although now he felt so much older, as though there were years between him and the little boy who had listened to his father and mother fight time and again, and had listened again as his father’s feet had thumped away down the stairs.
He thought about what would happen if Jamal left, wondered whether it would be better or worse. Wondered if he would get the blame.
After a while there was a knock at his door. TC jumped and thrust his animal book under the duvet.
‘Thought you might want something to eat.’ Jamal handed him a plate: sausages and mash. ‘Proper mash, that,’ he said. ‘Not packet.’
TC took the plate and put it on his lap. ‘Is there ketchup?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
The mash was a world away from what they had at school, and TC began to eat. Jamal crouched in front of him, awkwardly, then sat on the bed beside him.
‘Look, TC, money’s tight for your mum, you know?’
TC said nothing.
‘Course she wants you to have your dinner money. You’ve just got to ask for it, yeah?’
TC looked up, held his gaze. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, course. I mean, you gotta eat, right?’
‘She doesn’t care.’
‘What? Course she does, kid. She’s just . . . things are hard right now, OK?’
‘She should get a job, then.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s trying, but things aren’t always that easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . because you can’t just walk in somewhere and get a job. It can take a bit of time to find the right one. And anyway, your dad ain’t paying either.’
TC put his fork down, went still. ‘What do you mean?’
Jamal got up. ‘Child support, kid. Your mum’s been on to his sister or someone, but apparently he don’t want to know. So it ain’t all your mum’s fault, OK?’
TC took the dank stairs down two at a time, sobs racking his chest. Outside it was still raining, and he wished he’d grabbed his coat.
He made blindly for the little park and the shelter afforded by the trees behind the benches. One was already occupied; Jozef was smoking a quick cigarette before the start of his evening shift at the takeaway.
TC sat with his knees up on the other bench, swallowing sobs and knuckling his face with his sleeve. Already he was shivering.
Jozef watched the child, careful not to stare. The rain was already making tails and spikes of his dark hair, like an otter’s fur. It fell on the back of the boy’s neck, and darkened the shoulders of his sweatshirt.
Jozef looked around, but there were no other children, no friends of the boy coming after him; and it was clear that he did not expect anyone to come. Jozef thought of home, how in the village everyone had known him, and how one of their neighbours would have taken him in without question had he ever been found in tears, alone, in the rain.
Yet here, in the city, talking to someone else’s child seemed far from simple. But surely the greater wrong would be to walk away, no matter how streetwise the kids here seemed to be, no matter how a grown man talking to a child might look to some. He turned it over in his head: yes, to go to work and leave the little boy alone there on the bench, crying, was unthinkable.
He looked at his scarred hands, took a breath and held it briefly. Then he took his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Across the road he could see Musa pick up.
‘Eh, boss,’ he said, ‘I might be a little bit late. No, I don’t know. Sorry.’
When he slipped the phone back in his pocket he saw that the little boy was looking over at him. He wondered how to begin, but, ‘You phoned him in the chicken shop, over there,’ the boy said.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I . . . I want to sit here for a bit.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘I know that. What about you?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t mind the rain?’
‘I don’t care,’ said TC, but by now he was shivering hard.
‘Sometimes . . . it is better to be outside, no?’
TC looked away.
‘Home is not always good. Sometimes
He thought about what would happen if Jamal left, wondered whether it would be better or worse. Wondered if he would get the blame.
After a while there was a knock at his door. TC jumped and thrust his animal book under the duvet.
‘Thought you might want something to eat.’ Jamal handed him a plate: sausages and mash. ‘Proper mash, that,’ he said. ‘Not packet.’
TC took the plate and put it on his lap. ‘Is there ketchup?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
The mash was a world away from what they had at school, and TC began to eat. Jamal crouched in front of him, awkwardly, then sat on the bed beside him.
‘Look, TC, money’s tight for your mum, you know?’
TC said nothing.
‘Course she wants you to have your dinner money. You’ve just got to ask for it, yeah?’
TC looked up, held his gaze. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, course. I mean, you gotta eat, right?’
‘She doesn’t care.’
‘What? Course she does, kid. She’s just . . . things are hard right now, OK?’
‘She should get a job, then.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s trying, but things aren’t always that easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . because you can’t just walk in somewhere and get a job. It can take a bit of time to find the right one. And anyway, your dad ain’t paying either.’
TC put his fork down, went still. ‘What do you mean?’
Jamal got up. ‘Child support, kid. Your mum’s been on to his sister or someone, but apparently he don’t want to know. So it ain’t all your mum’s fault, OK?’
TC took the dank stairs down two at a time, sobs racking his chest. Outside it was still raining, and he wished he’d grabbed his coat.
He made blindly for the little park and the shelter afforded by the trees behind the benches. One was already occupied; Jozef was smoking a quick cigarette before the start of his evening shift at the takeaway.
TC sat with his knees up on the other bench, swallowing sobs and knuckling his face with his sleeve. Already he was shivering.
Jozef watched the child, careful not to stare. The rain was already making tails and spikes of his dark hair, like an otter’s fur. It fell on the back of the boy’s neck, and darkened the shoulders of his sweatshirt.
Jozef looked around, but there were no other children, no friends of the boy coming after him; and it was clear that he did not expect anyone to come. Jozef thought of home, how in the village everyone had known him, and how one of their neighbours would have taken him in without question had he ever been found in tears, alone, in the rain.
Yet here, in the city, talking to someone else’s child seemed far from simple. But surely the greater wrong would be to walk away, no matter how streetwise the kids here seemed to be, no matter how a grown man talking to a child might look to some. He turned it over in his head: yes, to go to work and leave the little boy alone there on the bench, crying, was unthinkable.
He looked at his scarred hands, took a breath and held it briefly. Then he took his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Across the road he could see Musa pick up.
‘Eh, boss,’ he said, ‘I might be a little bit late. No, I don’t know. Sorry.’
When he slipped the phone back in his pocket he saw that the little boy was looking over at him. He wondered how to begin, but, ‘You phoned him in the chicken shop, over there,’ the boy said.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I . . . I want to sit here for a bit.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘I know that. What about you?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t mind the rain?’
‘I don’t care,’ said TC, but by now he was shivering hard.
‘Sometimes . . . it is better to be outside, no?’
TC looked away.
‘Home is not always good. Sometimes
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