George scratched his itchy head. He lifted his arm and sniffed. He stank. He’d have to go into Bradlow, if he could sneak on the train, to see if he could find a way into the public baths for a wash and brush up without paying.
Standing behind the gates of the camp he stared past the sycamores at the allotments across the road. He wondered if there was anything fit to eat over there. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Walking from Bradlow, he’d worked up an appetite, looked forward to some of his mother’s cooking. He’d been so sure she’d have calmed down. Even surer she wouldn’t have gone to the cops. After all she’d lost one son. He scowled. He and Frank might have fought like cat and dog but he’d still been his brother. And blood’s thicker than water. Or should be. Bloody old cow.
He looked to the top of the gates. It would be easier if he could just climb over and get in and out of the camp that way. Anything would be better than that bloody awful culvert. But he was too short; there was no way he could even reach the first crossbar. Besides, all the new sodding barbed wire the Council had stuck on up there made it impossible.
What a bloody mess he was in. Howarth and his bloody meddling sister had ruined his life between them. He tried to work out how to get his own back, to wipe the whole lot of them off the face of the earth. He was too hungry to think straight.
But he’d got rid of one of the buggers. He thought back to the satisfaction of seeing Tom Howarth flying over his van bonnet. He’d do it again. If not the girl, then Howarth himself. He’d nothing to lose now; hung for a sheep as a lamb. He gave a short gulp of laughter but shivered. Pack it in, he told himself. His hands balled into tight fists at the memory of the beating he’d taken from the man.
He started at the sound of someone on the allotments shouting out and he fell back behind the stone post. Peering round he saw two men on adjoining plots. One, rolling his sleeves up, a spade propped against his waist, gazed upwards at the cloudless sky. ‘Always summat to do,’ he shouted and, grabbing hold of the handle, started to dig.
The other man gave a small uplifting movement of his head. ‘Aye, there is that.’
George was stuck now. He didn’t dare cross behind the gates in case he was seen. The old bitch might have changed her mind and grassed on him to the cops. Besides, just being seen inside the camp would bring some bugger over to see what he was doing there. He’d have to sit it out.
The sun was hot on his head. He’d left his cap with his other stuff in the basement. He pressed his fingers over his eyes. Christ, he was turning soft.
He must have fallen asleep. His neck ached as though he’d been stuck in the same position for hours. He rubbed the back of it, kneading the muscles in his shoulders and slowly, painfully, stood.
He looked for his watch before remembering he’d pawned it, then up at the sun. Late afternoon? The allotments looked empty.
His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn’t eaten. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, searching for saliva. He was thirsty as well – he could murder a pint.
It wasn’t the only thing he could murder, given half a chance.
Slowly, limping slightly because a nail had come through the sole of his boot, George made his way across the long stretch of concrete towards the old hospital building.
Less than ten minutes later he was sliding down the banking of grass between the sycamores and climbing over the fence into the allotment. One greenhouse door was only held by a small bolt. In no time George was breathing in the warm muggy air and the smell of tomato plants. He touched the leaves, feeling the softness between his fingers, and looked around. At the far end there was a small bed of soil with a few lettuces of varying sizes. But it was a half-eaten sandwich and what looked like homemade biscuits on an old wooden chair that caught his eye. He pulled up two of the lettuces and tore off the roots. Then he sat down to eat.
A light, high-pitched laugh cut into the quiet.
George ducked down below the wooden staging and waited until a group of people passed. When he peered over the edge of the greenhouse door he saw a small chubby girl running between the allotments followed by a blonde child clutching a doll under her arm. Their voices floated towards him.
‘First one there.’
‘Wait for me.’
A bloke passed manoeuvring a big blue pram along the narrow path. Looks a right soft arse, George thought.
There was a thud and then a wail. George shuffled forward so he could see. One of the kids had fallen over. He ducked down as the man looked around.
Patrick Howarth.
George watched as Howarth left the pram and went to pick up the blonde girl who buried her face against him, crying. The other kid jigged from one foot to the other in front of them. ‘She all right? She all right?’
He’d got kids! Of course. He’d got a family. George had forgotten that. A sodding family. And here he was, on his bloody own, with nowt to look forward to. Fingering the scar on his cheek, he could almost taste the bitterness. Overwhelmed by the fierce rush of hatred, his legs gave way and he slid helplessly down until he was sitting on the dirt, struggling to take in air. Gradually the weakness subsided and he was left with just the loathing coursing through him.
He raised his head.
Howarth had put the girl down and was rubbing her knees. A few moments later they set off along the path again, the two kids holding hands, stopping at one of the other greenhouses.
He heard Howarth call out, ‘Wait here, watch the pram!’ before going inside, reappearing with a bunch of lettuce and some newspaper. Wrapping the leaves up and putting them in the tray underneath the pram, he came back along the path. ‘No running this time.’
George waited until he was sure there was no one else around. He strode over to Howarth’s greenhouse, grinning. Once inside, he ripped up all the tomato plants and lettuces, smashed the wooden staging that held pots of geraniums and emptied every tray of seedlings into the metal tub of rainwater outside the greenhouse door.
They’d know it was him, at least he hoped they would. And he hoped it would put the fear of God in Howarth, wondering what else he would do.