Heartland (11 page)

Woss yer naeme, our kid? the supervisor had asked him that afternoon, standing on the canal towpath as they filled a skip.

Wayne, he said, me name's Wayne.

The free-kick came to nothing.

Iss too much on him. He ay fit, yer know. His dad's voice kept going in his ear. Jim turned, motioned with his pint glass. Rob nodded. Then Owen was away, wriggling clear of defenders, like a little kid running excitedly towards a swimming pool, not completely away, though. Corner ball! Pressure building now.

Come on England!

Jim sat in his car and looked at the off-white bulk of the hospital looming over him.
In the rain it looked like one of those supertankers you'd see on the news from time to time, flipped over in the sea spilling oil from its belly. He
wondered if this was what the mosque would look like, as it was what all new buildings looked like, concrete discolouring in the rain. It would be like dying in a shopping centre or art gallery. Then he thought about the old, dark nest of workhouse buildings at Dudley Guest and Burton Road hospitals, the weeks that summer going back and forth with his dad, and decided that some modern things were better after all.

If the lad died, there were real problems.

Stacey had phoned him from a police car and left a panicked message on his voicemail. Her phone was switched off now.

Jim lit a cigarette and sat looking at the entrance doors, scared to go in. He knew he should've been thinking about the boy, about Stacey at least, but all he could think about was how bad things would get if he was dead. He and Jackie, Tom and Kathleen, had taken turns to look after Glenn and Stacey a couple of times a week when they were kids, when things were difficult. The dad, never around much anyway, got sent down for a long time, their mother implicated as well, running a group of prostitutes in Walsall. Serious crime; serious shame. Their families went back a long way, but there was no need to be so involved now.

This boy Andre was no angel from what Jim could make out – the sins of the fathers, grandfathers, he supposed – not that it meant it was all right for him to get stabbed riding his bike to the chip shop to fetch his mother and sister's tea. You could see how bad it looked. How bad it was.

Pauline was annoyed because she'd made a meal early so they could eat together. It was her college night: aromatherapy. Last term it had been flower arranging. Before that, Beginner's Spanish that she'd tried to persuade him to come to. He needed to learn some, if they were going to
move there, but he struggled with languages. He'd tried those Urdu classes years ago and hadn't picked up a thing.

An what abaht yer own son? Pauline had hissed at him as he'd pulled his shoes on. Michael had just sneaked back into the house, two hours late from school, with no explanation, wearing one of those army coats the kids were going mad for. God knows where that had come from. It struck Jim that it might be a good thing Michael had stayed out, instead of his arse being glued to the chair and his eyes to the computer screen, but he thought that best left unsaid. Pauline waved around the knife that she'd been chopping tomatoes with. They'd got salad, part of her continuous health kick.

Iss allus other people's children come first is what I can see.

Wiv had all this before, love. Yer know why I atta do it.

It ull be a bloody relief if yer do lose this election, honestly.

Yer doh mean tha.

Pauline was shaking her head and pacing up and down the hall. He could tell the worst was over. Her temper would blow suddenly and just as quickly subside.

Come here, she said.

Yow ay gonna have a goo, am yer? he said, looking at the knife, a face of mock-terror.

Doh joke abaht things like that, I'll see yer later. She kissed him on the cheek and shouted upstairs to tell Michael his dad had to go out. There was no response. They both sighed.

He'd parked by the side entrance. There was a lifelike sculpture of a dog outside the doors, its nose down as if it had smelled something interesting in the verge of wood-chip and saplings. Someone had rested an empty beer can up against its nose. It looked lonely and forlorn against the giant building. Jim wondered what use it was in the
healing of the sick. He patted the dog's head on the way in and walked down the long, bright corridor.

Zubair went back to London three or four times.
He didn't know what he was doing really; Adnan had gone, he knew that. This was as much about himself. He'd gone through the motions, had taken photocopies of a recent photo of Adnan, gave them out at minicab offices. He'd get back in and his dad would look up from his armchair and Zubair would shake his head, explain quietly what he'd done.

He took Katie with him to London. They stayed in different hotels near the British Museum, rode around in taxis. He was sticking it all on a new credit card, wanted to impress her. One afternoon they wandered into the museum out of the rain. They stared dumbly at the exhibits: smashed fragments from the corners of the Empire. He told her how this stuff was stolen from countries that Britain had invaded, just because he felt he should. She shrugged and tried to make him laugh, impersonating the security guards and Japanese tourists. In the Asian room they stared at a little wooden plaque showing a carved picture of a skeletal god dancing to a band of devils. He told her it came from near where his family was from. They slipped out of the museum, back to the hotel, drank Southern Comfort and Coke in bed and didn't come out until next morning. While they were shrouded in the damp sheets, he told her that he'd look after her, that he'd marry her.

Next morning he woke up thick-headed and guilty, feeling that Adnan was a receding speck.

There was no shape for ages; nobody could put their foot on the ball,
just got rid of it if it came to them. Whole matches seemed to pass like this on Sunday mornings, whole seasons.

Their keeper kicked it straight up in the air.

Rob's ball!

He had to make twenty, twenty-five yards to come and meet it. Paul Hill had to duck with the shout because the ball was coming down straight on top of him but Rob was coming now, and he made it, sure enough, but that was all, he knocked Paul flying. He should've tried to bring the ball down, a player of his so-called ability, but there'd have been no one to aim it at anyway. Glenn was complaining to Mark Stanley about something. The ball went back over the top and through to their keeper who bowled it out to Zubair's feet. Rob had to turn and make up ground to get back alongside the lad with the shapes cut in his beard who'd pushed on, pointing and banging his chest.

All right, Sinbad, calm down, Rob muttered, then felt ashamed, glad the bloke hadn't heard him. He was even more annoyed with himself now, for playing in this shambles at all, for getting drawn into all this nonsense, for not being able to get hold of it, for not being able to bend things to his will.

Jim was surprised to see Rob sitting in the café that faced the lifts.

What yow doin here? he said in a too-loud and hearty voice.

All right, Uncle Jim? Yer wouldn't believe whass happened now. Yer know Andre, Stacey's lad. He's got himself in some bother dahn the shops, after school. I was up theer, at the shops, like. He's bin cut with a knife. It looked really bad.

It looked really bad? So he's all right, then?

He's all right. Lucky. It looked really bad. I thought, yer know.

There were two stab wounds on the shoulder. He also
had a gash across his face that looked like it might turn into a scar like Action Man's. That's what Rob had told Andre to get a smile from him in A&E. As well as that, the doctors thought he'd got cracked ribs.

But he's all right?

He's all right, arr. I mean, he's hurt. He ay in danger. They wanna keep him in. He's pretty shook up, yer know, shock an that, I think. What yow here for? Everythin all right?

I'm here for this.

How'd yow know abaht it?

Stacey left me a voicemail.

Rob raised his eyebrows.

I've been helping her with her tax credit forms. Her's in a bit of a mess, tell yer the truth. Got a loan out to get some stuff for the flat. I've sorted her out some work behind the bar at the club. Cash in hand, yer know. Yer know the little girl, summat the matter with her an all, yer know, well, God knows what, tantrums an everything, allus cryin. Her's at William Perry but they cor deal with her. Her needs summat else, yer know, but they cor even figure aht woss wrong wi her. But the boy's all right? Thank the Lord for that.

Jim sat down heavily, shaking his head, irritated now at having raced out and upset Pauline.

What a family, eh?

He looked at Rob's half-drunk cup of tea and began to get back up. Dyer want another cup? I'll text her to say I'm here. Her's up on the ward yer say?

I'll get em. Rob got up, sticking his hand into his tracksuit pocket.

While Rob was at the counter, Jim settled himself. He'd have to stop over-reacting, getting too involved with this sort of stuff. Young lads had always fought one another and anyone who thought knives were a new thing was
kidding themselves. There'd always been trouble if you went looking for it.

So, what, dyer work wi this lad?

Arr. To be honest with yer I'm tryin to teach him to read. He can barely read a word.

He's a big lad though, ay he. How's he do his lessons? Jim was looking round for more sugar from somewhere.

He's sent aht on a lot on em, wanders the corridors. Puts his head dahn on the desk if he's in a lesson, gets by, yer know.

What, is he dyslexic or got some sort o problem or summat?

I dunno, maybe. I ay no expert, so maybe he has, I doh know. There must be summat the matter with him, I spose. Nobody seems to think so or do anything abaht it though. But the thing is, there's loads on em.

Loads of who?

Kids who cor read. I mean properly cor read. Nothing else wrong wi em.

What dyer mean? They can read a bit.

A bit maybe, but, I mean, just a few words. I'm talking abaht fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds.

Well, the school's had its problems, but the results am gooin up an they've done well to get this new Head in. We've done well to get her in. Her's worked all over, Birmingham, London. There's allus gonna be some problems an with some kids not speakin English at um.

I ay on abaht the Asian kids. What I mean is, it ay just the Asian kids. Of course, if yow've onny spoke Urdu or Punjabi or whatever at home that might be a problem but there ay many of them. No, I'm on abaht white kids, black kids, English-speakin, yer know.

Jim really didn't want this conversation. He didn't want to hear it. For one thing, the school was improving and had done out of all recognition over the past few years.
There was new building work, the results were up. It was racially mixed, unlike the primary schools. It was a success, a bloody good school. It would do even better with this new Head. They'd been lucky to get her. Rob wasn't a teacher anyway.

Any road, what happened up at the shops, then?

Rob told him what he'd seen.

When he said summat abaht a knife an the state he was in, yer know. Jesus, I thought, this is it, thought it was really serious, yer know.

Jim sighed. So what happens now? Andre brings all his mates an theer dads to get em back.

No, I doh think so. He's a bit of a loner. He ay got no mates, really. He tries to hang arahnd wi kids dahn the shops but they doh like him, to be honest. Iss sad. Iss allus them sort that get it though, ay it? Yome right to worry, though. What if they'd come dahn theer an stuck summat in one of the Woodhouses or John-Paul or Kelvin, other kids I work with, yer know. In fact, I'd just sin Rhys Wood-house up to no good abaht a minute befower. We'd have a war to worry abaht. Somebody ud get killed. The papers ud have summat to write abaht then. They was pretty much right in the flats. If it was the older crowd that come up theer an had bin caught, well.

Rob blew his cheeks out. Jim hated this idea of separate areas but it was true: a gang of Asian lads turning up for a fight at the flats was a real problem. Half the estate would come out after them. He sipped his tea.

Glenn?

What dyer mean?

Dyer reckon he might start tekkin an interest in his sister, all of a sudden, now his nephew's bin stabbed, or whatever yer call it? Especially with all his new mates.

Jesus. I dunno. Iss bin a long time. He stopped speaking to her long before her even got pregnant, yer know. We
hadn't left school when he stopped. Her never used to have any dinner money an Glenn ud have some off his grandad, but wouldn't share it. Wouldn't look at her. Mom used to give me a bit extra to give to her some days.

I know. I gid it yer mother.

Jim enjoyed telling him this as it came out of his mouth, then regretted it immediately. They sat there quietly for a while.

It ull suit that lot dahn to the ground though, woh it? Asian gang rampaging into the estate, law and order and all that. Rob smiled and shook his head.

Thass what I'm worried abaht. What abaht the police?

They was theer quick. The woman that sin it phoned em. An Nancy, yer know, our Nancy, from the launderette, phoned an ambulance.

What they said?

They've took statements. I've given one. It was short though, cos I day see what happened. I doubt if Andre's gonna wanna say much. He's bin in trouble before an that.

Yer doh say.

Jim leaned back, feeling claustrophobic in the the small, fixed plastic chair and flickering artificial light. An old couple walked past slowly towards the lifts, the man in a shirt and tie, the woman with some grapes. They lived in the Priory Court flats, the old man had come to see him about the lighting on the back steps and Jim had got the housing association to sort it out. They said hello to him. The woman called him councillor. It made him feel good.