His dad got up early. Buddy heard him go downstairs and into the kitchen. There was the sound of running water then a clatter as something, probably the kettle, fell into the sink. He must be trying to make a cup of tea. A couple of minutes later there was another crash and his dad swore. He’d broken a cup. From the sounds, Buddy could picture the struggle as his dad tried to make the tea with his hands still wrapped in the towels.
He hoped his dad would call so he’d have the pleasure of pretending that he was still asleep. Let him struggle. Let him hurt his hands and make them bleed. He was a liar and a thief and he was ruining everything. All he cared about was his stupid bike. A proper dad wouldn’t waste his money on things like that. A proper dad would have done everything he could to get an honest job and save his money and try to make his mum come home.
Buddy lay there letting his resentment build up but, gradually, the silence began to worry him. Suppose he’d fainted? The silence went on and on and finally he had to get up and see what had happened.
His dad was sitting at the kitchen table. His face seemed even whiter in the daylight and there were dark rings round his eyes. He’d roughly wrapped some new towels round his hands and only a bit of blood had soaked through. There was a broken cup on the floor and tealeaves all over the draining-board.
Neither of them spoke as Buddy boiled the kettle and made the tea. He poured a cup of tea for each of them and sat down. His dad twice tried to lift the cup with his two fists but the tea slopped over the towels and he had to put it down again. Buddy took the cup and held it to his dad’s lips while he drank.
‘Bloomin’ baby,’ his dad mumbled and then grinned and said, ‘You’ll ’ave to change me nappy next.’
Buddy didn’t laugh. It wasn’t the time for jokes. ‘You’ve got to stop it, Dad.’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know what. Stealing.’
‘I told you…’
‘I don’t care what you told me. I know.’
‘You don’t know nuffin’.’
‘Anything! Anything! You can’t even talk properly.’
His dad got up, knocking his chair flying, and stamped out of the room.
‘You don’t care about me!’ Buddy yelled as he went. ‘You’ll get into trouble and go to prison and then what?’
‘Then you won’t ’ave to put up wiv me,’ his dad shouted back and went into the front room, kicking the door to behind him.
Buddy went upstairs and took his school things out of his bag – the bag his dad’s money had paid for, just as it had paid for his trousers. So what? That’s what dads were supposed to do, pay for things you had to have. Why should he feel grateful for that? Anyway, they were like stolen goods – he could probably be in trouble for accepting them. That was nothing to thank his dad for.
He opened his books and tried to do his homework but it was no good. He should never have lost his temper over a word his dad said wrong – that was just a waste of time when there were such important things to talk about. And now, when his dad needed him to help, was the best time to do it instead of sulking up here.
His dad was sitting on the sofa with his hands on his knees. He’d unwrapped the towels and laid them on his lap to stop the blood running on to his trousers. The cuts on the fingers and wrists had stopped bleeding but the deep gashes on his palms still oozed steadily.
‘You ought to go to hospital,’ Buddy said.
‘I don’t need none of your advice,’ his dad said, flapping the ends of the towels over to hide his hands.
Buddy went to the window and stared out.
‘I want you to ring someone.’
‘What for?’ Buddy asked, without turning round.
‘None of your business.’
‘I won’t do it, then.’
‘I thought you didn’t want me to get in trouble.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Well then? Look, I can’t do it meself, can I? I want someone to come and get that bag, if you must know. It’s too dangerous to keep it ’ere.’
‘Why? It’s because it’s stolen, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, all right – it’s stolen. Now are you satisfied?’
It was pointless crying but he couldn’t help it. He slid down the wall on to the floor and the sobs shook his whole body. His dad came over and crouched down next to him, his hands bleeding.
‘Don’t do that, Buddy. Come on, stop crying.’
But he couldn’t. He pulled his knees up to his face and shuddered with the misery that poured out of him. He thought he would never stop but, eventually, he cried himself out until only the occasional sob shook him.
‘Crying don’t help,’ his dad said. ‘Just makes it worse.’
‘Can’t be worse,’ Buddy said and he started to hiccough.
‘You’re joking. Being caught’s worse.’
‘Don’t do it, then.’
‘It ain’t that easy. Once you start…’
‘’Course it is. I stopped nicking from shops.’ His dad looked shocked and Buddy almost laughed but a hiccough came instead.
‘I stopped.’
‘I ’ope you did.’ Then his dad realized. He shook his head and laughed. ‘I’m a fine one to talk. Blimey, what a pair.’
‘I stopped, you can.’
‘You don’t understand. I’m in too deep. It’s not like nicking from shops.’
His dad got up and went back to the sofa. He dabbed his hands on the towels and then lay back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Buddy wiped his face and shifted his weight. His legs were numb and he was cold but, strangely, he felt happier. At least his dad was telling the truth now, and it was good to have been able to say about the shoplifting.
‘I’ll ring if you like,’ he said.
His dad continued to stare at the ceiling and Buddy could see his Adam’s apple moving up and down as if he had to keep on swallowing.
‘Ta,’ his dad said, at last.
‘What’s the number?’
‘30065. Ask for a bloke called King. Tell ’im somefing went wrong and I want to see ’im at my place. Say it’s urgent.’
Buddy memorized the number and got up and went to the door.
‘Buddy!’
‘What?’
‘I’ll try, all right?’
He was so excited about what his dad had said that it wasn’t until he was dialling the number that he realized. King. Mr King – that was the name that the Beast had said. It was all beginning to come together.
The pips went and he pushed the coin into the slot.
‘Hello,’ said a voice.
‘Can I speak to Mr King, please?’
‘Speaking.’
Buddy gave the message. The man hesitated for a bit and sounded angry but he said he’d be over as soon as he could.
When he got home, his dad asked him to go to the Indian grocer’s shop on the corner of Priory Street to see if they sold bandages. The lady there spent ages searching through the crowded shelves. She kept saying, ‘I know we have them. I’m sure we have them,’ and in the end she found them and he bought six packets.
‘Ace!’ his dad said when Buddy finished wrapping the bandage round. He’d done them really tight to try to press some of the big cuts together. His dad ought to have them stitched, but there was no point in saying anything.
Buddy spent the rest of the morning selecting records and playing them for his dad who lay on the sofa with his arms above his head to try and stop the bleeding. Just after one o’clock, the bell rang and Buddy went to the door.
There was no doubt that Mr King was the man who’d taken the Rybeero taxi from outside number 56 – he fitted Julius’ description perfectly. He was very short and fat. His white hair was quite long and his fringe touched the top of his thick glasses. The lenses magnified his eyes so that they looked too big for his face and he reeked of cigars.
‘Terry’s boy,’ he said and patted Buddy on the cheek. ‘What’s your name – Tubby, isn’t it?’
‘Buddy.’
‘That’s right. Your dad in?’
Buddy showed him into the front room where his dad was standing up, looking rather anxious. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers.
‘Hello, Des. Thanks for coming and that. Turn the music off, Buddy.’
‘Just been talking to him,’ Mr King said, patting Buddy’s cheek again as he walked by to the record player. ‘What you done to his hair?’
‘Ain’t me,’ his dad said. ‘They all got it, round ’ere. Skin’eads or somefing. ’orrible, ain’t it?’
‘He’s tall, too. Looks a right villain. How old is he?’
‘Twelve.’
‘I’m fourteen next week,’ Buddy said. ‘And I’m not a skinhead.’
‘Fourteen,’ Mr King said, sitting down in a chair without being asked. ‘He shouldn’t be that tall, should he? Not at fourteen. Anyway – um – has he got something to do?’
‘Oh yeah – ’omework. He’s a right brainbox at school. You’d better get on wiv it then, eh Buddy? Upstairs.’
Buddy left the room and pulled the door to, deliberately not closing it fully. He stamped on the stairs on the way up then took off his shoes and tiptoed down again. He stood close to the door, ready to dash along to the kitchen if necessary.
Mr King was talking and his voice had lost all of its friendliness. It was hard and cold. ‘I don’t care what happened. I set up a safe house and it’s your job to get it there. I take enough risks without having to worry about your end of things. You could have sent it round with that kid of yours.’
‘No.’
‘I’m not pleased, Terry. Don’t let it happen again.’
There was a pause then his dad said quietly, ‘I was thinking maybe I ought to lay off it a bit.’
‘A few days until your hands are better, but I’ve got a couple of jobs marked out for the weekend that’ve got to be done.’
‘I don’t know, Des.’
‘Don’t know what?’
‘I think I’ve ’ad enough.’
‘Now look, Terry, I did you a favour letting you in on this.’
‘I know but…’
‘You owe me, so don’t forget it. This isn’t any of your small-time operations, you know; this is export stuff. I’ve got things running nice – customers in Europe and the States, and they expect delivery. So don’t you start making life hard.’
‘Des…’
‘Don’t “Des” me. I’m committed and so are you. You can have a few days off for your hands but I want you round Croxley Street at eight Friday evening. Understood? Good.’
Buddy tiptoed back up the stairs to his room. He was shaking with anger. Mr King had treated his dad like a little kid – his voice had been like Mr Normington’s when he told someone off. And his dad had just taken it, too – he’d hardly said a thing. Why hadn’t he hit him or kicked him out? So, now it would just go on as before. His dad would take more risks and, eventually, he would be caught – all because of that Mr King.
About five minutes later, his dad called him and Buddy went downstairs. His dad looked miserable but Mr King was smiling as if they’d only been having a friendly chat.
‘Here he is,’ Mr King said. ‘What they call you at school – Beanpole?’
Buddy glared at him.
‘I want a bag of some sort, big enough to hold this,’ Mr King said, holding up the briefcase.
Buddy was furious at being ordered around by him, but at least it meant that he was taking the jewellery away. He found a large plastic bag in the kitchen and gave it to Mr King, who slipped the briefcase inside.
‘Perfect. Well, I’ll have to love you and leave you. Don’t forget, Friday. No, stay there, Terry, and rest yourself. Long-shanks here can see me out.’
Buddy opened the front door. Mr King stepped out and began to turn as if to say goodbye but Buddy closed the door before he could speak.
He went into the kitchen and heated up some soup and made some toast. He didn’t feel at all hungry but they ought to eat. He crumbled the toast into his dad’s soup to make it easier but his dad still had trouble with the spoon. He’d eaten less than half of it when he threw down the spoon and went upstairs to bed. Not a word had been spoken.
Buddy sat in the front room brooding over all the terrible things that were likely to happen. The afternoon thickened towards dusk and the room grew gloomier. He decided to match his mood by making it even darker. He drew the curtains and then, as he was sitting down again, the idea came to him.
It was so shocking that he tried to push it out of his mind but it wouldn’t go. It stayed there and grew until it seemed the only solution. He tried to tell himself it was wrong but the more he thought about the facts, the less wrong it seemed. Before he knew what was happening, he’d accepted the plan and was beginning to work out the details. One after the other, the pieces fell into place until only one doubt remained in his mind. He went up to his dad’s room.
‘Are you asleep, Dad?’
‘No.’
‘I got worried.’
‘What about?’
‘Supposing the police caught Mr King with that bag.’
‘Don’t worry about him – he’s too sharp.’
‘But supposing they did. Would he split on you?’
‘Don’t be daft. He’s plenty of things, but he ain’t a grass.’
‘Oh. You all right?’
‘Yeah. I’ll stay ’ere and try to kip a bit.’
‘Ok. ’Night.’
Buddy closed the door and went downstairs. That was it, then. The last problem had been solved.
The plan was complete.