high road, so he tended to keep away; or they took their dogs to the little park and hung about on the benches.
TC did not like dogs. Was that true? His mum said he didn’t. She told people that he was scared of them, but it was she who walked fast past them and flinched when they sniffed at her. Maybe she was right, though, maybe he didn’t like them either. Dogs definitely bit people, and most of the ones on the estate were the fighting kind. TC did not want to stroke them anyway.
One afternoon after school TC found himself wandering north up the high road, away from the little park and the estate. It had rained a thin, icy rain all day and the pavements were wet, and now the bright shop lights were reflected in the puddles under his feet.
Some of the street lights had flashing Christmas decorations strapped to them: stars, a tree, a reindeer, each with its ‘Sponsored by . . .’ tag. The shops, open late, were a misery of festive music and overheated air.
Last year his dad had taken him to look at the toys. He had understood that he wasn’t to ask for anything, that they were just looking, because sometimes his dad had money and sometimes not, and who knew which it would be by Christmas. But he had picked up one or two things from the shelves and held them a moment before putting them carefully back, his dad asking, ‘You like that one, then?’ casually, TC nodding casually back. And then on Christmas Day there’d been a big box to unwrap: a monster truck, the exact same kind some of the other boys at school had. They’d taken it out to the yard behind the flats and his dad had driven it around for ages, the whine of its wheels bringing their neighbours up to the windows behind them like shooting targets flipping up. His dad had caught him looking nervously around at them. ‘Fuck ’em,’ he’d said. ‘Jesus, it’s Christmas fucking Day.’ Yet now, in the toy store, TC found that his eyes seemed to slide off the toys on the shelves; he couldn’t get a purchase on them, somehow, or understand what they were about. Maybe the shops were like EastEnders ; if you stopped keeping track for a bit then none of it made sense and you didn’t care anyway. It was just as well, really, he thought, turning and suffering the hot downward blast at the exit.
Outside it was raining again and the pavements were thick with umbrellas and shopping bags banging against hurrying legs. His backpack was too big for him, the straps set too wide apart for his narrow shoulders, and he had to hold them with his hands to keep it on, which made cold rain fall into his cuffs and run towards his elbows. He put his hood up and his head down, picturing the monster truck and how, powered by his dad, it had motored so indefatigably on.
Jamal was at home; he could hear their voices from the stairwell. As he let himself in he heard his mother shout at him from the lounge.
‘Oi. Come ’ere.’
TC came to the doorway, his heart thumping.
‘You been at my purse?’
Mutely he shook his head.
‘Yes you fucking have. You’ve been stealing off me, you little shit.’
‘Hey, hey . . .’ This was Jamal, appearing in the kitchen door, a beer in his hand and a dishcloth slung on his shoulder.
‘You can fuck off an’ all, Jamal, he has, and I ain’t having it. What’ve you got to say for yourself?’
TC listened to his own blood pound in his ears. His eyes felt wide, pinned open. What was the right answer? What was it?
‘Well?’
‘My dinner money, Mum,’ he whispered, looking down at the floor. ‘You never leave it out any more.’
For a moment Kelly remained silent and perfectly still. Jamal turned and looked at her, put his beer down. But her eyes slid away from both of them, and she subsided back into the settee.
‘Fucking . . . just leave me alone,’ she said tiredly, and picked up the remote.
TC could hear raised voices through the two closed doors between his room and the lounge. It was all so familiar,
TC did not like dogs. Was that true? His mum said he didn’t. She told people that he was scared of them, but it was she who walked fast past them and flinched when they sniffed at her. Maybe she was right, though, maybe he didn’t like them either. Dogs definitely bit people, and most of the ones on the estate were the fighting kind. TC did not want to stroke them anyway.
One afternoon after school TC found himself wandering north up the high road, away from the little park and the estate. It had rained a thin, icy rain all day and the pavements were wet, and now the bright shop lights were reflected in the puddles under his feet.
Some of the street lights had flashing Christmas decorations strapped to them: stars, a tree, a reindeer, each with its ‘Sponsored by . . .’ tag. The shops, open late, were a misery of festive music and overheated air.
Last year his dad had taken him to look at the toys. He had understood that he wasn’t to ask for anything, that they were just looking, because sometimes his dad had money and sometimes not, and who knew which it would be by Christmas. But he had picked up one or two things from the shelves and held them a moment before putting them carefully back, his dad asking, ‘You like that one, then?’ casually, TC nodding casually back. And then on Christmas Day there’d been a big box to unwrap: a monster truck, the exact same kind some of the other boys at school had. They’d taken it out to the yard behind the flats and his dad had driven it around for ages, the whine of its wheels bringing their neighbours up to the windows behind them like shooting targets flipping up. His dad had caught him looking nervously around at them. ‘Fuck ’em,’ he’d said. ‘Jesus, it’s Christmas fucking Day.’ Yet now, in the toy store, TC found that his eyes seemed to slide off the toys on the shelves; he couldn’t get a purchase on them, somehow, or understand what they were about. Maybe the shops were like EastEnders ; if you stopped keeping track for a bit then none of it made sense and you didn’t care anyway. It was just as well, really, he thought, turning and suffering the hot downward blast at the exit.
Outside it was raining again and the pavements were thick with umbrellas and shopping bags banging against hurrying legs. His backpack was too big for him, the straps set too wide apart for his narrow shoulders, and he had to hold them with his hands to keep it on, which made cold rain fall into his cuffs and run towards his elbows. He put his hood up and his head down, picturing the monster truck and how, powered by his dad, it had motored so indefatigably on.
Jamal was at home; he could hear their voices from the stairwell. As he let himself in he heard his mother shout at him from the lounge.
‘Oi. Come ’ere.’
TC came to the doorway, his heart thumping.
‘You been at my purse?’
Mutely he shook his head.
‘Yes you fucking have. You’ve been stealing off me, you little shit.’
‘Hey, hey . . .’ This was Jamal, appearing in the kitchen door, a beer in his hand and a dishcloth slung on his shoulder.
‘You can fuck off an’ all, Jamal, he has, and I ain’t having it. What’ve you got to say for yourself?’
TC listened to his own blood pound in his ears. His eyes felt wide, pinned open. What was the right answer? What was it?
‘Well?’
‘My dinner money, Mum,’ he whispered, looking down at the floor. ‘You never leave it out any more.’
For a moment Kelly remained silent and perfectly still. Jamal turned and looked at her, put his beer down. But her eyes slid away from both of them, and she subsided back into the settee.
‘Fucking . . . just leave me alone,’ she said tiredly, and picked up the remote.
TC could hear raised voices through the two closed doors between his room and the lounge. It was all so familiar,
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