men. Their clothes were poor, even for scheme kids. Everything they were wearing had approximated to a dull gray color, the result of over-washing in cheap soap. Jimmy warmed and smiled when he saw them and his boys grinned back. “All right, Da?” said the older one. “Where’s our tea?”
Jimmy cupped a gentle hand around the back of the bigger boy’s head and swept him along into the dark kitchen. The younger one stayed in the living room and looked up at Maureen. He was the boy from the Polaroid photo, the boy holding the hand of the big man in the camel-hair coat, but he looked different close up: he had a little widow’s peak, his eyelashes were thick and long.
He looked at her expensive overcoat. “Are ye a social worker?” he asked, in a tiny voice.
“No, I’m a pal of your mum’s.”
His face lit up. “Mammy? ‘S Mammy coming home?”
“No, John,” Jimmy shouted. “The lady’s just looking for her.”
Maureen looked into the kitchen. Jimmy was standing in the shadowy kitchen with his son, spreading cheap margarine on Supersavers white bread. She turned her back to the kitchen door, hoping Jimmy wouldn’t hear her. “Son, did you get your picture taken with a man at school recently? In the playground with a big man with short hair?”
The boy nodded.
“Who was the man?”
The boy licked at the snotters on his top lip with a deft tongue. “It was picture for Mammy,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want Jimmy to hear either.
“Was your mum there?”
“Naw.”
“Who took the picture?”
” ‘Nother man.”
“And did ye know that man?”
“Nut.”
“Have ye seen your mammy since your brother’s birthday?”
“Nut.”
“Thanks, son,” she said, and it struck her how small he was, how thin his skin was, how it was a quarter to ten at night and he was six and had just come in from playing in the street with his brother. She wanted to wrap him in her good coat and make him warm and take him away and feed him nice food and read to him and give him the chance of a life. She wanted to cry. The wee boy sensed her pity and knew she was sorry for him, for the state he was in and for his future. He frowned at the floor. She hated herself. “You’re a good boy,” she said, and stood up, ruffling his hair like a patronizing idiot. She cleared her throat and called into the kitchen, “I’m away, then, Jimmy.”
Jimmy didn’t turn to see her go. “Aye,” he said.
“I’ll come and see ye if I find her.”
“Don’t,” said Jimmy flatly, folding a slice of bread into a sandwich. “Don’t come.”
A scratched message on the back of the lift doors informed the world that AMcG sucked cocks. Maureen was glad to get out of the smelly lobby, glad to be away from Jimmy and his malnourished kids, eager to forget what she had seen. It was hard to look on poverty so all-pervasive that it even extended to his speech. She worked through the normalizing justifications: maybe Jimmy was lazy and deserved it; maybe he liked it lots of people were poorer than him. But she had eight thousand pounds in her bank account and he had four kids and no kettle and she couldn’t think of a single thing that made that all right. She felt her father following her across the yard to the street, his glassy eyes watching from every dark corner. Her muscles tensed suddenly and she broke into a run. Jimmy was right. Wherever Ann was she wouldn’t come back here.
Chapter 9
FIGHT NIGHT
Jimmy Harris couldn’t hit a tambourine.” Maureen took a deep drink of her whiskey and lime and felt the thin skin inside her top lip shrivel in the concentrated solution. “Someone else must have beat her up.”
Leslie was sitting across the table picking at the picture on a sodden beer mat. They were in the Grove, a small pub below a block of tenements. It had been the bottom flat at one time and the layout was still discernible. The supporting walls had been knocked down and riveted cast-iron pillars
Jimmy cupped a gentle hand around the back of the bigger boy’s head and swept him along into the dark kitchen. The younger one stayed in the living room and looked up at Maureen. He was the boy from the Polaroid photo, the boy holding the hand of the big man in the camel-hair coat, but he looked different close up: he had a little widow’s peak, his eyelashes were thick and long.
He looked at her expensive overcoat. “Are ye a social worker?” he asked, in a tiny voice.
“No, I’m a pal of your mum’s.”
His face lit up. “Mammy? ‘S Mammy coming home?”
“No, John,” Jimmy shouted. “The lady’s just looking for her.”
Maureen looked into the kitchen. Jimmy was standing in the shadowy kitchen with his son, spreading cheap margarine on Supersavers white bread. She turned her back to the kitchen door, hoping Jimmy wouldn’t hear her. “Son, did you get your picture taken with a man at school recently? In the playground with a big man with short hair?”
The boy nodded.
“Who was the man?”
The boy licked at the snotters on his top lip with a deft tongue. “It was picture for Mammy,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want Jimmy to hear either.
“Was your mum there?”
“Naw.”
“Who took the picture?”
” ‘Nother man.”
“And did ye know that man?”
“Nut.”
“Have ye seen your mammy since your brother’s birthday?”
“Nut.”
“Thanks, son,” she said, and it struck her how small he was, how thin his skin was, how it was a quarter to ten at night and he was six and had just come in from playing in the street with his brother. She wanted to wrap him in her good coat and make him warm and take him away and feed him nice food and read to him and give him the chance of a life. She wanted to cry. The wee boy sensed her pity and knew she was sorry for him, for the state he was in and for his future. He frowned at the floor. She hated herself. “You’re a good boy,” she said, and stood up, ruffling his hair like a patronizing idiot. She cleared her throat and called into the kitchen, “I’m away, then, Jimmy.”
Jimmy didn’t turn to see her go. “Aye,” he said.
“I’ll come and see ye if I find her.”
“Don’t,” said Jimmy flatly, folding a slice of bread into a sandwich. “Don’t come.”
A scratched message on the back of the lift doors informed the world that AMcG sucked cocks. Maureen was glad to get out of the smelly lobby, glad to be away from Jimmy and his malnourished kids, eager to forget what she had seen. It was hard to look on poverty so all-pervasive that it even extended to his speech. She worked through the normalizing justifications: maybe Jimmy was lazy and deserved it; maybe he liked it lots of people were poorer than him. But she had eight thousand pounds in her bank account and he had four kids and no kettle and she couldn’t think of a single thing that made that all right. She felt her father following her across the yard to the street, his glassy eyes watching from every dark corner. Her muscles tensed suddenly and she broke into a run. Jimmy was right. Wherever Ann was she wouldn’t come back here.
Chapter 9
FIGHT NIGHT
Jimmy Harris couldn’t hit a tambourine.” Maureen took a deep drink of her whiskey and lime and felt the thin skin inside her top lip shrivel in the concentrated solution. “Someone else must have beat her up.”
Leslie was sitting across the table picking at the picture on a sodden beer mat. They were in the Grove, a small pub below a block of tenements. It had been the bottom flat at one time and the layout was still discernible. The supporting walls had been knocked down and riveted cast-iron pillars
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