The Law .11

I pull clothes out the carrier bag, lookin at what Tara told Edgar to give to me. There’s a pair of trousers for school, an ironed white shirt an four pairs of socks. I guess my stinky feet must’ve freaked Tara out big time.

Flapjack moves across the bed, soft an squidgy like cotton wool, sticking her baby claws in the clothes an rollin on them. She seems to be feelin better. She was hungry, yammin down her food like I did with Tara’s pukka curry. I can still taste the deliciousness in my mouth.

I look at the pencil drawin on the wall that Mike did of a warlock. I stuck it up after Mike was sentenced. He’s such a brilliant draw’er. He tried to teach me how to draw but my eyes an hand don’t work together like they do with Mike. I go to the wardrobe, lift up jumpers from a shelf, an take the picture he did of dad. It’s only a few lines, a sketch. It’s also in pencil, but it’s so dad. I mean, it doesn’t just look like dad, it feels like him, as if he’s comin off of the paper an speakin to me. I put the drawin back in its safe place.

Flapjack is messing the clothes an I rest her on the carpet, stuffing Tara’s charity in the wardrobe an putting the socks away too. I lay down on the carpet, dangling string for Flapjack to chase, happy that she’s back to normal an better. I shouldn’t abandon her like I do. It’s typical, cos I’m never at school this much normally. I really don’t want to go in tomorrow, facing another round of fights an cussin matches. It’s dumb, cos the teachers are always tellin me off an the other kids are on at me, all of them together up in my face, so what’s the point of me bein there? I’m fine wanderin the estate, bein the ghost spider, specially if it’s sunny like it’s supposed to be tomorrow. All I wanna do is chill out on the roof of the tower block, smokin fags an drinkin Dr Pepper. I could take Flapjack with me. I bet she’d like being outdoors.  

I stretch out on the carpet, tracing my finger on the patterns so Flapjack chases it, cept she’s not bothered an is gettin bored. I’m thinkin about goin to bed as I’m knackered, an then I hear the last sound in the world I ever wanna hear … Liam shoutin my name.

Seriously.

All people ever do in this flat is yell at each other. No one can ever talk normal.

Jayyyssoon, come here a minute.

It’s like, why can’t he walk from the livin room to my door an knock?

Not that I want his dirty-druggy-alkie germs touchin my door.  

What for? I shout back.

Get in here.

Why?

I wish someone could explain to me how I’m always by myself, but I’m never properly on my own. Like, what the fuck is that about? There’s always someone nibblin at me, putting their fangs in an suckin on my boy blood.

I head into the living room. It fucken stinks of the fat spliff Liam’s smokin, drinkin his can of Special Brew. He’s listenin to his stupid thud, thud, thud music. At least he turns it down when I walk in the room.

Take a seat, he says.

Nah.

Go on.

Nah.

He swigs from the can. I can tell from his wonky eyes that he’s mashed an all these alarms are goin off in me to get out an go back to my room, lock the door, an wait for mum to come home, although if mum’s mashed too she won’t be saving me from any of Liam’s crazy.

You like takin what’s not yours?

Eh?

You see this, he says, holdin the can, this is mine.

Special Brew, I say, you can have it.

What’s that you got in your hands?

I look at my palms. They’re empty. I kind of do a half-arsed shrug at him.

You’ve got fuck all.

Clever.

You what?

I look at my feet.

The mouth on you.

He smokes the roach of the spliff an stubs it out in the plastic ashtray mum pinched from the pub. I fucken hate the smell of skunk. Weed ain’t so bad, like what Mike smokes, but skunk is fucken rank. It smells like a burning tyre an it’s already givin me a headache. He tilts the can an swallows more of his loony juice. He says, You like that mushroom wine, eh? Trippy shit, that.

I don’t speak.  

I know all your little secrets. You think I don’t know what you get up to?

I dunno.

That cat’s meowing does my head in.

Mum said she can stay.

That don’t mean shit to me.

It’s mum’s flat.

I do more than you know here. A lot more. That cat is out of here tomorrow…

Fuck off.

He snake’s up towards me, but I back off an he thinks better of it, touching his lips with a lager hand, sayin, Know when to keep that shut, alright? Start listenin to me or that cat will be out of this flat faster than you can say Whiskers. You got me?

Nah nah, mum said…

… I don’t give a nah nah fuck what she said. She’ll do what I tell her and that’s that and so will you.

My heart’s beatin an I’m thinkin about how fast I can get to the kitchen an take out a fuck off knife to stick in his belly. I bet a Judge would let me off if I knifed him. The newspapers would have headlines screaming, JASON IS INNOCENT, cos I had to do it an I bet when the prosecution an defence had done their speeches the Jury wouldn’t bother themselves goin to discuss the verdict in a room cos the person would stand up quick style an they’d tell the Judge, Liam Doyle was a fucken wanker an deserved what he got.

An I’d leave court to cheers an applause, journalists shovin microphones in my face, cameras all around me, askin, What was it like living with such a total loser?

An I’d get to tell everyone the truth for once.

An the lawyers would invent a whole new law, called Jason’s Law, which allowed people to do in fucken wankers.

Cept he ain’t dead yet an he’s talkin at me, sayin, It could be easier between us, you know that? You don’t have to make everything such a battle. We don’t have to fight like we do.

I stand there, wonderin what the fuck is happenin, cos his tone of voice has changed. It’s almost as if he’s suddenly trying to be nice to me. So, I’m like, on the one hand, having to think that I know what a psycho Liam is an that he’d definitely take Flapjack an get rid of her when I ain’t there, so I have no choice but to end him, and now he goes an pulls this nicey-nice shit on me too, properly messin with my head.

I think me an you can turn over a new leaf, he says, leaning towards the coffee table where he starts to skin up.

Mum’s the same when she’s off her face. Mental as chips one minute. Smiles the next. Moods flappin like a flag.

He says, You can keep the cat.

I look at him an he glances from licking papers to me, sayin, If … If you do me a favour.

I keep fixed on my black toenails.

Look at me.

I don’t do what he says.

Jason.

Fucken people an their fangs.

What?

Will you do me a favour?

Why should I?

You know why.

I reckon he’s onto me about me stealin his cigarettes. He’s got the dirt on me but he’s keeping it in his back pocket, sayin just enough to let me worry that I’ve been busted.

One favour, Jason, an you keep the cat. I’ll let everything go.

I raise my eyes, seeing him break off a tiny strip of cardboard from the flap of the Rizla pack to roll a filter cos he’s too budget to buy propa ones from the shop.

So I hear myself saying, What then?

There is, he says, one condition.

He’s teasin me like I mess with Flapjack an the string. What? I say.

You can’t tell your mum.

I won’t.

I’m proper serious, Jason. I know what a flapper you are to your mum, but this stays between us. Got it?

Yeah.

I can see he’s twistin. Tryin to be nice when he’s also mad. He finishes the last of the Special Brew, pullin a face an smackin his lips, an then he lights the spliff, all nervous an shit. I feel like I’m bein dragged into something I don’t wanna be involved in. There are these seeds of evil, loads of them, like pods starting to grow inside of me.

So, I can trust you? he says, blowin out tyre smoke.

Yes.

Alright, so here’s the thing. I owe some money. Quite a bit of money in fact.

Why?

We don’t need to go into that.

Cept he don’t need to speak. Like, even Flapjack knows it’s horses. Mum says Liam is the fucken worst gambler ever. She checks his phone for bettin apps, but he can’t help himself. You know when he’s been down the Bookies cos he’s moody as fuck an he still leaves the stupid blue bettin shop pens around the flat. The dwarf ones that never work to write with. 

He sucks on the spliff. He’s rolled a fat one. Do you know where Jimmy Clarke lives?

Tracey’s dad?

That’s right.

I say it again, Tracey Clarke’s dad?

Yeah, Jimmy. I was doing some work for him.

He’s batshit.

We all know he’s batshit, Jason. What do you think we’re talking about here? Yeah, he’s fucking batshit. Worse than batshit. Off his head apeshit. We don’t have time to get into any of that. So, I need you to go over to his flat tonight and tell him that Liam says he’s sorry he’s not paid up, but he can get the money next week, no problem.

Nah nah.

What the fuck, Jay? What have we been talking about?

Nah. No ways.

There’s no nah nah no ways about this.

Jimmy Clarke?

Yes, Jimmy fucking Clarke.

You owe money to him?

What is this?

You’re a goner. I do a wave an say, Bye, bye, it was nice knowing you.

Fuck off, you little shit. I’m not a goner. Your cat’s a goner if you don’t help me out.

I shake my head.

Gone.

I stand and think it over. I don’t know how long Liam has to live. It won’t be too long, that’s for sure, but I can’t risk him takin things out on Flapjack before the funeral. 

Liam carries on with his daydream. Jimmy’s expecting me tonight, he says. I’ve had to switch off my phone where he keeps calling. Like, I need you to do this for me, Jason. He won’t do anything to you. Jimmy’s not like that with kids. Not ones your age anyway. You’ll be fine. Can you do it for me? You’d need to go now.

You want me to go to their flat and say what?

Liam’s getting frustrated.

I shrug an say, I don’t know what you want from me.

Liam says, Tell Jimmy that Liam says he’s really sorry but he’ll have the money he owes ready for next week.

Next week?

That’s right.

I go to Jimmy’s flat and tell him you’ll pay him next week. That’s what you want?

Exactamundo. Thanks, fella, I appreciate it, he says, as if he ain’t doin blackmail.

As I’m turning to walk out, he says, And Jay…

Yeah.

This is between us, alright? Man to man.

Totally.

I hear the sound of a can of loony juice crackin open an then the thud, thud, thud of dumb music.

Jason’s Law still might need to happen.

For real.