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The Great Novel Race 2008:

Daddy's Moon

by Louise McCudden

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Chapter 2

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It’s just starting to rain outside. God’s pissing on me again. And there’s no sheet of glass between us. I pick my pace up, moving across the wet grey pavements. This isn’t my idea of a nice walk. It isn’t taking my mind of anything. I check the time; I don’t have to be back at work for an hour yet. I turn around, wander off in the opposite direction. I’ve been down this road before. It doesn’t lead into the main part of the town, but instead it winds further off into the outskirts.

   I make my way along this road. As I walk, the shops get fewer; the houses get smaller, and the road gets quieter. After about fifteen minutes, I even notice a bunch of kids playing in the street, kicking stones at each other, pushing smaller kids off their bikes. On my left, there’s a sign saying 'public footpath.' I turn up the collar on my coat to shield my ears against the wind. Then I push aside the bushes blocking the alleyway where the walk begins. I look at the path; muddy, slippery. Occasional splashes of colour prove that there’s been grass here, in the not so distant past. I’m wearing my work shoes. But all I can think is this: I might as well, Macy.

   The mud squelches beneath my shoes. The black material at the ends of my trousers dips into the murky rain puddles. I hesitate, but not for long. I might as well, I might as well. I make my way across the first field, until I come to a small wooden stile. The cows in the next field look up without much interest as I clamber over the stile, my handbag clutched between my elbow and my ribcage. “Never seen a woman climbing over a style before?” I ask them, realising how stupid this is, and glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s heard me getting defensive with a cow. “You’ll be hamburgers one day,” I warn them, in a low voice. “It’s no good being all superior.” I jump down from the stile, smooth my hair, and proceed through this second field. I’m halfway through it when I notice these two kids playing in the muck. There’s no way I can avoid walking past them. They’re right in my line of vision. I’m going to have to walk straight between them. They’ve got this football; they’re kicking it between themselves. The taller boy bounces the ball off his forehead. Then he stops, adjusts his fringe. I realise I’ve stopped walking, I’m watching them. I make myself start walking again. The tall boy with the dark hair has seen me. He folds his arms, waits. The shorter boy holds the football in his freckled hands, watching his friend. He twirls the ball skilfully on one finger, not looking at it. How old can he be? Eleven? Twelve?

   The dark-haired boy has his hands in his pockets now. When I’m nearly level with them both, he shouts: “Oi! Sam! Give us that ball.” His friend tosses it to him. “Now, stand back!” He raises the ball above his head, aims. I see him do it; I flinch. I hate myself for flinching! He releases the ball. The cold heavy leather smacks across the side of my jaw. I bite the inside of my mouth, it tastes warm and sticky.

   “Right in the face,” says the short, freckled kid. The dark-haired one says nothing. “Right in the face!”

   I stand still, one hand to my cheek. Those kids, I think to myself. Those bastards. I turn towards the dark-haired boy but he dodges under my arm and begins to sprint across the field. That freckled kid’s laughing pretty hard. I make a lunge for him, but he breaks free and heads off in pursuit of his friend. Well, two can play at that game! I’m much bigger than either of those little bastards. I break into a run. They clamber over a stile, then through a hedgerow. I follow. Bits of leaves and branches get stuck in my hair. But I get through the hedgerow, and realise I’ve come out at a train track. The dark-haired kid is nowhere to be seen, but that freckled kid is stumbling over a pile of rocks as I catch him up. He trips, hits the ground. I grab him by the collar.

   “Get up, you little bastard. Get up. Who do you think you are, chucking stuff at me? You little bastard piece of shit.” I shake him. His feet are hardly touching the ground. His scrawny shoulders hunch up in defence, fear. And damn right, I think. I bloody well hope he’s pissing himself in fear, the little shit.

   “Don’t… ” he stammers. “Please don’t… we was just messing. We didn’t mean nothing by it. We’re sorry, we’re so sorry.”

   “Yeah? How sorry?”

   “We never meant nothing by it.”

   I shake him again. “Not sorry enough. You know what you need? You need a taste of your own medicine, that’s what you need.” I drag him forwards. I don’t know where I’m taking him, but I know I’m going to make him sorry. We reach the train track. “We’re going across,” I say. “Pick your feet up, you little prick.”

   “Please. I’m scared of trains. Please. I ain’t never been near a train track since the accident. Please don’t make me go across there.” His scrawny shoulders start shaking now. He sniffles; his nose has started to run.

   “Nice moustache,” I say. “Mucus. Very attractive. We’re going over, you idiot. You don’t have any choice.” And he doesn’t. I have him by the collar. Handfuls of red hair get caught up in my grasp. I notice he winces every time I jerk my hand. I jerk harder. 

   Another voice catches my attention. “Sam! Sam! Where are you? Catch up, come on! We’ve lost her.” Then the taller, dark-haired kid comes bursting through one of the nearby bushes. Then, “Jesus. What the fuck. What the fuck are you doing.”

   One of the freckled kid’s trainers catches on the track. I yank his hair again, and stamp on his trapped foot.

   “I’m scared of trains,” he begs. “Please. I’m so scared of trains.”

   Then: “Shit! Look out. Look out!” from the dark-haired boy.

   I look up. There’s a rumbling sound in the distance, and then the next thing I see is this monster of a train, racing towards us.

   “Scared of trains, are you?”

   “You’re crazy,” says the dark-haired kid, from the other side of the track. “A fucking nut job.”

   The freckled kid wipes his nose on his sleeve. “We was only messing. We didn’t mean nothing by it. We was only messing. I’m so sorry.” He sobs, clings to my arm as the train draws closer.

   The train races closer to us, closer, closer…

   “You’re going to be in so much trouble if you kill him. What’s the matter with you? Are you insane? Are you proper insane?”

   “You shut up. Look what your jokes have done. This is your own fucking fault. If he dies, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself, will you?”

   “It’s not Lee’s fault,” whimpers the freckled boy. “It’s mine. I chucked him the ball.”

   “Don’t be daft,” the dark-haired boy tells him. “This isn’t no-one’s fault but hers. This nut job lady’s fault.”

   The train looms closer, closer, I can hear the whistling of its wheels on the tracks. I can smell the patches of fear as they spring up under the boy’s armpits. His body suddenly grows limp; he’s pissing himself. He tries to cross his legs, but one of his trainers is still jammed under the metal track.

   “You fucking nut job,” says the dark-haired boy. “That’s enough. That’s enough!”

   “I’m not letting him go just because you fucking well say so,” I explain. “I don’t have to do anything because you tell me.”

   I wait until the train is practically on top of us both, wait until the boy’s ankles are soaked with his own pee, before I tear his foot from under the track and leap into the grassy bank beside the train track. The train whizzes past us in a blur.

   “You fucking nut job,” says the dark-haired kid, again. The freckled kid says nothing. He’s sunk down on the grass, unconscious.

   “You’ve killed him. You’ve killed Sam.”

   “Don’t be stupid. He’s only fainted. Help me… help me get him…” I look at the kid’s freckled face. His eyes are closed and his small mouth hangs open. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “How old is he?”

   “Twelve.”

   “Shit. Shit.” I start to cry. “Shit. Shit.”

   “You don’t have to cry about it, you great stupid bitch. He’s going to be okay. I mean, he’ll probably be traumatised for life. But he won’t die.”

   I nod my head: he won’t die. 

   “Where does he live? I’ll help you take him home, I’ll explain to his parents.”

   The dark-haired boy just looks at me. He’s on his knees, holding his friend’s head in his lap. His eyes are too big for his face. They’re out of place above his narrow cheekbones. It makes him look strange, serious.

   “I’ll help you take him home,” I say again.

   “Too right you will,” he says. “Too damn right.”

                        *                                                                       *                                                           *

 The woman who opens the door to Sam’s house is wearing an apron, and holding a knife. I decide to wait until she’s put that knife down somewhere before explaining to her why I nearly murdered her son.

   “Yes? Oh, hello, Lee.” She nods at him. “Not in school again, I see. I suppose you’re ill?”

   Lee looks Sam’s mother with a rather defiant expression. “Sam’s not in school either,” he says. 

   “Yes, well.” She lowers her gaze. “Sam’s been feeling under the weather just lately. That’s different. Isn’t it? Hey, Sam? Sam, are you okay?”

   Sam’s awake by this time, of course. But he won’t look anyone in the eye and if you look closely, his hands are shaking.

   “Course I am, Mum. Don’t fuss.”

   I step forward and hold out my hand. “Actually.” I take a deep breath. “Actually, Mrs…”

   “It’s Ms.” She extends the hand without the knife in it. “Ms Coolidge. But call me Jackie.”

   I shake her hand, my stomach turning over like barrel in a butter market. I lick my lips. “The thing is, J… Jackie. He isn’t okay. The thing is… I sort of, upset him. In fact, I tried to upset him, I pushed him in front of a train, and nearly killed him. I never meant to hurt him. I wasn’t going to let the train hit him. But I wanted to teach him a lesson, and I sort of… lost control.”

   “Lost control?”

   I suddenly get this irresistible urge to pick my nose. Something right at the back of my nasal passage tickles. I long to stick my finger up it and dig out whatever the hell it is in there. Sometimes I panic for my own sanity, Macy.

   “Would you like to come inside?” asks Jackie.

   “No, I’ve got to get back to work,” I explain. But Jackie gives me this look, and steps to one side. I find myself walking into her house. Lee follows, hands thrust into his pockets.

   “Listen, Lee, why don’t you two go up to Sam’s room and listen to some music. Lunch will be ready in about half an hour. Then I’ll drive you both” – she gives Lee a stern look  - “back up to school in time for afternoon lessons. Go on, hop.”

   As they leave, Lee glares at me from over the stair rail. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it myself, Macy. I could lie to her. I could tell her anything. I’m an adult, like her. My words have automatic credibility. But, Macy, I think of you. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable. I think of you, being proud of me, telling me to be proud of my mother, and I didn’t walk all this way across fields with this semi-conscious freckled kid lolling against my arm, a dark-haired kid telling me what a nut job I am, just to lie to people.

   “Listen. The thing is, Jackie,” I say, as she pulls out a chair for me in the kitchen. “I dragged your son out into the train track. I held him still, I made him… stay there, the train coming right towards us.”

   “Sam’s petrified of trains,” Jackie says. She goes over to her chopping board, carries on chopping vegetables. “Hates them. There was an accident, when he was small. He wasn’t in it, but his best friend was. He saw it happen, too. That very same train track, I expect. He won’t go near trains ever since.”

   “Yes. He told me he was scared. And he could have died. I don’t know what to say. I’m so…” But I can’t say it. I can’t say the word sorry. For fuck’s sake, Macy! I find myself saying it to my cousin Violet when she deliberately steps on my toe! But when I try to say it this pretty young mother whose son I almost killed, the word is too big somehow; it gets stuck in my throat.

   “I suppose he was winding you up. And Lee. When those two get together. I mean, they’re nice boys. They’re both of them good kids. But neither of them have a father around much, if you know what I mean. So they go a bit… and then there’s Lee’s mother. She’s a troubled woman.” Jackie chops away at an onion, her hand moving faster than I’ve ever seen anyone chop anything before. “Listen. Can I ask your name?”

   “It’s Lisa.”

   “Well, listen to me, Lisa. I don’t blame you. To be honest, they drive me crazy sometimes. But you seem to have a lot of… rage. You can’t be a happy woman yourself, to do a thing like that. Is there anything you’d like to talk over?”

   “I nearly killed your son,” I say. “He’s only twelve.” Oh, I feel sick to think of it. How can I dump my problems on her? 

   “You wouldn’t be dumping your problems on me, if that’s what you’re worried about. And quite frankly, if you carrying problems around alone means my son’s in danger of being thrown under anymore trains, well then, honey, I’d much rather listen to you ramble about your feelings for a few minutes.”

   She slings the whole chopping board full of vegetables into a wok. Then she takes out these chunks of meat, and starts mixing herbs and flour into them, in a large glass bowl. I watch her slender fingers darting through the mangle of pink flesh and white fatty bits. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring. 

   “He just made me crazy. For a few moments, I felt like… I don’t know, I felt like I was a kid again, and he looked so much like a kid I went to school with. He had this, I don’t know, similar way of looking at me, similar way of standing. I suppose it was something like that, making me go all… you know.”

   “Yes. I expect so.” Jackie tips the whole mixture of meat, flour and herbs into the pan with the vegetables, and adjusts the heat. She takes a spoon out from the draw and begins to stir. I’d love to know what she’s making. A sweet aroma starts to ooze from the pan.

   “You smell that? That’s tarragon. Fresh.” She sets the spoon down for a moment and pulls her ponytail tighter. Her blonde hair is all sort of tied up with an elastic band, a few rebellious wisps poking out around her face. The curve of her neck is showing, she’s got this string of beads around it. Bright yellow, plastic-looking. They should look horrible but they don’t.

   “Anyway,” she continues, “I doubt you’ve done much damage. Sam’s always getting himself into scrapes. He’s got Lee, of course. Lee gets him into a lot of things, but doesn’t let Sam take the rap for it, not ever. He’s a good kid.”

   “He seems very protective of Sam.” 

   “Yes. He is. No more than most big brothers though, I shouldn’t think.” She sees my surprise and adds: “Different mothers. But Sam’s dad… well, he’s also Lee’s dad.”

   “Oh. So, do you see much of Lee’s family? That must be awkward.”

   Jackie gives a snort, then lowers her spoon into the pan. She blows on it lightly, then takes an experimental bite. She tilts her head to one side as she swallows, and finally gives a triumphant nod.

   “Perfect,” she says. “Perfect. Although…” she hesitates. “More cumin?”

   Is she talking to me? But no, she opens a packet from the cupboard and sprinkles something into the pan, still muttering to herself about oregano.

   “Lee’s family,” she says eventually. “Well. If you want call them that, go ahead. His mother’s got some real problems. Real problems. Troubled woman. Away a lot. She’s got this bloke comes up to see her from London. Or so she says.” Jackie gives another snort. “And then there’s the house. Takes in lodgers, to help with the rent. Or so she says.” She pushes her sleeves further up her arms. She’s wearing this red and white checked blouse, and a pair of paint-stained jeans. Her feet are bare. Her toenails are painted red, but the polish is all chipped. “Always male lodgers. Young or old, she doesn’t care, just so long as they pay her. One lad came to stay not much older than Lee. Didn’t stay for long. I got the feeling Lee didn’t get on with him much.”

   “I’m not surprised.”

   I wonder if Jackie talks to everybody this way. She’s telling me Lee’s life history.

   “Lisa, you mustn’t think badly of Lee if he was rude to you earlier.”

   “I don’t.”

   “Good. Because they’re both of them good kids.” She’s started scrubbing potatoes now. “Listen, why don’t you stay for lunch? I’ve got enough.”

   “No, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m already late.” I suddenly notice the time. My lunch hour ended fifteen minutes ago. “I’ve really got to get back.”

   “Okay, well. Listen. I’d like to see you again, if that’s okay.” She says this briskly, as though it’s a matter of business she wants to get out of the way. “How would you like to come round for dinner one evening? I’ll cook for you. Don’t pretend you’re not tempted. I can see you gagging for a taste of this meal I’m cooking.”

   She’s right, too. The smell from the pan of meat and vegetables is simply glorious. I wish I could stay for lunch.

   “I’d love that.” Then I think of something. “But won’t Sam mind? I almost killed him.”

   “He won’t mind. Don’t worry about that. He’ll like you. He likes Jane, after all. And the two of you are very similar.”

   I have no idea who Jane is but I decide not to ask.

   “Come on, you two!” Jackie shouts up the staircase. “Time to go back to school!”

   The two boys trudge down the stairs. Neither one looks particularly excited to be returning to school. Lee has his hands in his pockets. He reaches the bottom of the stairs, looks at me. Sam steps down beside him.

   “Um. Listen. I’m so sorry, about…”

   Lee folds his arms. He keeps right on looking at me. I don’t know where to turn my eyes.

   “I didn’t mean to… you know. I was just angry. Upset about something, and…”

   “Why are you apologising to me?” Lee asks. “It’s Sam you messed with.”

   I turn to Sam. He lowers his eyes, one hand picking away at a spot on his chin. From the looks of things, that’s his first spot. He’s got a lot more to come.

   “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just angry with someone else.”

   “I figured.”

   “Yes. But… well. I almost killed you.”

   I look down, and notice that he’s changed his peed-on socks for dry ones.

   “It’s cool,” he says.

   “Anyway. I’ve got to go back to work.” I give a half-smile, half-shrug in return.

   “You want a lift?” asks Jackie.

   I shake my head. I don’t want them to see where I work.

   “But dinner?” she reminds me.

   “Sure. Whenever you like.”

   “Sunday? Give me time to plan something really nice.”

   "Oh. I'm actually going to stay with family this weekend."

   "Oh, how lovely. Any special occasion?"

   "Not really, no." I look down at my scuffed shoes.

   "But the weekend after?"

   "I expect so, yes. That sounds great."

   I scribble down my telephone number for her, then leave to go back to work. Sam sticks his tongue out at me, from the back of Jackie’s car, as it pulls out of the drive. But he’s winking at me, too. Lee stares straight ahead, unblinking, his arms folded across his already broadening chest.

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