Snookers for Balls

We were all scared of Sam Windup. He ate snooker balls and used the
queues on defenceless children. I mean, us. When he'd got barred from
every pub in town, he started hanging out in other places. He caused
trouble in Berry's dad's chip shop, so Berry's dad had the police pick
him up. Word was, it took four squad cars, and the cops wore riot gear.
That's what he was. A one-man riot, a one man banned from everywhere.
Nobody was safe when Sam Windup came sniffing around.

We, that is, me, Berry and Wino, were down by the river. We'd told our
mum's we were fishing, but we left the rods behind. We were about a
mile out of the town, where the old tannery cast a shadow over the
water and the fish gathered in dark shoals. When we where younger, and
smell of the factory cloaked the town, it formed the basis of our
lunchtime insults. 'Miss, Berry dropped another eggy one. He want you
to look at his bum.' Berry would always oblige to catch an unsuspecting
supply teacher by surprise. But an act took our jokes away, pulled the
chimneys down, and pumped the filth out of the water. That afternoon
only fish haunted the odourless brick archways.

It was a good place to drink, get some smokes in, and see who else was
around. That afternoon there wasn't anyone, just us three. That was ok
though, sometimes it was better like that, our own company and the
whole world on the tip of our tongues. Afternoons like that, I'd
smuggle bottles from my parent's stash of booze. If we were lucky, and
Wino's girl was on dayshift at the offie, he'd get her to give us a box
of export large, promising favours. If Berry's brother was home from
uni, he could sort us out as well. That afternoon we'd scored treble
tops. My old man had invested in a new bottle of whiskey, Wino promised
Winetta something to make her smile, and Berry's brother had just
broken up for the summer. We were set up, sorted. We liked to say
things like that, in stupid voices. 'Sorted.' 'Yeah, we're sorted man.'
It made us feel bigger than we were, as if we knew something about the
world. Of course, we knew nothing about anything.

The afternoon stretched out along the river. We lay in the grass,
tapping bottle tops off, swearing if the glass broke. We laughed about
Winetta, and what Wino would be doing to her when her mum left for
work. Nobody understood what a delicate flower girl saw in our friend.
He was all greasy mop and rancid spots while she smelt of soap and wore
white dresses. It's true, she kicked my bucket, but not matter how much
I tried, and I did try, she only had eyes for my floppy friend. To
stake her claim, she let him get her pregnant. As compensation, in
front of Wino, we attacked her character without mercy, telling him who
we'd seen her with, driving him crazy with jealousy. It was about the
only thing that worked him up. When we'd done taunting, we talked about
getting jobs ourselves.
'I'm going to find a job, treat her right,' said Wino. But we couldn't
imagine him out of his bed in the morning, let alone in a shirt. 'I
want to marry her. Perhaps maybe we'll get a flat together.'
'How you going to afford a rent, slacker?'
'I'll do what it takes.' We exploded into fits of laughter. We were out
of the foothills of our lives, the cardboard box lands, where you're
more interested in the wrapper than the contents. The world was opening
up for us and we wanted everything inside. We drank. When we wanted a
piss, we waded out into the river and saluted the fish.

Berry, who has no shame, peed from the riverbank. He started shouting.
I didn't want to see what he was up to. He was probably stripping off
again, and just wanted some attention. Berry's mum and dad were
nudists. Since he was a baby, they took him to camps where you could
see women with breasts like udders, grazing in a field and old men with
white chest hair and shrivelled balls, wearing only sun hats and
satchels for their spitting tobacco. We gave him the name, the boy with
a tan all over. He had no fear of his body. It wasn't just being naked.
He wanted people to see him naked. He stripped off at any opportunity,
the more old ladies and picnicking families the better. When we were
kids, it was funny to watch their reactions. He always got away with it
because, well, what harm was a naked little boy to anyone? But we were
grown by then, almost men.

'I killed a fish!' he shouted. 'I got a fat one! And another one! Look,
Marky, see all the dead fish.' I was interested in dead fish. I had a
goldfish once that floated to the top of the tank. That seemed wrong
somehow. If fish breathe, when they're alive, they must have air in
them. So when they're dead and filled up with water, why don't they
sink? If a cow fell into a river, that would sink, wouldn't it? All
these questions and not enough answers. I went to see the fish.

Berry stood on a beach formed where the bank had fallen into the river.
'They're all dead.' At his feet were about twenty fish of different
sizes. Some of them were flapping, but most of them were still. Each
lap of water threw another one onto the sand. Out in the mainstream,
sliver bodies spotted the surface, as far as you could see. He was
right. They were all dead.

Berry turned to me, mouth popping. 'This wasn't my fault.' I surveyed
the massacre. 'I just did a little one,' he muttered. 'I didn't,' he
stretched his hand out, 'did I?' Maybe all the alcohol in his blood had
turned the water. Maybe the sight of Berry dropping his pants had
driven them to drowning. Whatever, they were dead.
'Come on,' I said, and started picking them up.
They felt slippery and warm. Not refrigerated like the lumps you get in
a shop but not somersaulting, like the ones you pull out on a rod,
either. I picked up Berry's jeans and tied each leg in a knot. Then I
started shovelling fish into the top. 'Not my jeans Marky,' he moaned,
but he slid his arms into the scales anyway and started to load it up.
We called to Wino, who staggered down the grass, demolishing the bank
and ending up in the river.
'Who put these fish here?'
'Doesn't matter, does it? Berry's dad will give us a stack for this
little lot.'
'Yeah Wino, your mum won't have to work the streets tonight.'
We gathered, Wino flailing about in the current, throwing fish to Berry
and me. Most often he sent them plopping into the reeds, or they sprang
out of our hands and back to their river. We kept laughing at Wino's
pathetic attempts. But we filled Berry's jeans until they could stand
on their own. Then we pulled Wino out of the mud and hauled our bounty
up the bank.

'So they said, "We're not going down to the river. Nothing ever happens
on the river."'
We stopped dead in our tracks. Sam Windup sat cross-legged on the trunk
of a fallen tree that blocked the towpath. He was carving something
into the bark with a long, serrated knife. The knife had a black grip
handle. I'd seen knives like that on TV, survival programs, a hunter's
knife. He let the blade pivot on its point, catching the light. Then he
dragged it lightly across the crags of the bark, back to the gloved tip
of his index finger.

'But I said to them, "There's always something happening down by the
river. All those little fishies, leaping and swimming, coming up for
air sometimes." That's what I said.' The sun slipped behind a cloud and
the wetness in our clothes became cold. I heard Berry's breathing turn
short and shaky. 'Sometimes they come up for air.' The fish-jeans
thumped to the ground.

'Well, we have been busy little boys.' Windup wore a leather trench
coat, black knee boots, black tee shirt, winter or summer. His only
concession to the heat was to swap black jeans for tattered black
shorts. He looked ridiculous, but we weren't going to tell him.
'What does this guy think he looks like?' Wino blurted out.
The sun beating down on his beer filled head must have pickled his
brain. Sam Windup stroked his knife against his neck. He had a
dole-for-life spider's web tattoo, which spread along the angry veins
in his neck. I was almost sick with fear. He looked right at me,
straight through and out the other side. I couldn't move.
'Let's jump him. All three of us at once.' Berry shifted front leg to
back, 'we can take him. He's no sweat.' His fists were up, all the
muscles in his shoulder straining.
'He's got a knife. He could cut us all. Keep it together Berry, lets
see what he wants.'
'Ha! The voice of reason squeaks. You don't want to feel this blade
against your face, do you boy? Want to keep your pretty ways. Don't
want a scar to tell your babies about.'
'What do you want Sam, why are you bothering us?'
'You have something I want.'
'You can have the fish. Here, take them all. Just leave us
alone.'
'No,' Windup shakes his head. 'I'm not after your fish.'

A cool breeze blew across the three of us, standing like trees in the
grass. All of us had taken root. Windup lifted his knife level with our
eyes. It was a beast. Shark toothed and gut wrenching. Sharp enough to
cut metal. I could see the swirls along the blade where he'd ground it
down. And I could see four deep notches cut into the handle. He pointed
it at Wino, pointed at me, pointed it at Berry and stopped there.
'You boy.'
'What?'
'Your old man owns the chippie.'
'So?'
'I asked for a large portion. Do you know what I got?'
Whatever Berry said would be wrong. He said nothing. Windup threw
something at him, but he didn't flinch. A mass of batter and scales
slapped against Berry's chest and slid to the ground, leaving clots
behind. It stunk.
'That's what I got.'
'And?'
'Call that batter? I call that bare. Naked in fact.'
Berry shivered.
'Course, I hear, that's just the way your ma and pa like it. Isn't that
right boy?'
'So what?'
'And the way you like it too.' He held out the knife, and lowered it to
point at Berry's crotch. 'Let's see it then. Let's see what it's all
about.'
Berry, statue, considered the mess at his feet. 'You'll let us go?'
Windup shrugged, and flicked the knife at him. Seconds passed. 'OK,'
said Berry. He slid his hands down to his waistband, pressed his thumbs
inside and started to lower.
Windup burst out in cruel laughter. 'So it's true, the fish-boy will
get it out for anyone! I don't want to see anymore boy, unlike
&;#8230; you.' He whipped round. Wino had been creeping up on the
trunk. Suddenly the knife quivered at his throat. 'You'd like to see
more of your little friend, wouldn't you?'
Wino sprang backwards as if on a wire, sprawling into a ditch.
'More that you want to see that skinny white girl of yours, hey? You
don't see enough of her, that's what she told me. So, I gave her a
little baby doll to play with. Did you hear me boy? That kid ain't
yours.' The sound of his retching lifted into the afternoon.

Windup's attention refocused on Berry and me. 'Now, thing is fish-boy,
I'm here to help you. Think of Sam the Windup as your new best friend.
These children, they can't help you. They can't leave their childish
ways behind. I'm going to cure you boy. Do you want to be cured?'
Berry whispered, 'Will you let them go?'
'I'll let them go. I'll let you go. Right now. If you let me cure
you.'
I glanced at Berry, but he didn't look back. The colour had drained
from his face, from his whole body. His shoulders dropped. He looked
older. 'OK.'
'Berry don't. We can still take him on.'
He turned to me. 'No, we can't Mark.' He sounded sad, resigned, a
little expectant. He'd never called me Mark before. He stepped
forward.
'This is going to hurt,' said Windup. He reached gown and plucked a
fistful of stinging nettles from below the trunk. 'Take these, and cure
yourself boy.'
Berry winced as his hand closed around the leaves. Then he pulled out
his waistband and lowered them inside.

He didn't scream once. He turned around, tears streaming down his face,
picked up the half empty jeans and started dragging them homewards.
Windup and I watched as his back stumbled into the distance. Windup put
his knife away and thumped me hard on the back. I was looking for some
parting sarcasm, but nothing came. I went to pull Wino out of the
ditch.