The Norway Room (2 page)

‘No way.' It was almost a wail.

‘Ash, you can't stay in Cecil Road. The house'll be repossessed in a couple of months.'

‘No. Crawford's going to look after that.'

‘Bollocks. For four years? There's—'

‘Three. He'll get three.'

‘Ash, you don't know. Anything could happen.'

The boy said nothing. Ted could tell he was thinking; he let him be. Ashley finished his cigarette, drained the remains of his tea. He was calmer now. ‘Ted, any chance of me stayin' 'ere for a bit. Just kippin' like. I'll get the radios for my rent. And satnavs. Other stuff too. I can do the clothes shops easy. Good stuff.'

‘Sorry, mate. Marilyn'll be out in a coupla months. We should get the kids back. It'd be too much.'

‘Till then. Till she comes home.'

‘Sorry, Ash. No can do.'

‘The dog then?'

‘Same. Sorry. What about that black mate of yours?'

‘Karl? His mom won't let him.' Then quietly, as if to himself. ‘No can do.'

Fuck it! Fifty quid's worth of lottery tickets and all he had made was twenty quid. It wasn't fair. This had been his last chance. He knew his dad had agreed with the social worker that he should go into care. That's why she was coming round tomorrow before his dad left for court. No. No. No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't be here when she came. He'd be out of the house before his dad got up. He didn't want to have to say goodbye. He didn't want to have to see him in a borrowed suit, his hair all gelled and combed. He wasn't going to be there to hear him say everything would be all right.

He wasn't going to say goodbye and he wasn't going into care. No way. Some poxy family telling him what to do. Making him sit down for meals. Being all nice.
Just think of Jamie as your brother. You can call me Mom if you'd like.
Well he didn't fucking like. He'd been there before. He hated it. No. No. No. He'd lamp Jamie or Josh or whatever the next one was called and he'd be back in the home waiting for the next on the list to come and collect him. No.

Ashley wondered why there was never any smoke coming out of the big crematorium chimney. Perhaps they burnt them at night. No, the undertaker blokes had told him they do it straight after the funeral, that's the law, they said, it must be done straight away.

Sometimes when he came to the cemetery Ashley practised his reading on the gravestones, or the long marble scrolls that held the names of the war dead. Today he went straight to the laurel bush. The cold wind brought tears to his eyes so he couldn't read the face of his watch, but the case would be over by now. With guilty pleas it was just sentencing.

‘I won't be back for a bit,' he explained. ‘I'm not going in no home, Nan. Nor a foster neither. I'd rather do time. It'll be better that way. Don't worry; I'll be all right. And I won't hurt anyone. I'm going into school tonight. Just Maddocks's office. Torch it. I won't do it till late, when everyone's gone. No one'll get hurt.' He took a cigarette and lit it. ‘All I got to do now is keep out the way till it's dark. I've done the dog. There was no choice. She's in the shed, but I'll take her into the school if I can. Leave her in the office.'

He crouched down and let his fingers dance on the cold earth. The shrivelled grass. The hot smoke in his chest was a comfort. As he ditched the nub he rose. ‘Oh well. I'm going now. I'll be all right. I'll be back one day. Promise.'

There were other words – he wanted to say them, but what was the point. And it was too cold anyway. But he'd be warm tonight.

2

Ashley stood in the darkness of the headmaster's office. He had put the dog on the desk. A canister of petrol at his feet. He knew this room so well. A patch of darker dark beyond the desk, a filing cabinet. If he moved a pace or two to his left his leg would touch one of the two upright chairs placed before the headmaster's desk. Outside the window another sort of darkness, bluer, not so black.

A surge of tiredness overtook the boy. He wanted to lie down, beneath the desk perhaps, and sleep. It was ten o'clock. He thought about his dad. His first night, so it'd be Winson Green. It's always a local prison to start with. He guessed he would be in bed by now; they went to bed early in prison. He tried to see him in a cell. Two men, or even three, in a cell smaller than this room. He wondered who he'd be in with. What they had done. And in the silence he recalled the sounds he had heard about: slamming and clanking, footsteps – on metal stairs – hundreds of them; keys – jangling and turning – hundreds of them; after dark – shouting and calling, tapping and banging. His dad had told him stories. It was the smell that was the worst. Piss. Sweat and piss. Kieran had told him it was snoring; that's the worst, other blokes in the cell, snoring like trains, like pigs, and no escape.

He guessed he'd probably know for real in a few days. Well it'd be better than care. He wished he were bigger and stronger. He knew that the kids in YD were tough, hard, brutal. His dad always said, weedy blokes like us, littleuns, have to learn to use our gobs, talk our way out.

He'd got a paper, his reading wasn't that good, and he had looked carefully at each headline, searching for key words,
burglary, sentenced
, but he couldn't see anything about his dad. He wondered if they would write about him after the fire. He lifted the petrol canister. He needed to think this out. If he didn't he'd probably go up with everything. Perhaps that – he stopped the thought and concentrated on the matter in hand. If he slopped about half the can over the dog and the desk, then dribbled a thin trail to the door he could light the newspaper in the corridor, throw it into the office and quickly pull the door shut; that should be okay.

Then burning. In his eyes. Or like there was pepper in them. He opened his mouth to gulp air and a sob shook his body, echoed like another presence in the dark room. Something was going. Something from inside him. Slipping away. What was he going to do? If he set fire to the school, who knew how long he would be looking at, a couple of years at least. American kids shot the school up and then blew their own heads off. There were sites for them on the net.

If he didn't do anything? Just laid low. Tried to get by. They might not notice. Or care even. If he set fire to the school they'd have to chase him, even if he didn't give himself up. In the darkness he stroked the brittle pelt of the dog. Wiry. Sort of hard. No point in leaving her here. He heaved her back into the sack. He'd picked the lock so neatly it slammed to and clicked behind him as if he had never been there.

He let himself into the house. Even darker than in the school. Real black, and the tinny throb of music from the students next door. It was freezing. Cautiously Ashley reached for the switch. He jumped at the light and looked around, as if expecting someone to be sitting there waiting for him. It was funny without the dog. And his dad. He went through to the kitchen and lit two gas rings on the cooker. Let his hands hover over them to warm. Saw how close he could get them to the flame before he had to pull away.

There was no bread, but some Weetabix. No milk, so he spread jam on them; he had four, sitting in the dark. He was nervous about the light being on. It would be best if no one knew he was here. If he only came back here to sleep.

He expected someone would come and they did. Mrs Martin arrived, the social worker he had seen with his dad, knocking on the door in her smart striped suit. He peered down on her from the front bedroom window. She looked through the letterbox, then in at the window. But not too close; the window was dirty. She stepped back into the road, peered up at the bedroom window, saw nothing and got into her car. The next day she was back, this time with another woman, dressed like a hippy, with a shaggy coat and a long flowered skirt. The next day she was back, with the hippy and a bloke in a suit. He spoke on his phone, looked the house up and down. Tried to look in at the front-room window but didn't want to get his cuffs dirty. Then a police car arrived. Two officers, a man and a woman. Both young. Laughing. They talked to the social workers, looked at the house, went round the back and looked at the house from there. The social workers knocked on the door again. The police officers came back and banged on the door. Looked through the letterbox. Peered in through the window. Banged on the door again.

Ashley had a plan. If it looked like they were coming in he would go up into the loft. They wouldn't go up there. He watched them all standing round the police car, talking. The hippy kept sneezing. The woman police officer stepped away, didn't want her germs.

Ashley was ready. If the police took anything out of the car that suggested they were going to break in he would make for the loft – but they didn't. They talked for a bit longer, then the police officers got into their car and left. The man in the suit spoke on his phone again, then to the two women. One last look at the house and they got into their cars and drove away.

He sometimes thought about coming clean, phoning Kieran, or Crawford even, telling them he was in the house and asking for help. Just help in staying here. Sometimes he was optimistic – he could get odd jobs, nick a few things, get enough money to pay for his food and the bills when they came in – electric, gas, stuff like that. He'd just take the cash to the post office; you can pay bills like that at the post office. But what about the mortgage? He had no idea how his dad paid the mortgage. And that would probably be a lot. That's why he needed to talk to Crawford; his dad had said he was going to look after the mortgage for him, he was sure he had.

After a few days he started going out more, spending most of the day in the park, wandering round the streets, or in the arcades. Sometimes he went into Cotteridge and wandered around the small workshops and industrial units scattered among the rows of terraced houses there, asking if they wanted any jobs doing. The Asian blokes were best. Ashley felt they wouldn't ask any awkward questions about school, that they wouldn't report him to anyone. Sometimes he got jobs like cleaning cars, or helping to pack away stalls outside shops at the end of the day. A bloke called Mr Ahmad from the box factory told him to come on Friday mornings if it wasn't raining. He could clean the directors' cars, four of them, ten quid.

He took a gamble and went round to Benjy Graham's. An old mate of his dad's. Benjy had a few things going, mostly legit these days, stuff like selling on the markets, and Ashley wondered if he wanted a helper.

‘You're too late, kid. If it was before Christmas I might have been able to use you, but things are quiet now. People don't come out so much in the winter. Too cold. Tell you what though. Leave me your number. If I do need a hand any time I'll give you a call.'

Ashley put on his most pathetic and disappointed look as he gave Benjy his number, and it worked. Benjy fished a tenner from his pocket. ‘Here you are, kid, this might help.'

‘Ta. It will.'

Then Benjy had an idea. ‘How's that dog of yours? St George.'

‘She died. A virus.'

‘I like to walk my dogs myself. Gives me a bit of exercise.' He patted his belly. ‘But mornings is busy. How do you fancy exercising 'em for me? A good distance though. Then I won't have to do so much at night. That'll please the missus.'

‘Yeah. I can do that. Easy. A really long walk. How much?'

‘Well, to start with let's say two quid a go.'

‘Four.'

Benjy chuckled. ‘Okay. Let's settle at three. An hour's walk, mind.'

‘Cool.'

Ashley was at the Grahams' for six-thirty. It was still dark and there was frost on the ground. Car windscreens looked like bathroom windows. He wanted to get the job done and be out of the way before kids started making their way to school. He was still keeping low. Benjy was long gone. There was a damp black oblong in the frost where his van had stood. You have to be an early riser if you work the markets. Ashley could do that. He didn't mind getting up early if there was something to get up for. He thought he might like the markets. Course you needed the chat. More like comedians some of those blokes. But he could do it, he was sure he could. And if he could perfect his smoke tricks, do the question mark – that would go down well with the shoppers.

When Ashley rang the bell the bedroom window above him opened and a woman poked her head out.

‘You Ashley?' He could see the top of her blue nightdress bunched in her hand.

‘Yeah.'

‘Bloody hell, it's freezing. Here's the key to the back gate. The dogs are in the shed, and the leads are hanging up there. You'll see them. A security light comes on from the back door.' She dropped the key and Ashley caught it, no problem. ‘And love, don't let 'em shit in the garden will you.'

‘Okay.' Ashley wasn't sure how he was going to prevent them from doing this, but still.

‘Oh, and Benjy says give 'em a good hour.'

The dogs started barking as soon as he opened the gate. He knew there were three of them. Staffs. And he knew what he had to do. Talk to them through the door till they stopped barking. Open the door and stand still; let them come to him – still talking. Let them take a good sniff. It was easier to coax two or three dogs than one. One guard dog on a site was more difficult than two or three. He had heard lots of blokes say this. Two or three you can coax; just one, they go mad, too defensive; you have to take them out.

The Staffs sniffed around his trainers. He let his hand fall so they could sniff it. Still talking, like to babies. One dog licked his hand, warm and rough but not wet, not slobby like some dogs, like greyhounds for example. Staffs have dry mouths. Ashley turned his hand and started to stroke one of the dogs. Slowly. A pat or two when it was ready. Then, bend the legs at the knees and in one easy movement you're down to their level, still talking. Another pat. Ruffle the coat a bit.
You're a good boy aren't you?
Then you can start moving.
Come on then you lot, come on.
He found the leads. Rattled them a bit. They started to get excited, knew they were going for a walk. They were ugly little fuckers but they seemed all right, Ashley liked them.

He saw Mrs Graham peering down from the back bedroom window, trying to watch him through the early-morning gloom. Checking to see if one of them did a dump probably. But they didn't let him down. They were keen to get started, real getaway merchants, straining at the leash, and they didn't start shitting till they were well down the street.

Ashley had worked it out. He walked them to Norton Playing Field, there was no one there at this time in the morning, and here he let them off the leash for a bit. Then he walked them along the canal up on to the Mendy, and then down along the Pershore Road and through Kinny Park back home. He was pleased with the plan. But he wished he'd had some breakfast. All he'd wanted when he got up was a cup of tea and a couple of fags. The cold was making him hungry. Benjy wasn't going to pay him until the end of the week, but he had enough to go to a caff and have a bacon sarnie.

There were texts from his dad a few times. He wondered how he had managed to get hold of a phone. He knew they weren't supposed to have them. Kieran had told him that blokes used to hide them up their arses. Ashley couldn't imagine his dad doing that. He remembered trying to get a banana up his own. Perhaps he had just borrowed one. But Ashley never opened the messages. He wanted to. In a way. But in another he didn't. Sort of scared. He asked himself what sort of message he'd like to get from his dad, what he'd like him to say. But he couldn't come up with an answer.

Then there was one from KW. KW? Ashley opened it.
I am changing locks on cecil rd tomorrow. be there. kieran.

More shit. He should have known it was going too easy. But Kieran was okay. He was sure he was.

Kieran threw a tube of something at him when he arrived the next day. Ashley caught it one-handed.

‘Catch!' Kieran cheered.

‘What's this? Toothpaste?'

‘It's for your skin. Get rid of the spots.'

Ashley looked at the tube. He wasn't sure what the word on the front said.

‘You put it on in the morning and before you go to bed. And every time you wash your face. Should last you ages. Anyone been round?'

‘No. Well, social worker, the day after the trial. Didn't let her in. Hid upstairs. She checked the place over from the outside. Thinks I've gone. Hasn't been back since. How long did he get?'

‘Three.'

Ashley nodded.

‘Crawford says you can stay here for a bit if you want. So long as your old man does his stuff and keeps his mouth shut. But.' He raised his index finger, pointing upward, then drew a downward arc stopping between Ashley's eyes. ‘Stay out of trouble. Don't attract any attention. And. He'll be storing things here. So stick to your bedroom. No snooping. What you don't know can't hurt you – well, that's what they say.'

There was another bloke waiting in a van outside. Kieran called him in.

‘Woytec,' he told Ashley. ‘Polish. He's working on Crawford's extension. He's going to help me do a little job. Make us a cup of tea, Ash.'

They turned the radio on and got to work changing the locks. They changed the ones on the front and back doors, and then to Ashley's surprise put mortises on the internal doors.

‘Here.' Kieran held a pair of keys on a ring. ‘For you. Front door. Back door. There's no lock on the kitchen, this room, your bedroom or the bathroom. Everywhere else is out of bounds. Got it? Keep out.'