Paul loved summer storms. It was something different. Christmas, Easter and birthdays were just another day, but this was exciting; he might die and it wouldn’t be his fault. He put his head back to feel the rain bite, splintering darts. A sudden flash of lightning forked. He counted ‘one, two, three’ before the crack of thunder. ‘Only three miles and it’s coming this way.’ He opened his mouth, swallowing rain. He jogged to a tree split in two at the bottom of the park. It had been hit by lightning years ago. ‘Now that’s a thing I’d like to have seen.’
Paul thought it was alright to talk to himself in the middle of a storm, when there was no one around. ‘Yes, by golly, a tree ripped apart. I wonder, did it look raw inside?’ Another flash of lightning lit the sky. Paul spun round and round. He threw his head back. ‘Come on, come and get me.’
Jack and Ryan ran into the newsagents for shelter. The rain pummelled the window, the sky dark. They watched fat raindrops bounce on the street.
Mr Turner, the newsagent, said, ‘What d ’you want, lads? This isn’t a bus shelter, you have to buy something.’
‘Wanker,’ hissed Jack.
‘Well?’ said Mr Turner.
‘We’re deciding what to buy,’ said Ryan, pretending to look at the shelves. He wandered over to the rows of sweet jars and hummed.
‘Well?’ Mr Turner raised his eyebrow. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Have you got any “Uncle Joe’s Mintballs”?’
‘No.’
Ryan shook his head and wiped his nose. ‘That’s a shame.’ He glanced outside, it was still bucketing.
‘You two, you’re wasting my time as usual. Go on, bugger off.’
‘Can we stay until it eases off?’
Mr Turner’s neck veins bulged. ‘The bus stop’s just there.’ He opened the door. He knew those two were shoplifting but he could never catch them. ‘Don’t come back loitering in here again,’ he barked. ‘In fact, I’m banning you two, you’re nothing but trouble.’
They ran off, grabbing a Kit Kat each and waving V-signs over their shoulders.
They lit up and huddled at the bus stop. ‘Miserable git,’ muttered Ryan.
‘Eh look, there’s Weirdo.’ Jack pointed to a figure splashing in puddles.
‘Nutter. With a bit of luck he’ll get zapped by lightning.’
The storm evaporated. Sun shafts broke through silver clouds. The park glistened green and shiny. Paul was soaked through, and squelched as he walked. ‘Cleansed,’ he said, nodding, ‘I feel cleansed.’ He gazed across the horizon. ‘Thank you, God.’
He saw them coming towards him, and walked quicker.
‘Hey screwball, first shower of the year, eh?’
Paul put his head down and tried to walk faster. They followed him, taunting. ‘When they going to put you back inside, eh?’
‘Let’s hope they throw the key away next time.’
‘Fruitcakes should be kept locked in a tin.’ Ryan spat at Paul’s feet.
Paul’s lips moved but he kept the words zipped inside. He veered, walking fast to the shop for safety.
‘Morning, Paul,’ said Mr Turner. ‘Quite a storm, eh? Looks like you got caught in it.’
‘It was, yes, I certainly did.’
‘Mind you don’t drip on my papers. What can I get for you?’
‘Just the milk today, please.’ Paul bought milk daily. He didn’t have a fridge, he didn’t want a fridge, they hummed too much.
He went back to his flat and listened to the radio. Today, he had his appointment at the doctor’s. It would be two conversations with two other people in one day. Like buses, they all come at once.
Dr Stone was running late and Mrs Todd refused to be hurried.
‘I can’t explain the pain exactly. It balloons out from under my ribs and goes across my belly button,’ she said, grimacing.
‘Does anything make it worse?’
‘Not really, I’m not sure…’
‘How often do you get it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said how often do you get the pain…?’
Dr Stone checked his list while she droned on. Paul was next – good, he could hurry him along.
A receptionist spread her holiday photos out behind the desk, ‘Oh, I look so fat in that one.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said the other receptionist.
‘Oh, I do.’
Paul waited. The man behind Paul coughed and she looked up, pursing her lips. ‘Just take a seat in the waiting room.’
Paul sat and watched the screen carefully. It came up with your name so you knew when the doctor was ready to see you. Sometimes it came up with other messages, but he ignored them.
‘Sit down, Paul. How are you?’ Dr Stone kept his eyes on his computer screen. He checked to see who was in next after Paul. Jean Withers. Christ, what a day. He nodded while Paul said he felt well. ‘Except those boys call me names. Why do they do that?’
‘What boys, Paul?’ He glanced up.
‘The ones I’ve told you about every time I come. They live nearby and for some reason say bad things to me.’
‘Some kids are obnoxious, they’re bullies.’
‘Do they ever shout at you? Why do they pick on me?’ asked Paul.
‘Er no, well yes, not those kids, but different ones maybe, sometimes. Teenagers can be very anti-social.’ He looked at Paul – he was a mountain of a man. His trousers hung half-mast, and his belly strained against a stripy T-shirt. Paul liked stripes. His fuzzy hair bushed out as if he’d been electrocuted.
‘Have you ever thought of getting a haircut, Paul?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your hair is quite long. Kids notice differentness. They might not bother you if you were less… if your hair was shorter.’
‘So if I have my hair cut, they might leave me alone?’
‘Maybe. I’m glad everything is stable, Paul. I’ll see you next month.’ Dr Stone got up and opened the door.
Paul went to the convenience shop. He looked at the offers. ‘A pair of scissors, please.’
‘You’re in luck, Paul, they’re on offer.’
‘I know, I can see.’
Mr Turner smiled. ‘I wish everyone was as straight-forward as you, Paul, always keen for a bargain.’
Paul nodded, he wasn’t sure if thank you was the right thing to say, so said nothing.
Two weeks later, he saw the nurse for his injection.
‘Hi Paul, you look well.’
‘I’ve had my hair cut.’
She smiled. ‘I can see. Did you do it yourself?’
‘Yes, I did, I jolly well did.’ Paul had practised this reply. He thought she might ask him as he’d cut his hair very short. He looked different. He’d heard posh people on the radio say ‘jolly’ – it sounded like tasting jelly.
‘Those boys are still calling me names, even with my hair cut.’
‘Kids, who’d have them, eh?’
‘I don’t know, but people do.’ Paul didn’t know what she meant at all. ‘Do you have them?’
‘I don’t understand why they’re so–’
She looked at her watch. ‘Let’s check your blood pressure, eh?’ she interrupted.
Paul knew he had to be quiet while she listened.
‘Well, that’s fine so we can get on and give you your injection.’ She drew the curtains round him and he dropped his pants. She jabbed the needle.
‘Why do you think they do it?’ he asked, hitching his trousers back up.
‘I’ll see you in a month, Paul,’ she said.
The receptionists were still laughing as he left.
Paul walked up the stairs to his flat; he never took the lift. He hated being trapped and the feeling of being watched. He heard voices as he put his key in the door – he always left the radio on.
He had cereal for tea like usual, with tinned fruit because a man on the radio had said fruit stops you getting cancer. It was mandarin bits.
On the radio he heard there’d been a spate of knifings in London – gang warfare. ‘I’m very glad I don’t live in London, very glad indeed,’ nodded Paul, tipping his bowl to drink the mandarin juice.
Ryan and Jack skived school again. They hung around the kiddie park, sitting on the swings. ‘I’m bored,’ sniffed Jack.
‘But if we go into town, someone might report us like last time,’ said Ryan.
‘Look, it’s crackerjack.’
Paul was heading for the shop. ‘I wonder what would happen if there was a tsunami here?’ he asked himself. ‘After all, Britain is an island surrounded by water, and Iceland’s not far away and earthquakes could be shaking the ocean bed and could send giant waves our way.’ Paul had heard about tsunamis and earthquake activity on the radio. ‘I wonder if one day the earth will split in two, and would it be across or lengthways?’ He nodded. ‘I expect it would depend on how strong, and where the earthquake or volcano was.’
Ryan nudged Jack. ‘Come on, let’s see if we can get him to fetch us some fags. Turner won’t sell us nowt.’
They ran round the bus stop and leapt out in front of Paul. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
‘Hey nuthead, what you up to?’ They blocked his path.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Paul felt a rush of heat burn up his neck.
‘Do you wanna join our gang?’ sniggered Jack.
‘No, I don’t believe gangs are a good thing.’
‘Our gang is. We’d be like the three musketeers. In’t that right, Ryan?’
‘Yeah, we’d be the good guys,’ Ryan nodded. ‘Are you going to the shop?’
Paul blinked. ‘Yes, I am.’ He wanted to run.
‘Will you get us some fags?’
Paul blinked again. ‘Yes, I will.’ He rocked from one foot to the other. They emptied their pockets and gave him seventy-two pence.
Paul clenched his hands, not sure what to do next.
‘Bring them back here,’ said Jack. ‘Then you’ll be one of the gang.’
‘A brotherhood,’ sniggered Ryan.
Paul counted the money shakily outside the shop. He muttered, ‘I don’t want to be in a gang or brotherhood, they misunderstand me.’ His fingers were clothes pegs. ‘The man on the radio said gangs need to be stamped out.’
Mr Turner frowned. ‘I didn’t know you smoked, Paul?’
‘I don’t, Mr Turner. This is in case I decide I want to.’
Mr Turner laughed. ‘You are a card, Paul.’
‘How many cigarettes will this buy?’ He held out his money.
‘Make it up to a pound and you can have six, Paul.’ Mr Turner opened a packet and popped the cigarettes in a bag. He was fond of Paul and his funny ways. ‘What about your milk?’
‘I don’t need it today, thank you, Mr Turner.’
Mr Turner frowned. Strange.
Paul’s hands were sweating as he carried the cigarettes out.
‘Ta, mate.’ Ryan and Jack took three each. They high-fived and laughed. ‘To the Brotherhood.’
Paul stuttered, ‘I d-d-d-don’t want to be in a gang.’
Jack put his face close up to Paul’s. ‘Fuck off back to the loony-bin then.’ He pushed him backwards.
The receptionist who was very orange from her holiday was cross with Paul. ‘How important is it, Paul? Is it an emergency?’
‘Yes, it is, it most certainly is.’ He bit the inside of his lip hard.
The receptionist clicked her tongue loudly.
Dr Stone was surprised. ‘Bit early for your monthly check-up, Paul?’
‘It’s an emergency.’ Paul shifted from one foot to the other, his hair sticking up in clumps of bum fluff. He’d run all the way from the park to the surgery. His heart hadn’t pounded like this in a long time. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘I’m concerned gang warfare is coming up from London.’
‘What?’
‘It’s called Brotherhood.’
Dr Stone smothered a smile. ‘We don’t have the demographic profile for gang warfare in Summerdale.’ He pushed his biro up and down. ‘By that, I mean we don’t have lots of gangs here.’
‘Not yet, but they’re recruiting.’
‘I don’t think so, Paul.’
‘I’ve heard about it on the radio.’
‘Ahh well, maybe you shouldn’t listen to the radio quite so much.’
Paul rubbed his head. ‘I don’t know what to do. They might have knives.’
‘Probably not,’ sighed Dr Stone, looking at his watch.
‘And I’m worried about tsunamis, too.’
Dr Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you have your last injection, Paul?’
‘I certainly did.’
Dr Stone looked at his list of patients for the afternoon; he didn’t have all day. ‘Paul, when you come in for your next monthly appointment we’ll have a good chat about this. These appointments today are for emergencies, this isn’t really an emergency.’
‘But what about the gangs?’
‘You’re a big lad, you can look after yourself. Don’t let them bully you.’
‘I don’t like gangs,’ he said to himself going home, ‘not at all.’
Paul sat on his single bed staring at the wall. He stroked his candlewick bedspread. It was neat and straight, he did it nice every day. He looked round the room. There was a mirror on top of the chest of drawers. Next to it was the radio, a comb and his new scissors. He got up and turned the radio off like Dr Stone told him to.
‘I’ll have to take his advice and fend for myself.’ He felt hot and sweaty and not well at all, but knew the receptionist wouldn’t give him another appointment.
He held on tight to his candlewick bedspread as if clinging to a lifeboat. He scrunched it up into a knot and bit his fist. ‘Oh dear, I don’t want gangs.’ He stood and looked in the mirror. ‘You need to take care of yourself, Paul.’ He took a deep breath, reached for the scissors, and set out to face the Brotherhood.