Jozef had taken Stevie off the job. He’d seen no other way out.
The boy had made himself scarce, up the stairs, and now Jozef set to work, hauling up the kitchen floorboards. He turned his back on his men, furious with them for closing ranks. Jozef was furious with himself as well: no pride in falling into line.
But it had worked. He’d got them all shoulder to shoulder, for what felt like the first time that summer. He hadn’t even needed to shout: Jozef had just told his men to get on, you know how much we have to get done. And now he heard them, picking up their tools, picking up swiftly where they’d left off.
Tomas went out for pipes, and the rest of them all got their heads down, putting in a solid afternoon. The boiler was righted, the kitchen units fitted neatly around it; floorboards re-laid, heating pipes all in place. On any other day it would have pleased him, but Jozef was glad when they left for the evening, especially Marek.
His phone went while he was sweeping, and Jozef thought it would be the developer, calling with a compromise offer, but it turned out to be Romek.
“Don’t you pay for the over-run, you hear?”
“I’m not.” Jozef was irked: always someone talking behind his back, thinking he had no backbone. And besides, he’d had three phone calls from the man this afternoon, and hadn’t bent once.
Romek told him:
“Good, good.”
And then:
“So you sacked the boy.”
“Who told you?”
It must have been Tomas, Jozef thought. He must have called him, in triumph, but Romek said:
“Stevie. He just phoned me asking for a job.”
Jozef looked up the wide stairs, leaning his broom against the wall. He’d sent the boy to pack up, but he hadn’t heard him leave yet; only so long he could put off throwing him out. Jozef asked:
“So have you got work for him?”
Hoping Romek might. The last Jozef heard, he’d been in line for a big conversion, but Romek told him:
“No. I’ve got nothing. Until well into the autumn. Might have to go on holiday.” He laughed, half-hearted. “Might see you in Gdańsk. I told the boy to stay in Glasgow anyway. Gave him some numbers, people up there. There’s nothing for him in London.”
He didn’t ask why Jozef had sacked him, so Jozef thought he must have heard the whole sorry story. Stevie’s side, in any case. Romek told him:
“You shouldn’t let it get to you.”
“All right then.”
Romek let out his breath. Then he said:
“I just know that boy can get to you. Right? If you let him.” Jozef said nothing. It was a surprising admission. But then he thought of the boots: Romek’s son’s, that he’d given to Stevie. Romek had sent the boy up here, told him to stay put; maybe he wanted him off his conscience. Back with his family, even. Romek told Jozef now:
“What can we do? Me and you? We have no work for him.”
And then:
“It’s better this way. That’s what I say. He’ll have to work things out for himself.”
Jozef locked up downstairs, shutting all the windows; he did the same on the first floor, making sure everything was secure. He was leaving the house, for food and air, and bit of respite. But he had to get Stevie out first.
The boy was in the big room when he got upstairs, sitting at the wall with his holdall; all packed up, but like he didn’t know where next. He gave Jozef a black look when he came in the door, and Jozef nodded: understood. But then he told him:
“You didn’t take the pipes. But you are covering up for a thief, yes?”
He was hurt: the boy had got to him, Romek was right, but Jozef hadn’t wanted it to show like this. He was hot again, from the climb through the closed-up house, too aware he was sweating. He hadn’t planned what to say, and he should have planned it. He asked:
He’d like to know that at least. When he went to see Ewa, he could tell her Marek had learned something over the summer. But Stevie gave no answer, and then Jozef sighed, exasperated.
“Why don’t you go home now?”
“Why don’t you?” Stevie shot back, sharp.
Jozef thought he’d had that coming; he let it pass. He didn’t like to put the boy out onto the street, though, not if he could help it, so he asked:
“How old are you?”
“Auld enough.”
Jozef couldn’t be sure that he was.
“Been takin care ae mysel since I was fourteen, pal.”
The boy made it sound like a long time; it sounded far too young to Jozef.
“Been on my ain two feet since the day I left here.”
There was a hard note in his voice; hard to tell if he was proud or aggrieved. Jozef asked:
“They know you’re back here? Your parents?”
Stevie shook his head, definite.
“You have anyone else?” Jozef persisted. The boy must have someone; uncles, grandparents.
The boy shook his head again, still annoyed, only not as definite this time, so Jozef waited a moment, thinking he might be getting somewhere. Stevie sat forward a little, as though to speak, but he took his time before he said:
“Used tae stay wae my Gran.”
A brief statement of fact, but Jozef seized it, before the boy could withdraw again.
“Here? In Glasgow?” he asked. “Your grandmother is still in the same place?” Maybe he could go to her.
“Aye.” Stevie blinked, still hesitant. “I phone her there. Sometimes.”
“So, you can phone her now,” Jozef cut in. He didn’t want to know if the boy’s calls were welcome or not, he just got out his mobile, held it out.
But Stevie frowned at the offer, sitting back again, his face darkening.
“I’ve my ain, pal.”
And then Jozef felt foolish, for forcing the issue; for thinking it could be so simple.
The boy had to leave now, even if he had nowhere to go, Jozef knew there was no way round this. He put away his mobile and pulled out his wallet.
“Listen.” He counted out some notes. “This is your wages. It’s what I owe you.”
It was a tidy little wad, enough to cover the final week, not just the days the boy had worked. So Jozef was buying him off, but he hoped they could both pretend he wasn’t.
The boy looked away as Jozef stepped towards him, but when he held out the money, Stevie took it from his hand. In no position to be proud. He pocketed it, and then he muttered:
“So I can get new work boots, aye?”
Jozef nodded. Something like that.
He thought Romek’s boots must be in the holdall, because the boy had his old trainers on, and the shabby jeans too: the same outfit he’d arrived in. Jozef was close enough now to see the fraying stitches around the patch; that it was coming loose, just above the red hand. He told him:
“You can get yourself good work trousers as well.”
Stevie looked down at himself. He bent his knee up to his chest, leaning forward, making a show of inspecting his badge. Then he said:
“It’ll hold.”
Ducking his head, biting off a stray thread.
“Nae hole there anyhow.”
He gave Jozef a nod, a shrug, patting his knee, but his face was difficult to read: defiant, or maybe just in need. Who did this boy belong with?
Stevie sat a while, rolling the thread against his teeth with his tongue, then he asked:
“You’re wantin me out. Just now. Am I right?”
Jozef did. But he found he couldn’t say it. He said:
“I am out of here too. Monday, Tuesday.”
The boy gave no response. So then Jozef had to tell him:
“This job is done now. I am going. I can’t help you.”
Blunt truth; he hoped he sounded sorry at least. The boy squinted, over at the one still-open window. He’d been on his own since the day he left here. Stevie wouldn’t meet Jozef’s eye, but he nodded.