Wasted (13 page)

He does not meet their eyes as they approach. He walks strongly, as if unafraid, but every muscle is ready to react. They continue occupying the whole pavement. It's obvious they are not about to give way. The one with the hand in his pocket now has his hand out of his pocket and it looks to Jack as though there is something in it.

This is why you came, Jack. It had to be dangerous; you had to take a risk. And you have to deal with what happens. That's the whole point.

“You lost, mate?”

“Nah, my dad's meeting me at the next street.” It doesn't sound very likely, but it's the best he can do.

“Yeah, right!”

Jack cannot avoid looking at their faces. They are big men with big faces and big necks. One has a tattoo on his neck. They are smiling, but this may mean nothing. Jack doesn't have time to think. One of them lunges at him with both hands and Jack leaps back. His foot slips off the edge of the pavement and he feels himself falling into the road. Now everything is automatic. Jack's arms fling themselves out and every muscle in his back and sides clenches instantly to save him from falling. And sure enough, he does not fall, though he almost does. Gravity loses out and Jack just stays on his feet.

The men are laughing. He waits for them to lunge again, but they do not. Jack is standing there, hands in front of him, ready to fight, but nothing is happening.

“Don't trip now!” says one man.

“Or at least send us a postcard,” says the other.

“Hey, Trevor, I think the boy thought you were going to attack him.”

“Me? Doesn't he know they call me Pussy-cat?”

Thoughts flash like gunshot through Jack's mind – too fast to trace. But he feels, dares to feel, that perhaps they mean him no harm.

And then he realizes something – this thought hits him in the guts: the coin is not in his hand. He must have dropped it when he nearly fell. He looks down, quickly, aside, behind them, into the road.

“You lost something?” It's tattoo man. The tattoo is a woman with long snaky hair, twisting up his neck from under his white T-shirt.

“No,” says Jack. But of course he has. It's obvious. And he can see it now. There it is, sitting in the dirt near by.

The men peer down at it.

“Pound, Trevor. See that? What could we do with a pound?”

“Not a lot, not in this day and age.”

“Look,” says Jack, “I need to go. Could I just have it back please?”

“Oh, is it yours? I didn't see you drop it. Did you, Trevor?”

“Nope. Finders keepers.”

“Or we could give it to charity, or something, couldn't we?”

“It's my bus fare,” says Jack.

“Thing is: you missed the last bus.”

“Night bus.”

“Not near here there isn't. Shame. But never mind, you're meeting your dad, so you don't need your bus fare, does he, Jase?”

“Daddy will come good,” says the one called Jase, which is short for Jason, Jack assumes.

“Look, I really need to go. So, if you don't mind…” And Jack takes a step forward and stoops towards the coin.

Would it have made any difference if he had done the sensible thing? The sensible thing, of course, would be to forget the coin, which he doesn't really need, and just go. But this is Jack's coin and it means more to him than a pound. It was not the first coin he ever used, of course, but over many months it has come to have power. It is soft and loved and well worn and smooth and shiny and exactly right. If he plays the game with another coin, everything that will happen might be different. No two coins are the same. Equally unpredictable but not the same. Jack needs this coin, needs it with a gut-clutching feeling, a feeling that is without logic and is stronger than that. The same sort of feeling that makes us live our lives as though we have choice. Because we absolutely must. There is no choice about that.

Trevor's heavy boot moves fast, slaps down on the coin. Jason steps forward and pushes Jack backwards. Jack stumbles but rights himself. What rushes through his body is not fear or anger but something without name, something that invades at moments of extreme danger, something between panic and passion.

He stands up, as tall as he can. Holds out his hand. Asks for his coin back, in a calm voice. Even says
please
. Jack will do anything to get that coin back. He thinks.

Trevor now bends to retrieve the coin from under his boot. Picks it up in a huge stubby hand. Tiny it looks, glinting between those sausage fingers. He holds it out, slightly towards Jack. Jack reaches forward. Trevor snatches it higher.

“Look, just give it back!” says Jack, angry now, and not thinking properly. Forgetting that there are two of them. He is, perhaps, lulled into the belief that these men are only teasing, that they mean no harm and that this is harmless playground stuff. Stand up to bullies, everyone is told.

Trevor laughs. “Going to come and get it, then? How much do you really need it, posh boy? Sounds as though there's more where this came from, I'd say.” And he holds it higher still. Jack will have to stretch tall. He does. But Trevor, laughing again, passes it to Jason.

Jason's eyes are nasty. There is no laughter in his voice as he says, “Yes, rich kid – come and get it. If you dare.”

And that's when Jack sees what Jason has in his hand.

A
knife. Long. Slightly curved. Pointing towards Jack's stomach.

His breath freezes. He cannot take his eyes off the knife. It is half an arm's length from him. It is utterly still, watching him like a snake. He does not move, cannot move.

“So,” says Jason, softly. “You don't want it now? It's here, if you really want it. But if you don't, we'll find a charity for it. Won't we, Trevor?”

“Like, maybe we could give it to Craig's fund.”

“Good idea. You don't know our friend Craig, do you?” Jason's eyes are steady on Jack's face. Jack shakes his head. “He gets out of the slammer next week. Murder.”

“Should never've been murder though – pure accident.”

“Yeah, pure accident that Kenny made him angry.”

“Exactly. How was Craig to know that Kenny was going to make him angry? Kenny should've known better.”

“Let's hope this kid's not going to make you angry, Jase.”

“Oh, he's not, Trevor. He's really not.”

Jason is right. Jack has no intention of making them angry. The knife has turned his stomach to water. All he wants is to get away. The part of him that cares about the coin is silent now.

He backs away, slowly, very slowly, his hands steady in front of him, palms open, the instinctive sign of submission. The knife does not waver. Jack is now almost out of reach, and still the knife hasn't moved. Jack is ready to leap either way if necessary.

His mouth is dry, his tongue sticking to the top of his mouth. But he has to speak. “I'm sorry,” he says. “Can I go?”

“You mean Craig can have the coin? You are donating it to his fund?”

Jack nods.

Trevor smiles. “That's very decent of you, old chap. Craig will be pleased. Won't he, Jase?”

“Thoroughly delighted. We'll have to tell him, won't we, Trevor? He might even want to come and thank the kid himself. Would you like that, kid?”

Jack says nothing.

“Answer!” snaps Jason, eyes narrowing.

“No, it's OK,” says Jack.

The men laugh. “He doesn't want Craig to come and visit him! I wonder why,” says Jason.

A police siren jars in the distance. The men don't flinch. Silence settles between them all for a few seconds. Can Jack go? He is about to ask when, without warning, Jason's hand lashes out and the knife slices the air in front of him. Jack gasps and flings himself backwards, landing heavily on the ground. Pain shoots up his back but he tries not to wince.

He looks up. He is not resigned to what will happen but his mind has stopped and there is nothing his body can do. Power is with the two men. Jack knows it and they know it. Something will make Jason use his knife or not. Since Jack cannot know anything in their heads, he cannot know what will happen next. And he has almost run out of choices himself. He cannot run, not from this position. Or fight. He can still plead, though this has not worked so far. Could he offer them money? After all, that is what this is about, isn't it?

“Listen, please, please, don't, I'll…” His voice thin and cracked. Sounds pathetic.

Jason's face screws up and he lunges towards Jack with a roar. Jack rolls aside, eyes shut. Waits for the pain, feels a jarring of a stone digging into his ribs, holds his breath. A small moan escapes as he hears their laughter. Where is he hit? Where is the pain?

Their voices thread the air, weaving into his head. But he is disappearing, thoughts blurring, the air going black and dancing around him. Is this dying? Is he bleeding away? Why doesn't it hurt? Are his nerves sliced?

Still their laughter, but further away now. Until nothing.

Silence.

INTO
the silence comes a thought:
This is not silence: I can hear my heartbeat. I am alive
. And into this unexpected idea comes a line from his philosophy revision:
I think; therefore I am.
And in this moment of near death he sees a point to it.
My heart beats; therefore I am.

Jack begins to pick himself up, bone by bone, carefully, in case he is still bleeding. He looks carefully at the parts of him. Where is it hiding, this terrible injury? But he does not seem to be bleeding. The knife has not touched him. Jason had been teasing him. This makes Jack angry, until he tells himself not to be silly:
If they hadn't been teasing, you'd be dead now. Be thankful for that.

He stands dazed in the empty street. The moon is behind clouds. The nearest streetlight is some way off. And now Jack begins to shake and his knees feel rubbery. He wraps his arms around his body and holds on to himself. But as the shaking wears off something else takes over: elation. The after-thrill of fear, of risk taken and survived. He wants to laugh or cry. But most of all he wants to run.

First, though, the coin. Suspicion floods through him as he guesses that the men have taken it. Why would they not? He looks around. There is a chance they didn't, if they were only teasing. But he knows this is not likely. And he's right: the coin is not there.

Jack tries to tell himself that it's only a coin, that he can use another one, that nothing will be any different. He knows that this makes sense but this isn't about sense. It's like any so-called lucky coin, or a lucky mascot of any sort. When the mascot is lost or broken, this spells disaster – that's the whole point. It's not that a mascot is valuable in money terms, but it has meaning and power, even if you might not know how it came to be so important. Its power creeps up slowly and from almost nowhere. Jack's coin is like that. And he does not know if he can deal with it because it rattles a part of him which has been holding him together.

Voices. Coming around the corner. Men's voices. Jack begins to run. The fast thud of his feet and the rhythm of his breath are empowering. Faster he runs, the air singing behind him, and soon he is in familiar streets. Thicker grass, big trees, space between houses, sweeter air. His own street. Home. The stone urns with their sea mosses and tiny salt-loving plants. His dad's surfboard against the garage wall. The grass beside the gravel drive. He fumbles for his key and opens the door, shuts it softly behind him and goes into the kitchen. Tea. Biscuits. He's hungry, yes, but mostly he wants to feel familiar things, remind himself that he is alive. So nearly wasn't. Don't think of that now. The kettle sings, the fridge sighs open, the milk glugs, the biscuit crumbles in his mouth and loosens its buttery sugariness. He is home and safe and that should be enough. Lucky Jack, and so nearly not.

Moments later, Jack is walking upstairs, feet sinking into the thick carpet. He shudders when he thinks of the knife, so he stops thinking of it. His father, all this time, has been asleep. He does not know what his son has been through. Would he wish to know? Yes and no. Since he doesn't know, it's best to keep it that way. Their life works well with them both strong.

Jack goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. He runs hot water and scoops it onto his face, again and again, washing away the cold night air, the cats' piss smell of those streets. He catches sight of his face in the mirror and it looks haunted, so he turns away. Cleans his teeth, goes to the toilet, walks into his bedroom and gets undressed. In bed, he pulls the duvet tightly over him and closes his eyes.

But sleep takes a long time to come.

What if
is a question that doesn't go away easily.

THE
next morning, and Jess arrives at Jack's house. She notices immediately. There is something changed, a darkness about him. His cheek muscles are tight. She notices because she is tuned to him now, noticing everything about him. She would not notice if her mother had spilt egg down her front – as indeed she had that morning – but she would notice a new muscle move in Jack's face. That's the hyperactivity of love.

“You OK?” She breathes the smell of him, feels it go to the hot centre of her when her lips touch his.

“Yeah. Bad night.”

A car crunches into the drive: Chris's battered hatchback, with Tommy and Ella. They climb out and all of them go into the garage.

In any band, there are days when the music does not come. This is such a morning. The air is dead. They try, not knowing why it is going wrong. Jack knows. And before long they can see that it comes from him. He is silent, slow, misses entrances, fluffs chords.

Tommy looks at him, his face angry. “What's up with you, Jack?”