CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

 

Sean walked blindly on, with no idea where he was going or what he should do. By now, the rain had soaked through his jacket and was dripping down his legs into his shoes. Being out at night in a strange place frightened him. He passed no-one and the further he walked, the more frightened he became. He wished he was at home with his family instead of wandering the streets of Manchester with no money and an empty stomach. His mouth felt dry and he ran his tongue around his cracked lips.

Confused, he slowed down to get his bearings. Was he on the right road to Old Trafford? He couldn’t be sure. It was growing dark and the streets were desolate. He glanced furtively over his shoulder, jumping nervously when he heard a dog bark. One or two cars sloshed past, and a half-empty bus. The shops were shut and, with nowhere to shelter, he feared he wouldn’t make it.

He missed Tommy and the company of his school pals. Dripping from the rain, he took cover underneath a railway bridge and crouched down, holding his stomach. He decided to stay there for the night. At least he would be out of the rain. Holding his head, he cried. Suddenly a noise echoed. He jerked upright and caught his breath. It was a mournful sound, like someone or something in pain. Frightened, he jumped to his feet, peering through the darkness. When he heard it again, he gulped nervously. Clinging to the wall, he edged along until he stumbled over a slight figure propped up against the side of the bridge. Sean squatted down close.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked tentatively.

Another moan.

He knelt down next to the youth, surprised at how small and thin he was. Sean guessed he was around eleven years old. He was bleeding from his head and nose. If Sean felt grubby, he looked well dressed in comparison. The boy’s frayed coat swung open, revealing a red football shirt and, underneath the grime, Sean could just make out the oval club crest with Liverbird inscribed for Liverpool Football Club.

‘I’ll get someone.’ Sean stood up.

The boy caught his leg and pulled him off his feet.

‘Hey! What’d you do that for?’ Sean was beginning to wish he hadn’t offered to help, when the boy wagged his finger and shook his head. ‘No… no help,’ he said, his voice weak. ‘Ge’ me up and… and I’ll show ye where to tek me.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘Are ye going te help me, or what?’

Sean placed his arm around the skeletal figure, and the boy moaned as he got to his feet. There was a smell of unwashed clothes and tobacco and, as he hobbled, he cried out. The boy’s leg appeared to be sprained or broken, Sean wasn’t sure. As they left the shelter of the bridge, the rain eased to a drizzle. ‘I’m Sean, what’s your name?’

‘Dead posh, aren’t ye?’

‘No!’ Sean stopped and gripped his stomach. ‘I’m from Dublin, that’s all; not posh!’

‘Ye can call me Duffy. That ain’t me real name, mind.’ Pain made the boy wince with every step until they reached some old warehouses, where he instructed Sean to leave him. ‘I take it you’ve somewhere better to lay your head?’

‘No, no, I haven’t.’ Sean was staring in disbelief at Duffy’s shelter, made up of two large sheets of corrugated roofing leaning up against a wall. An old grey blanket, full of holes, hung down one side. Inside was a dry concrete slab, but nothing else.

‘Ye can stay here if ye want.’ Duffy crawled in underneath, dragging his leg and moaning. ‘Been on the streets long, have ye?’

Sean shook his head, fighting back tears. ‘Me dad’s walked out on me. What about you?’

Duffy laughed. ‘I ran away from the kids’ ‘ome when I was eleven. That was five years ago, mate.’

‘You’re sixteen?’ Sean, unable to stand up much longer, slid down onto a wet patch against the wall. ‘Got any food?’

‘No. You?’

Sean shook his head, feeling as though his stomach was about to drop out.

‘Ye don’t look hungry.’

‘I am.’

‘The Sally Army comes round with soup.’

‘When? I’m starving!’

Duffy shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Lost track o’ time. Anyroad, ye’ll know when. The ‘omeless gather round here at night. Loads o’ kids, some older guys, but I like to keep to meself.’ He sniffed.

‘Do you know of any jobs around here?’

Duffy sniggered. ‘When ye’ve been round here long enough, you’ll change your tune.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are ye t'ick as well as posh?’ He pulled a small grey blanket out from underneath a red and white cone, and wrapped it around his injured leg. Then he took a bottle of beer from his inside pocket and slurped it down. Sean’s stomach cramps grew worse and he wrapped his arms across his stomach. ‘Here.’ Duffy handed him a Mars bar. ‘Ye look like ye need it more than me.’

‘Thanks.’ Sean’s face lifted. He tore at the wrapper and chomped into the thick chocolate bar, savouring every morsel. When he turned back, Duffy was fast asleep.

Sean felt vulnerable and frightened. Thoughts of walking any further in the dark made him weak. Lonelier than he’d ever felt in his entire life, he crawled in closer to the older boy. If only this was a nightmare and his mam would soon be calling him to get up for school. But this was too raw, too painful not to be real, and he swallowed hard.

He stayed awake, listening for footsteps, scared by the noisy brawls that went on up and down the street. The soup women arrived and a portion was doled out to everyone except Duffy, who slept on as if in a comatose state fuelled by drink and pain. The soup only took the edge off Sean’s hunger. Cold and shivery, he snuggled up to Duffy as fights and arguments broke out well into the night.

Too frightened to sleep, his stomach pains worsened, and he couldn’t help remembering his granny’s dinners; the plate piled so high he could hardly finish. He wondered what his mam was doing and if she was thinking of him. ‘I miss you, Mam,’ he murmured.

He woke feeling damp and cold. Duffy was nowhere to be seen. Sean realised that if he hadn’t met the boy, he could have died of starvation or been mugged, as Duffy must have been. He wondered where he’d gone. He could hardly walk last night and his leg was hurting real bad. Had he gone for more drink, or perhaps to rob food? That was something he’d be doing himself before long, if he was to survive.

Sean wanted to see Duffy before making his way back to Old Trafford. In daylight, it would be easier to find his way. He crossed his fingers he’d be lucky this time. If nothing turned up, he’d have no choice but to come back and ask Duffy if he could sleep here for another night. At least he knew he’d get soup when those kind ladies came round again. He yawned, ran his hands over his face and dragged his fingers through his tousled hair. Pulling his hood closely around his head, he got stiffly to his feet. It was then that he realised his rucksack had disappeared.

Duffy had warned him about things getting nicked on the streets. There hadn’t been much in his bag, but everything he was wearing was damp. Now he had to get a job, or else he’d find himself back here again, cold and hungry. As he walked away, he could hear shouting as arguments began to brew again. Frightened, he quickened his step.

By the time he reached United’s football ground, his stomach ached and he felt faint. He had no idea what time it was, and he wasn’t sure what day it was. He huddled in the doorway, willing someone to turn up. In spite of the hazy sunshine, he felt cold and shivery and, without his rucksack, he didn’t have another jumper.

After what seemed like hours, the Assistant Manager, Jimmy Murphy turned up. He didn’t look pleased to see Sean waiting for him.

‘Not you again!’ he said in a dispirited voice. ‘Have you no home to go to, kid?’

Sean stood up and stuffed his hands into his empty pockets. He was shivering.

‘Please, Mr. Murphy. I need work. I’m starving… I’ll do…’ The next thing his legs buckled and he couldn’t stop himself falling to the ground.