Kid (Draft)

Scram, she said and the kid looked at her as if she'd lost it.
Vamoose, and still nothing. She altered her tone, stared sternly down
at her boy looking up. Scarper. He blinked twice but still - blanket
incomprehension.

She strode across the parquet - the heel of her slippers squeaking like
mice - and opened the back door. Are you daft or what? Get, she said,
jerking her head to the yard. The kid moved like erosion, one sluggish
foot sulkily shadowing the other. Come on, she said, raising her voice
now. I haven't got all day.

She didn't have all day. Her mother was due in an hour or so. She
wanted the kitchen, at least, clean. There was the washing up to do.
She couldn't entertain him. Not at the moment. Entertain yourself for a
bit, she said quietly, as much to herself as to the kid.

*

Entertain yourself for a bit, he said when the door closed. Entertain
yourself for a bit, in a squawky voice that sounded nothing like his
mother.

It was cold. There was a burglar wind coming in over the wall and the
clouds were scrapping again, huge bullying things they were, rolling
and tumbling about, the grey and the dark blue and the streaks of black
and white fighting it out with no end in sight. It was cold and it
would, very likely, rain soon.

Entertain yourself, he said again, glumly. And then: shit, more
quietly.

He walked the perimeter. From the step to the wall shared by their
neighbours, The Berry's: two and a wee bit steps. The length of the
wall they shared with the Berry's: ten steps all told. From the Berry's
wall along the yard edge, by the yard gate to the wall they shared with
grouchy old twisted knickers: five steps. Another ten steps to cover
the wall they shared with the bitch. Another two and a half to get from
the bitch's wall to the step and home. He didn't know how many steps
that made in total but wondered whether he knew a swear word for every
step. Shit, he said again, taking one step from the step towards the
Berry's wall, ducking his head down below the level of the kitchen
window and speaking quietly so as not to register with his mammo's
bionic hearing. Piss. Lob. He slapped his hands flat against the
Berry's wall hard enough to sting and turned, facing down the yard.
Arse, Hole, Bum, Poo, Willy, Crap, Dick, Tit, Cock, Ruky. The kid
clapped both of his hands against the far yard wall and turned to face
the eld bitch's wall. Bitch, he said. Big bastard bugger bloody bitch,
and with that he slapped the eld bitch's wall and laughed. Ha! He
turned again, facing his house now. He could see his mother at the
sink, washing up and watching him. She waved with sudsy fingers. He
ignored her, said Mung, and took a step forward. It was getting much
harder to think of words now. Spakker. Minutes whole minutes passed
between his thinking of one new swear word and his thinking of another.
Knobjob. He took to jumping up and down on the spot for inspiration.
Spanner. He didn't know why half of them were swear words. Dad said
words and mum said don't say those words so those were the words he
tried to remember. Exhausting that, he thought about the playground.
Wondered whether girl would count as a swear word. Decided it did.
Wondered whether he dare say some of the words he'd heard, even in his
head. Decided he did dare, but decided to take three steps without
concentrating upon what the words were. Turd, shite, wanker and fart
left him one step shy of home but he couldn't think of any other swear
words no matter how hard he tried and he was bored of the game now and
anyway it was stupid.

Mum, he said pained from the middle of the yard to the window.

What, she said as if the word wasn't a question.

Can I come in yet?

You've only been out there ten minutes.

Ahw. Mum.

No, she said.

Bollocks, he said and then jumped up. Bollocks, mum, he said, pleased
with himself.

She knocked on the window, furious but unwilling to stop what she was
doing.

What have I told you?

Sorry he said, but he was still smiling. I was playing.

Aye well, she said. Make sure you do.

He looked down at the flags by his feet. The paving stone to the
immediate left of his boot was raised ever so slightly at the corner so
he took to kicking it, using his foot the way an assassin would use a
short bladed knife. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Each kick shook the dirt
and the moss that had sprung up in and around the gap.

I won't tell you again, his mother said.

He stopped and turned away from the window.

I won't tell you again, he said with his tongue tucked under his bottom
lip.

And you can cut that out.

And you can cut that out.

Don't make me come out there.

He bugged his eyes in the direction of the gate and mouthed the words
Don't make me come out there. She didn't respond so he stuck his tongue
out at the wall.

Mlurgh-mlawgh, he said jigging about.

He heard the doorbell and ran back to the wall below the kitchen
window. He didn't want to see his mam or his nan. He didn't want to see
anybody anymore. He wanted to dig a hole and bury himself. He wanted to
be Swamp Thing. If he was Swamp Thing everything would be different. He
would sink through the floor like a worm, or snake up the wall like
creeping jungle vines. If he was Swamp Thing, he could turn the house
and the street green. He wouldn't make flowers, though. Rotting
vegetation, that was the ticket. The house and the street and the town
and then the world would smell like bad old gone off stinking weeds and
mouldy old vegetables and everybody would feel sick and be sick except
him and the smell would be like chips - chips and vinegar - as far as
he was concerned.

He pressed himself as far into the corner as it was possible to go
without mashing all of his bones up into soup. He placed his left hand
against the wall below the kitchen window and his right hand against
the Berry's wall and he closed his eyes. He was the Swamp Thing. He
could feel all of the mortar in the house, could sense how it wanted to
return to the vegetative state from which it emerged. Everything wants
to rot, he thought. The tips of his fingers melted into the stone. He
could feel them. The brick oozing, softening to sand, tangling about
the Swamp Thing's many roots and branches. He was aware of voices,
female voices talking in the kitchen above his head, but it no longer
concerned him. He was the Swamp Thing now. They would have to let him
go. He was coursing along the walls, bursting into and through and up
from the ground. Everything was made of roots. It was as if he had a
hundred, two hundred fingers, and with each passing moment each of the
fingers developed fingers of their own. He was deeper and deeper below
and redwood high above the ground. He was molten, close to the core and
centre of everything; he was wind shook, home to birds, and squirrels,
and insects.

What's the little man up to?

His mam and his nan were standing on the top step watching him.

I'm Swamp Thing, he said so they would go away.

And who's Swamp Thing when he's at home?

Swamp Thing, he said again as if it was perfectly clear. Swamp
Thing.

Swamp Thing, his nan said as if he'd cleared up the entire matter for
her. Well. How about that?

His nan looked at his mam and folded her arms. His mam raised her
eyebrows and said shout if you want anything. Swamp Thing.

Like what he said (Swamp Thing gone, over, forgotten, as exciting as a
carrot or a swede).

His mother paused on the step, half in and half out of the door. What
do you want, she said.

I don't know, he said.

Then you can't want it as bad as all that now can you?

I do, he said, pleading.

You do what?

Want it, he said.

Want what, she said, smiling at his nan.

It, he said stamping the heels of his boots against the paving stones.
I want it.

Well. Have it, said his mam.

Can I have a biscuit, he said.

What kind of biscuit?

What have you got?

You know full well what we've got.

Just tell me.

Do you want a penguin?

Ahw. Penguins.

It's a Penguin or a Wagon Wheel.

Ahw, he said.

Well, don't have nothing, she said and stepped back inside, his nan
closing the door after her.

Stupid, he said quietly. And then he stood and shouted Stupid at the
windowsill, shouted stupid stupid stupid over and over as if it was a
song until his mam came out and said if he didn't stop she'd slap his
legs.