Boycey2

The denim shirted care worker led the way around the next corner and stepped into the refurbished office of Woodland’s Children Home. But there was no disguising the Victorian architecture of sky- high ceiling and windows. The blue metal X criss-cross of metal frames on the windows gave the decor a modern sheen. The spider web of window railings, however, dampened natural light, kept dead flies caged and meant the background buzz of florescent strip lighting was always on. Danny figured it was probably the smoke that killed them. It hung just off the polystyrene coving stretched around the ceiling, like mustard gas, and turned faux white Aertex architecture to piss poor man’s yellow.

The red bearded man held his stomach in as he pushed himself into a swivel chair against the wall that had scored radii of tears and ruts in the grey carpet, like a robot on a tight metal leash. He tucked in his long legs banged his knees on the office desk and let his stomach fall in his shirt whatever way gravity thought best. A set of silver keys loaded like a spring sat to the left of his chair. He squinted at them as if that helped him remember, but started pulling open drawers, from the top down, each side of his chair, as if he already knew none of them were locked. He stopped rifling through the drawers as quickly as he had started and looked for inspiration elsewhere. There were paper files piled to his left and ashtrays dotted like pot plants on the other parts of his desk, some of them little more than crunchy-cup, cake- sized, spent silver foil metal trays, sprouting up with the soggy butt ends of spent cigarettes, which like the rings on a cut down tree, bore the imprint of a smoker’s life in their tips. He looked about for inspiration, patting the packet of cigarettes in his denim shirt pocket and then snatched one from the ashtray that stayed alight, despite his absence and puffed hungrily. Another fag in the corner of desk was ignored; its burnout felt only in the back of Danny’s throat.

‘We’ll just get the formalities over with.’ He sprung up, the chair rolling back on its castors and hitting the wall and he was over at the filing cabinet next, pulling drawer after drawer open.

‘I’m Iain Hamilton.’ He turned to the cops first.

They had already sat down on one of the cheap grey plastic chairs that were fired around the office like party girls waiting for the last dance. Their feet tapped and their too big bodies squirmed and their faces said it all. They did not care who he was. They just wanted to leave.

Danny stood between them, still a prisoner, not knowing whether to sit down, or where to go.

‘I’m a senior care officer here.’ Ian directed his attention to Danny. Finding the file he had been looking for he flipped back the cardboard cover, he put his fag in the ashtray and tried on another smile. ‘And you are Stephen Boyland.’

Sarge didn’t say anything, just shook his bull no-neck and let out a sigh that was as long as Sauchiehall street.

‘It’s Daniel Boyce actually.’ P.C. Thompson pronounced the boy’s name as if he had been going to elocution lessons.

Iain’s ring finger hovered over the offending file like a Mayfly. ‘It says…’ But one look at Sarge and he changed tact. ‘There should really be a social worker here.’

‘And what are you?’ Sarge patted Danny reassuringly on the shoulder.

‘A care worker.’

‘Same difference,’ spat out Sarge.

‘No I don’t think so.’ The care officer’s cheery mask slipped and his eyes narrowed as he rubbed his thumb and ring finger together in the ancient symbol of geld or more money. ‘There should really be a social worker here.’

Iain sat back in his chair, his stomach plumped up like a denim rubber-ring, puffed on his fag and flung on his consolatory cheery Santa voice. ‘But let’s make do-and –mend.’

Danny found a seat in the corner of the room and watched his foot skiff back and forth on the carpet as they talked about him. They banded about words like ‘daft alky’ and ‘tramp’ and ‘penniless’ as if it gave their mouths some kind of grim satisfaction. He held onto the image of his mum sitting up on the bed with her bright yellow bobble tying up the morning light in her long black hair. He wanted them to understand that tragedy had come like a blind beggar, picked up her beauty and taken it away. There were no words to comprehend it. His head was anchored with his chin on his chest and felt too heavy to lift up. His heartbeat felt like a runaway coal locomotive on Casey Jones and was too plugged up with tears. They dripped silently down from his nose as he rocked back and forth and tried not to think.

The sticky fly like drone of Dave Lee Travis, ‘The Hairy Spider,’ playing hits on Radio 1 took him to a better place. He imagined he was one of those Crazy Horsed Osmonds running about everywhere, ouwooo. ouwowoo and nothing would ever stop him and he’d never come back, not ever. Crazy Horses. Not ever. Ouwoo. Ouwoo. Crazy Horses. He’d just gallop away and when someone came to get him, he’d just run the other way and not be there anymore. Ever.

‘Looks like she killed herself.’ P.C. Thomspon said with relish.

Danny sprung out of his chair, his fists clenched. ‘My mum didn’t kill herself.' He paused.

Iain immediately stopped talking and patted his fag pocket. P.C. Thompson snatched a look out of the corner of his eyes. Sarge no-neck had to turn his whole body in his chair to re-examine him.

‘And she’s not dead.’ He took a step forward and tottering on saying something more he took two steps back, his fingers uncurled and his legs knocked against the frame of the chair.

‘Looks like the boy’s pissed himself,’ Sarge’s unblinking lizard cop eyes, weighed him up.

‘Better get him cleaned up.’ He looked up at Iain, as if to say that’s your department, but it was obvious from his voice that it was no longer his problem and its outcome was an irrelevance.

‘You take care of yourself Danny.’ P.C. Thompson was trying to sound grown-up friendly, upbeat, all of these adult things, but his eyes quickly flickered to Sarge who had already put his hat on and was halfway to the door and did not look back.