Jonathan would nod his head and run out of the house as fast as he could, down the small pathway that separated their two houses and into the shed at the bottom of his garden where he would fling himself onto an old quilt his mother had given him to play house with Alice. He would sob into his forearm, his body shaking with terror, revulsion, rage and helplessness.
For three years, Gus had made his life a living hell. If he didn’t see Jonathan outside, he’d wait until he saw Nancy and say, ‘Nancy, will ye ask the wee lad to run to the shops and get me a few fags and I’ll get him to buy ye a packet too.’
‘I don’t want to go, I’m too tired,’ Jonathan often protested, petrified and desperate at the thought of what would inevitably happen. On one occasion he had refused outright. His mother had gazed at him sternly and said, ‘I’m surprised at you, Jonathan, that you wouldn’t run an errand for a neighbour, and he not a well man. I thought I’d reared you better than that. I’ll go myself.’ She had gone to the shops in a huff and not spoken to him for the rest of the evening.
‘Sorry, Mammy,’ he’d muttered, suffused with guilt when he’d gone into the kitchen to say goodnight and seen her sewing a button on his good white Sunday shirt.
‘Ah sure, it’s not often you don’t do me a favour when I ask you. We’ll let bygones be bygones and forget about it,’ Nancy said kindly, opening her arms to him. She’d hugged him tightly and he’d rested his head on her shoulder and so badly wanted to blurt out that Mr Higgins wasn’t a kind man. That he was mean and dirty and made Jonathan do horrible things.
Shortly after his eleventh birthday, his neighbour had crooked a finger at him one Saturday afternoon when he was mowing the grass. Jonathan, being the man of the house, was responsible for keeping the front and back gardens neat and tidy and for putting out the bin. Nancy had gone to measure up a woman for a dress she was making for her and his sisters were doing housework, making sure the dusting and polishing was done to have the house spick and span for Sunday. ‘I want a few fags, laddie. G’wan to the shops and get me some – here’s ten shillings. Get yer ma a packet as well.’
Jonathan had taken the money without a word, hurried to the shop to complete his purchase and walked home, his heart thumping, his stomach knotted so tightly he could hardly breathe. Instead of knocking on the front door as he usually did, he shoved the cigarettes and change through the letterbox, making sure to keep Nancy’s packet in his pocket. He leapt over the garden wall in a bound and hurried into his own front garden to complete his grass cutting, comforted by the fact that the door to their small front porch was open should he need to make a run for it.
Gus opened his front door scowling. ‘Come over here you and bend down and pick up these fags. Why didn’t ye knock on the door?’ he growled.
Jonathan ignored him. He thought he was going to vomit, but he knew he had to make a stand. There was something very wrong with what that man made him do. His mammy wouldn’t like it if she knew, he was sure of that.
‘De’ye hear me, lad?’ said Gus, raising his voice a little. His face crimson with temper.
‘I’m not going into your house ever again,’ Jonathan shouted, brought to breaking point. ‘Ever! Ever! EVER! And I’m not doing that thing you make me do. You’re a bad dirty bastard!’ he cursed.
Gus came down his path like a bull. ‘Shut up, ye little runt. Shut up, I tell ye! De ye want the neighbours to hear? Now get in there and pick up those fags and go into the front room like ye always do and no more of yer guff!’
In desperation, Jonathan picked up the gardening shears and pointed them at Gus. ‘Get away from me or I’m telling my teacher on you—’
‘Don’t ye ever tell anyone or ye’ll be mighty sorry. I’ll say you’re a little liar,’ Gus ranted, astonished at this utterly unexpected onslaught. Seeing Mrs Johnston, another neighbour, coming along the road towards them, he turned on his heel and stomped, puffing and wheezing, back into his house, leaving Jonathan trembling like a leaf.
‘That’s a nice job you’re doing, Jonathan. If I gave you a shilling would you do mine?’ his neighbour asked when she got to his gate, oblivious to the incident that had just occurred.
‘You don’t have to pay me, Mrs Johnston,’ he managed shakily, knowing his mother would be annoyed if he took payment from a neighbour for cutting her grass.
‘Well I’ll tell you what then, seeing as you’re a kind boy, I’ll make an apple tart for you and you can share it with your mammy and sisters. But you’ve to get the biggest slice,’ she said, giving him a wink.
‘Thanks, Mrs Johnston,’ he answered shakily, darting a glance at the Higginses’ house. The door was closed and he couldn’t see the bulk of his tormentor silhouetted behind the lace curtains.
‘Grand, I’ll go and make the tart so,’ Mrs Johnston said, walking on to her own house.
Jonathan waited.
Would Gus reappear?
If he did, Jonathan was ready to run. His
