Waving Not Drowning 12: The Degradation of a Middle Aged Barista

Sometime after the holding hands bit, after three trips to the off licence, two trips to Whiteleys and one phone call from Ruth, I woke up very early, it was still dark and Stephen had gone. I had that disorientating, suffocating feeling like something had gone down the wrong way so I jumped out of bed and went on a search. It wasn’t uncommon that Stephen would get up during the night, play video games or dose himself up with ultra violent stuff. When we weren’t holding hands that is. I accepted that this was the way with kids and let him get on with it.

This time however it felt different and I soon discovered that he wasn’t in the front room or the kitchen. The flat was eerily quiet. I decided to go downstairs but first I needed my cardie which wasn’t in its usual place on top of the enormous pile of clothes on the chair so I started searching for it in the chest of drawers. As I opened the bottom drawer I saw something poking out the back, something made of leather. I had to wrestle it out because it was caught between the two drawers and all squished up. As I pulled I
realised it was in fact a handbag and a rather nice one at that. It was one of those that costloads of money that celebrities tend to cart about. At first I was still half asleep and was thinking what a boon this was, finding a lovely handbag when I could never afford anything as fancy myself. It didn’t strike me as odd or strange. In fact I spent about five minutes walking around the bedroom with the bag over one arm admiring myself in the mirror and thinking that I needed to get out more, that actually I hadn’t got properly dressed up in ages. I couldn't remember the last time I'd even brushed my hair. I then started rummaging about for something that went with the bag, maybe the old vintage tea dress that my Mum had handed down to me? Then I stopped, placed the bag down on the bed and felt a horrible sense of dread.
It wasn’t a bag I’d seen before.
It wasn’t my bag.
It certainly wasn’t the kind of bag that Stephen would mooch about with, not with his saggy pants and long belt that served no use but decoration; silly whistles and keys hanging off of it. So where did it come from?

I went back to the drawers because the truth was dancing about in front of my face trying to get my attention and there at the back of the middle drawer I found another scrunched up piece of leather, this one not so fancy, more of an old Granny bag, bright green patent leather, not the kind of thing that I’d ever owned. Something, call it the alcoholic’s instinct, sent me straight to the wardrobe and sure enough right at the top not one, not two but five bags, two of which were rucksacks and the rest a veritable catwalk of fashionable bags. I gasped. Then pulled them all out onto the bed and started unzipping them looking for something, anything that explained what they were doing on top of my wardrobe. At this stage the truth was literally grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me as hard as it could, exasperated that I couldn’t recognise what was going on. The majority of the bags were empty aside from the usual screwed up balls of tissue and disintegrated chewing gum wrappers but then right in the bottom of the first one, the one I myself had taken a fancy to I saw a plastic card tied onto a long string of elastic. A small slightly frightened face stared back – the face was oddly familiar. IT WAS THE WOMAN DOWNSTAIRS! I recognised her mouse-like features from the day the kids had held me up at the bottom of the stairs with the finger gun. I’d probably only seen her that one time when she’d come out armed with her saucepan. And here was her bag! The text underneath the photo read ‘Juliet Price: Mortgage Advisor’. I delved in again but there was nothing else. Had Stephen robbed her? Had he robbed all the local ladies in W11? Was he in fact the most prolific mugger of all time? And what had he done with all the other stuff? The make up bags, the notebooks, the mobiles, the IPods, the purses, the credit cards, the old bits of paper with things to do written on them.

I went back to the chest and pulled all the clothes out drawer by drawer. I looked behind it, then went under the bed where I found a rather disgusting take away box with some very old noodles in the bottom and a sock which had mummified into a right angle. Then I scrambled through the wardrobe, eventually finding my favourite cardie which I pulled on. I grabbed my keys and went out. I was barefoot and the concrete steps were freezing under my feet. Hesitating for a moment outside the neighbours flat I thought about knocking on the door and returning her bag but then I remembered the bag had been in MY FLAT. I was an accomplice, an old alcoholic Bonny to a young delinquent Clyde. There was no way she’d believe that I'd not known about his mugging tendencies. But this was also beside the point because I didn’t even know for sure that it was Stephen. How could it be him when he was always in the flat, we did everything together, there was only that little period of time between four in the afternoon and…that was obviously when he’d done it! In broad daylight! The audacity of it.
God it made me want to drink.

I was half way back up the stairs again (Pear Pleasure, Pear Pleasure, Pear Pleasure) when I heard the bottom door slam, footsteps, then laughter. It sounded like Stephen. I lay in wait for him at the top step. The dread had quickly evolved into anger. I’d trusted him, I’d taken him in and been his Mother Bird and this was how he repaid me! The treacherous bird. Stephen reddened as soon as he caught site of me. Danny was close behind and he’d brought with him the stupid girl who’d been sick in the bed who was called Sophie or something. Truth was standing watching from the landing. It had given up trying to force things out into the open. It was all coming out regardless.
‘What the hell have you been up to?’ I screeched before Stephen had even got level.
Cheepityyyyyy cheeep cheeep.
‘Uh oh,’ Danny sniggered.
‘What do you mean?’ Stephen asked coming towards me.
Sophie the sickbag was giggling looking me up and down.
I realised I was only wearing a T-shirt and my well-loved but rather tatty cardie. Luckily it was long enough not to be pornographic.
‘Tell that girl to bugger off,’ I said looking at Stephen.
‘She’s jealous,’ Danny muttered nastily but loud enough to hear.
‘You better go,’ Stephen said to Danny and Sophie Sick face.
They’d obviously been sniffing lots of battery juice because everything was VERY funny all of a sudden.
‘I thought we were going up for a drink,’ Danny said carrying on up the stairs.
‘I need to talk to Stephen,’ I said.
The next thing I knew Danny was pushing past me up the stairs and into the flat. He was stronger than I’d realised despite the fact that I was actually taller than him and was a good few pounds heaver, he managed to knock me over and I fell backwards and felt the concrete hit the bottom of my back. I struggled to get up but a shooting pain was working its way up my spine and Danny got past and was in the flat before I could move. Sick-maker Sophie also squeezed past, looking less happy and now a bit nervous. I heard the door slam and then Stephen held his hand out which I grabbed and pulled myself up into a standing position. I rubbed the bottom of my back; it felt like I’d chipped my backbone. I couldn’t deal with these crime-wreaking kids moment longer.
‘Danny!’ Stephen shouted.
I held onto his arm, I could feel he was shaking a bit and I noticed the smell for the first time, a mixture of smoke and lighter fluid. The tips of his fingers were all black and charred. We walked up the steps, Stephen sort of pulling me like an ancient old lady. Once we got to the top, I slumped back down again. I’d like to say that I had a good plan up my sleeve, that I knew exactly what to do next but really all I was thinking about was whether Danny would be kind enough to hand me a beer before he locked me out permanently. Meanwhile Stephen knocked hard on the door and shouted. I could hear laughter and banging coming from inside. I hoped they weren’t drinking my beer. He kept knocking for what seemed like twenty, thirty minutes and then there was the sound of the living room door being pushed shut and nothing.
‘Shit,’ Stephen said lowering himself down on the step next to me.
I was beginning to shiver. He reached round and tried to do up the top button of my cardie.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I said shrugging him away.
We’d been two birds in a nest, all safe and snug but now he’d gone and ruined it. We weren’t even stylish like Bonny and Clyde, I was wearing a knackered old cardie and no shoes and his skin was all black round his fingers and under his nose. He looked weary. Exceptionally weary for a boy of fifteen.
‘You could have told me you were a mugger extraordinaire,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That you were a thief, that you stole handbags for a living.’
I’d been right all along. I was Fagin. The old bearded raga-bag. And I’d basically created a training camp for young delinquents where they could load up on violent images, drink themselves silly then go out robbing.
‘It weren’t me,’ Stephen said shaking his head.
‘Don’t lie again,’ I said looking for the twitchy twitch to start.
‘No I mean it, it was Danny, it was his idea.’
‘That’s convenient, seeing as he’s locked himself in there and you’re stuck out here. and anyway,’ I said gesturing at his mucky fingertips and face, ‘what’s all this black stuff?’
‘We had a bonfire,’ he replied.
‘Did you roast any pets?’ I asked sarcastically.
Stephen gave me a curious look but didn’t answer.
I remembered the dream with the charred goldfish and realised it had all been a sign of what was to come.
‘I think it’s a good idea if you move out,’ I hissed, ‘I can’t trust you anymore. I mean one of those bags was hers!’ I pointed downstairs at the neighbour’s door.
Stephen’s bottom lip was shaking.
‘But I like you,’ he said.
I like you, I like you. He was like a bloody parrot. What was it with kids these days? Did they really think they could do whatever they wanted as long as they convinced the poor, naive adult that they had nice, warm feelings for them?
I for one wasn’t falling for it.
‘You’ll have to move out first thing tomorrow,’ I said.
Stephen didn’t answer, then stood up and banged on the door, unleashing a torrent of filthy language that even Fagin would have blanched at.

Eventually Danny let us back in. I didn’t mention the handbags or the conversation I’d had with Stephen. I didn’t need to. Once Danny saw my expression he soon realised that a) I was seriously angry b) I was actually sober. He soon cleared off, Sicko Sophie following close behind. Now I think about it, that morning must have been when he found the box. Whilst Stephen and I were sitting outside freezing our buns off. But I didn’t even know I still had the box. I’d got rid of the rifle and that was as far as my thought process went. After opening the windows I simply fell into bed. I didn’t even bother checking to see if Stephen was still there or not. Just before I fell asleep I pushed the small mountain of bags off the bed with my feet.

The next morning I felt much calmer and focused. I could hear the Playstation going in the front room and it was oddly comforting; the sound of someone wailing as they got smashed up against a brick wall. Perhaps Stephen was telling the truth, perhaps it was all Danny’s idea. There was certainly something untrustworthy about Danny and he’d shoved past me as soon as I’d tried to confront them, like he had a bad conscience. Perhaps he’d wanted to grab the bags and run. I went into the front room and found Stephen who was wrapped up in one of my old dressing gowns, the muscle in the side of his face all clenched because he’d got to level five hundred or whatever and was trying to exit an enormous parking lot and execute a three point turn with what looked like a large bear flattened against the window screen.
‘Can you promise me that it wasn’t you that took those bags?’ I asked.
He mumbled and held the controls in the air concentration eating into his forehead.
‘Stephen.’
He sighed like I’d just told him he’d never be able to eat cheese and onion Pringles again and nodded.
‘So who stole them?’ I asked.
His looked into my eyes and didn’t flinch.
‘Danny,’ he said, ‘I helped him but it was like his idea… and he was the one who actually took them and well sold the stuff.’
‘So you didn’t keep any of it?’
‘Well I kept one thing. It was like this really cool key ring which looked like a diamond. Danny said it wasn’t a real one but look...’
He reached between the sofa cushions and pulled out something large and glittery.
Rifles, diamonds, what else had taken refuge in that saggy old sofa?
He stood up and dropped the key ring in the palm of my hand.
‘A present,’ he said, his grey blue eyes twinkling.
‘I’m not having anything to do with stolen stuff,’ I said.
I studied the ‘diamond’, held it up to the sunlight that was just beginning to stream through the windows, the colours refracted through the glass into a rainbow of reds, yellows, blues. For a couple of seconds I was Bonny again. Stephen was Clyde and we were admiring the spoils of our crime exploits.
Then truth stamped on my foot and poked me in the side.
‘Was this the neighbour’s key ring?’ I asked.
Stephen nodded and sank back down into the sofa.
‘And what did Danny do with the rest of the stuff?’
I was already talking about Danny and I quickly realised I’d already let Stephen off the hook. Danny had become the villain. He was the one who muttered and shouted, pretended his finger was a gun. He was also at least a year older than Stephen, maybe more. He was certainly a bad influence. It wouldn’t have been Stephen’s idea to steal from people. Not MY Stephen. In retrospect this was probably the point where I realised the strength of my feelings for him. Feelings which went beyond just being a friend or a mentor or a cool social worker type. But weren’t paedophile-like. The best way to sum it up was that if the police had come knocking for him at that point, I would have hidden, told them whatever lies I needed to get rid of them, anything to protect him.
‘We burnt some stuff. You know…on the bonfire,’ he said suddenly.
He’d wrapped the dressing gown around himself more tightly and looked like a tiny hooligan in swaddling clothes. It was all beginning to make sense.
The black fingers the smell of lighter fluid.
And…the charred goldfish.
‘Did you burn that goldfish as well?’ I asked.
It was time to get everything out.
‘Are you mad? Of course not. I’m not a psychopathic.’
‘Psychopath,’ I corrected.
‘Whatever,’ he picked up the controls again.
‘Well I’m going to figure out what to do... I mean with the bags. I can’t go to the police about it.’
At the word ‘police’ Stephen’s eyebrows shot up and he veered his car into the river.
‘Look what you made me do!’ he shouted standing up.
‘There’s going to be some changes around here,’ I said calmly.
He sat back down, made a grunting noise and started back at level zero. My baby hooligan bird in terry towelling. I liked him more than was strictly normal. I walked into the kitchen with a new sense of purpose. First I was going to do a big clean up. Then I was going to return all those bags to their rightful owners. Then I would take Stephen away from all this stuff. Somewhere where there were no handbags, no bonfires and trousers that stood up with a proper belt holding them in place. It was also time that I addressed my alcohol problem. I opened the fridge and stared into it. A small piece of goat’s cheese stared back at me, a remnant from my civilian, barista life. The small piece of goat’s cheese seemed to say.
Don’t make too many changes at once.
Change one thing and the rest will follow.
My eyes darted to the two cans of beer that lay snuggled up side by side in the salad box. I decided to start with the cleaning up, then move onto rectifying the local youth crime wave. Then and only then I’d address my mounting booze intake. Besides my head was pounding and it was impossible to think straight. I needed drink just to function normally and normality was EXACTLY what was needed.
I took a beer out of the fridge and reaching my arm straight up into the air poured it directly into my throat. Like they do in those buddy films just before they go and pull loads of women and have a big car chase. The only difference was that there wasn’t any party and it wasn’t really fun, it was necessity; I was so thirsty for more beer that I had to open the next one and drink three quarters of that as well.
I clutched my stomach then burped loudly, then started on the washing up.

All the time whilst I scrubbed at the plates and stared out the window at the graffiti scrawled on the wall (from another life it seemed), the pellets in the box were lying underneath the sofa. I’d completely forgotten about the shooting, the fact that I’d injured both Danny and Stephen. I’d moved forward quite a few pages and was now on the chapter which was possibly entitled something like ‘The Degradation of a Middle Aged Barista’ or something.
But someone HAD found them. And unfortunately it hadn't been Stephen. Perhaps if it had been him, things would have turned out differently; the drowning, the sweet jogger, the hospital, the not knowing... this.

I'm sure things wouldn't have been quite so dramatic.

Stephen was a pain in the bum, he wasn’t trustworthy and he could be manipulative when he wanted to be.

Danny was a whole different story.