‘I should have stayed in Manchester with my mates.’ He tipped back on the chair, balancing on two legs. ‘We’ve had such a blindin’ time they begged me to stay.’ His mouth twisted. They hadn’t, not the last lot he’d dossed at; kicked him out like his sodding mother had, like they all had in the end, just because his money had gone. With no one else to sponge off, he’d had to come back to Ashford.
He pinched his nostrils together and sniffed before spitting out into the empty fireplace.
‘Hey up, yer dirty bugger,’ Arthur Brown said, ‘don’t do that.’
‘Got a cold.’ George sniffed again.
‘Well, use your sodding ’anky,’ Arthur grumbled.
George noticed an opened bottle of Arthur’s homemade potato wine on the sideboard. ‘I could do with a drink. Bloody landlord in the Crown wouldn’t serve me.’
‘That’s my last bottle.’ Arthur reached over and, opening one of the doors, put it in the cupboard.
George stood up to leave. ‘You’re a miserable bastard, Brown. Always have been, always will be. A proper bloody tight-arse.’
George hung around in Skirm Park until it was almost dark and the park-keeper kicked him out and locked the gates. There was only one place left to go.
He sidled through alleyways and side streets in a circuitous route, resentment and anger rising as he passed the terraced houses with the lit windows and the sounds of voices, muffled by curtains.
Once, hearing footsteps, he waited in the shadow of one of the Corinthian columns outside the Roxy. The cinema was closed, the crowds dispersed over an hour ago, and behind the mullioned windows the building was in darkness. A couple, arm in arm, hurried past, their voices loud and echoing as they walked under the glass canopy. He gave them a few minutes before moving off again, slipping past the backs of the houses to come out near the camp.
There were no street lamps at this end of Shaw Street. The cloud-shaded half-moon gave just enough light for him to check there was no one around. He crossed the road and pushed his way through the undergrowth beside the high fence. After a few minutes he stopped. The culvert was hidden by shrubbery and rubble, but he knew exactly where it was. Tucking his jacket into his large duffle bag and pushing the two blankets he’d dragged off his bed in front of him, he worked for a few minutes clearing the entrance before crawling inside.
The smell hit him instantly, a rank dampness; the culvert angled upwards and a thin trickle of slimy water trailed sluggishly downwards under him. He clutched the blankets to him and wiped first one hand and then the other on his jacket lapel, thinking of his mother sitting in the warmth at their house. ‘Bitch!’
The curse resounded around him, and he heard a tiny rattle of claws and high-pitched squeals somewhere in the darkness. He stopped, swallowed the sob in his throat and tried to hold his breath against the stench. When he pressed the switch on his chrome torch, the bulb flickered and went out.
‘Shit!’ He shook the torch hard. It suddenly lit, filling the culvert with a harsh yellow beam. And then went out. In his frustration he banged it on the side of the metal tunnel. The dull thud was followed by the tinkle of glass and a sudden pain in his thumb. ‘Shit,’ he muttered again, sucking at the skin. He tasted blood.
The smell of the tunnel, the dampness seeping into his clothes, the sharp pain, and the darkness prevented him moving forwards. In that moment, the self-pity, the hatred gnawing at his insides was overwhelming. He covered his head with the blankets and howled.
The noise stilled him. He crouched, knees under his chin, waiting for any sense of courage to return. Eventually, gagging, he scrambled up, avoiding the slow moving slime under his arms and knees. Taking short breaths through his mouth helped to shut off the stink.
It took a long time. The rats’ squeaks stayed just ahead of him, stopping every time he did. The tunnel was wide but it was long and he struggled against the instinctive panic of being trapped.
At last, he felt a change in the air. Wedging his knees against the sides of the culvert he pulled himself upwards, laughing with relief. Hooking his fingers around the edge, he fell out onto the ground.
He stood for a moment gulping in the fresh air. Then he bent over and retched, vomit splashing over his boots.
Trembling, he waited until the heaving subsided before feeling his way around the crumbling brick walls that enclosed the duct.
Years ago, the first time he found his way into the camp, just to have a nose around after a long session in the Crown, he’d realised this small building housed some sort of drainage system. There were channels leading to other culverts covered by metal grids and bits of pipes. Frank used to say the hospital was like a warren, full of places where he and the other guards could stash beer for the long boring night shifts. From the sight of the dusty old broken bottles scattered around, this was obviously one of them.
Relying on the pale moon to find his way, George slowly crossed a narrow path towards the hospital and felt down the side of the building until he came to some steps leading up to a small door. He fumbled in his pocket for matches. In the small pool of light he moved cautiously along the dark corridors. The air was fetid. He’d seen rats here as well, before now.
The flame crept along the match. Spitting on his fingers he turned it and held onto the blackened end until that too burned. He’d need to be careful and limit his cigarettes; he only had the one box of matches.
The boiler room felt damp when he forced open the heavy door. And cold. There was little light from the air vents near the ceiling.
He threw the blankets on the floor and knelt down to rummage blindly inside his duffle bag for a bottle of beer. There was enough food filched from home to last a few days but the beer had been his first thought.
‘Fuckin’ shithole. Fuckin’ Ma. Fuckin’ Brown. Fuckin’ Howarths.’
Because of them he was stuck here. Because of them he would have to run, to hide somewhere where no one knew him.
But sooner or later he’d make sure they were sorry they’d ever crossed him.