Five

When they arrived in London they sat in the huge station not knowing what to do, as people rushed in every direction as if certain where they were going.

‘First things first,’ said Michael. ‘If we’re going to stay in a hotel you can’t go in looking like a Dublin jackeen. Let’s walk for a bit and see if we can’t get you a new rig-out.’

Owen carried the bag, putting his arms through the straps and hoisting it on to his back like a school bag. He leaned forward, an old man beneath his burden.

Eventually they found a large department store. Michael sat outside the changing cubicle while Owen tried on denim trousers and a jacket. Michael remembered the state of the boy’s underwear and rushed off to buy him some. But he didn’t know the size.

‘What size of drawers for a boy of twelve?’ he asked the girl behind the counter.

‘Draus?’

‘Yes, drawers. These.’ He held up a pair of Y-fronts. She told him. He took two pairs and two vests and a few pairs of socks. The assistant offered him a wire basket and he piled the things into it. When he got back Owen was standing in front of a mirror, turning and admiring himself.

‘The new man,’ said Michael whistling. Owen seemed shy for the first time since Michael had known him, and coloured.

‘Do they fit?’ Owen nodded. ‘Right let’s have them.’

‘We could nick them easy,’ said Owen. ‘Just walk out and leave the oul’ ones there.’

‘I’ve got money,’ said Michael, a warning in his voice.

Michael bought him a pair of sensible shoes and a classy pair of training shoes, white with three blue stripes.

He thought that if the boy changed in the shop they might be stopped as shoplifters, even though he had the receipts. Attention of that sort was the last thing he wanted, so they found the nearest public toilet and Owen changed into his new gear. Michael felt nervous hanging about the toilet so he washed his hands slowly and thoroughly. He had heard things about London toilets and did not want Owen to be there on his own.

Owen came out of the cubicle carrying his old clothes in the new carrier bag. On the street outside they laughed and stuffed it into the black mouth of a waste bin.

‘You look very grown up,’ said Michael. Owen smiled and exaggerated his swagger so that it looked almost deformed.

‘Are the shoes too tight?’

‘No.’

‘Then walk properly,’ said Michael. ‘Cowboys are out of fashion.’ Owen laughed and punched him hard on the side. Michael put on an American accent.

‘Man, I could use a beef-steak. What about you, son?’

‘With chips?’

‘Yeah, man. With chips.’

During the meal there was silence between them, apart from Michael interpreting the menu for the boy as best he could. It was something that Michael had not quite got used to yet, this silence. Owen seemed to control it, to clam up whenever he wanted to. It was as if talk was irksome to him and he would let it be known in a few grunted replies of ‘I dunno’ or ‘I don’t care’. Michael would then be quiet with him. He felt embarrassed when it was like this. The duty of keeping the conversation going rested entirely on him and when there was a void between them he thought it was his fault. He remembered the silences between his mother and father, warm full silences filled with the tick of the clock, but it was anything but that between Owen and himself. He blamed the age gap between them. He couldn’t help but talk down to him. When there was silence he wanted to manufacture something to say, no matter how silly it was.

But Owen could take the lead any time he wanted. When he was in the mood he could prattle on and on. He could joke and make up stories and talk drivel, mostly when they were alone or out of earshot of others. In silence he couldn’t be shifted.

Round the corner from the restaurant they found what looked like a good hotel. Owen went round in the swing doors twice and Michael hissed a warning at him before going up to the reception desk.

‘Could I have a room for the night, please?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re fully booked.’

They got this answer at three more hotels and Michael was beginning to feel tired and angry when they finally got a place.

‘A double room, sir?’ asked the young receptionist.

‘There’s just the boy and myself,’ said Michael.

‘Would you sign here?’ she said, pushing a black register across the counter to him and picking up her magazine. He panicked when she handed him the pen. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He should have had something prepared. Owen was taking giant steps from one unit of pattern in the plush carpet to another. He twitched the pen between his fingers. Smith was ludicrous. He stalled for time.

‘What’s the date?’

‘The same as the entry above,’ said the girl without looking up from her magazine. The title page of the story she was reading faced him. ‘An Act of Love’ by Garth Abrahams. He wrote in the register ‘M. Abraham’ and then after a moment’s hesitation ‘and son’. He gave the first Dublin address that came to his mind.

The girl showed them to their room and opened the door with a key attached to a large perspex tear-drop. Alone inside, they gazed at the room. It was beautifully furnished.

‘All the colours match,’ said Owen incredulously. He jumped on the bed nearest the window.

‘Bagsy this one,’ he said bouncing up and down. Then he stood up and trampolined.

There were two single beds with gold-coloured coverlets; the carpet and curtains were gold and similarly patterned; there was a desk and two Chippendale-type chairs upholstered in gold. Michael whistled and squatted, looking closely at the chairs. They had a bathroom off the bedroom, which Owen explored.

‘Somebody’s left their soap behind – and their towels,’ he shouted out to Michael. Michael laughed.

‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘C’mere.’

Owen appeared at the bathroom door. From his pocket Michael produced a packet of cigarettes and offered him one.

‘If you want one now you can have it. But I still think you should stop.’

Owen took a cigarette and Michael struck the match and held the light for him. He smoked like a veteran, inhaling deeply. He lay down on the bed and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling.

‘All hotels leave soap and clean towels,’ said Michael.

‘Do they not always be nicked?’

‘Everybody’s not like you, Owen.’

Michael stood at the window, looking down at the grey roofs in the twilight. There were some remnants of red in the grey clouds. This had been their second full day together but it had all been spent travelling, and in a way did not count. A weariness came over him and all of a sudden he felt very tired. He hadn’t realized the tension he had been under since they had left. Now that they were safe in a hotel under a different name he relaxed. He lay down on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

‘It’s bed-time for you, lad. You’re bound to be knackered.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘We forgot to get you pyjamas, dammit.’

‘Never use them outside the Home. I sleep in my vest.’

‘Bully for you.’

Owen was going through the drawers in the desk and slamming them shut when he found them empty.

‘Right enough, what are we going to do tonight?’ he asked.

‘We’re going to bed. That’s what. At least you are. At your age you need a full night’s sleep . . . ’

‘But it’s not even dark yet. At home I don’t go till twelve.’

‘You’re not at home now,’ said Michael, his voice quiet and threatening. ‘If we’re going to make this work, you’re going to have to obey some rules.’

‘Fuck the rules, Brother,’ said Owen. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ash tray beside the bed.

‘That’s rule number one. There is no need for language like that. Rule number two is that you go to bed when I say. In an emergency the captain of the ship has the power of life and death over his crew. This is an emergency. I am the captain. I say beddybyes. Do I make myself clear?’

Grudgingly Owen stripped off. As he was getting into bed, Michael looked over at him.

‘Jesus, look at the feet,’ he said. ‘How long is it since you had a bath? Don’t get into those sheets like that. Do you mean to tell me you put new clothes on over that lot? Let me see.’

Michael inspected his feet, which were black with ingrained dirt at the heels and between the toes. He looked him all over. There was a watermark of dirt about his collar bone and the back of his neck was filthy.

‘Into the bath,’ said Michael. ‘How long is it since you had one?’

‘I don’t swim every day like the rest of them. Anyway, the water won’t be hot.’

‘In hotels the water is always hot. This is not the Home.’

The boy was offended and Michael was sorry he had spoken so harshly. He knew from experience that the one thing that hurt the boys was to be called dirty or to be accused of having a walking head. They could take pride in worn and dirty denims just so long as they themselves were not seen to be dirty.

Michael ran the bath for him, making sure it was not too hot. Naked, the boy looked fragile, his shoulder blades jutting like wings, his ankles, elbows and wrists nodules of bone. Across the back of his legs, as if in a continuous line, was the shining skin of his scars. His body seemed blue-white, not flesh-coloured, a plucked fowl colour.

‘If you turned sideways you’d disappear,’ laughed Michael.

Prudishly the boy sheltered himself by bending over and holding his elbows. He ran for the bathroom. His bum like two pale eggs disappeared round the corner. Michael yodelled,

‘TAAAARRRZZZAAAAAN.’

While Owen bathed, Michael unpacked. He listened to the boy’s voice imitating an engine and the gurgle and swish of the water. The sound of a diving plane was interrupted by a yawn, then continued to rise in pitch. Michael lifted the clothes that Owen had strewn about the floor and folded them. His trousers and new jacket he hung in the wardrobe. As he closed the door the metal coat-hangers clashed softly together in the emptiness like the slow tolling of thin bells.