Lamb (9 page)

A man leaned forward with a five pound note and tapped a card. The man in the navy raincoat turned it and it was the Queen.

‘Right, he's got it. The gentleman wins himself a fiver,' and he paid out for all to see.

Owen tugged at Michael.

‘It's dead easy. I can see which one it is. Get the money.'

A man with a heavy moustache, standing beside Michael, spoke: ‘It's easy, mate. It's the one in the middle.'

The man who had won before won another fiver, picking the middle card.

‘Get the money out,' hissed Owen.

‘Yeah, go on,' said the man with the moustache.

Michael put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a roll of fivers. He was going to peel one off when the man who was turning the cards turned to talk to someone. The man with the moustache leaned forward and bent the corner of the Queen, marking it.

‘Now you can put the lot on,' he said in a whisper.

The dealer turned round again and shouted,

‘Find the lady, the simplest game in the world.'

He flipped the cards, leapfrogging them over each other. Owen hissed,

‘Now. Put the lot on.'

The one to the left had a crimped corner. Michael hesitated, still about to take off one fiver. Suddenly the man with the moustache snatched the money out of his hand and plonked it down on the card on the left. The dealer flipped it over. The Jack of Clubs. He grabbed the money. Michael spun round but the man with the moustache had gone. By the time he turned back the dealer had the cards and the money in his pocket and he was throwing the orange box in the doorway. He strode away and was joined by the man who had won the first two fivers and the man with the black moustache. The three of them disappeared round a corner before Michael could even think of following them. The small crowd of people dispersed. Michael ran to the opening the men had gone into. The street was full of shoppers going to and fro.

‘Jesus,' he said between his teeth.

‘Get the cops,' said Owen, who had caught up with him.

‘All your brains must be in your bum.'

They stood saying nothing for a long time, parting the crowds that moved along the street.

‘How much was it?' asked Owen.

‘I don't know. There must have been sixty there.'

‘Bastards. We've no luck,' said Owen.

‘Luck,' mocked Michael. He was seething with anger. He had gone pale. ‘I hate being taken. The stupid Irishman. Come on.'

They walked and came to Trafalgar Square. They sat on a bench for about an hour without a single word passing between them. People were buying small tubs of grain to feed the pigeons and having photographs taken as the birds landed on arms and heads. Again and again Michael felt surges of embarrassment at having been so foolish as to take his money out in a crowd. He was also aware that Owen was feeling sorry for him and that made it worse.

‘Thimbleriggers,' said Michael at last managing a smile. ‘That's what they were. Thimbleriggers.'

‘Benny,' said the boy in disgust.

‘One day I tried to find out what it was. The dictionary says it's people with cups. A ball is under one cup and they swivel them about. Crooks. It's just the same trick with cards.'

‘I hate him, the big shite,' said the boy.

‘It's sleight of hand . . . '

They lapsed into silence again. The boy had reason to be bitter. Michael remembered one incident that stood out more than the others. He had been teaching Owen's class first thing in the morning. It was a cold morning and their breath was visible even inside the large woodwork room. Brother Benedict sent for Owen and the boy returned after about half an hour, his face white and his teeth clenched against crying. He held his hands tight beneath his armpits. The rest of the class shouted,

‘Brother, look at his wrists.'

Michael paid no attention but later asked Owen to stay behind. He looked at his hands and wrists. They were swollen and red. On the wrists were several horse-shoe-shaped welts, crescents where the blood had been brought to the surface, but the skin had not broken.

‘How many did he give you?'

‘Six.'

‘It's a cold morning for it,' said Michael. ‘What was it all about?'

When he heard the story the whole thing seemed ludicrous. Someone had stolen a can of spray paint from the technical block and written in huge awkward letters:
BENNY DIES
O.K.
Brother Benedict thought it was Owen.

‘What made him think it was you?'

‘He said they were my initials.'

‘What were?'

‘O.K. means Owen Kane.'

‘Holy Jesus,' said Michael. He half walked, half ran to Brother Benedict's office and ignoring the ‘engaged' sign by the door, went straight in. Despite the sign Brother Benedict was alone. He swung round in his chair and looked over his glasses.

‘Ah, Brother Sebastian. I was expecting you.'

Michael began, the words becoming slurred in his haste to get them out before his courage failed him.

‘Brother Benedict, I must protest in the strongest possible terms about the . . . the thrashing you have just given Owen Kane.'

‘And why is that?'

‘He did
not
sign his name to
any
slogan.'

‘Brother Sebastian, I'll thank you to calm yourself.'

‘Did you say that the boy signed his initials to some graffiti?'

‘I did.'

‘O.K. is a slogan itself. They just add it to things.'

Brother Benedict took off his glasses, folded the legs flat and rubbed into the corners of his eyes with finger and thumb.

‘Brother Sebastian, do you think I'm a fool? Credit me with a little more intelligence.'

Michael did not know how to react. He was confused.

‘You know and I know,' said Brother Benedict, ‘that we could never find the real culprit. By now the boys know that punishment has been meted out. Someone has got it in the neck. It may deter others from doing the like again, for fear their mates get it. The O.K. is just a little irony of mine. “Benny dies O.K.” Now the boys know that Benny has risen.' He bunched his big fist and swung it in a slow punch, clicking his tongue at the supposed moment of impact.

‘K.O.,' he said with satisfaction.

For the next week Owen had to try and clean the slogan off with a pad of steel wool. To reach it he had to stand on a stool.

‘It's sleight of hand,' said Michael again. ‘The quickness of the hand deceives the eye.'

‘That's not how they did it,' said Owen. ‘They just robbed you.'

‘True.'

The next morning Michael heard on their transistor that the search for the missing boy was being moved to London. Certain people had come forward with valuable information. He said smugly that London was a big place.

At breakfast Owen was quieter than usual. He didn't say a word.

‘What's wrong?' Michael asked. The boy did not answer, clinking and scooping at the remaining milk in his cornflake dish.

Later he said,

‘I don't like this hotel. Let's move.'

‘Why?'

The boy shrugged.

In their room Owen sat on the bed.

‘There
is
something wrong. What is it?'

Owen looked over his shoulder and nodded at the bed.

‘What?'

He pulled back the sheets. The bed was soaking wet and acrid with urine.

‘I see,' said Michael.

‘Let's leave. Right now,' said the boy. ‘We'll never see them again. Nobody'll know us.'

Michael thought for a while.

‘O.K. If it makes you feel happier.'

Recently that had become the reason for all his actions.

Their next hotel was not as good as the first. When Michael had given in to Owen he had asked for his bill to be made up right away, because they were leaving. He packed everything into his bag except the wings and pieces of the glider which were scattered over the desk. These Owen carried by hand, gently and delicately between finger and thumb, down to the taxi. He went back to the room for two plastic carrier bags of toys.

In the taxi he sat surrounded. Michael sat on the small seat with his back to the driver, holding on to the strap. Going round corners, Owen reached out both his hands and rested them gently on the flimsy bits of wing and fuselage, steadying them.

Michael decided to change his name again, and this time had the foresight to have thought of one before he went into the hotel. He leaned forward to Owen and said in a whisper that it was worse than being married. Buying a ring and changing names.

‘And having a child,' said Owen and they both laughed. The name he chose was O'Leary and he announced it loudly to the clerk as Owen stood behind him, plastic bags propped at his feet, holding bits of the pale balsa skeleton.

The furniture in the hotel was tatty and, as Owen pointed out, did not match. The headboards of the beds were scratched and the bedside table had several long cigarette burns on it. Other pieces of furniture just seemed to have been left in the room. A wardrobe, a dressing table, some upright chairs with sagging seats and an old bookshelf filled with dog-eared books. The only hint of luxury was a black telephone beside one of the beds.

‘Anyway it'll be cheaper,' said Michael. Owen wanted a cigarette and he let him have one. He lay on the bed, his head resting on his hands, smoking like a lord. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Michael saw the cigarette retract into the cup of Owen's hand like a snail's horn.

‘Give it to me,' said Michael, and he held it between his fingers. It felt light and unusual and he didn't know how to act with it.

‘Come in,' he shouted.

‘Sorry, Mr O'Leary. Here's your fresh towels.' She was a small woman with a flowered cross-over apron. Her voice was Irish. She left the towels over the end of the bed and told them that the bathroom was just at the end of the corridor. She hesitated, standing with her hands crossed.

‘Thank you very much,' said Michael.

‘Ah, you are Irish,' said the woman with an even stronger brogue, now that she knew she was among friends. ‘When Mrs Finlay said there was a Mr O'Leary in Number Ten needing towels, I said to myself he's sure to be Irish. What part are you from? No, wait a minute. Say something and let me guess.'

Michael put on his best Dublin accent. He felt foolish and shy as if speaking into a tape recorder.

‘My name is Michael O'Leary and this is my son, Owen. Owen O'Leary.'

‘Eh well, now. Dublin I would say without a doubt. Am I right?'

‘Near enough,' said Michael hesitating.

‘And isn't he the lovely boy,' she said, putting her head on one side and looking at Owen. The ash was growing on Michael's cigarette and he didn't know what to do with it. He looked round for an ash tray but couldn't see one.

‘And what age are you, Owen?' said the little woman.

‘Twelve.'

‘A man almost. But right enough, Mr O'Leary, what part are you from?'

‘Swords.' He didn't know why he said Swords. It was the first place that came to mind.

‘Swords? S
WORDS
d'ye tell me? Sure I have a sister living in Swords.'

The ash fell on the carpet. Michael changed the position of the cigarette to his other hand, half raised it to his mouth, but thought better of it. He had no luck of any kind. People took his money from him, Owen wet the bed, and now the first place he can think of, she has a sister living there. With a sinking feeling he realized what the next question would be.

‘Whereabouts in Swords d'ye live?'

Michael changed the cigarette from hand to hand again. There was more white ash on it.

‘Do you smoke much, Mr O'Leary?'

‘No, not much. On holiday,' he smiled.

‘'Tis bad for you and bad example for the boy,' she began to scold.

‘Is there an ash tray about? Do you see one there, Owen?'

‘Wait. Hold on. There should be one . . . ' and she fussed about the room looking until she found one on the window sill. It was an inverted lid of a Maxwell House coffee jar, black and stained. She held it while Michael stubbed the cigarette out.

‘There's nothing but God's clean air should go in the lungs, Mr O'Leary. Am I right? Anyhow I'll let you get on with it. But sure I'll see you before you go, please God. How long'll you be staying?'

‘Just a couple of days,' said Michael.

‘Gooday then to both of ye. Enjoy yourselves,' and she was away.

Owen was rolling about the bed laughing. Michael joined in nervously.

‘D'ye smoke much?' mimicked Owen.

‘Nosey oul' bitch,' said Michael.

‘Is she the owner?'

‘Naw, she's some sort of cleaning woman – or a hotel detective.'

The next day it rained, heavy rain that ran in shudders along the street. In their room Owen stood looking out of the window, his elbows resting on the sill. Michael lay on the bed reading the
Daily Express
.

‘Did you take your Epilim yet?' Michael asked.

‘No.'

Michael lifted the bottle and rattled it. ‘You know what'll happen if you forget.'

The boy took a tablet with a mouthful of water, crouching at the tap of the wash basin.

Michael scratched his five-day-old beard. The hair of his head was black but already he could see orange and ginger streaks appearing on his chin. He didn't like the thought of a piebald beard and wondered whether he should shave. It itched annoyingly. He asked Owen.