Since Steven had died there had been police cars purring through the streets most days. On Tuesday one of them parked outside the school gates and two policemen went and talked to the baby class. I asked to go to the toilet so I could creep down to the infants’ room and try to hear what they were saying, but the door was shut and Mrs. Goddard caught me trying to crack it open.
“Stop loitering, Chrissie,” she said. “You know you shouldn’t be here. Back to your classroom, please.”
“You mean listening,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Listening,” I said. “You mean ‘Stop listening, Chrissie.’ ‘Loltering’ isn’t a word.”
“Go back to your classroom, Chrissie,” she said. She didn’t like me being right.
The policemen didn’t talk to any of the juniors that day, which was unfair because I wanted to see them up close and I didn’t want to do my worksheet. After school I saw their car parked outside Steven’s house again, and I sat on Mrs. Whitworth’s front wall, waiting for them to come out. When they got to the gate one of them saw me watching.
“You should get home, lass,” he said. “Your mammy will be wondering where you are.”
“No she won’t,” I said.
“Well, you go home and put the telly on, then,” he said.
“There’s no lectric,” I said.
He opened his car door. “Go on, get off with you,” he said. “Not safe for kids to be out in the streets alone.” He folded his body into the seat and they drove away. I watched the car until it disappeared round the corner. The police were spending a lot of time trying to find out what had happened to Steven. Knowing that gave me the sherbet feeling in my fingertips, the same feeling I’d had on my tongue the time Betty had dared me to suck a battery for ten seconds.
• • •
When we ran out of things to do in the blue house we went back to the streets. While we had been in the alleys the mammies had hung out washing between the roofs of the matchbox houses, and sheets and shirtsleeves waved us a swoopy hello. I told Donna to give me a go on her bike but she wouldn’t, so I hit her and she pedaled home to tell on me. William had coins in his pocket, and when Linda went home for dinner he went to the shop to buy a meat pie. We sat in the playground with our backs against the swing poles while he ate it.
“How long do you think Steven will be dead for?” I asked. His mouth was too full of pie to answer. A tear of gravy slid down his chin. I could smell it—brown-smelling, salty—and my insides sucked. He chewed for a long time, and then he took another bite and chewed some more. I kicked his leg to make him pay attention.
“How long do you think Steven will be dead for?” I asked.
“Don’t kick me!” he said.
“Kick you if I want to,” I said.
He slammed his fist between my eyes and knocked my head against the pole. The clunking sound rang in my ears. I didn’t cry. I never cried. I tried to kick him again but he pulled his leg out of the way.
“He’ll be dead forever,” he said.
“Nah,” I said. I knew that wasn’t right. He had been dead for a long time already, and forever was a very long time more. I thought he would probably be back alive by Easter. Easter was a good time for coming back alive. He definitely wouldn’t be dead for actual ever.
“Yeah,” said William. “He will.”
“He won’t,” I said, and I put my hands over my ears so I couldn’t hear him anymore. The sucking on my insides grew until it felt like there were clawing fists in my belly. “Give us a bit of your pie,” I said. He shook his head without looking up. His cheeks were so full they bulged. “If you give us a bit of your pie I’ll let you put your hand down my underpants,” I said.
He swallowed and sighed. “All right then,” he said. “But only one bite.”
We stood up. I lifted the front of my dress, took his hand, and slid it between my legs. His fingers were warm and limp against me, and he was standing close, close enough that I could count the freckles on his cheeks. His breath was hot and smelled of gravy. We stood that way for a little while. His fingers stayed limp. I dropped the hem of my dress and hung my arms by my sides. I pretended to be a puppet. It was pretty boring, really.
When he took his hand out he put it straight into his pocket, and he shoved the rest of the pie toward me so he could put the other hand in the other pocket. I ate it quickly. It tasted of salt and lard, with rubbery meat that squeaked between my teeth. I was so hungry I forgot about chewing on the side without the rotten tooth, and pain snaked all the way down my neck. When I’d finished we climbed the swing poles, but
