Clay (24 page)

As he reached Jozef he sprang up in a small movement, fists clenched but held by his sides. His head cracked Jozef’s nose with stunning force, and Jozef felt the pavement rush up to meet him behind.

Denny stood over him and grinned. A small crowd had formed, but at a distance. ‘You’re a fucking poof, Joe, you know that?’ he said. ‘A fucking, horrible poof.’

Jozef got up, slowly, and looked levelly at Denny. He could feel the weight of his father’s knife in his jeans pocket, but put the thought away. He touched the back of his hand to his nose, gently, and saw it come away red.

‘You can have that one,’ he said. ‘But here is what I got to say. You tell the council about everything you find in the houses, Denny? You write it all down properly, what is there, anything of value? You never sell something on the side, don’t write it down, don’t give the money to the council, the relatives? Don’t forget, I worked with you for over one year. I was there at the houses, after someone die. I see what you do, Denny. So. You want to talk about my dog some more, you come and see me. You come and see me any time.’

He forgot the breakfast stuff. It didn’t matter anyway. He wondered what he should say to TC about what had happened. He could feel both his eyes swelling shut.

Years since he’d had a fight;
years
. Kraków, probably. Not that this was one, not really. He’d known what Denny would want, what it would require, and he had not intended to fight back unless he had to. The headbutt, though, that had been a shock; he’d pictured a punch, forgotten Denny’s height, and his own. What a strange thing violence was, both petty and shocking at the same time. The blood on the stones; the spectre of what could have happened crowding around them on the pavement as the buses rumbled past. He was proud of himself for walking away.

Now he was full of adrenalin, buzzing with it. He felt ready for anything, but strangely ardent, too. He wanted to go home and see Znajda, make sure she was safe; he felt a rush of tenderness for her. And the boy, too; it seemed clear, now, that he should just tell him not to run away where he couldn’t find him, that he should find a way to help him, somehow, himself. Perhaps it really could be that simple; perhaps he had been worrying too much before.

He took the stairs two at a time – but the flat, when he opened the door, was empty. He stood in the doorway, his key still in the lock. No kitbag on the chair, either: fuck, he thought, this time in English;
fuck.
The boy had gone to wherever it was he was hiding out, and he’d taken Znajda. He should have stayed, talked to him. But he’d had this thing hanging over him, and he’d wanted a chance to think. Now he’d lost it – the chance, and the boy.
Fuck
.

Jozef clanged back down the stairs and jogged out onto the high road, sweat gathering above his eyes and in the small of his back. The sun blazed above, and the hot city stank.
Think
.
Think
. Maybe the old lady would know; she saw all the comings and goings from the window of her flat. He dodged between the traffic and headed towards the little park.

On her way back from dropping Daisy at her mother’s, Linda walked into an atmosphere as thick and febrile as kerosene. A group of people had gathered on the pavement, aimlessly loitering with hands in pockets but with none of the defeated demeanour that marks those waiting for a bus. They looked keyed up, somehow – although this information came in well under Linda’s radar. She looked around, but apart from a small, chippy-looking man disappearing into the junk shop, there was nothing to see. Still, she clamped her bag a little closer under her arm and picked up her pace as she walked on.

She had only witnessed a fight once, and it had been an unedifying affair. None of the
biff!
and
pow!
of the movies; it was all grabbing and shoving, and over very fast. It was the summer after she left school and she had been, what, sixteen?

I knew nothing,
nothing
, she thought. But I thought I knew everything. That was the really dangerous age, and she dreaded it with Daisy. The world was changing even faster now, faster than it had between her mother’s youth and her own, and who knew what Daisy would have to confront that she had no hope of understanding.

Before she’d even got her O-level results she’d rejected the idea of university, although she knew it broke both her parents’ hearts. But she wasn’t quite ready for the world yet, either. She’d wanted one last summer holiday before the rest of her life began, and with that huge unknown drawing closer day by day she’d discovered in herself a vein of recklessness, a nose for danger, that she’d never acknowledged before – and hadn’t since.

Never again, she thought now. It had been a bit like being subtly possessed; a delicate slew rather than a full-on career, but a state in which she heard herself say yes to things before her brain had had a chance to raise its usual objections. Yes to gig tickets, yes to cider, yes to kitten heels and cigarettes. And yes to boys.

She’d lost her virginity that summer, of course. Like a skin to be shed, it was something to get over with before her real life – as she had thought of it then – began.

‘Horrible, horrible,’ she found herself muttering now, shaking her head slightly to be rid of the memory. As for the fight, she could barely remember how it had started. The boy she had slept with and . . . who was it? God, what time did to you. He must have been someone she knew well, back then, but damned if there was anything left of him now.

Yet the fight itself was like yesterday. They had been hanging about in the park, her and her friends, when it kicked off. She had stood up as the boys scuffled, her heart racing in joy and horror – and suddenly there was her dad, weighing in from nowhere, as angry as she had ever seen him. He pulled the lads apart as though they were children, told them to get lost. And then he had looked at her there by the bench, in her short skirt and frosted pink lipstick, and she had hung her head.

Later that day, when she had finally slunk back to the flat, she had wondered what she was in for. But nothing was ever mentioned, and if her mother knew, she never said anything about it.

TC was about to go back to Jozef’s when Znajda took off. One moment she was beside him; the next she was streaking out of the park towards the busy traffic. TC raced after her, shouting her name, but she was like a bullet. She barrelled into Jozef as he turned off the high road onto the grass, jumping and crying and trying to lick his face. He crouched down to soothe her as TC caught up.

‘There you are! I was looking for you – you were not at the flat. I thought you had run away, I thought I would not be able to find you.’

‘Sorry – sorry – are you OK? What happened?’

‘Is nothing. I am glad to find you. Get off, stupid dog.’

‘She knew you were coming – she ran off to find you!’

‘She is my good girl, my sweet girl,’ he crooned. ‘She has been worried about me, I can see.’

‘Yeah – she just lay by the door, she must’ve wanted to go outside and find you. Are you OK? What happened?’

‘And I wanted to find you. Come, let’s sit down for a moment,’ he said, nodding towards the benches and the shade. ‘I need to get my breath.’

‘TC’s talking to a bad man.’

Daisy, who had not helped with the cake mix and who did not actually care what kind of icing it should have, was looking out of Sophia’s kitchen window.

‘What’s that, sweet pea?’

‘TC. You know, TC. He’s talking to a bad man.’

‘What bad man? Where?’ Sophia peered through the glass. ‘No he isn’t, that’s Jozef. He’s perfectly nice. You can’t go round thinking everyone’s a bad man, Daisy, it’s ridiculous.’

‘He isn’t nice, he’s a bad man. Look, he’s got blood on him.’

‘I’m sure he hasn’t. Now come on, madam, I need you to stir the mixture, or you can’t lick the bowl afterwards.’

‘He looks like a – like a
pikey
to me. And he’s got a horrible dog.’

‘
Daisy!
What did you just say?’

Daisy had known the word was bad when she said it. She had said it anyway; she had made her granny angry on purpose. Now she coloured. ‘Nothing.’

‘Yes you did, young lady. I heard you quite clearly. Now you listen to me,’ Sophia said, taking her granddaughter by the shoulders. ‘Jozef is
not
a bad man, and he is not a pikey. And don’t you dare use that word again, d’you hear me?
Ever
. Not in this house.’

Daisy squirmed out of her grasp, suddenly furious. ‘Mummy says pikey, so there, and there
are
bad men, whatever you say. People are
always
getting killed,
always
. You just never watch TV, so you don’t know. You think you know everything, but you don’t. You’re just a – just a stupid old woman with romantic ideas!’

‘That’s not true,’ said Sophia, putting her hand to her chest where her heart was skipping and lurching. The words were clearly Linda’s, and she felt her eyes fill with tears that she tried to blink away. ‘That’s just not true!’

‘Yes it is. Yes it is! If there aren’t bad men then why aren’t I allowed to play by myself?’

‘Because – because your mother says so.’

‘You didn’t used to care what she said! You never cared before! You let me, and I could have got kidnapped or – or killed. Just like TC is now! And you don’t even care!’

Sophia sat down at the table. The pain in her chest was new; an ache. She breathed carefully and tried not to feel frightened.

‘I’m going out there right now,’ Daisy said, marching towards the door. ‘I’m going to – to spy on the bad man and save TC. You can even tell Mummy, I don’t care.’

She left the door open behind her and Sophia knew she wanted her to follow. In just a moment, she thought, when my heart stops, when I can get my breath. Just a moment. And until then, I can see her from here.

‘Were you in a fight?’

‘It’s nothing. A man – I used to work for him. He doesn’t like me.’

‘Why not?’ TC seemed jumpy and upset by the aftermath of violence.

‘He . . . he doesn’t like people like me.’

‘Polish people?’

‘Yes, perhaps. And he wants money, and I did not want to give it to him. It doesn’t matter, you know? It is over.
Koniec
. Everyone OK.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘A little. Not so much now. My nose – I have broken it before. So who knows, maybe this will make it better, what do you think? Maybe it will make me a handsome man.’ Jozef smiled, but carefully, and TC could see that it hurt.

‘Now, we talk about you, eh? To be truthful, TC, I do not want you to run away.’

‘I’m not running away. I told you, it’s a camp, and it’s not like it’s far.’

‘The city – you know, it is not always a nice place for a young boy. You might not be safe.’

‘It’s nicer than home. And anyway, the secret garden
is
safe. It’s secret, that’s the whole point. And I’m by myself all the time anyway, it’s not any different. Don’t you think I can look after myself?’

‘I know you can, of course. But what about your mother? She will worry about you if you don’t come home, of course. Then what happens?’

‘She doesn’t care. I
told
you that.’ TC looked down. ‘I – I thought you understood. The garden – it’s mine, it really is. I just want to be part of it, like the owls are. Properly, not just a visitor. And it’s not like you can make things any better at home, is it?’

Jozef put his head in his hands and listened to the traffic roar like the sound of his own blood in his ears. He did understand; of course he did. At the same time it was madness. The boy had to have a home, a proper one. He couldn’t live on a bit of waste ground, even in summer, even with Jozef’s help; he was ten years old,
na milo
ść
bosk
ą
. And yet the park, the common and the secret garden made up a beloved territory of a kind that Jozef recognised only too well. It was the richest, most stable thing in TC’s life, and Jozef knew that if he were to summon the authorities it would mean tearing the child away from everything he really loved, and who was he to inflict that on him?

Jozef wished he had some experience of children. He wished he knew what the right thing to do was.

‘What about your – your father?’ he asked, stumbling slightly over the word.

TC stared ahead. ‘He isn’t – I haven’t got one.’

The bilious notes of an ice-cream van drifted from a couple of streets away. The city air lay around them, exhausted and still.

After a moment TC took the wooden owl from his pocket and held it out to Jozef. ‘I found this, at your flat. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take it.’

Jozef smiled. ‘That’s OK. It was for you, anyway. A present.’

‘Thank you, it’s brilliant.’ The boy smiled, but it was a small smile.

‘You know what, though,’ Jozef said, taking it from him and turning it in his hands, ‘it’s not finished. Come, I’ll finish it now. You can watch, see how I do it, OK?’