The Baby and Fly Pie

  Sham and I ran up the stairs in the warehouse to a loading door high in the wall.

  I dared him, ‘Jump!’ The boxes were piled up under us but it was a big drop down.

  ‘You jump,’ said Sham. We both wanted to. There were seven metres deep of boxes underneath us.

  ‘Cardboard can’t hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘Go on then.’

  Sham gave me a push. I squealed and hugged the doorframe. Then he went. He leapt out with his arms up and he screamed as he went down, and my heart went down with him. He hit the boxes with a sort of crumpled boom and vanished. I could hear him thrashing about inside.

  ‘It’s hot,’ he shouted in a muffled voice. ‘It’s hot in here!’

  He sounded okay. I stared down, daring myself. It was an awfully long way. Then I went. I went down like a stone, down, down, down – then BANG! I was sure I’d broken something. BOOM – CRRRRRR-UMP went the boxes. They were hard, but they gave. Everything went dim as I went under.

  Like Sham said, it was hot, or at least warm down there. I started fighting my way down – swimming and crawling and climbing at the same time, smashing up as many boxes as I could to get there. It got cool as you got further away from the sun. It took ages to get out into the light again. Then we ran back up to do it again.

  We did it over and over. After the fourth or fifth time I was exhausted. I’d punched and kicked my way to the ground and I’d come to the warm layer near the sunlight, and I stopped. It was warm and still. The cars on the road a couple of hundred metres off, the gulls still squabbling over the fish, the wind rattling the boxes – it all seemed to belong to another world. You felt that you could lie there forever watching the pale edges of light that crept in, listening to the world outside.

  I thought I might just go to sleep. I listened to Sham punching his way through. He was close. He was making a racket. He got so close I thought he’d fall onto me.

  Then he stopped too.

  I said, ‘Sham,’ quietly.

  He said right next to me, ‘It’s only my friend.’

  There was someone there. I shut up.

  ‘Come here, Fly,’ said Sham. He was very near, only a couple of boxes away. I kept still. This is where my story starts. He pushed against the boxes; they fell away and the light came in. Sham beckoned. I was ready to run, but he said, ‘You better come, Fly.’

  I went.

  It was a man. He’d built a little shelter in there. He was lying all crooked. He had one hand wrapped round his side and his side was black with old blood and red with fresh blood. In the other hand he had a gun which was quivering as it pointed at us. It looked as if it could go off in his hand.

  ‘You come in here,’ he hissed. He sounded terrible. We did as we were told.

  His face was dead white, his eyes were too big and too bright. He looked used and worn out although he was only young. He had a bit of beard, he was dressed in good dothes but they were filthy. He was holding a thick blanket to his side and the blanket was red with blood. He’d crushed up some cardboard boxes and he was lying on them, and they were red underneath him, too. It smelt bad.

  He was staring at us with those big, too-bright eyes and he looked so terrible. I was staring at him and then at the gun and I couldn’t say a word, but Sham said in a quiet voice, ‘It’s all right, we won’t do anything.’

  The man looked at Sham and laughed – as if Sham and I could do anything! We were just kids. But he looked better then.

  That was Sham. When the pressure was on and I just froze up he kept on thinking – as if he was on his own, miles from any trouble, deciding what to have for lunch.

  He stared at the man, a long thoughtful look, taking everything in.

  ‘I want you to go shopping for me,’ said the man.

  The gunman made us squat down on the ground with our hands on our heads. He tried to get something out of his anorak pocket and he made the most awful fuss doing it. He was lying almost on his back, trying to keep the gun pointing at our heads while he dug about with his hand and he was whimpering because it hurt him so much. At last he pulled out a big handful of notes. I mean, money. It looked like thousands of pounds. I’d never seen so much money. I felt as though that money was smiling at me – a mean, wicked smile.

  He hauled himself up and lay back for a minute, panting with the effort. Then he peeled off a fat little wad and put that in one pile, and then he peeled off a few more which he flung at us.

  ‘That’s yours when you get back,’ he gasped nodding at the fat wad. ‘I want food, I want medicine – antibiotics and paracetamol or something like that. Painkillers. I want whisky and I want some milk, a baby’s bottle and some nappies.’

  Sham and I glanced at each other. What did a gangster with a hole in his side want with nappies? He giggled. ‘Funny, eh?’ he snorted, laughing and hurting at the same time. ‘There’s a baby,’ he added, staring at us. ‘It needs things – nappies and stuff. Baby milk and … you know.’

  I didn’t know. Mother Shelly picks up babies from time to time and she gets some of her Big Girls looking after them on the second floor. My sister had done it but I’d never even touched a baby.

  ‘You know,’ insisted the man.

  Sham nodded. ‘I had a baby brother,’ he said, cool as you like. ‘Where is it?’

  The man nodded at a box by his side. He pushed it over to us with his foot.

  Inside the box was a sack. Sham leaned down and opened it up.

  The baby was horrible. It was bright red and its blue eyes were all puffy and wet and red. When it saw us it started jerking and twitching and going redder and redder but it couldn’t cry because it had a piece of tape stuck over its mouth.

  ‘That’s my baby,’ the gunman smiled. ‘My little treasure.’

  Sham reached down to pick it up but he shook his gun and said, ‘Leave it!’ fiercely.

  ‘They need to be held,’ said Sham. There was a funny moment. The man nodded sharply. Sham reached in and picked it up.

  It was twitching and jerking in that horrible way as if it wasn’t human at all. It was in a terrible mess – you know what babies are like. It had peed and crapped and that man hadn’t done anything for it. It held out its arms and Sham cradled it against his chest. It looked awkward but he seemed to know what he was doing. At last it stopped twitching and began wriggling and nuzzling into Sham, making soft, choked little cries.

  ‘Can I take the tape off?’ begged Sham.

  The man shook his head. ‘She cries,’ he said, watching Sham closely. ‘When your friend comes back with the stuff you can take the tape off and you can feed it.’ He nodded at the pile of money. ‘And you can have that. I mean it,’ he added. ‘It’s a job. I’ll pay you. Just do as I say.’

  Sham cuddled the baby. It was reaching its arms up to him and making grunting noises. We felt we’d do anything to get that tape off.

  ‘You go,’ said Sham to me. ‘And make sure you come back.’

  2

  WE CALL IT making good. It’s plans and dreams and you can’t always tell the difference. Everyone’s going to make good but not many do. Sham was unlike most of us, he believed it. He boasted about it – even to Mother Shelly and I think she believed it because she used to put him in charge and give him jobs.

  My big thing was getting out – out of London, out of England, away to a proper country. You know the sort of place – America, Australia, France – where there’s a place for everyone. You get adopted and looked after just by being there! Everyone can make a life for themselves, not just the lucky ones. I wanted to get out and live in one of those countries and have enough money and a big house by the sea.

  Why not? People do. Maybe I could rob a bank with Sham. Maybe I’d find treasure. Maybe – but in my heart I knew all that was too much. I wasn’t the sort. I’m not special. Jane said that dreams have to be big enough to keep you going and small enough to come true. So I had another dream, a regular dream just big enough to work.

  I
didn’t want to be a rubbish sorter all my life. I didn’t want to join a gang or sell seconds like the rest. I wanted to be a baker. Does that sound strange? But a baker has a good life. Everyone needs him, the world passes through his shop. He sells bread to poor people and fancy cakes to rich people. I want to be a baker for all those reasons, but mostly I want to be a baker because a baker is always warm and he always has enough to eat. One day, I’ll have a shop of my own and have cream slices and Viennese twists in the window. I’ll eat them every day – and whatever I can’t eat and I can’t sell I’ll give to the kids who live on the street, like my friend Luke does.

  I never talked about it. Sham would have sneered because working hard isn’t smart. But Luke wanted me. Not many kids have someone willing to train them, but Luke had a little bakery and no kids of his own and he took a shine to me. The only trouble was, I belonged to Mother Shelly and Mother Shelly doesn’t let her kids go for nothing.

  Luke’s a good man. He doesn’t put powder in his bread to make the flour go further. He lets the dough rise all night and that’s why his bread is better than anyone else’s. It comes up with a thick chewy crust and a snappy, crackly surface so good you could eat it all day. If he wanted to, Luke could get a bigger shop in a better place. But – ‘The more money you make, the more trouble you make,’ says Luke. To get a shop on the High Street you have to pay big money to the council and big money to the gangs. So Luke keeps his little shop tucked away down a back alley off Laura Street and he sells out by lunch time and takes the afternoon off. He pays a little every week to the Monroe Gang and everyone leaves him alone. It’s big enough for Luke. As for me, I’d give anything to have that little shop and get up at five every morning to knock up the loaves and put the breakfast buns on to rise.

  Making good is just a dream for most of us. But all dreams, big ones and little ones, ones that come true and ones that never can, they’re all the same in one way: they all cost money. And, as I ran out of the Tip with my pocket full of money, that’s how I was thinking. I couldn’t see anything except that pile of money the gunman had in his anorak. That pile of money was dreams!

  You could do anything. You were set up! You’d made good. You didn’t need to work, you could sail away and buy a house by the sea anywhere in the world. Jane wouldn’t like it, of course. She’d have turned up her nose and said, ‘Bad money.’ But she was a girl, she only had to look pretty and keep her nose clean and find the right man. She didn’t know what was what as far as I was concerned. I felt I’d made good just looking at that money. It must have been thousands and thousands of pounds.

  I didn’t stop to wonder what that man was doing bleeding in a heap of rubbish when he had so much. I didn’t stop to think about what he was doing to the baby, or whose baby it was or why he had it. I just ran to get the shopping as fast as I could before he and his money disappeared.

  Someone shouted at me as I ran off the concrete onto Commercial Road. ‘Hey, you – kid!’ he yelled. They don’t like us running past the Depot Office. I ran faster. I had a hundred pounds in my pocket and I was dangerous. I felt people could tell I had it just by looking at me.

  Spending money isn’t easy. I couldn’t go into a supermarket because they don’t let kids in there – not rubbish kids, anyway. I had to go round all the little shops and, of course, everyone wanted to know where I’d got it.

  The nappies and baby milk and stuff wasn’t so hard.

  ‘I’m on an errand,’ I said. You can explain most things like that.

  The shop girl shrugged. She didn’t care. ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Baby wipes? Cream, powder?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. I didn’t know any of that stuff but I felt that this baby ought to have everything.

  When I started paying for cooked meat with a fifty, they all looked at me.

  ‘On an errand,’ I said.

  ‘Who for, Fly?’ asked the man behind the counter.

  I said, ‘Mother Shelly,’ because she’s the only person I know who has money like that. The shopkeeper had a good look at me. Mother Shelly never sent a kid my age on an errand with that sort of money. He’d remember: Fly Pie was spending money on Tuesday afternoon.

  It was bad for me and it was bad for the man with the gun. It would have been better for me to catch a bus and go somewhere where I wasn’t known but he couldn’t wait.

  ‘Half an hour,’ he’d said, tapping the barrel of his gun.

  I had to run to get to the off licence on Woodplace Lane where Sala will sell booze to anyone. Sala stared hard at me when I asked for cigarettes and three bottles of whisky.

  ‘On an errand,’ I said weakly. He shrugged and turned away to get my stuff. He had to go round the back to get the whisky. That was when I glanced up at the little colour TV Sala had behind the counter. The little voice from the TV buzzed away low because it was only for Sala’s ears. But the shop was empty and I could just make out a few words.

  ‘… three dead men …’ said the tiny voice on the TV. I glanced over the sweet counter out of habit. Normally I might have tried to steal something, but not today.

  ‘… the burnt-out car was found three miles away early this morning …’ said the TV. Sala glanced across at me from where he was plonking three bottles of whisky in a bag. I smiled at him.

  ‘… kidnapped baby …’ said the little voice.

  I forgot everything. On the TV? It couldn’t be! I strained forward to hear more but then Sala came right up and put the bag on the counter. He started counting out my change and I had to try and look as if nothing was happening. I was holding onto the counter to stand still.

  ‘… received demands for the return of the baby … seventeen million pounds …’ said the announcer. Sala banged the money on the table.

  ‘Only a bad man wants three bottles,’ he said.

  ‘It’s got to last a while,’ I explained.

  ‘… Finchley home …’ continued the voice. ‘… an extensive police search …’ Then there was a photograph. It didn’t look the same but I knew. The baby on TV was smiling and clean. Ours was ugly and red and dirty and it twitched. But I knew.

  ‘… the dead men …’ repeated the TV.

  The baby hidden away, covered in piss and shit with a strip of sticky tape over its mouth. Seventeen million pounds …

  I stared at Sala. My mouth was moving. All I could think was seventeen … seventeen million …

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Sala demanded. Then the door opened and two men came in.

  ‘Two hours for a bus from Croydon,’ one of them was complaining.

  I came to. I felt trapped. My face told Sala everything. I turned and sprinted out of the shop.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted one of the men. He swiped at me as I pushed past him.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Sala. He must have thought I’d stolen something the way I was going.

  ‘I’d have walked if I had legs like that,’ remarked the other man as I made the pavement. I was really moving. I had seventeen million pounds chasing after me.

  *

  Back in his cardboard den, the gunman went straight for the whisky and paracetamol. I had to open the tops for him. He wouldn’t put down his gun. He flung a handful of tablets into his mouth and tipped back the whisky … a big mouthful of it. Then he leaned back and looked at me.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  He didn’t seem to care for the food. He just looked at the chicken and fruit I’d bought as if he didn’t know what it was for.

  I had a big tin of dried baby milk and a bottle of fresh milk. Sham poured the fresh milk into the baby bottle and glanced anxiously at the man. He nodded. Sham tore the strip of tape off the baby’s mouth.

  The baby gasped. It hurt. She stared at Sham. You could see how filthy she was – her mouth was white and red where the tape had been and the rest of her was nearly black. Then she opened her mouth for the biggest, loudest howl she had ever made. Sham stuck the bottle in.

  The milk was cold, just out of th
e fridge in the shop. But she didn’t care. She gargled and glugged for a second, seeing what it was. Then she wrapped her little hands around the bottle, curled up her legs, as if she wanted to wrap her whole self right around the bottle, and sucked and sucked and sucked …

  ‘The first drink we’ve had all day,’ said the man, tapping his own bottle. We all sat and watched the baby guzzling. It was very quiet, there was just the wind rattling the boxes outside and the baby going glug, glug, glug. After a bit she opened her eyes and looked at Sham. She let go of the bottle and reached up to play with his fingers.

  ‘Give me some,’ said the man. Sham handed him the milk and the gunman tipped it down his neck in long swallows … he and his baby both guzzling milk.

  After a bit Sham laid the baby on the ground and began to undress her. It stank. He began scraping away at the cac on her bum and she whimpered. The skin was all red and there was blood.

  ‘Must’ve been that shit … sitting in its own shit for two days,’ said the man, watching. He was surprised.

  Sham knew what he was doing. He cleaned the baby up with the wipes and started smearing on cream and stuff. It looked odd because Sham was so cool and smart and there was never anyone but Sham on his mind. But here he was, cleaning up the baby like a little mother.

  ‘I had a baby brother,’ he explained.

  ‘Did you have a mother?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘I told you … I told everyone,’ said Sham. So he had. But everyone said that, and no one ever believed it.

  The gunman began to relax. His head tipped back, he stared at the pale light finding its way through the boxes. He looked fragile, made out of china. I thought that if he relaxed too much he’d never wake up.

  I found myself staring at the pile of money. It was all there, lying by his hand.

  ‘You need a doctor,’ Sham said.

  The man turned his bright eyes on him.