Underdog (7 page)

‘I better be getting back,’ he said, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. ‘Get washed up a bit before I see my dad.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Stevo. ‘Fancy meeting up sometime? Hanging out?’

‘Yeah, I’d like that. The dogs, too. Maybe I could help out again.’ Tom got up from his chair. ‘Thanks for earlier. I’d have been a goner if you hadn’t shown up.’

‘No worries. I love fighting.’

It felt good to finally have a friend. Compared to all the other kids Tom had met since coming to the town, Stevo seemed alright.

Stevo walked him to front door, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway as Tom slipped on his trainers and stepped outside onto the path. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘Wait there a sec,’ he said, dashing back inside and running up the stairs. Returning in a flash, he held out his hand. ‘Here, take this.’

In his palm sat a small lump of shiny black cannabis and a couple of Rizla papers.

‘Are you sure?’ Tom didn’t really want to take them.

‘Yeah. There’s loads more where that came from. Go on.’

Tom grabbed the hash and skins, stuffing them into his trouser pocket more out of fear of being caught by Stevo’s mum. As he turned towards the road, he was stopped by Stevo’s hand grabbing his shoulder.

‘What you doing tomorrow?’

‘Not much. Just working in the morning. Why?’

‘Well, if you’re up for it, I’ve got something else to show you.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see, but if you liked this lot, you’re going to love it. It’s the proper stuff. I’ll come into the shop at lunchtime. Pick you up.’

‘Okay,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll see you then.’

Stevo stepped back into the house. ‘Oi!’ he called after Tom. ‘If you see that bird, give her one from me!’

It felt good to be outside. The clear blue sky was starting to cloud over, the afternoon becoming cooler. As Tom heard the door shutting behind him, he wondered what it was that Stevo wanted to show him. He began to worry that, by ‘proper stuff’,  Stevo might have meant harder drugs. As he stood looking down the street, he also wondered how he was going to find his way home. He couldn’t really remember how they got there. Tom smiled to himself as he followed his still aching nose. It was shaping up to be an interesting summer.

Keith White closed the front door behind him. He looked up the stairs and called out to his son. There was no response. Bending down, he picked up the letters spread over the doormat: a depressing mix of bills and junk mail. He was taking on as many shifts and overtime as he was able, the nights paying and suiting him better. But it was never enough.

The last of the envelopes was a brown A4, stamped boldly on the back with the sender’s address; something from the school. Looking at his watch, he called out again, just to make sure. Tom must still have been at the butcher’s.

Keith went to the kitchen and dropped his work bag beside the table. He unlocked the back door, opening it to let in some air. The afternoon breeze drifted into the house with an accompaniment of background noise from the estate: a muffled blend of cars and shouting kids, the occasional barking of a dog. As he stood in the sunlit doorway, he rubbed the back of his neck, kneading away some of his tension. His eyes were sore and he dragged his other hand over them, tired from another uneventful and tedious night’s watch at the factory, and the morning stint that followed it.

He could still feel the booze inside him. His head felt muggy and his empty stomach churned uncomfortably. The drinking was getting out of hand; every time he drove his battered old car to or from work, he was taking a gamble. But he couldn’t help himself. Alcohol was the only thing that seemed to work. It cloaked the memories and made his sleep during the daytime dreamless; it was an easier fix than the embarrassment of trying to get a prescription. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to talk about any of it.

Stepping back from the doorway, he turned around, chucking the letters onto the kitchen table before slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. He walked over to the sink and turned on the tap, letting it run cold. Cupping his hands under the flow, he splashed his face. The water felt refreshing, tightening the skin on his forehead and under his eyes. He ran his hands around the back of his head and into the short crop of his dark hair, splashing himself once more in an attempt to wash the fug from his head.

As Keith dried his face with the kitchen towel, he glimpsed the picture sitting in the corner of the windowsill. It was the first time he had looked at it in a while: Gayle under his arm with Tom squeezed in between them, all together in front of the old house, their smiles covering the cracks. Just months before they found out anything was wrong.

Keith looked out of the window, then filled the kettle. He sat down at the table and took off his tie, undoing the top buttons on his shirt as he relaxed back on the plastic chair, relieved to have the rest of the week off. It would be good to see something of Tom. It had been too long since they had spent any time, or done anything, together.

Once the junk mail was torn up, he sifted his way through the bills. He had just finished reading the last of them when the kettle began to whistle. He made himself a strong coffee, then sat back down, taking a couple of sips as he tapped a finger on the envelope from the school. Inside was a letter from the headmistress. It was paper-clipped to Tom’s school report.

‘Snooty bitch,’ muttered Keith. What did they expect? How many other kids at the school had been through half of what Tom had?

On reading the report, however, it soon became apparent the headmistress was actually being kind. His behaviour was less than ‘uninspiring’ and condemned Tom as an idle, troublemaking loner. He scrunched the sheets of paper in his fist.

Immediately regretting it, he smoothed out the report and placed it back in its envelope, deciding not to dump it with the junk mail. The thought of Tom’s shoddy schoolwork, his bunking off, even the fighting, bothered him less than the smoking. After all they had been through, it saddened him to think his son could be so foolish.

Finishing his coffee, he leant back his head and closed his eyes, thinking of Gayle, trying to picture her face as it used to be, smiling like in the photo. But it wouldn’t come. His memories were still tainted, as if they had been eaten away as well. All he could see was the cancer.

Opening his eyes, he reached down for his bag, feeling for the bottle. His brief search was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door.

‘Hello?’ called a woman’s voice. ‘Hello, Keith?’

‘I’m in here, Sonia.’ Keith released the neck of the bottle from his grip and withdrew his hand from the bag. ‘In the kitchen.’

Sonia, as ever, was beaming as she came in, her smile as warm as the day. Each of her plump arms was weighed down with a bulging shopping bag.

‘Just wanted to bring these round on my way,’ she said. ‘Might help now you’ve got a few days off.’

It was a typically kind gesture. Keith could not think of a time when Sonia had been anything but generous and thoughtful. Ever since they first arrived in the street, from the moment she came to the door offering tea and biscuits, she had gone out of her way to be there for them, happy to mind Tom and look after the house while Keith was at work. Without her support, they might have been lost. She was a good friend, and good for Tom.

‘Thanks,’ he said, as Sonia put the bags down by the sink. ‘There wasn’t any need.’

Keith caught Sonia’s perfume as he stood up, noticing she was better turned out than usual. Her starched white blouse was draped with an open, dark cardigan-coat, and she wore black trousers instead of her usual jeans; the clothes flattered her ample figure and straight, dark hair, the light blush on her cheeks and delicate application of eyeliner softening the lines on her face. She looked attractive.

‘Where are you off to, then?’ he asked.

‘It’s Mum again,’ she sighed, her smile fading. ‘I’m going up to the home. She’s had another bad turn, I’m afraid.’

‘Sorry to hear it. Nothing too serious, I hope? If there’s anything we can do. Anything you need.’ He could see that Sonia was putting on a brave face, that her eyes were missing a touch of their sparkle. ‘She’ll be fine. You’ll see,’ he said, trying to reassure her.

‘I hope so.’

She looked up at the clock on the wall beside the kitchen window, taking a moment to control her emotions.

‘She just gets herself so confused. I know she’s old, but it doesn’t make it any easier.’

‘I know.’

Keith looked in the bags, hanging the one with the bathroom things on the kitchen door whilst Sonia started emptying the other, putting the coffee and tea in the cupboard and the food she had brought into the fridge.

‘Time for a quick coffee?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, go on.’

She switched on the kettle, the cups clinking as she rinsed them under the tap. She looked at Keith, bent over in his chair as he untied the laces of his shoes and took them off. His overnight stubble stood in sharp contrast with the pallor of his face, the only other colour to him being the deep grey beneath his eyes. He seemed beaten as he sat back, his shoulders hunched, a frown deepening his worry lines. He was too thin, looking older than a man of forty. Sonia was worried about him. She had smelled the alcohol on his breath.

‘You want to get out in some of this sunshine, Keith,’ she suggested, looking out of the kitchen window. ‘You’re looking tired. It’ll do you the world to be away from that factory a few days. You deserve a break.’

‘Suppose. It doesn’t hurt to keep busy.’

‘You’ve got to have some time for yourself,’ she said, turning off the kettle as it started to boil. ‘It’s not doing you any favours, you know, working all night and in bed all day.’

‘Don’t have a choice.’ Keith nodded at the bills in front of him. ‘Work’s the only way I’m ever going to sort all these.’

‘Well, you could get them to mix your shifts up more, at least. It’d be better for the both of you. It can’t be easy on Tom, spending so many nights on his own.’ She finished making the coffee, handing Keith his mug as she sat down. ‘You’re lucky you can trust him to take care of himself. He’s a good lad.’

‘Good lad?’ Keith snorted. ‘Not exactly how his school sees it. Or me at the moment.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘This just turned up.’ He picked up the envelope and passed it over. His eyes rolled. ‘It’s his report. You name it, he’s been at it. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked him out.’

He drank his coffee in silence, watching Sonia’s face while she looked through it.

‘Mm. Not the best, is it?’ she said eventually, placing the report back down on the table.

‘He needs a bloody good kick up the arse.’

‘Don’t be too hard. You know what he’s had to cope with. Considering what he’s been through, things could be a lot worse. It’s hard enough settling into a new school at the best of times, let alone with what happened to his mum. He’s just at that age, too. You’ve got to give him time. He’ll come round.’

‘There’s been more than enough time,’ Keith grunted, the lines on his forehead deepening. ‘It’s been a year now. He can’t keep carrying on like this. It’s time he got over it.’

‘Talk to him, then. That’s all he wants.’ Sonia wondered if she should go against Tom’s wishes and mention their conversation. She patted Keith’s hand, happy to have at least planted a seed. ‘It’s good that you’ll have some time this week together. Just ask him how he feels.’

Keith shook his head. ‘I’ve tried all that. But I can’t get through to him. It just isn’t me: fawning over him and telling him everything’ll be okay. That was his mother’s racket.’

‘Exactly.’

‘We used to do everything together, you know? Now we can’t be in the same room without it kicking off. Tom doesn’t want to listen to anybody.’

‘Maybe he needs to talk, not just listen.’

In Sonia’s eyes, just as it had been in Gayle’s, Tom could do no wrong. Keith didn’t blame her. She was only trying to help. She’d made a real connection with Tom, but she didn’t understand how bad it was getting between them, how difficult Tom could be.

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But I need him to be more responsible for himself. That’s how it’s got to work from now on. Like the school says. Things are hard enough without having to worry about him all the time. I don’t need it right now.’

‘And what does he need? How responsible would you like him to be?’ Sonia placed her hand on Keith’s and gave it a squeeze, softening her voice as she continued: ‘Your Tom’s more dependable than most of the kids on this estate put together. It makes your hair curl the things some of them get up to. You name it. None of them are out there working their holidays like Tom; you should be proud of him for that. Think about how things have been for him, Keith. Take a day in his shoes. He needs to know you’re there for him. He needs to see it.’

‘But everything I do is for him,’ Keith replied, defensively. ‘I don’t work this bloody job, any of it, for myself. It’s him that keeps me going.’

‘Well, let him know it. It’s a good place to start.’ She glanced over at the clock. ‘I’m sorry, Keith; but I’ve really got to be getting on. It gets difficult with her if I’m late.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Try to get some sleep, if you can. Talk to them about those shifts when you get back to work next week.’

‘I will,’ he promised, rising to see her out.

‘Things’ll turn out right, you’ll see. Enjoy the next couple of days together. Won’t hurt you both to have some fun.’ She was pleased to see the beginnings of a smile on his face. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

He walked her to the door. A car drove by as she stepped out into the sunshine, the repetitive throb of its music vibrating through the walls and over her voice.

‘If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be in next week,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’

Sonia took the few steps up the path, briefly turning to wave as she walked down the street.

‘See you later,’ Keith called after her. ‘Let us know how you get on with your mum.’

He closed the door. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he was tempted to go back into the kitchen, get the bottle, but decided against it. When he got upstairs and into his room, he stripped off his clothes and closed the curtains. He sank onto the single bed, into sleep.

When Keith woke he was sweating, his sleep disturbed by a dream. The damp bedsheet stuck uncomfortably to his skin. A dull ache thumped in his head and his mouth was dry, the thirst forcing him out of the bed and into the bathroom, where he drank down a couple of glassfuls of water.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, one hand supporting his weight on the basin as he leant in close. Running the other hand over his face, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the brown irises dull, the whites pink.

His reflection reminded him of his father; he had the same features, right down to the raised bridge of his nose. It suddenly seemed as if the drunken old bastard was right there with him. Childhood memories flooded his mind, the beatings still vivid. When drunk, his father would thrash him simply for being there. The unpredictability he had lived through, and the fear that came with it, had drained his confidence as a child, brought up never knowing if he would be treated to a whisky-fuelled embrace or punched and kicked around for no reason at all. It made it hard for him to trust anyone, and he hated his father for it. Yet to his ever-growing disgust, he knew he was becoming just like him; the proof was there, staring straight back at him; no way of stopping it. His drew his hand roughly across his face, trying to wipe away the memories. He suddenly thought of Tom, wondered if he was back.