Jay stared at him.
‘How did you know?’ he whispered.
‘Know what?’ asked Joe, with exaggerated innocence. ‘What’s tha mean? I’m only a miner’s lad. I don’t know owt.’
Jay didn’t go back to the canal that day. He was too confused by everything, his mind racing with fights and broken radios and Haitian witchcraft and Joe’s bright, laughing eyes. Instead, he took his bike and rode slowly past the railway bridge three or four times, heart pounding, trying to find the courage to climb the banking. Eventually he rode home, depressed and dissatisfied, all his triumph evaporated. He imagined Zeth and his friends going through his treasures, rocking with dirty laughter, scattering comics and books, stuffing sweets and chocolate bars into their mouths, pocketing the money. Worse still, there were his notebooks in there, the stories and poems he’d written. Finally he rode home, jaw aching with rage, watched
The next day he decided to stay at home. The red flannel bag sat on his bedside table like a mute challenge. Jay ignored it and tried to read, but all his best comics were still in the treasure box. The absence of the radio filled the air with a hostile silence. Outside the sun shone and there was just enough breeze to stop the air from scorching. It was going to be the most beautiful day of the summer.
He arrived at the railway bridge in a kind of daze. He hadn’t meant to go there; even as he pedalled towards town something inside him knew he was going to turn round, take a different route, leave the canal to Zeth and his gang – their territory now. Perhaps he would go to Joe’s house – he hadn’t asked him to come back, but he hadn’t asked him to keep away, either, as if Jay’s presence was a matter of indifference to him – or maybe drop by at the newsagent’s and buy some smokes. Either way, he certainly wasn’t going to go back to the canal. As he hid his bike in the familiar stand of willowherb, as he climbed the banking, he repeated it to himself. Only an idiot would risk that again. Joe’s red flannel bag was in his jeans pocket. He could feel it, a soft ball no bigger than a rolled-up hanky. He wondered how a bag full of herbs was supposed to help him. He had opened it the previous night, laying the contents out on his bedside table. A few pieces of stick, some brownish powder and some bits of green-grey aromatic stuff filled the bag. A part of him had expected shrunken heads. It was a joke, Jay told himself fiercely. Just an old man having his fun. And yet the stubborn part of him, which wanted desperately to believe, just wouldn’t leave the thing alone. What if there was magic in the bag, after all? Jay imagined himself holding out the charm, incanting a magical spell in a ringing voice, Zeth and his mates cowering… The bag pressed comfortingly against his hip like a steadying hand. With a lurch of the heart, he began to make his way down the banking towards the canal. He probably wouldn’t meet anyone, anyway.
Wrong again. He crept along the bridle path, keeping to the shade of the trees, his sneakers silent against the baked yellow earth. He was shaking with adrenalin, ready to run at the slightest sound. A bird flapped noisily out of its reed bed as he passed, and he froze, certain that an alarm had been given for miles around. Nothing. Jay was almost at the lock now, he could see the place in the banking where the treasure box was hidden. Pieces of broken plastic still littered the stones. He knelt down, removed the piece of turf which concealed the stone and began to work it out.
He’d been imagining them for so long that for a second he was sure the sounds were in his head. But now he could see their dim shapes coming over from the ash-pit side of the canal, shielded by bushes. There was no time to run. Half a minute at most before they broke cover. The bridle path was wide open from here, too far from the railway bridge to be sure. In seconds he would be an open target.
He realized there was only one place to hide. The canal itself. It was mostly dry, except in patches, choked with reeds and litter and a hundred years’ worth of silt. The little jetty stood about four feet above it, and he might be hidden, at least for a while. Of course, as soon as they stepped out onto the jetty, or joined the path, or bent down to examine something on the surface of the greasy water…
But there was no time to think of that now. Jay slid down from his kneeling position into the canal, pushing the treasure box back into place as he did so. For a moment he felt his feet slide into the mud without resistance, then he touched bottom, ankle-deep in the slime. It slid into his sneakers and oozed between his toes. Ignoring it, he crouched low, reeds tickling his face, determined to present as small a target as possible. Instinctively he looked for weapons: stones, cans, things to throw. If they saw him, surprise would be his only advantage.
He’d forgotten about Joe’s charm in his jeans pocket. It got pulled out somehow as he crouched in the mud, and he picked it up automatically, feeling suddenly scornful at himself. How on earth could he have believed that a bag of leaves and sticks could protect him? Why had he wanted to believe it?
They were close now; ten feet away, he guessed. He could hear the sounds of their boots. Someone threw a bottle or a jar hard against the stones; it exploded, and he flinched as glass showered his head and shoulders. The decision to hide beneath their feet seemed ridiculous now; suicidal. All they had to do was look down and he was at their mercy. He should have run, he told himself bitterly, run when he had the chance. The footsteps came closer. Nine feet. Eight. Seven. Jay flattened his cheek against the wall’s dank stones, trying to be the wall. Joe’s charm was moist with sweat. Six feet. Five feet. Four.
Voices – Sideburns’ and Aeroplanes’ – sounding agonizingly close.
‘Tha dun’t reckon he’ll be back, then?’
‘Will he heckers, like. He’s a fuckin’ dead man if he does.’
That’s me, thought Jay dreamily. They’re talking about me.
Three feet. Two feet.
Zeth’s voice, almost indifferent in its cool menace: ‘I can wait.’
Two feet. One. A shadow fell over him, pinning him to the ground. Jay felt his hackles rising. They were looking down, looking over the canal, and he didn’t dare raise his head, though the need to know was like a terrible itch, like nettle-rash of the mind. He could
A stone plapped into a greasy puddle not two feet away. Jay could see it from the corner of his eye. Another stone.
They had to be teasing him, he thought desperately. They had seen him and they were prolonging the moment, stifling mean laughter, silently picking up stones and missiles to throw. Or maybe Zeth had lifted his air rifle, his eyes pensive…
But none of that happened. Just as he was about to look up, Jay heard the sound of their boots moving away. Another stone hit the mud and skidded towards him, making him flinch. Then their voices, already receding lazily towards the ash pit, someone saying something about looking for bottles for target practice.
He waited, oddly reluctant to move. It was a ruse, he said to himself, a trick to make him break cover, there was no way they could have missed him. But the voices continued to recede, beyond the jetty, growing fainter as they took the overgrown path back towards the ash pit. The distant crack of the rifle. Laughter from behind the trees. It was impossible. They had to have seen him. But somehow…
Carefully Jay pulled out the treasure box. The charm was black with the sweat from his hands. It worked, he told himself in astonishment. It was impossible, but it worked.
9
London, March 1999
‘EVEN THE DULLEST AND COLDEST OF CHARACTERS’, HE TOLD HIS evening students, ‘may be humanized by giving him someone to love. A child, a lover, even, at a pinch, a dog.’ Unless you’re writing sci-fi, he thought, with a sudden grin, in which case you just give them yellow eyes.
He perched on his desk, next to his bulging duffel bag, resisting the urge to touch it, to open it. The students looked at him with awed expressions. Some took notes. ‘Even’ – writing laboriously, straining so as not to miss a single word – ‘even… at pinch… dog’.
He taught them on Kerry’s insistence, vaguely disliking their ambition, their slavish obedience to the rules. There were fifteen of them, dressed almost uniformly in black; earnest young men and intense young women, with
