High Moor (4 page)

The ball struck the wall again. The sound of its impact echoed through the narrow space between the two houses. As John caught the ball, the door of his friend’s house opened and David appeared, followed by Michael and Marie, their eight year old sister.

John put the ball in his pocket and walked over to his friends. “About bloody time you showed up. I’ve been waiting for you all morning. Can we get going now?”

“We gotta go to the shop for some milk and stuff,” replied David. “And we gotta take the squirt with us.”

Marie stuck her tongue out at her older brother, and then gave John a shy smile. John pretended not to notice.

“Aw, man, that’s miles away! Can’t we just go on our bikes? We’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Can’t, mate. Mam and Dad want some time by themselves so we are stuck babysitting for the afternoon. Anyway, Marie isn’t allowed to take hers on the main road yet, so we’re walking.”

Marie put her hands on her hips in indignation. “I’m not a baby, David. I’m eight. That’s only a year younger than Michael, and I can do anything you can. If you run off and leave me like you did last time, I’m going to tell.”

The boys looked at one another and shrugged.

“We can pick up some World Cup stickers at the shop,” said John. “I’ve got almost all of England. Just need Gary Linker and Bryan Robson now.”

They walked out of the alley, towards the shop. Michael came alongside John. “You got any swaps?”

“Yeah, loads. What ones do you need?”

“I need Peter Beardsley.”

“Na, not got any spares of him. I have about five Graeme Souness though.”

“Graeme Souness? He is in every pack! I wouldn't mind, but he’s shit an’ all.”

“You’re only jealous ’cos his hair's better than yours.”

Michael considered this for a second then punched John in the arm. “At least I haven’t got a girl perm like Chris Waddle and you.”

Marie folded her arms in a huff, disgusted at the topic of conversation. “Boys. You never talk about anything interesting.”

David grinned at his sister. “What would you rather talk about squirt? Dolls and Ponies?”

“No, just not football. It’s boring.”

“You’re boring.” said Michael.

“At least I’m not ugly! No girl will ever fancy you. Not even a dog like Lizzie Fletcher. You’ve got ears like the bloody world cup.”

Michael’s face went red, and he looked to be on the verge of losing his temper.

“Pack it in you two,” said David, an edge in his voice. “It’s bad enough that we have to change our plans for today without you two arguing like a pair of babies. Give it a rest, or you can both go and play on the swings like little kids while me and John go and do something else.”

At this, the siblings quietened down, and they followed behind the two older boys, exchanging murderous glances.

The shop was situated in the middle of a small council estate, mostly made up of two-storey flat-roofed houses. It stood at the junction of two residential streets. A solitary building had once been two homes, but now contained the small convenience store and a fish and chip shop. Overgrown patches of grass that had once been gardens flanked the building. The grassy area was enclosed with a wooden fence with peeling green paint and a low brick wall that was covered in graffiti.

In honesty, none of the children minded the errand. The shop was a special place, almost magical in its lure. A small refrigerator at the rear of the shop held pints of milk and cold cans of lager. The three aisles were packed with tins of food, racks of vegetables, and a stand with assorted pieces of sewing materials. Behind the counter, a wall-mounted shelf held the tea, coffee, and a rack of cigarettes. What caught the children’s eye, however, was the array of glass jars standing on the shelves behind the shop assistant.

There were hardly any shops like this in High Moor anymore. A dazzling array of different confectionary delights filled the jars. Cola bottles, pear drops, penny chews, liquorice laces, peanut brittle, gobstoppers, and hard candy peered out at the children from behind their glass prisons, calling to them.

David put two bottles of milk on the counter along with two loaves of white bread, while John rooted through his pockets for change, and the two younger children stared open-mouthed at the sweets.

“Can we have four twenty-five pence mix ups and five packs of World Cup stickers please?” said John to the elderly woman behind the counter.

David looked surprised. “You sure, John?”

“Yeah, I got my pocket money yesterday, and I got a bit extra for helping Dad with the lawn, so I’m fine. If I just got them for myself, then you lot'd just sit there, looking at me while I ate them, so this way I can eat mine in peace.” He winked at Michael and Marie. Marie blushed, and a grin spread across Michael’s face.

They sat on the low brick wall outside the shop, eating the sweets and watching John as he opened his new stickers. A sudden squeal of bicycle tires cut through the silence.

John looked up and saw Malcolm Harrison getting off his BMX, along with the rest of his gang: Billy Phillips, Simon Dobbs, and Lawrence Mitchell. "Aw shit."

David, John, and Michael got off the wall, their fists balled, ready for trouble.

David stood face to face with Malcolm. “What the fuck do you want, Harrison?"

Malcolm put his hands out, an innocent expression on his face. “Just wanted to say hello and to see what you are doing. Let me see those stickers, John.”

“I’m not letting you see anything, Malcolm. Why don’t you piss off and bother someone else.”

“That’s not very friendly. Maybe I’ll just take them off you, make you look bad in front of your little skank girlfriend over there.”

Marie reddened.

David moved between Malcolm and John. “Oi! Don’t call my sister a skank, you tosser.”

The rest of Malcolm’s gang spread out and formed a loose semicircle around them, darting in and making half-hearted snatches at the foil packets in John’s hands.

Billy Phillips produced the carrier bag of shopping from behind the wall. “Oh, look what I found. Finders keepers and all that.”

Michael lunged at the bag. “That’s me mam’s shopping. Put it down, you prick.”

Billy grinned. “Anything you say, Mikey boy,” and hurled the plastic bag high into the air.

David and Michael watched the bag as it somersaulted through space. The milk bottles fell from it as it reached the top of its arc and shattered on the concrete paving stones below.

“Me dad will go mental!” screamed Michael and hurled himself at Billy, who shoved the smaller boy back against the wall. David squared up to Malcolm, who planted both hands on his shoulders and pushed him back.

“You want some, Dave? You wanna go? Right here, right now?”

Marie strode forward, her face flushed with rage.

“Malcolm Harrison, you are a fucking twat!” she screamed and brought her right foot up, striking the boy between his legs. Malcolm’s face went purple and he almost folded in half. As his head came down, David brought his knee up into Malcolm’s face. The boy’s nose exploded in a shower of blood, and he fell to the floor, trying to catch his breath through agonised sobs.

John turned and punched Lawrence Mitchell square in the face as he stood gawping at his fallen friend. The boy fell back and put his hands over his face. John pummelled him, launching punch after punch at the cowering boy.

David and Michael turned to the other two boys, their faces twisted with fury. They knew what would happen to them if they returned without the shopping and were prepared to pass along the pain.

David balled his fists and stepped forward with murder in his eyes. “You owe me 50p Billy. Now.”

Billy looked at Malcolm, who was still on the floor crying, and to Lawrence, now curled into a foetal position while John rained punches on his head.

Billy held out a shiny gold coin with trembling hands. “I’ve only got a quid.”

David grabbed the coin from Billy's hand. “That’ll do. Now piss off and take your cry babies with you before you get some of the same." He turned to John. “Leave him, mate, he’s not worth the bother.”

Lawrence got to his feet and grabbed his bike, then pedalled off in floods of tears. Billy and Simon followed close behind him. Malcolm struggled to his feet and tried to mount his bike, shrieking with pain as his bruised genitals landed on the saddle. With tears and snot running across his face, he wobbled off after his friends.

“Bother us once more, arse wipe, and I’ll set my little sister on you again!” yelled David. Michael and John laughed at this. Marie was still glaring at the retreating boys, her lips pursed and her face flushed with anger.

John patted Marie on the shoulder. “Marie. You were awesome.”

“Yeah,” said Michael, “I can’t believe you kicked Malcolm Harrison in the balls.”

David walked up to his little sister and gave her a hug. “You’re alright, Marie, but we can’t call you squirt anymore after you kicked his arse. Gonna have to call you Scrapper instead, I reckon.”

Marie flushed with pride and grinned at the three boys. “So I can play with you guys now? The girls around ours are so boring. All they ever talk about is dolls and ponies.”

The boys looked at each other. Michael and John shrugged.

“Sure thing, Scrapper, you can hang with us from now on.”

25th March 1986. High Moor. 17:13.

The day flew by. The children dropped off the shopping at home, then took their bicycles and made a makeshift ramp from some bricks and a couple of old pieces of wood. Marie fell off hers while attempting a jump one-handed and skinned her knees. Mindful of John’s presence, however, the tears soon stopped. The secret camp in the woods was not mentioned by any of the boys. While Marie was a provisional member of their gang, she was not to be trusted with their greatest secret. Not yet anyway.

The sun was low in the sky when they made their way home.

“I can’t believe it’s school tomorrow,” said Michael.

John pulled a face. “I know. I’ve got a stack of history homework to do tonight after tea, and I really can’t be arsed.”

David rolled his eyes. “You wait until you get to secondary school. I swear I get more to do at home than I do in class.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to pull a face. “More homework? It’s so unfair. It’s bad enough that we have to sit there, bored all day without them ruining our nights and weekends.”

“I think they should ban homework,” said Marie. “Or we should get everyone to do what they did on the telly. Go on stroke or something?”

David laughed. “I think you mean go on strike, squirt.”

“Whatever. And you said you weren’t gonna call me squirt anymore.”

David put his hands up in mock terror. “Alright, alright, Scrapper. I don’t want you to kick me in the balls as well. Come on you two, we'd better get in for dinner, before we get in trouble. See you tomorrow, John?”

"Yeah, as long as that cow in history doesn’t give me even more bloody homework to do. See you tomorrow at break, Michael, Marie. See you later, Dave,” said John. Then he opened the rear door to his house and disappeared inside.

David opened their own back door and walked into the kitchen with Michael and Marie on his heels. A waft of warm damp air, laden with the smells of cooking hit them, and the children smiled. It had been a busy day, and they were all starving.

David hung his jacket up on the pegs behind the door. “Evening, Mam. What’s for dinner?”

His mother looked up at him, and a shadow fell over her face. She opened her mouth to speak, when her husband’s voice came from the front room.

“Joan? Is that them back?”

“Yes, Norman. They just came in now,” she replied, a tremble in her voice.

They heard sounds of a newspaper being folded and heavy footsteps in the hallway. The children looked at their mother. She turned away and gave the evening meal her full attention.

Norman Williams appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was a large, barrel-chested man with heavily muscled arms and thinning dark brown hair combed across his scalp in a vain attempt to hide his encroaching baldness. His eyes were bloodshot, and the stink of alcohol and sweat billowed from him like a cloud. He curled his lip into a snarl.

“Where are they?”

David shrugged. “Where’s what?”

Norman slapped David across the face with the back of his hand. The boy staggered and fell against the kitchen worktop.

“Don’t you talk back to me, you little bastard. You know what I mean. Where are my good fucking tools?

David’s stomach somersaulted. He had forgotten about the tools, left in their camp the previous day. His father tightened his fists and turned to Michael.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been messing about with my tools again, you little fucking cunt. I’ve told you I don’t know how many times, but you just don’t listen.”

Norman raised his fist to strike Michael. David moved between them.

“It was me, Dad. I’ve been building a tree house in the woods. I used them.”

“You took our Marie in the woods? With all the perverts and glue sniffers?”

The fist lashed out and caught David in the ribs.