The Hunted, page 4
‘Now, this might sting.’ She opened an antiseptic wipe and cleaned the wound. It stung. He made a face but didn’t cry out.
‘Sting?’
‘A bit, Mum.’
‘You’re being ever so brave. You’re a brave, brave boy.’
Mummy kiss it better.
He willed her to say it and he willed her to do it. And maybe she wanted to say and do it too. But it was a step too far, too real, too intimate. Even here, even now, they both maybe knew that it was all only pretend.
He wanted her to kiss his arm better, to hold him and comfort him and reassure him and to mother him. He suddenly wanted a mother every bit as much as she wanted a son.
There was a watch – maybe her husband’s – which had been left on the side of the bath. It was probably one of several he owned. People had so many possessions. Tarrin glanced at the time. Only quarter of an hour left before Deet would come knocking on the front door.
She cleaned his arm with the antiseptic wipe and then watched to see if the bleeding had stopped. The wound was quite superficial, more of a scratch than a real, deep cut. Tarrin looked at it and wondered why he had done it – for her benefit, or for his? Or maybe it was a little of both.
She cleaned the cut again, wiping off the surplus blood. Then she took a sticking plaster from the first-aid kit and peeled its plastic paper backing away.
‘You boys!’
Their eyes met – hers bright and smiling, amused but still concerned.
‘You boys . . . honestly.’
‘Sorry . . . Mum.’
They grinned as she peeled the plaster along the cut and held it tight to make it stick.
‘OK now?’
‘OK.’
‘What about that ankle?’
He wriggled it around for her to see. ‘Seems OK now.’
‘Good.’
She threw the blood-stained wipe and the plaster wrapping into the foot-lever bin by the sink. The bin was shiny silver. It reflected a distorted image of the room.
‘OK? Can you stand on it?’
He tried his weight on his ankle and did a little ‘weight on the ankle’ acting.
‘It’s fine.’
Stumbled.
‘Sure?’
Recovered.
‘It’s fine.’
She supported him anyway, as far as the landing, then she let him take the banister rail.
‘Manage now?’
‘I can manage. Thanks . . . Mum.’
‘There. Brave little soldier.’
Unable to stop herself, she ruffled his hair. He didn’t mind. He rather liked it. He wished he could stay here, stay in this house forever, with this nice, kind lady, who surely had a nice, kind husband too. And they could be a family, and this would be home. Maybe he could suggest it. Maybe he could suggest to her that she could buy him from Deet.
Only there wasn’t that much money. They were well off here, the house told you that. But they wouldn’t have the money to buy him from Deet. Deet said he wouldn’t sell Tarrin at any price. But he would, for a big enough one. It was complicated too, the way Deet was about him, sometimes he really did seem to look on him as a real, genuine son. But most of the time he was just merchandise.
He was Deet’s livelihood. If Deet sold him, even for a huge, huge chunk of money, the chances were that within three months Deet would be flat broke and busted. He could no more hold on to money than a man with greasy hands could hold on to eels. Deet didn’t have the first clue how to save; all he really knew was squandering.
He must have made a small fortune out of Tarrin, but there was nothing to show for it. He could have bought a car, a house, had a place of his own and some money in the bank. But no, it had all gone on cheap motels and travelling and always moving on. It had gone on dead-cert racehorses which proved to be more dead than cert – horses that were supposed to have wings on their heels, but which only made crash landings.
It had gone on coffee-shop waitresses and ladies he had met in bars. It had gone on . . . well, Tarrin didn’t really know what it had all gone on, but he knew that it hadn’t gone on him. Or maybe only a little. He was always well fed, well clothed and in good health. But that was only Deet protecting his investment again.
And if Deet had his way, it would go on like this forever. If he could get the money together to pay for the PP operation, then he’d have a child and an income for life. And Deet might live another hundred and twenty years. Another hundred and twenty years of this. Of afternoons just like this one, or so similar as to make no difference.
Another one hundred and twenty years of such afternoons. Tarrin shuddered at the thought.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Cold?’
‘You were shaking. You shuddered.’
‘No, no.’
‘Shock maybe. From the fall.’
‘Could be, yes.’
They were back in the kitchen.
‘Hot, sweet tea – that’s good for shock.’
‘I don’t really drink tea.’
‘A little more lemonade then?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘And a biscuit?’
He wasn’t really hungry, but boys are supposed to be boys, and boys are always supposed to be hungry, even when they’re not, and a refusal can often offend, and he wasn’t there to disappoint the customer, so . . .
‘Please, that would be lovely.’
‘I, er . . . I baked them myself.’
Which meant he would have to eat two. Which was a pity, because he really wasn’t hungry. But then he needn’t eat so much later. Deet wouldn’t mind.
‘Not too thin, kid, but not too fat either. Not too skinny, not too chubby, that’s not how they like them. Just about medium is the way to do it. That’s what there’s a major call for. Somewhere in the middle is about right.’
Deet knew the right thing for everyone, but didn’t seem to know so much of it for himself.
‘Could I use the cloakroom, please?’
She directed him to the downstairs cloakroom. He went to use it and made sure to run the taps a while afterwards so that she would know he was clean and had washed his hands.
‘Don’t go to the toilet in the customer’s time, kid,’ Deet had instructed him. ‘They’re paying for a kid’s company, not to have him hiding in the john, so you remember that and hold on till after.’
But you couldn’t always hold on, sometimes you just needed to go, whether it was the customer’s time or not.
When he returned to the kitchen, the atmosphere had changed. He entered to find Mrs Davey standing looking at the clock. Her face was sad again, her eyes full.
‘It’s all gone so quickly,’ she said. ‘All gone so fast.’
Then she seemed to notice the glass of lemonade and the plate of biscuits, as if she had only just seen them.
‘Your lemonade . . . and biscuits. Come and sit down.’
‘Thanks . . . Mum.’
Time to stop saying that now. Time to wind down. Better not call her ‘Mum’ any more. When the hour was nearly up, the word grew empty, it sounded hollow and false. It was like carrying on the party when everyone had gone home.
He sat at the kitchen table. He sipped his lemonade and reached for a biscuit.
‘May I?’
‘Please. I made them earlier. For you.’
She remained standing and watched him eat. She took evident pleasure in it, almost delight. Why was there such a pleasure in watching a child do such a simple, everyday, necessary thing, such as fill his mouth with food?
‘Hungry?’
‘Little bit. Nice biscuits.’
‘I made them myself.’
‘They’re lovely.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Really nice.’
She watched him finish it.
‘Take another.’
‘Be greedy.’
‘Go on. Just one. I know what boys are.’
No, Mrs Davey, you’re a good, kind woman, but you don’t know what boys are. You know the myths and the stories and everything they are supposed to be. But you do not know what they are. I may as well say ‘I know what Mrs Daveys are.’ But you wouldn’t believe that I did. You’d say how would I know, how would I ever know what it felt to be Mrs Davey, who wanted a family but who was barren, like almost everyone else in the world now, and whose husband was infertile, like so many men. How would I know? you would say. How could I understand the sadness, the loneliness and the pain involved in being Mrs Davey? And yet you tell me that boys will be boys, and that you know what boys are. How complicated we know we are, how simple and straightforward we think everyone else to be.
At her prompting, he took that second biscuit. He also glanced at the clock as he nibbled at the shortbread. Deet would be on his way back, coming down the street, maybe with that waitress’s telephone number written on the back of his hand, or programmed into his mobe, maybe throwing that torn-up betting slip into a bin. He’d be coming down the road and then up the path and then standing outside the door looking at the second hand on his watch until he’d timed it so that exactly one hour was up to the very second, not one breath of time more or less. And then he’d ignore the doorbell – just so as to avoid any inaudible misunderstandings – and he’d raise his hand and brace his knuckles and he’d give it that old . . .
Rat-a-tat-tat!
‘That’ll be your father.’
Tarrin said nothing. It was simpler to let her believe what she wished.
‘Is he your father? You don’t look much like him.’
‘No, he’s not.’
Rat-a-tat-tat. Deet already growing anxious, afraid someone was getting something for nothing, something they hadn’t paid for. If she didn’t get to the door pretty soon, he’d have to levy a surcharge.
‘Come in, Mr Deet. Sorry to keep you.’
No, everything was fine, just fine.
‘Come in, he won’t be a moment.’
‘I’m fine on the doorstep, ma’am, just fine. So did you have a nice time together?’
‘Wonderful, Mr Deet.’
‘Good, good,’ he smiled. ‘Good, good.’
‘He’s a very nice boy, Mr Deet. A credit to you.’
‘He is that, ma’am. Indeed he is. And it’s plain Deet, ma’am, no mister about it. Just plain Deet, short and straight and that’s how everyone knows me.’
‘Well, here he is, ready to go.’
Deet was pleased to see that Tarrin was carrying a small package. The lady had given him a present there, a little bonus. Good, good. Very, very good. But then he spotted the plaster on his arm.
‘What’s that? What’s happened there? What’s that on your arm?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sorry, there was an accident, I’m afraid.’
‘Accident? An accident? What’s this about an accident? If there’s been any permanent damage I may have to—’
‘It’s OK, Deet. It’s just a scratch. I just fell over, that’s all.’
‘Just a scratch?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Maybe you should take him to the hospital just in case,’ Mrs Davey said. ‘In case of tetanus.’
‘He’s OK,’ Deet said. ‘He’s had his injections.’
‘Then that’s all right.’
‘Just a scratch, eh?’
Deet looked pleased and satisfied. He gave Tarrin a sly nod and an all-but-imperceptible wink, like they were both in something together and were pulling the wool nicely over Mrs Davey’s eyes. He’d got cut so she could mother him. Professional stuff.
There was nothing to do but go now. There were just the goodbyes to be said.
‘So what do you say to the lady, kid?’
‘Thank you very much for having me, Mrs Davey.’
‘Thank you for coming, Tarrin. I enjoyed your company immensely. And thank you too, Mr Deet.’
‘That’s just plain Deet, ma’am.’
‘For bringing him along.’
‘My pleasure entirely. And thank you too, ma’am, for being such a good customer and a prompt payer and all up front and such. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have with some of them, lousy would-be swindlers and cheapskates and what with Kiddernappers all hovering and hanging and sniffing around and—’
‘Deet!’
‘Whassat, kid?’
‘Maybe not right now?’
‘What? Oh yeah. Right. Sure, sure. Got troubles of your own, no doubt, ma’am, without needing mine. OK. Well, nice to do business. Maybe another day sometime. We’ll be back this way one time or other. You can always give me a call.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘Here, lemme give you one of my new business cards.’
He extracted one and gave it to her. Tarrin hadn’t seen them before.
‘Just picked them up,’ Deet went on. ‘Hot-lickety-split from the printer’s. Still warm. Look at that, ma’am. Real class and genuine italics. My mobe number’s right there, see. You just call me on my mobe any time you want.’
‘Yes, maybe. Maybe I’ll do that. Goodbye, Tarrin. And thank you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Davey.’
‘If I could ever have a son, I’d want him to be just like you.’
‘I wish you could be my mother, Mrs Davey. Truly I do.’
Deet smiled – that sly look on his face again.
‘Don’t he say the sweetest things, ma’am? You can tell he means ’em too. Which many don’t these days, many don’t.’
But Tarrin did mean it, with all his heart. He wasn’t just trying to keep the customer happy like Deet thought – judging everyone by his own standards. No, he meant it, every word.
Mrs Davey’s eyes were misting over. It was time to go, or stay and be embarrassed as she got upset.
‘Better hit the road then, kid. On to the next. Business, business. No peace for the wicked, eh, Mrs D? Never a moment’s rest. What it is to be popular. Not that I’d know myself – ha ha. Anyway, we’ll be away.’
‘Bye now. Bye, Tarrin.’
‘Bye, Mrs Davey.’
‘Bye, Mr Deet.’
‘That’s just plain Deet, ma’am. Straight Deet. No mister.’
‘Goodbye to you.’
She hurriedly closed the door before the tears could come. They walked on down the path.
They were barely on the pavement before Deet reached for the parcel.
‘So what’d she give you, kid? What’s in the bag? What’s the bonus? What’ve we got?’
‘She gave it to me, Deet.’
‘What if she did? What’s mine is yours and yours is mine. We’re both in this together. What’d she give you? Money? Toys? Something we can sell?’
‘Deet . . .’
Deet stopped, disgusted. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Biscuits, Deet.’
‘Biscuits? She gave you biscuits? No silver keepsakes? No souvenirs? Biscuits.’
‘Shortbread. They’re good. Home-made. Want one?’
‘Nah.’
‘Sure?’
‘Keep them. Come on. We’re due across town on another appointment. Come on, let’s get a cab.’
They walked on down to the road intersection to see if they could flag down a taxi. Tarrin looked back once towards the house they had come from. Mrs Davey was standing in the living room, looking out of the big picture window. Tarrin turned and waved to her, and she raised her hand and waved back. He would have waved again, only Deet saw what he was doing and told him to stop.
‘She’s had her money’s worth, kid. Why give them more than they paid for? They don’t thank you for it. They don’t give you nothing. Nobody in this world gives you nothing, kid, you remember that. You listen to your uncle Deet and you learn. Nobody gives you nothing.’
Tarrin held up his package. ‘She gave me the biscuits,’ he said.
Deet’s lip curled in a sneer.
‘Sure she did. And for whose sake? Yours? Or hers, to make herself feel all warm and lovely about herself? Yeah, biscuits, kid. That’s about all you’ll get for nothing. Biscuits and peanuts. Ha ha ha. Taxi!’
He waved and shouted at a black cab travelling on the other side of the road. The driver made a U-turn and pulled up alongside them.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you when we’re in,’ Deet told him.
He opened the door and let Tarrin climb in first, then he followed.
‘We want to go to the north side.’
‘But I’m on my way home to the south side,’ the cab driver said.
‘Yeah,’ Deet said, ‘which is why I wouldn’t tell you where we were going until we were in. And if you don’t take us there, I’ll report you for refusing a bona fide fare.’
The driver muttered to himself in a bad temper, but he drove on towards the address Deet gave him – Tarrin’s next appointment, their next port of call.
As they drove, the cab driver’s irritation seemed to evaporate. He grew interested in Tarrin and kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. Deet sat examining his new business cards, seeming pleased with the sight of his own name.
‘That your kid?’ the driver asked Deet.
‘Sure he is. Why – anyone saying otherwise?’
‘No, only going to say he seems like a nice kid.’
‘Want to rent him?’ Deet asked.
The cab driver bristled. ‘Do I look like a kid renter?’
‘Strictly legit,’ Deet said. ‘No offence. Just meant as family.’
‘We rented one once, for an afternoon, me and the wife.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘But she just got too upset after. It was worse than before.’
‘Takes all sorts,’ Deet said. ‘Takes all kinds.’
‘Must be nice, though, to have your own son – he is your son, right?’
‘Somebody saying he isn’t?’ Deet asked.
But nobody was saying anything, and it remained that way for the rest of the journey, until the taxi dropped them off at the address of their next appointment. Deet offered to hold the biscuits while Tarrin went in and kept a Mr and Mrs Brunswick company. They were a friendly couple who lived in a high-rise apartment. They spent the hour playing board and card games with him and reading him stories. Deet passed the hour wandering the streets, looking in shop windows and finally sitting on a bench in a local park.
He opened the bag up and tried one of Mrs Davey’s home-made biscuits. They were good. Better than shop-bought. He reached into the bag and had another. By the time he went back to pick Tarrin up, the shortbread biscuits were all gone.
