White Goods (44 page)

One day I overheard Mum
tell Auntie Stella that Shirley White was back on the scene – that
she and Jackie were an item again. Then the secret visits stopped:
both Mum and Dad were banning Jackie from our lives.

After he abducted me that
day, it was as if he had never existed at all. We were not to talk
about him. Not to talk about him to anyone.

‘Scot is young enough not
to remember him at all,’ Mum said to Dad one evening, another night
when I was listening from the stairs. ‘Think that might be best.
Are we agreed?’

He turned up one more
time. It was a Christmas. Guess he was hoping the season of
goodwill would stretch to him. It didn’t. Dad saw him off without
even letting him in. Next time I saw him, he was a corpse in our
kitchen, face down in his own blood.

‘Can we have sweets,
Uncle Ian?’ the boy asked me, still holding my hand, as we headed
towards Nan Buckley’s old home, approaching the newsagents adjacent
to Beverly Courts.

I conceded
with a
yes.
They
didn’t know me in the shop; it had been Scot who had frequented it
to spend his pocket money there, after his visits to Nan and to the
old lady he pretended was Nan, after she had died.

‘Can I pay?’
the boy asked and I could see no harm, so once he had chosen his
confectionary – a packet of
Spangles
and a
Curly-Whirly –
I gave him some
change. Whilst he completed the transaction, I studied him and was
amazed at the family resemblance. No wonder Shirley had called him
Jackie as well; there was no doubting his parentage. Seeing his
image alive in the boy’s face sent a shiver through me; I felt a
mix of familial admiration for this child and a strong urge to
crush what he represented.

‘Where we going now?’ he
asked, as we came back outside.

Finally, I knew. Knew
exactly what I needed to do. I wanted to get my own back. I wanted
revenge for what had happened to me. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed
Shirley White, and, rightly or wrongly, I knew I could use the boy
to exact the revenge I craved.

Had to do the one thing I
was certain his mother wouldn’t forgive or forget.

‘There’s something I want
to show you,’ I told him.

‘
What you
gonna show me?’ he asked, eyes eager, trusting.

‘
I’m going to
show you the truth.’

With that, still holding
hands, I led him back up the road, in the direction of
death.

It was the news about
Shirley that set it all off; once Scotty had mentioned she was
back, that he’d seen her and started asking about who she was.
That’s when my memory rapidly unscrambled a past I had long ago
disarranged. Just glimpses to start with, snapshots, rather than
full scenes. The memory of Crinky’s house and the cellar where I
slept. Jackie meeting me at the Wavy Line shop that day and leading
me away. And what happened next: with the man, in the house with
the brown and mustard wallpaper and sofa. Of course, I hadn’t
really forgotten; I had just pushed them away, forcing them to sit
quietly in a distant corner, where I could safely ignore
them.

With a clear head full of
clearer pictures, I realised there was much to be
avenged.

Not just what happened
when I was seven.

There was Mum’s decline
over the years; her mental health had been exacerbated by the
problems with Jackie. She was terrified he’d get his hands on
Scotty, too. Take him away, sell him to fat, dirty men – and worse.
She feared the worst, and it ate away at her. Her bravado of
cigarettes, lipstick and sharp comments about the Tankards was just
that: bravado.

When he came to the house
that day, demanding the money again, money she thought he’d already
had from her, she had had no choice in what she did. Picking up the
faulty electric heater, bashing him about the head until he
submitted, it was the only way to end it. That’s what I kept
telling her, as I waited for Dad to come home, reassuring her, as
the ruby pool of Jackie’s blood widened across the kitchen floor.
Waiting for Dad to clear up the mess. And he did,
swiftly.

Whilst I answered the
door, seeing off Russell as quickly as I could – hissing at him
through the glass of the front door, not daring to give him a
glimpse of the scene beyond, Dad did exactly that. Upon my return,
the body was gone, along with Dad. When he came back, he asked me
to start a bath for Mum and then he began to clear the remaining
mess up.

An hour later, Mum was
clean, in bed, but she had a permanent numb veneer over her face.
Like she had gone out inside.

‘
I need to
talk to Adrian,’ Dad said, still calm, despite what we had walked
into. ‘Will you be okay? To stay with her? Here on your
own?’

I agreed. I understood why
he had to see Adrian. And I didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to
see anyone else. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to
think. I’d found Mum in the kitchen, cuts about her face, where my
older brother, Jackie, had attacked her. But she had clearly given
better than she’d got: before her, on the kitchen floor, she had
left him lifeless, bludgeoned by a cheap electric heater, drowning
in a red sea of his own fluid.

‘
Can’t believe
she had the strength to do it,’ Dad had later commented, as the
shock subsided, but the disbelief remained.

No, I didn’t want to go
out.

‘
I’ll be glad
to stay, Dad,’ I told him, promising to keep an eye on
her.

But I failed.
I checked on her once after Dad left: she was asleep, looking quite
at peace, her eyes closed, head facing the door when I entered. I
thought she would sleep for hours; she had looked exhausted with
trauma when I’d found her. So, I didn’t think twice about staying
in my room, listening to
Eat to the
Beat
on the dodgy Walkman Dad had acquired
from what Scotty called
Dontask,
hoping it might drown out the image in my head,
hoping it would form some kind of distraction.

And it did: I
was completely distracted when she got herself up, dressed and
snuck out the house without a
goodbye
or a note to
explain.

We never did find out
where she went, what she did. When she returned on the day of Nan
Buckley’s funeral, it was clear from the state of her that she’d
been sleeping rough. When the police escorted Dad to the police
station, I feared that she had confessed to Jackie’s murder. Whilst
we were left at home - clearing up the mess from Nan’s wake, Della
and Scotty doing their very best to stay up as late as possible,
enjoying the novelty of Dad’s absence so late in the day, ignoring
any authority Gary tried to exert - I kept hearing her imaginary
admission in my head.

I killed my
son, officer. He was a bad boy, a very bad boy, so I killed
him.

And I wasn’t just worried
for her: there was Dad to consider, and me too. Even Adrian Tankard
was implicated, as Dad had told him everything. When Dad returned –
face covered in scratches from an unexpected, frenzied attack from
Mum when she first caught sight of him – and told us she had been
sectioned, locked away for her own safety, I felt a huge sense of
relief. I was sad – we had effectively lost our mum for good – but
we got to keep our dad, and our freedom, too.

But that wasn’t the end of
it. Jackie’s secret killing and Mum’s return – albeit as a zombie
version of herself – was only the start of troubles to come. Of
trouble that I could trace back to a root cause: Shirley White.
Dead or alive, Jackie owed drug money to Rory Jackson and his crowd
of teenage gangsters. He must have been desperate to get involved
with them; then again, he’d been desperate enough to go back to
Shirley again and again, so his poor judgement was to be
expected.

They had no idea that he
was dead, of course. Even if they had, I don’t believe they would
have taken that as an adequate excuse not to pay the debt. So, they
came after me: Ian Buckley, an easy target, I guess. Not known for
being tough; not renowned for fighting back. If it had stopped at
just me, maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible. Maybe I wouldn’t
have done what I did; said what I said to Sharon Tankard. But the
attack on Justin, on Scotty, and then Crinky’s murder. Someone had
to stop them. Killing Crinky was too scary, it showed they had lost
all control. Of course, I didn’t know for absolute certain that
they had killed Crinky Crunkle, electrocuting him in that big
walk-in bath. But I was certain enough and my white lie to Sharon
was justified; their first attack on me was enough to warrant
that.

Overheard
them,
I told her, planting seeds, hoping
for a rapid and bountiful harvest.
Bragging about it. Sick, twisted fuckers. Someone needs to
sort them out. Teach them a lesson.

Had I realised how far
they would take it, the trouble it would lead the Tankard kids
into, I might have thought twice about my little white lies. Might
have.

The attacks I suffered at
the hands of Rory’s gang still left me cold with fear; could still
disrupt a peaceful sleep in the night. The incident on our last
caravan holiday – the year before Jackie’s death and Mum’s
half-death – was the worst. Thinking about it still left me feeling
sick, exposed.

It was just Rory and Jim.
I first saw them the afternoon before the talent competition. I’d
taken Scotty for a shower and just glimpsed them in the distance,
not really sure if I had seen things properly. Had they really
followed me here? How the hell did they know where I was? That in
itself was enough to make me edgy.

It turned out later that
someone had overheard me telling Russell about the trip. Someone
who was in their pocket.

The caravan
holiday was the first time they had attacked me. Whilst Jackie
wasn’t dead at that point, he was still missing. We genuinely had
no idea where he was – although we suspected that Mum might be in
contact. When his old mate Gary Perkins had started working with
Dad and Adrian, we all got a bit suspicious. She took quite a bit
of interest in him, asking him questions about Jackie:
was he in contact, had he heard from him at all,
knew his address?
But the questioning soon
stopped, as did our concerns.

Rory and Jim
didn’t believe me, though. They started following me home, finding
opportunities to delay me, asking me questions, insisting I let
Jackie know they meant business. Suggesting if they didn’t hear
from him soon, they might have to take a more aggressive
approach:
did I understand?

That
more aggressive approach
was realised on the night of the talent show. I was on edge
throughout the build-up. Doing the show itself was nerve-racking
enough. Mum’s and Della’s fancy-dress antics made it even worse.
But it was the thought of Rory and Jim out there somewhere,
potentially coming along that left me just short of frantic. How I
got through my performance without a glitch I don’t know. I didn’t
really remember it afterwards. Heard the applause, saw the silent
pride emanating from my family, so I must have done well. But the
rest I had simply forgotten, fear blocking it out; another talent I
had perfected long ago.

I hadn’t seen
either lad in the audience, but they were about. As we left at the
end of the evening, Rory brushed against me and popped a brief note
in the pocket of my shirt. Gave me a hard stare, too, but that was
it. Taking myself off to the toilets, I took it out and read
it:
meet at 2am or we torch the
caravan.
Whilst shocked, I had almost
dismissed the threat. To date, their approach had been limited to
snarled comments and shoulder nudges, so the threatened inferno
lacked credibility. However, there was no doubting what I smelt
when Dad and I returned to the caravan with the fish and chip
supper: an overwhelming stench of petrol. Dad was too pissed to
notice, but I realised instantly that this was no empty threat. The
caravan was probably surrounded by a trail of fuel; I would have to
meet them.

They were just outside
the caravan, when I crept out in the early hours. Rory had a
lighter in one hand, which he kept flicking on and off, emphasising
his intention. They had a dog with them, too: a little bull
terrier, that Jim had on a tight lead, a lead that appeared to be
choking the small creature. Both details intensified my nerves;
both details guaranteed my compliance.

They insisted
we went down to the Castle, where we could
conduct our business in private.
Like we were handling some kind of illicit
transaction.

‘
What is it
you want from me?’ I’d asked, initially reluctant to go. They
wouldn’t say; wouldn’t be specific.

‘
Not here,’
was the best Rory would offer. The continued threat on my family –
the
flick-flick-flick
of the lighter – and the way Jim pulled on the dog’s lead,
making it yelp as he strangled it, staring at me throughout, was
sufficient for me to agree in the end.

I should have ended it
there. Should have cried out for Dad and Gary. They would have been
quick to join me. Would have jumped out of their beds and put an
end to the nonsense. It would have put a stop to everything that
followed: all the attacks, all the lives ruined, all the lives
ended. But I didn’t. In the moment, complying with their demands
seemed the safest option. So far, it had been threats and nudges,
after all; what did I really have to fear?