken, none of us would come out of there. I knew I would die before I let them take me or the others: I would fight until they had to kill me, because what Raphael told me scared the life out of me, and I know I could not have done what he did.

It was Tuesday afternoon we were to meet, just after Marco’s shift – same place: the tea-house in Chinatown. I washed the good clothes Sister Olivia bought me, because you don’t get so many street boys round that area and I wanted to blend in more. Raphael and Rat shadowed me all the way, but separated up and keeping a distance – we didn’t want to be a threesome in case policemen were waiting.

I used a fifty to buy a baseball cap, and with the trainers on I didn’t look like a street boy at all, and I just walked quickly through everyone and everything – but I had my hook, though – we all did – we’d cut them down, nice and
short, and mine was in my jeans at the back, where I could get it easy, and it was sharp all down the edge, because I have had to fight before, and cursed when I had nothing.

The little tea-house was dark, with shutters down, and I went straight in, not looking up, through to the table we’d used last time, right up by the kitchen, with a red lamp over it just bright enough to count out money. Marco was there before me, all alone – quite a big man, with a big, thick neck, and I slid in opposite him thinking,
Do it fast, do it fast
– I was still walking in my mind, and I wanted to be walking out of there, even though it looked like no one was around, it all looked safe, and even the kitchen was quiet.

Marco, of course – he wanted to see the money first, so I counted every note, and I could see greed in those little eyes so I thought maybe I was safe really, and twenty thousand was enough for him: I counted it out, sitting on the edge of my seat, getting ready – and he pulled the Bible out of his bag, and laid it down on the table as the Chinese who owned the place put cups down in front of us.

I told him he needed to prove it was Gabriel Olondriz’ book, because I was thinking how easy it would be to give me any old Bible, then come back asking for money all over again – but he opened the cover soon as I asked, and I could see where the man had signed it, and notes – best of all, I could also see lines of letters and numbers like the code he’d talked about. Also, the whole thing was so well worn I guessed that it had to be the real one.

So I left the money where it was, took up the book, and I moved fast.

Maybe Marco hadn’t expected me to just cut and run like that, but I’d been thinking how to play it, and I remembered the kitchen being near, and that was where I’d go – I jumped up and ran straight for it. Even so, I wasn’t fast enough, and he got me: he kind of threw himself over the table and grabbed me hard, shouting, and the cups all crashed to the floor, and the money went everywhere, all over the floor. He half let go, panicking about the money, I think, so I got an arm free – I twisted like a fish, and saw there was someone running towards us through the shop. I heard a whistle blow then, and people were shouting – the grip on my arm got tighter, but I bucked and tore myself away, fighting for my life, I guess, and Marco was shouting: ‘I’ve got him! I’ve got him!’

My hook was in my hand then.

Yes, I dragged it from my pocket, and I turned and cut up at his face: I don’t know what I cut but I felt it cut through something, and the man cried out and fell backwards. He let go, of course, and I think I must have got an eye – and I’ll be honest, I hope so: I hope he’s a one-eyed prison guard now, and telling his tale about how he tried to sell a little boy after a deal was made, and that boy turned round and took his eye out – I hope his whole cheating face is cut right through, my gift to a filthy traitor.

I didn’t have time to look, though, because I was
crashing out into that kitchen, straight into a policeman who was just running in: I went under him, and he tripped, and I slashed with my hook again but missed – and then I crashed out into a yard and over a fence, and I was running.

‘Gardo! Gardo! Gardo!’

It was Rat, right on my heels: I heard two gunshots, but felt no bullets, but someone started to scream – I passed Rat the Bible and we separated, me crossing under a bridge through traffic, people watching but no one reaching for me, even when I jumped up on a taxi which was moving right at me, over the roof and rolled in the street – a moment later I was up and ducking into a fish market, and ditching my shirt – that lovely shirt – and I ran through where it was darkest, where there were boys cleaning fish over the drains, and no one was after me, but I still kept running right through and down to the canal. I swam fast to where the shacks come down to the water, and I hauled up and used my hook again to slash up my jeans and hack them short – my trainers too, I kicked them off and gave them to some kid who was watching me, and I walked along the bank, then in among the huts, praying to God that both my friends were safe, and shaking all over.

We were safe, but right away we knew we wouldn’t be for long.

This is Raphael again, but writing it with Rat to get it just right – because the next part of this was my fault, I think. I just about saw Gardo run and Rat streak after him, and then a policeman was shouting at me, so I took off, right across the street, with the buses braking and blasting their horns. I think they must have followed me, and I’m not as quick – and even though I went the back ways, I think they saw the direction I took and made some guesses. Rat thinks maybe they photographed me and Gardo when we arrived at the tea-house.

Anyway, I think we came within an ace of being caught, and why they didn’t just grab us first, I don’t know. Maybe they wanted to be sure it was the Bible we wanted and needed to know why. Maybe they thought a prison guard
could take on a little kid like Gardo and they’d have him for sure, cornered in a tea-house. I do not know.

Anyway, I think they must have had photographs because the next morning they were knocking on the door again, right where we lived. Rat reckons they put men out, showing our pictures and showing money, because someone gave us away …

Raphael.

We met up again early evening. We slunk in different ways, as planned, and climbed up to our little box of a house, way up the ladders to the top of the pile. We were so pleased to see each other, we just shook hands and hugged and laughed.

Rat went down to get food, as he couldn’t read, and Gardo and I set to straight away, no messing. No messing.

We knew the clock was ticking, so we just drove on – you think we could have slept?

We lit a dozen candles, put them around the Bible and the paper. First we had to argue about what exactly a book-code was, and though he was the one who heard about it from the old man, I can say it was me who saw how it worked – no offence to Gardo, but I’ve got quicker eyes. He says we did it together, and that’s true.

We sat and studied like two little schoolboys. The Bible covers were worn, the pages were dirty. Just inside the front was a column of numbers: 937, 940, 922 … All high numbers like that, ten of them, down in a long column. Now, we’d never been educated in numbers, but to survive you have to add up and take away – none of us were stupid, so we had some ideas.

The pages they marked were all towards the end, and Gardo remembered the old man had been talking about the Gospel.

‘St John,’ he said. ‘
It is finished
.’

That was where we started looking, and that’s where a lot of fingers had been. All those pages were coloured in and used so well they were even thinner than the rest – we had to be careful they didn’t come off in our hands. The bit about the crucifixion was on page 940 – the first number in the strip. So we concentrated on that page. All along the bottom, in someone’s handwriting, was written: