Tom All Alone (9) (i)

I've published this piece before, in another novel. But I've lifted it out and rewritten it. It rightly belongs in 'Tom All Alone'. Apologies to anyone who might have seen it before.

They could hear the magic, jingling clamour of the funfair long before they got to the common - the noises chiming and echoing along the Lower Richmond Road like the sound of an approaching band. Tom was leading the way, tugging at Russell's hand like a dog on a lead, his stomach fizzing with the excitement of it all. In his other hand he could feel the florin - the hard, hot shape of it pressing into his palm like a promise, like the key to the mysteries of the night ahead. Cars went whizzing past them, heading that way, making Tom tug harder - the thought of all those people getting there ahead of them, getting on the rides first, using everything up before they could even start.

"Come on, Russell. I want to get there before it's too late."

Russell slowed his pace and pulled back, teasingly. Tom tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but it was too strong.

"Don't do that. Come on."

Russell changed tack then and began running, surging ahead, pulling Tom behind.

"I'm going on the bumper cars first," Russell said, glancing back.

"And I am," Tom said. "And the Ghost Train."

"You can't go on them both at the same time, nitwit."

"I know that. I'll go on the Ghost Train next. And the big roundabout with the horses."

"You mean the Carousel. The roundabout's what you go on in the playground."

Tom glared at his brother. "It's the same thing."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"How can it be the same thing? The roundabout doesn't have horses on it."

"But it goes around."

Russell laughed mockingly. "Your brain goes around."

Russell slowed again then.

"Why do you keep slowing down?"

"I'm getting my breath back."

Russell grabbed at a lamp-post in passing and anchored himself there. Tom again pulled at his hand, and this time managed to slip the grasp. Suddenly free, he turned and began running again. But Russell quickly caught up, grabbing him.

"You mustn't let go 'til we get there. Remember what dad said."

He kept running, pulling at Tom again now - running too fast for Tom to keep up.

"Stop it, Russell. Slow down."

"Make your mind up. I thought you were in a hurry."

But Russell slowed anyway and they carried on side by side, towards the pub on the corner. The sounds were much louder now, with sirens and screams and ringing bells. And the music - that magical, twirling, barrel organ music Tom only ever heard at the fair. For the first time they could smell the warm, sugary whiff of it in their nostrils - the toffee and popcorn and candy floss.

At last they got to the corner, where they crossed onto the common. It was bounded by the road on one side and a long row of tall, brooding houses on the other, stretching off at a broadening angle towards the railway line and the reservoirs. And there in the farthest corner was the fair, bright and bustling in the dull afternoon, like a rollicking pirate galleon on a rough, tussocky ocean of grass. Tom slipped his hand from Russell's again and they both started running towards it, seeing the spectacle build before them - the shapes and colours and lights, the spinning and flashing and screaming, the figures moving across the scene like imps dancing around a blaze. The rumbling hum of the generators, the cables curling like snakes through the grass, the roar and blast of the big machines. And then finally they were across the threshold and became one with it - the energy grabbing them and absorbing them. Into the vortex of jolting cars and gravity leaps and trapdoors in the dark and glowing phantoms; the jerks and screams and eye-bulging drops; the cracks and buzzes and bangs and howls and cries; the barking voices and fixing eyes of the stallholders - the eyes, watching them, beckoning them.

"Have a go, boys. Three goes a tanner. Give it a try."

They went on the Dodgems first, as they'd wanted - both in the same car with Russell driving, the cars zooming around, the bone-jerking bumps, the laughter with each one, the whole ride over before it had even started it seemed.

"Can we go again, Russell?"

"Later. We can let other people have a go. Let's look at something else."

"Can we go on the Ghost Train now?"

"In a minute. Hang on. Let me try this first."

They stopped at the Rifle Range and Russell gave the man some change.

"Can I have a go, too?"

"You're a bit small for this. Watch me."

Russell cracked open a rifle and slipped in a pellet. Some duck shapes were moving on a line at the back. Russell took aim and fired and ping - a duck fell.

"Bullseye!" Russell cried.

He loaded again, fired again, ping - another duck went down. Again and again, until all the pellets were gone.

"Good shooting, son," said the man. "You should be in the army."

"I want to join the cadets," said Russell.

Tom looked up at his brother's grinning face and felt some pride well up inside him.

"He's my big brother," he said to the man.

"Well, your big brother's a good shot," the man said. "Here we go."

He handed Russell a plastic bag full of water. Russell held it for Tom to see. Inside was a goldfish - a sliver of orange, circling around, its rivet eyes swivelling in its head, its body glinting and incandescent against the light.

Tom was wide-eyed. "Wow! What shall we call him?"

"Goldie," said Russell. "I'm calling him Goldie."

"Goldie," Tom said. "Yes, Goldie the goldfish."

They stepped away from the stall, across the neon-gilded grass - the other stalls blazing like Christmas fires - towards the Dive Bomber. On the way, they went past the Ghost Train. Two empty cars were there, waiting on the platform.

"What about the Ghost Train?" Tom asked.

"Yes, in a minute. But I want to do this first."

Russell pointed at the Dive Bomber - its two capsules swinging and spinning on their arm, the riders inside screaming.

"I don't want to go on that," Tom said. "I don't like it."

"You've never been on it, so how do you know you don't like it?"

"I just don't like it. I want to go on the Ghost Train."

"Well, I want to," Russell shouted impatiently.

He looked at the Dive Bomber. It was slowing down now. There were a few people queuing up by the booth, where the ride operator was preparing to take their money. Russell turned back to Tom and took his arm.

"Listen... just come and wait for me by the ticket booth so the man can keep an eye on you. Then, when I get off, we'll go on the Ghost Train."

"But why can't we go on the Ghost Train now?"

"Because it's busy, look."

They both looked over there. Sure enough, all the cars were now being loaded.

"So if I go on here now and you wait, we'll go on the Ghost Train afterwards. Alright?"

Tom's bottom lip was drooping. He sniffed.

"Alright, then," he said. "As long as it doesn't take long."

"It won't," Russell said, as they headed to the queue. "It's only a couple of minutes, just like the bumper cars."

The Dive Bomber finally stopped and the riders got out, one capsule at a time. Some of them were laughing. Some of them looked sick. Russell paid for his ticket, then looked at Tom.

"You just stay right there by the booth where the man can see you, alright?"

"Alright," Tom said, shifting his feet.

He stood there, holding the bag with the little fish, watching as Russell stepped onto the loading platform. The first capsule was already full, so the arm turned slowly and the empty capsule came down. A couple of other boys got inside it ahead of Russell. When it was his turn, Russell turned and called back to Tom.

"Don't move. I won't be long."

"Alright," Tom called back. He waved his hand.

After Russell got in, the operator closed the door down and went back to the booth. Tom watched as the ride began - very slowly at first, then gradually speeding up, like a bicycle wheel spinning faster and faster, each turn making a heavy whoop-whoop-whoop sound. The faster it went, the more the screams rose from inside. Tom felt dizzy just watching it. He turned his attention to the goldfish again, swimming to and fro in its bag, tiny bubbles popping from its mouth as it went.

"Hello, Goldie," he said. "We're going on the Ghost Train in a minute. I hope you won't be frightened by it."

On the mention of it, he looked off across the midway towards the Ghost Train again. He watched a full car slide off through the double doors into it - through the gaping mouth of a painted pointy-tooth monster. They looked like the old shutter doors in the saloons of the western films Tom liked to watch on the telly. Beyond them was just darkness, and one of the women in the car was screaming already. He could hear more screams as the car rattled and slammed its way through the innards. He kept looking at it, fascinated by the lurid pictures all over the front of the structure, picked out in flashing lights: a skeleton in an open coffin, a dark hooded figure holding up a green hand with sharp claws for fingernails, huge bats with Dracula teeth, a broken skull with an eyeball dangling from one socket. A ghostly voice whirred and rose inside it somewhere, like a police car siren. He looked at the people milling around near the ride - the loud, awkward teenagers, the canoodling couples, the kids and sisters and uncles and dads and mums.

There was a man standing alone by the pay booth. A smart-looking man. An old man - older than dad was. Not as old as Mr Holt next door, but almost. He was dressed in a suit and tie with an overcoat that had a fluffy collar a bit like the one on mum's winter coat. He had a trilby hat on, which shaded his face - though Tom could see he had a dark moustache. He was quite fat, too, and Tom could see the bulges of his body under his suit, making him think of the Michelin man he'd seen on the sign at the garage around the corner. The man smiled at him, so Tom turned his head shyly away, back to looking at the Dive Bomber. It was going faster now and the screams were louder, piercing through the air.

After a few moments, he sneaked a glance back towards the Ghost Train. The man was still standing there, smiling at him. He looked like he must be the man who owned it. He put his hand up then and waved at Tom. Tom wondered if the man knew him from somewhere. Perhaps he was one of dad's friends from the pub - one of the men who sat in huddles at the bar when dad was there, with their pints and cigarettes, talking in their loud, cackling voices, laughing along with dad, while Tom stood in the doorway with a bottle of Pepsi and a stripey straw and a packet of crisps. Yes... he was one of those men, Tom was certain. The clothes he was wearing. He could see the man was wearing a badge on the coat lapel, too - a round badge with a striped design - like the one dad had from his army days, on the case he kept his darts in.

The man's smile broadened now, and his wave became a beckoning motion, calling Tom over. At that moment, a car full of people slammed out of the Ghost Train and they all got off, giggling and chatting. The car sat there, empty now and waiting. The man turned to it, still looking at Tom. He beckoned with his hand again. Tom looked back quickly at the Dive Bomber, but it was still going at speed. Slowly and tentatively, he stepped over, closer to the Ghost Train. He could see the man's face a bit clearer now and was sure he recognised him. He got closer still.

"Do you want to go on the Ghost Train, son? I'm just going on it. I don't want to go on my own."

Tom looked up into the man's broad, smiling face. It made him think of the policeman from the telly programme he liked watching in the evenings with mum and dad. Detective Chief Superintendent Lockhart in No Hiding Place. Perhaps that was why he thought he knew him.

"Are you scared of it, then?" Tom asked.

The man's smile dropped. Tom thought he looked sad now.

"Yes. I know it's silly, because I'm a grown up. But it still scares me."

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"That's a nice goldfish," the man said then, looking at it. "Did you win it?"

Tom shook his head. "No. My brother did. He's a good shot."

"He must be," said the man, sounding impressed. "Where's your brother, then?"

Tom pointed to the Dive Bomber.

"He's on there. I'm waiting for him."

The man looked up for a moment, in the direction Tom was pointing. The ride was still going - the capsules spinning, the arm turning them like a wheel.

"That ride takes a long time," the man said. "So we could go on here quickly and still be back before it's finished. I'm sure your brother won't mind."

Tom looked at the man's face, watching the way the coloured lights glinted in his sad eyes. He looked at the badge again on the man's coat lapel. He saw he was mistaken. It was different to dad's one.

"Do you know my dad?" Tom asked.

The man smiled again and chuckled, and Tom smelled something on his breath. Beer, he thought. The smell dad often had on his breath.

"Of course I know your dad," the man said. "He told me you were coming here with your brother today. He asked if I'd keep my eye on you both and make sure you'd be alright."

He lifted his hand to Tom's shoulder then and patted it.

"Come on. We can go on this quickly while you're waiting for your brother. I can pay for you. Your dad gave me some money."

Tom looked at the empty car, waiting. The man patted his shoulder again. It felt more like a push this time, though.

"Come on... you get in and I'll go and pay."

So Tom sat in the car, with the goldfish bag on his lap, and the next thing he knew the man was sitting beside him and they were moving.

"Here we go," the man said. "I'm looking forward to this. Are you?"

"Yes," Tom said, quietly.

"Good."

(continued) https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/tom-all-alone-9-ii