Bully For You

  The next road was lined with parked cars on both sides. There were coppiced trees by the curbside every ten meters, a postbox, a couple of litter bins, gardens with hedges and fences – so many everyday objects to hide behind. Chris flattened his collar despite the chill and listened to the clump, clump, clump of his own footsteps echoing beneath him, leaden-footed, clumsy. He needed a drink, a lie down, a deadlock and a couple of door bolts. Straining his senses he guessed that the pavement behind him was now empty – or nearly empty. Then he heard what he had been dreading: in the spaces between his heavy clumping feet he heard a much lighter tread keeping pace behind him. Those steps belonged to someone full of energy and purpose; someone fitter if not necessarily younger.

  Chris walked on, his mind attempting to calculate the number of steps remaining to his front gate, surely only in the hundreds. The pursuing footsteps maintained their steady rhythm. Not soft enough to be trainers, not loud enough to be boots. Drug addicts always wore trainers, as did pickpockets and muggers. Or did muggers prefer boots in case they needed to give someone a good kicking? Chris strained his hearing, cocking his neck a little to one side. No, that was the sound of well-cobbled work shoes, designed for the sedentary comfort of an office. So maybe their owner was just another commuter keen to find a stiff drink in front of the six o’clock news. If he turned around very quickly he might even find it was someone he worked with.

  Chris tightened his hold on the umbrella’s handle, urging his legs to greater effort. He imagined spinning around and pushing a button in the umbrella’s handle that dropped the hinged tip, revealing a hypodermic needle. No, if it came down to it Chris would have to jab at an eye socket or the groin and then scarper. Turning into his own road, the urge to just drop his belongings and leg it was almost overwhelming. The pursuing footsteps grew louder and quicker. They were gaining on him. Closing in for the kill. Chris pushed on, his teeth set hard together, as his front gate came into view. A few dozen more steps and he’d be safe.

  His lungs started to burn as he adopted the stride of a power walker. What the two men must look like to a passerby… But that thought only reminded Chris that there were no witnesses. Inviting lights burned behind curtained windows. Would anyone hear him cry out above the sound of the wind and television and kids squabbling? The wind gusted in answer, blotting out the sound of footfalls. When it dropped again, Chris heard those lighter footsteps jogging.

  Adrenaline flushed through his heart and his legs were sprinting before he had time to think. Now was the time he really regretted giving up his gym membership. The front gate loomed. With a grateful moan he noticed that Bradley had again left it unlatched. The damp breeze slapped him across the face and a paper coffee cup skipped across the road. So be a good boy and hand it over! a voice echoed in his mind. But that crucial element of surprise was lost. This time it would be Chris that held the upper hand. And with that thought he imagined the hypodermic tip of his umbrella penetrating an eye. He wouldn’t see that coming, the bastard.

  As he reached out for the gate Chris watched in horror as a stronger gust pushed it closed, the latch rattling home. His feet slapped against the pavement; blood rushed through his ears. Thrusting his umbrella under his left arm Chris flipped the latch up and pushed himself through in one fluid movement, mindful to slam the gate behind him again as he went. The door promised safety. His eyes went straight to the small mocking face of the Yale lock. His hand was already in his pocket, searching for the house keys, his ears straining to hear the sound of the gate latch set free once more. Surprised at his own dexterity Chris pulled out his key bunch and stabbed the front door key home, twisting and pushing forward simultaneously. He almost fell inside, his umbrella and case flying through the air, and with a groan of desperation he pushed the front door closed with his backside. Blood thundered through his veins like a washing machine in a spin. Panting he waited for a heavy thump against the door, but even the gate latch remained silent. Water dripped around his feet like urine.

  Breath bellowed back and forth through his throat, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. An hysterical laugh escaped him that he barely recognised as his own. ‘You idiot!’ Had he seen anyone? Yes there had been running footsteps behind him but it could have been a boyfriend rushing to an after-work date or someone heading for the railway station or... His breathe stopped short in his lungs and his hand slapped his trouser pocket.

  A low moan escaped him, as his mind’s eye supplied the answer he dreaded: his key bunch dangling from the lock outside. No worries; there were bolts inside. He was still safe. But no, he couldn’t just leave them out there; not unless he was prepared to change several locks at no small expense. And would a locksmith be prepared to change all his locks out of hours? That meant a long night listening to every bump and scrape coming from outside. Maybe he could barricade the back door with furniture? No, that would be ridiculous given how close those keys were to him right now. The wind rattled the gate. Yet what if the mugger was still out there, a great here’s Johnnie! grin on his face as he starred at the dangling keys waiting for the door to reopen?

  He bit his knuckles, paralyzed by indecision. Then he had an idea, and grasped it with both hands. But don’t forget… If he went upstairs, looked out from a bedroom window without the light on first… Don’t forget to… Yes, check that the coast was clear and then get the keys back. Simple. He was already half way up the stairs when he heard a familiar grating sound from behind him.

  But don’t forget to bolt the front door first, you idiot! Chris turned to watch in horror as the front door lurched inwards. The security chain rattled against the frame, unsecured; the door bolts as useless as rifles without triggers. Chris’ heart lurched back down the stairs, leaving him dizzy and weak above. How could he have been so stupid?

  ‘Dad, you’ve…’ Bradley stopped when he saw the terrified look on his father’s face. ‘You’ve left your keys in the door.’

  Chris let out a long sigh of relief. But he still couldn’t relax until that door was shut again.

  ‘Yes, I know, Brad. I was just coming down to get them.’

  Chris descended two steps at a time, pulled open the front door and avoided looking at anything but the keys. ‘Thanks.’ He quickly slammed the door back home and clutched his keys till his palm hurt. Bradley headed off to find the television remote. Adolescents were so self-absorbed it was bordering on autism; they noticed only their own needs.

  The blood still whooshed through his head like something had burst. No harm done, really, Chris decided as he slipped both bolts across and popped on the chain. He let out a bray of relief, ignorant of the fact that he had overlooked two important things.

  But then single parents noticed only their own needs.

  Chapter Six

  You can’t go wrong with pasta, he remembered someone telling him. But that was obviously a joke, he decided, staring at the lake of cloudy water in which his spaghetti floundered. Bradley did not even pause to consider it, and one forkful was enough to convince Chris it was only fit for the bin. He understood now why chefs used such foul language. Still, the boy’s attitude irked him. Chris was doing his best to look after him and the house and hold down a full time job. He wondered how Bradley was doing at school, and hoped that no news was good news. Then again they didn’t seem to notice when kids were carrying offensive weapons in some schools.

  Thinking back to his irrational behavior of earlier did little to improve his mood. For God’s sake! As if someone would follow him, let alone chase him down the street! But if they did, they know where you live now. Chris screwed up his eyes and wondered how long the aftershocks of his mugging would last. Perhaps he should ask the quack for a sedative. Damn you, Tess! The fact that he had been running up the stairs when Bradley had waltzed in and the tiny smirk of recognition on the boy’s lips had still failed to register in Chris’ mind.

  The living room door opened suddenly and in slouched his son. Chris opened his mouth
to speak but the boy kept his eyes to the floor. The kitchen door swallowed him up, leaving Chris simmering in the main course of a cookery programme. At the end of the day it was only a matter of heat and bloody ingredients. Chris watched as the smiling television presenter dropped spices into a bubbling pan and stewed with envy.

  At least we’re not fighting. But maybe that was the problem. Real men didn’t debate, they argued. The constant apprehension in the house was like waiting by an oven door with a soufflé inside. That at least made him smile; he’d only just mastered omelets. ‘Time to break a few eggs,’ he decided, marching towards the kitchen.

  Bradley was making a sandwich the hard way. An image jumped into Chris’ mind of Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot. The butter, bread, cheese, mayonnaise and ham were already spread across the worktop like the aftermath of a burst shopping bag. Oblivious, Bradley picked up a knife and jabbed it into the margarine. There was definitely no hope of a father and son catering venture on the horizon.

  ‘I hope you’ll clear that up,’ Chris growled, not knowing how else to start. ‘Brad?’

  ‘Well, it’s my mess, isn’t it?’ Bradley scoffed, keeping his eyes locked on the bread.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning yes, I’ll clear it up.’

  ‘Bradley, I was only…’

  ‘We talked about it school, actually.’ Bradley looked up briefly, the smirk in the corner of his mouth like a winking eye. ‘Responsibility, actions having consequences. All that stuff.’

  ‘Listen, Bradley. I’m doing my best here, you know? I don’t see you helping out much in the kitchen, so I’d like you to clear up any mess you make - if that’s not too much to ask.’

  ‘And I said I would, didn’t I?’ The voice was high, strained with emotion. Bradley offered up his buttered slice as Exhibit A for the defence.

  Bradley returned his attention to the sandwich making, the turning his back on his father a very deliberate provocation. ‘We need to start talking about our situation here, Brad. We’re in this together, remember?’ Chris hoped there might be tears lurking on the periphery of the conversation, anything that would force things out into the open. ‘I mean we’ve both lost someone important in our lives…’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Bradley spat back, the grip on the knife tightening.

  ‘Listen, your mother has…’

  ‘She isn’t here because of you!’

  ‘Life isn’t always so black and white, Brad. These things are never clear cut.’

  Bradley started hacking away at the block of cheddar. ‘I know what happened. I’m not deaf. Or stupid.’

  The truth will out. What famous do-gooder had said that? ‘Brad, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I heard the arguments, Dad. I know what happened…’

  ‘It was her decision to go. No one forced her. If she’d stayed we could have worked things out.’

  ‘I said, I know, Dad!’ the boy screeched, his wet eyes wild and wide.

  There was something odd about this conversation, Chris decided, something elusive but essential. Chris worried about the best way to proceed tactically and opted for conciliation. ‘Just because…’

  ‘And not just arguing either!’ Bradley yelled.

  Chris stepped closer, keeping his voice low. ‘Bradley, listen. Those arguments must have sounded a lot worse than they were, but I give you my word…’

  ‘Bull…sugar.’

  ‘Bradley!’

  Bradley lurched backward, the knife still clenched in his hand and a look of terror in his eyes. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you, Dad? Why can’t you disappear?’ Bradley screamed, slapping the knife down loudly on the counter.

  ‘Listen, your mother and I had problems for years and in the end things just…’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ Bradley returned to his increasingly chaotic sandwich experiment, his hands and brain seemingly at greater odds than father and son.

  ‘But you have to believe me, Brad. It’s what happened! It was your mother that…’

  Bradley finished off his angry sandwich and sloshed himself a noisy glass of milk. The worktop was willfully messy. The knife tipped over the edge of the worktop and clanged to the floor like a bell.

  ‘No, Dad! You’re what happened! You caused this mess!’ And as if to emphasize the point he snatched up his glass and slopped milk over the breadcrumbs and mayo. Chris’ head started to pound. He couldn’t see the elephant in the room, only smell its dung.

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that, Bradley. Please go to your room after you’ve cleaned...’

  Bradley stormed off, drops of milk spitting left and right. ‘No! You do it, Daddy!’ He balanced the plate on top of the glass in order to open the kitchen door, exercising an impressive dexterity in the process. Then he was gone, his footsteps clumping up the stairs towards the sanctuary of his bedroom.

  ‘Brad!’ Chris shouted after him, recovering his authority far too late. ‘What the hell?’ he asked the mutilated cheese. Round One to the twelve-year-old, then. He looked down at the smears of margarine still slalomed between plastic tubs and jars. It really was a terrible mess.

  Chapter Seven

  There were times over the next two days that he feared he might have a stroke. He frequently embroiled himself in petty arguments with colleagues; caught a cold that quickly blocked one ear; and made endless errors and omissions at work. He lost his appetite, whilst trebling his caffeine intake. He left a tub of ice cream out overnight and grilled a plastic knife on toast for breakfast. Every shadow was a lurking figure, every gust of wind a hiss of menace. He went to bed with the light on and then later the radio at low volume; though neither strategy earned him sleep.

  So when the second attack came it was something of a relief. At least I know I’m not crazy, Chris thought as the weight slamming between his shoulder blades sent him flying. And yes, despite his hyper-vigilance, the assault had still caught him by surprise. Why does he always attack from behind? Chris fumed as the familiar forearm snaked around his throat and pulled his head back. Just let me see you coming next time and we’ll see who hits the ground first. He didn’t have the first idea where to buy pepper spray, but surely any aerosol would blind – hairspray, furniture polish… Everything in his field of vision went red for a few seconds, and when it returned to normal callous laughter was caressing his cheek on a warm rush of breath.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t you us want to be mates?’

  Chris started to reach down, but the stranglehold tightened immediately.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr. Haynes. I know where to look.’ A rough hand buried itself deep into his trouser pocket, fingering out the loose change. The obvious question forced its way up his throat like vomit.

  ‘H-How… How do you…?’

  His assailant chuckled. ‘I don’t think you know what’s going on here, do you?’ The pressure around his neck slackened a little, but the pain in his back made it hard to concentrate. ‘Perhaps that little thug of a son can enlighten you.’

  ‘Bradley..?’ Chris immediately cursed himself for using the name. The snake tightened its hold on his windpipe. Chris was aware of his small change being scraped across the tarmac followed by a sigh of disappointment.

  ‘Ever been abroad, Haynes?’ the voice hissed in his ear.

  Chris was suddenly furious, and despite the pain he tried to roll over onto his side, spitting and swearing as he did. ‘What the hell does….’

  ‘Wrong answer.’ His throat was clamped shut completely and the knee in the small of his back had a grown man’s weight behind it. His vision flushed red once more but somehow he didn’t pass out. ‘I’ll ask the questions. All right?’

  The pressure and weight relented, but Chris exercised his defiance by saying nothing.

  ‘Only my boy’s a collector.’ The menacing voice tickled the lobe of his right ear, as a hand slapped his empty pocket playfully. ‘So next time I expect to find a few surprises in here
, all right?’ He snorted at his own joke. ‘Think of it as homework.’

  And with a final thrust from his knee his assailant pushed himself back into the shadows. Chris slowly rolled over. Hard stars glared down at him through the clouds of his bellowing breath. After what seemed like ten minutes, Chris pulled himself up onto his knees.

  Now he would have to go to the police, give a statement, possibly let forensics dust him down or whatever it was they did. It was all so bloody annoying. These nutters should be locked up or at least supervised more closely. They were a danger to normal people. This one had obviously become obsessed with him, the sad bugger. Care in the community? More like stare in the community.

  With a groan Chris stood upright, though he had to lean against a tree as the red tinge re-entered his vision. He felt like he’d been hit by a van.

  ‘Here, you all right, mate?’

  Chris stared down at his feet until his eyes behaved themselves. ‘I’m fine. Just tripped, that’s all.’ Up some stairs.

  ‘Let me give you a hand with those,’ the stranger said, bending down to the pavement. He dropped the silver into Chris’ hand, but all he could think about was the madman’s description of his son as a thug.

  He couldn’t go to the police before he’d to spoken to Bradley first, find out if any strange men had been talking to or following him; or if he was having problems with other kids at school. Make sure you’re not dropping him in it, you mean? Then they would go to the police together - unless Bradley really did have something to hide.

  Hobbling homeward it suddenly occurred to him that he might have some French centimes in his desk drawer. He rubbed his aching head, feeling weak and nauseous. It wouldn’t come to that, though, surely?

  But why not? whispered a dark inner voice. It’s no longer you that’s in control.

  Chapter Eight

  Chris had planned to devote that Saturday to his son anyway, but now the agenda had changed. His spine was a rod inserted into his back without anesthetic. His shoulders felt like they were encased in concrete. Sleep had been virtually impossible, but at least the empty pre-dawn hours had reignited his appetite. The four a.m. tea and toast had never tasted better, even if he did have to follow it with painkillers.