Blacklands

for this, you arse creeper, is what they burned on the back of his neck. To be singled out so in class was to be doomed in the playground and he sighed at the thought of the next few days of dodging and hiding and sticking close to the teacher—“What’s wrong with you, Lamb? Go and play!”

Luckily it didn’t happen often that he was so marked. Steven was only an average student, a quiet boy who rarely gave cause for concern, or even attention. When Mrs. O’Leary wrote the end-of-term reports, it took a second or two to recall the skinny dark-haired boy who matched the name on her register. Along with Chantelle Cox, Taylor Laughlan, and Vivienne Khan, Steven Lamb was a child only truly visible by his absence, when a cross next to his name gave him fleeting statistical interest.

Steven spent lunchtime near the gym doors with Lewis, as usual. Lewis had cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and a Mars bar and Steven had fish paste and a two-fingered Kit Kat. Lewis refused to swap anything, and Steven couldn’t blame him.

The three hooded boys played footie on the tarmac netball court, and only occasionally had the time to leer threateningly at Steven or to call him a wanker as the ball came down the left. One of them did pretend to throw it in his face, making Steven blink comically, and the boy cackled joylessly at him, but it was all bearable.

“You want me to beat him up for you?” Lewis inquired through chocolate lips.

“Nah, it’s all right.” Steven shrugged. “Thanks, though.”

“Anytime. You just let me know.”

Lewis was a little shorter than Steven, but outweighed him by twenty pounds of pure ego. Steven had never actually seen Lewis fight but it was generally accepted by both of them that Lewis was a match for anybody right up to—but not including—Year 8. Michael Cox, brother of semivisible Chantelle, was in Year 8 and he was over six feet tall and was black, to boot. Everyone knew the black kids were tougher and that Michael Cox was the toughest of them all.

Other than Michael Cox, Steven reckoned Lewis was a match for anybody. But even Lewis couldn’t fight all three hoodies, and that was surely what he’d get if he decided to fight one. They both knew it, so they changed the subject by unspoken agreement.

“The old man’s taking me to the match tomorrow. Want to come?”

The match, Steven knew, involved the local team, the Blacklanders. In the absence of a nearby top-class league soccer team, Lewis and his father had plunged headlong into pragmatic support for the Blacklanders—a motley collection of local half-talent—and Lewis followed their fortunes with the same fervor that his classmates did Liverpool or Manchester United.

Going to the football was the only thing Lewis and his dad ever did together.

His dad was a short, ginger, bespectacled man who rarely spoke. He wore slacks beyond his years and did something in an office in Minehead but Lewis had never cared enough to find out exactly what. “Something in the law,” he’d shrugged when Steven asked. At home Lewis’s dad did the Telegraph crossword and researched his family tree online. Once a week in the winter, he and Lewis’s mother went to the village hall to play badminton—a risible game made even worse by the occasional glimpse Steven had had of them in their kit, his pale curly leg hairs and her maxi thighs in a miniskirt.

In all the years Steven and Lewis had been friends, Lewis’s dad had only ever said three different things directly to him: “Hello, Steven,” on many occasions, “You boys having fun?” whenever he accidentally stumbled on them engaged in spying, and once—embarrassingly—“Who traipsed dog shit through the bloody kitchen?”

In common with his much larger, more vibrant mother, Lewis generally ignored his dad. In Steven’s company he greeted everything his dad said with an eye-rolling tut or truculent silence.

Once Steven had gone to Minehead with Lewis’s family to see a sand-castle competition. By the time they got there a summer downpour had reduced the magnificent creations to vague, melting mounds, so that the fairytale castle looked like the Titanic, and the life-sized orca looked like a rugby ball. Lewis’s dad had nevertheless wandered from lump to lump in his Berghaus waterproofs, photographing each from several angles and trying to enthuse Lewis by repeating variations on the theme of “You can see how it would have looked!” All the while Lewis and his mother shivered under a flapping umbrella, rolling their eyes and whining loudly about getting inside for a cream tea.

While he hadn’t quite had the guts to abandon Lewis and show support for the sand castles, Steven had stood a little way away from his friend, his mother, and the umbrella. He preferred to get wet than to be associated with their scornful dismissal of such sad enthusiasm.

He thought it was a waste of a father.

Lewis brought him back to the here and now by adding temptingly: “Batten’s off the injury list.”

Steven shook his head. “Can’t.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

Steven shrugged. Lewis shook his head pityingly. “Your loss, mate.”

Steven doubted that; he’d seen the Blacklanders play.

Saturday was dry and, if not warm, at least not particularly cold for January. Steven dug two complete holes by lunchtime and ate a strawberry jam sandwich. He always made his own Saturday sandwiches, so never had to suffer the indignity of fish paste. He’d taken the crusts—nobody cared about crusts. One of them had a speck of mold on it and he picked it off with a grimy finger. It made him think of Uncle Jude.

Of all the uncles Steven had had, Uncle Jude was his favorite. Uncle Jude was tall—really tall, and had thick, lowering eyebrows and a deep, Hammer Horror voice.

Uncle Jude was a gardener and he had a four-year-old truck and employed three men, but his fingernails were always dirty, which Nan hated. Steven’s mum always said it was good clean dirt—not what she called gutter grime. Of course, that was before they broke up. After that, his mum’s only answer to Nan’s criticism of Uncle Jude was a slight tightening around the lips and a shorter fuse with Steven and Davey.

It was Uncle Jude who had given Steven his spade. Steven had told him he wanted to dig a vegetable patch in the backyard. Of course he never had but Uncle Jude was cool about it. He’d come into the kitchen and peer through the rain at the bramble-choked jungle and say: “How are the tomatoes, Steve?” Or “I see the beans are really taking off.” And he and Steven would exchange wry smiles that made Steven’s heart expand a little in his chest.

Sometimes after tea, Uncle Jude played Frankenstein, which meant he would chase Steven and Davey around the house, lurching slowly from room to room with his arms outspread to catch the boys, booming menacingly, “Ho ho ho! Run and hide but Frankenstein will find you!”

Steven was nearly ten at the time and old enough to know better, but Uncle Jude’s huge size, and three- year-old Davey’s hysterical shrieks, would inject genuine fear into him. He’d pretend to be playing for Davey’s sake, but—hidden behind the sofa or wrapped in the front-room curtain with his hair twisted up into the thick green cloth, waiting for Uncle Jude to find them—he knew that his shallow, fluttering breath and hammering heart could not lie.

Unable to bear the tension, Davey invariably cracked, and would bounce up from their hiding place and rush imploringly at Uncle Jude’s legs, crying: “I’m Frankenstein’s friend!” Steven would grab the opportunity to stand up too, rolling his eyes at Davey for spoiling the game; secretly relieved it was over.

The watery winter sun warmed his back a little as he thought of Uncle Jude. He was three uncles back. After him had been Uncle Neil, who had only lasted about two weeks before disappearing with his mother’s purse and half a chicken dinner, and most recently there was Uncle Brett, who sat and watched TV with religious fervor until his nan and his mum had a blazing row over his head during Countdown. When Uncle Brett told them to shut up for the conundrum, they both turned on him. After that he didn’t come back.

His mother was between uncles now. Steven didn’t always like his uncles but he was always sorry when they left. His was a small, lonely family and any swelling of the ranks was to be welcomed, even if it always turned out to be temporary.

His spade bit into the ground and hit something hard. Steven bent and picked the soil aside with his hands. Usually what he hit was a rock or a root, but this sounded different.

Steven’s stomach flipped as he saw the pale bone smoothness exposed in the rich dark earth. He knelt and scratched at the thick, root-enmeshed dirt of the moor. He had no other tools, just the brute spade, and he felt the soil pressing up painfully under his nails.

He could get his finger under it now, and tried to lever it out. It budged only millimeters, but enough to