The Boy Who Flew Away – short story


The Boy Who Flew Away


            I am a mixture of all things. Broken body. Broken mind. Weakened and conquered. Destroyed. Yet somehow still railing wildly against it, fighting back, resisting, no, no, no, no. I won’t go quietly. I won’t give in. I won’t let you win.

I drive him home in the car. I am fresh and awake, steely in my resolve to finally show him the way. My wayward son. The prodigal son. I am bringing him home. I am showing him the way. Progress has been made. I can breathe again now. Big, deep, long breaths, filling up my lungs. In, out, in, out. Calming, soothing, winning. Guiding him home.

He swings the car into the drive. A light goes on above the double garage doors.  I blink up at his house. His castle and his kingdom. He has delivered me back to his lair. I look sideways and glimpse his face, and it is meaty and it sweats and gloats, and his small eyes shine. The door is rising up slowly and cleanly, and the car glides in. Sleek, slow and smug.

            ‘Home,’ he tells me simply. ‘Last chance saloon. Your new life starts now Danny. What do you say?’

            I stare out of the window with dead eyes. I can see a work bench with shining metal tools hanging above it. I need to come to terms with something. If we go inside that house one of us will have to die. I look back at him and say; ‘thank you.’ He likes these kinds of words. He pats my leg and gets out his side of the car.

He gets out the other side and we look at each other across the roof. Like so many times before, the moment stretches out and we are both immobilised, lost within it. I feel like he is staring into my soul, seeing every inch of me, and I am doing the same to him. His face is pale. His hair is full of blood. He stands hunched, in pain, as his body starts to shake. I feel the rushing urge to be tender now. To lead us both out of the darkness.

            ‘Come on,’ I tell him brightly. ‘I’ll show you your room.’

            I feel a tremble of excitement, at the thought of showing him his bedroom. We enter the house through the door inside the garage, and we come out into the utility room. I put my hand on his shoulder and walk him forward into the kitchen. The lights are off. The tiles smooth. I can feel him vibrating under my hand. ‘Time to start again,’ I am telling him, and my voice is husky and tight. I am brimming over with so many things. I just hope he can understand. I just hope this is really it. I squeeze his shoulder and reach for the light. There is suddenly something I feel the urge to do. ‘Just a minute.’

I wait, knowing, dreading. Sick yellow light spills into the room, and my eyes react by screwing up. Everything is too bright in here. The floor tiles, the kitchen cabinets and worktops. Everything shines and burns. I lift my hands and press them to my eyes. I cannot really believe I am here. I cannot really believe he let me live, and I cannot really believe this will continue much longer. I’m not the only one who is broken. We both are. Clinging onto a life which is doomed. He is pulling open a drawer, his fingers grappling, while metal implements bang against each other. My skin crawls and time stands absolutely still. I think, we are both finished, but I am the only one who can admit it. He thinks he has won. I know neither of us ever will. Now we are both dying, rotting on the inside. The stench of us turns my stomach.

I turn back to him with the scissors. He is this crushed and staring thing. Silent. His face still. His eyes blank. I stand behind him and press my hands down onto his shoulders. He is stiff, like a little doll, but he is also weak, and his knees buckle easily. He makes a little sound and then nothing. ‘Shh,’ I tell him, lifting his hair away from his neck. ‘We don’t want to wake your mum. You know, I’m looking forward to seeing her face in the morning. She’ll be chuffed to bits, won’t she eh? Us all back together again? Like a proper family.’ I chuckle softly and open the scissors. ‘Just need to sort you out a bit, eh? Start afresh properly. Out with the old. In with the new. ’

I kneel there in silence while the scissors open and close. He is careful and methodical, changing me. What he wanted all along. My lips are pressed together. I breathe in and out through my nose while my arms hang at my sides. There is tightness in my throat. Tears blurring my vision. I am putty in his hands. He thinks this is enough. He thinks this ends it. But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know that it will never be enough for him or for me. There will always be more, there will always be another day, another fight, another rebellion, another crushing. On and on and on. He must know this, somewhere deep inside of him. Last chance, he keeps saying. Last time. How many times has he promised this? Why does he keep going back on his word?

When the cutting is over, I help him up, turn off the light and urge him forward through the tufts of blood stained hair. He says nothing. ‘So much better,’ I am telling him. ‘You’ll feel a lot better for it. Cleaner and smarter. That’s the way forward now. Family business eh?’ We go through the hall and up the stairs to his room.  At the end of the landing, overlooking the back garden, is his room. I open the door slowly and proudly, guiding him in, and reaching for the light. ‘Ta da!’ I say, as he gazes around. It was one of the first rooms I decorated, but I don’t tell him that. Midnight blue. Matching curtains and wooden shutters. Double bed. Matching wardrobe, desk and bedside table. En suite bathroom. ‘Lucky boy eh?’ I close the door behind us and he looks at me briefly and nods his head. I walk around, strutting, checking the window and shutters are locked. I beckon him into the bathroom and he follows slowly, painfully. ‘So much nicer than where you’ve been hiding out,’ I say, pulling the light switch. He stands out though. Pale and shrunken down. Blood on his t-shirt. Sand in what is left of his hair. His jeans are stuck to his legs with sand and rain. I pull open the shower door and give him a nod. ‘Come on. In you go. You can’t go to bed like that.’

There is no point arguing with him. There is no point in me thinking, feeling or reacting. I have to be what he wants me to be for now. I have to be a robot. A nothing, a no one, a shell, a puppet, a doll. While he lets me live, I have to take that and nothing more. So I kick off my wet trainers and I hold onto the wall while I pull off my wet socks. I undo my jeans and let them drop. I pull my t-shirt over my head and my messed up body screams in protest. I cry out, just a little, but then I stop, biting it down, returning to nothing, no one. He steps out of the bathroom while I remove my boxer shorts, and while I am showering off the blood he took from me, he steps back in to gather up my soiled clothes. I am under the water, remembering a scene just like this that was played out three years ago.

I lay his clothes out on the bed. T-shirt and pyjama trousers. He has a whole new wardrobe of clothes and shoes. Tiredness is hitting now. I blow out my breath, and think of my bed and my woman, and tomorrow. Danny comes out of the bathroom with a towel around him and he does not look at me. He looks at the clothes, and then he goes to them and starts putting them, on. ‘Do you want something to help you sleep?’ I ask him. He stops.


            ‘Something to help you sleep? I can sort that out for you. Wait.’ I go back into the bathroom, open the cabinet and take out a bottle of pills. He is sat on the bed, hands between his legs. He looks like a ragdoll now. Lifeless and lolling. Collapsing in on himself. His lower lip hanging and swollen. His eyes on the floor. I feel sorry for him then. That always happens, I remember. I yield and soften. He does that to me. I go to him, opening the pot, making him an offer, and he takes it, like a good boy, like a good son taking his medicine, with his new haircut and his new clothes. And then I tell him to go to sleep, I say goodnight and I lock the door behind me. I stand outside for a moment, my eyes closed and my smile soft. I did it.

Why not take the pills? Why fight, why cry out, why question, beg, or scream? Maybe I am in shock. I feel cold all over. I feel like I am floating outside of my body. I lie back on the bed, locked in, broken down, infiltrated. My hands claw at the bedding, holding on, while my body floats. I close my eyes and welcome darkness. Just like before when I was in the car, whilst my mind was drifting on the ocean listening to The Smiths…music is coming back to me now but it’s a different song…where did you go? When things went wrong for you…I whisper to myself in the darkness, like I used to do, mouthing along to the words, comforting myself. I’m coming home…I’m coming home…just for a short while…

In the morning I tell her to wait in the kitchen because I have a surprise for her. Cautious, she does as I ask and I go to his room to collect him. I unlock the door and breathe him in like I used to do, and then I clap my hands together, and this is it, this is how it starts, our new life, our real family, our last and final chance to make this work. I feel new. Without me even asking, he slides out of the bed and heads for the door. I smile, wondering what is in his mind. He is locked up, closed down.

            ‘Come and have breakfast with your mum,’ I tell him. ‘She’s gonna’ be so surprised to see you. Can’t wait to see the look on her face!’

            Shuffling, wincing, but holding it all in, he comes down with me to the kitchen. I notice that his eyes are wrong. Probably the pills wearing off. He is off kilter. A shadow. Her eyes though, her eyes explode when she sees him. She slaps her hand to her mouth. Cries out. Reaches out and then stops herself, looking at me, terrified, disbelieving, overjoyed. They both look to me, waiting for instruction. ‘Give her a hug then!’ I tell him, pushing him forward. ‘She’s been going out of her mind you know!’

Pretending, make believe, a game, a lie. She knows it and I know it, and Lee, knows it too. How long can he keep it up? Smiling and chuckling, with gentle hands. Not for long. We all know that. She wraps her arms around me and whispers into my ear; ‘what happened? Are you all right?’

            ‘What do you think of the hair?’ I ask her, ignoring the question, pulling back to take up the stool he has pulled out for me. My voice sounds strange when it comes out. Thick and slow. My head is fuzzed. Everything is blurred. Her hand shakes as she reaches out to touch it. Tears are falling down her trembling cheeks.

            ‘Very nice,’ she says, because she knows this is what she must say. ‘Very nice indeed. It’s so good to see you…’

            ‘Coffee is on,’ he announces to his bright shining room and his dulled and fading prisoners. ‘Oh, that’ll be the newspaper.’

            He goes to get it, and her eyes widen and her head jerks towards the French doors leading out to the garden. I laugh softly and look away from her. She still doesn’t get it like I do. This is going to end, one way or another. One of us will have to die. But not yet. Not today.

            Today is a good day. Today is the best day. Today is the day we all get another chance, another shot. We are all reborn and new today. We enjoy a quiet, lazy morning. Coffee and toast. TV and newspapers. Danny and his mother sit together on the sofa, and she strokes his limp hand and when she looks at me, I can see how grateful she is. He doesn’t say much, but then he never did, not really. Not unless he was losing the plot and screaming at me. But there will be none of that now, not this time. He is home.

            Days pass like this. Me and him, playing the game. Mum on the outside looking in. Her white face and her bruised cheeks and her mouth hanging open, never knowing what to do or say. Days and nights. I don’t have my music here, but it’s okay, because it is in my head. I sing all the songs inside my head. I keep them all going. Days when we march like tin soldiers, and nights when I am dead, because he gives me the pills. Oh the temptation of the pills…To not feel, to not think, to not care or wonder or wish or dream. To not exist. All night long I do not exist. I am gone. Until morning, when it wears off sluggishly and I feel more weighed down than ever. The police come and go, but he has not seen me, no one has. My friends come and go, but the same story applies. No one has seen me. I have gone.

He never leaves us alone. He keeps the doors and windows locked. He tells me that there is a cellar below the house and he will take me down there if any of that old defiance comes back into my eyes. So it is good to have the pills. It is safer to be blank, and dead, and shut up. But I still know one thing. I know and he knows, that it doesn’t really matter how well I play the game, it doesn’t really matter how good I am, or how short my hair is, or how neat my clothes, or how silent my life. He can’t keep this up forever, because he needs it. He needs to release the beast inside of him every now and again, like a werewolf on a full moon, like a vampire that needs a taste of human blood, he can’t survive without it.

Days pass, and all is good. All is well. We all feel like we are on holiday, but holidays always have to end. I feel a great sense of achievement though. I go back to work on the fifth night, leaving them together, and while I am working, a hollowness opens up inside my chest. It fills with ice and I am cold from top to bottom. I resist calling them. I have to trust them. Or am I an utter fool? I rush home early, my shirt sleeves rolled up, spilled beer down my front and sweat across my forehead. But I needn’t have worried. She is asleep on the sofa with the lights off and the TV on. I run up the stairs two at a time, but he is in his bed, snoring softly. The little bottle of pills is on the bedside table. I check it, a brief stab of paranoia lurching me forward, but it is fine. It’s fine. He just took one. He just took it early and now he is asleep. I let out my breath and my shoulders roll down and I close my eyes and smile and inhale. No need to panic.

On day six his personality cracks open and splits right down the middle. The devil is set free, for a brief and predictable two minutes. He is spitting rage and eyeballs rolling. He is muscles tight and huge and hard and he is tiny teeth bared like a wild animal. If I wasn’t so spaced out on pills I would probably laugh right in his face before reaching for a knife and going for it. My movements are thick and sluggish because of the pills and in passing my mother the strawberry jam, my elbow makes a grand error and nudges his coffee mug just as he reaches for it. He knocks it more than I do, but that does not matter. Truth never matters. The next thing I know he has my face down in the coffee, my stubby hair soaking up the hot brown puddle, while my mother sucks in her terror with hands over mouth and huge moon eyes. Afterwards I feel gratified and amused. And that night I take the pill and hide it under my mattress. The time is coming.

He’s still a good boy though, he’s still a good boy. He says sorry and he does whatever I tell him, and he keeps his room clean and tidy, and he has his nice short hair and new neat clothes, and no music up there in his room, and takes his showers, and eats his food and does his chores without a word. And his friends stay away, they all stay away. And the cellar is a threat, and the puddle of coffee is just a warning. And it’s just a twitch, the way I am, the way I feel, it’s just a twitch inside of me, a little explosion that takes place sometimes. And the truth I try to bury is that I really quite enjoy it. I don’t like fights. But I do like beating flesh.

I don’t have much time. Not much time left in this house with the monster. Not much time left in this world, or this life. I don’t feel sad about this. I am still numbed and silent, except for the music inside my head. The music is always there. The music is my only friend now. It washes in and out, takes my hand and holds it tight. I curl my fingers in response and remember to breathe. The spiralling guitars jangle through my ear canals, warming up my brain, pulsing inside my heart. It’s time, they say, it’s time to go, it’s time to move, it’s time to act.

He’s humming in his room. I can hear him from the hallway. Humming and murmuring. Singing along to nothing. Why does it make my fists clench? Why does it make my jaw tight? Why does the sound of it grate on my nerves like finger nails down a blackboard?

He comes up to see me, and I can see it there on his face. His jaw is twitching. His eyes are restless. His chin quivers as he points his finger at me and demands to know what I am singing about. ‘Nothing, sorry,’ I tell him and I try to tell him something else with my eyes, because we are almost telepathic, me and him. We don’t need to speak, or argue, or beat around the bush. He can feel it trembling to life within him, and I can feel it vibrating inside of me. We stare at each other and I feel like fireworks are going off in my brain.

I’d like to…I want to…I don’t though, I don’t. We’ve moved on. We’re doing better now. I back off, I back out of the room and move quickly down the stairs. I want my heart to slow down.

I wait until I hear the garage door rising up to release his beast. I go out onto the landing and into their bedroom. It’s all shiny black silk and mirrors. The doors to the balcony are open and the cream curtains are blowing in the wind. I go to the doors and watch his car leaving. It purrs away down the road and he is gone. All I need is a ten pence piece.

I don’t need to be in work for long. I am thinking this as I drive. The hairs on my arms are all on end. I shake my head, try to rip free of the tingles down my spine. Why did he stare at me like that? What was he saying? I don’t need to be long. I’ll leave the manager in charge. I’ll just tie up a few things in the office and hurry back.

I don’t take anything but the ten pence piece. I find it in my mother’s purse which is on her dressing table. She is downstairs, swishing the mop around the wet look tiles. I won’t speak to her. I won’t go near her. I can’t. It’s life or death, you see. His or mine. I know exactly what I am going to do. I take nothing. I don’t need a thing. I climb over the balcony, and ease my legs down one by one. It’s about a ten foot drop to the soft lush grass beneath. I let go and land neatly and silently under the kitchen window. For a brief moment I think of her in there, swirling circles on the floor. I wonder if she can see her face in them yet. I wonder if it will kill her that I never said goodbye. But I can’t hang about. The look that passed between him and I meant too much, and he will be back. I turn around and run. There is a phone box at the end of the road, and I have one number in my head. It’s the only phone number I know off by heart, and it is the only number I need to call.

In my office, on the phone, behind the bar, checking stock, and the feeling grows and grows and swells and consumes me. It’s like I can’t breathe properly. I have to keep opening my mouth to swallow more air, and it doesn’t work, it’s never enough. My chest is getting tighter, as are all my muscles until I feel like I am too stiff to move. My head is pounding, pain rippling at the temples. My throat is dry, my lips are trembling. That look. That look he gave me. That humming and singing and mumbling. I need to go back and check on things. We’ve come so far now…I can’t relax too quickly and let it all go wrong again…I just can’t.

As I run I wonder if anyone can see me. I wonder if anyone is upstairs in their house, looking out of the window, or standing on the balcony. It doesn’t matter anyway. I am running so fast I am nearly gone already. No one could catch me now. No one could stop me. I am running so fast, and soon enough I will take off and fly.

My hands are shaking as I stick the key in the ignition. My palms greasy with sweat. I try calling home, just to check, but no one picks up the phone, which enrages me further. He gave me a look. It was the way he used to look at me, back then. Even after I’d pounded him, even after I’d smashed him into the ground, even after I’d made him vomit and bleed. He’d look at me in the same way. It was always the same, always the same. Fuck you. It was fuck you. Again and again and again, until I wanted to kill him. I will kill you. I will end it. I’ve warned him a million times. This was the last chance, the last, I am not going through this again, and again and again!

I run along the cliff-top. I am so close to the edge now. I can see over, I can see down. I can see the water crashing against the rocks. I keep running until I am back where he put me. Beyond the red and white tape, to the spot where the land caved in. I stop here, as close to the edge as I can get. The tips of my shoes teasing the land, daring it to crumble. I lean forward, smiling down at the water, wondering if it wants me.

Traffic all the way home. And the bad feeling rises and expands inside of me. I finally get through to Kay on the phone. She sounds confused and far away. ‘Where’s Danny?’ I ask her. ‘What’s he doing?’ She takes the phone around the house with her to check. I hear doors opening and closing. I hear her breath getting shorter, more panicked.

‘He’s not in his room. I don’t know where he is!’

‘Fucks sake!’ I spit at her and hang up the phone.

On the edge of the cliff I am standing and falling at the same time. I close my eyes and the air on my face is cold and pure and I think about flying and soaring and I think about finally being free. I think about living without fear and hatred. I think about one of us living and one of us dying. I’ve got so much music in my head that I think it will explode and become me. Just me and the music. All that remains.

Finally I swerve the car into the drive, get out and start running. She follows me around the house, breathing and sobbing, ducking from my punches, as I scream and shout and tear the place apart. He’s not anywhere, he’s not hiding, he’s gone! I search his room and nothing is missing. Nothing is missing from anywhere. He has left in the clothes and shoes he was wearing this morning. Little bastard. Fucking little bastard! I push her away to escape her mewling and I am back out of the door, looking right and left, thinking, my head hurting too much to think right! Where would he go? Who would he go to?

It’s cold here. I have a heaviness inside my gut when I think about leaving them all behind. So I try not to. Instead, I just think about being free. Weightless.

It’s too late by the time I get there. I wasted all that time driving around looking for his friends. They were useless, they knew nothing or are very good liars. Nothing. Nowhere. Until I remembered that night on the cliff top. Something made me go there. I went on foot, my shoulders hanging, my head low. My feet like concrete. As I make my way towards the cliff, the rain starts to fall. I can see something sat there, right on the edge, waiting for me. When I get closer I see that it is his shoes. He has left his shoes on the edge of the cliff and he has gone. I am on my knees, my hands clutching his shoes, and down below, the waves are giants pounding the cliff, breaking and rolling and screaming over the jagged rocks.

We’re in the car, Jaime and me. The only number I knew by heart. He came as fast as he could, and I ran to his car as fast as I could. So fast and light I was flying. Leapt in and slammed the door on myself before the pull of the fall became too much for me to resist.

‘Where we going?’ he wants to know, as we hit the motorway and the speed climbs towards seventy. ‘Where are your shoes?’

I want to say a lot of things to him, but only one thing is important right now.

‘I’m dead Jaime, okay? I want you to remember that. I’m dead.’

Author’s note; This short story is actually an alternative ending to my novel The Boy With The Thorn In His Side. If you would like to know more about these characters and how they ended up in this situation, you can get the book here;

The Boy With The Thorn In His Side: Chapter 2


April 1993

So where did it all start?  What do we go back to?  We go back to me, wanting a fight.  I didn’t like sport, and I had no interest in cars.  I liked books and my own imagination.  I didn’t mind a kickabout, but I did not follow a team.  I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what, and whatever it was always eluded me, so all I could do was fight, because everything seemed futile and I was always angry.  Me, always wanting to fight.  That was where it began.


We’ll go back to 1993. You might remember it.  You might have been there too.  The Conservative Party were still in power, and had been for my entire life.  Bill Clinton was the President of the United States.  It was a year of violence and horror in the news, I remember that because certain grotesque stories stuck inside my head. The abduction and murder of two year old James Bulger by two schoolboys.  The stand-off and fire at Waco, Texas, where seventy-six members of David Koresh’s cult died alongside him.  The racist murder of Stephen Lawrence.  The troubles escalating in Iraq.  Horror, everywhere you turned, everywhere you looked, even in music.  You see, I remember 1993 for lots of reasons, and music is one of them.  The charts were shoddy.  Whitney Houstons’ ‘I Will Always Love You’ dominated the start of the year, and it didn’t get much better after that.  I discovered that you had to look for music, you had to seek it out, and hunt it down, go forwards as well as backwards.  I had just moved house with my mother, and older brother John.  I was a stranger, a new kid, sullen and jarred by the unfairness of her mistakes affecting me.  I was standing on the edge of a great swelling discovery; music.  I felt like I was turning the pages of a good book faster and faster, but that I would never get to the end, I would never discover all of the music.


It thrummed in my ears, Guns ‘N’ Roses, my new favourite band. November Rain. Except it was April, not November, and it was sunny, not raining, and as I stared through the net curtains at the window, I knew there would have to be some kind of fight.  I knew it, and they knew it.  It had been three days now.  I couldn’t let it go on any longer, couldn’t bear to.  They were always out there, circling slowly on their battered bikes, like vultures, hovering on the perimeter of some unfortunate half dead prey. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and glared at them.  They would shuffle their bikes together and flick their mean eyed gaze to the house, where I lay trapped within.  They appeared hungry to me, huddling together, heads low and shoulders hunched, discussing me.  Their foreheads would almost touch, before they would all recoil again suddenly, dramatically, mouths gaping with laughter muffled by the window pane.  I reached for them, touched the glass with an outstretched index finger and knew they were laughing at me.  The new boy.


So what did they want?  I felt they were waiting for me to decide, waiting for me to make the first move.  A fight then.  Better than feeling like a prisoner, holed up in the new house, while my mother and brother moved our old lives into it behind me.  The boys had appeared on the first day, rolling in on their beat up BMX’s, heads low, hair long and eyes flat.  Their arrival had made me pause in the doorway to the new house, cardboard box in arms.  Hello had worked its way to the tip of my tongue, but at the emergence of three piercing scowls, the word had evaporated in the air before me. The second day had been worse. I’d been sent out to retrieve my mothers’ handbag from the front seat of the car, and they had been out there again, just watching.  “Forgot your handbag?” the dark one had called out in a mock high voice, sending the other two boys into howls of laughter.  I’d gritted my teeth and gone back in.  That had cemented it.  I had a problem.  Again and again I returned to the living room window, drawn to the dusty panes like a moth to the light, not wanting to know they were after me, but unable to stay back and ignore their presence.


I had been thinking about the dark one.  The dark one was the ringleader, without a doubt.  The one I would have to fight.  Winning did not really matter at this point, and I knew this.  But starting the fight, and putting up a good one, would mean everything.  The dark boy was bigger than me, with jet black hair long on his neck and hanging down over his eyes.  Those eyes gleamed at me from across the street.  He looked angry, I thought.


It felt like my body was always rigid with displeasure, arms crossed tightly, jaw jutting out, forehead creased with a frown.  Of course they; my mum and my brother, just bumped and bundled past me, sighing and clicking their tongues.  I did as little as I could to help them carry our old life through the doors.  They did their best to skirt around my dark moods, making light of everything like they always did, while I merely stood and considered the injustices they forced upon me.  I wondered dismally if life had been this unfair to my mother at age thirteen, but she never told me anything, so I wouldn’t know.  I just felt like we were not supposed to be here, in this new place, and the unfairness of it all formed a constant lump in my gut, that twisted and churned every time I saw my mothers’ face.  Every time I looked at her, the same thought would fill my mind, literally going off like a bomb in there; I am being punished for her mistakes.


I got away with shooting her the odd hard look, but I couldn’t push it too far, or she would go off on one.  She thought the same when she looked at me though, I knew it.  The looks she gave me were cautious ones.  We tiptoed around each other, or we locked horns and fought.  That was the way it was, the way it had always been.  She made me laugh sometimes when she went off.  When she gave the full works, it was hair pulling and everything.  She’s even smashed plates and things. Why can’t you be more like your brother? You are the thorn in my bloody side! Funny stuff, if you were in the right mood for it.  My brother, Good Boy John I called him just to wind him up.  The golden boy.  I could have hated him, but he was too fucking nice for that.


I bided my time.  I watched and waited, gearing myself up for the challenges that lie ahead.  If mum or John vocalised their despair at my lack of movement, I would just turn and offer them my iciest stare.  You don’t have to be me, I thought, whenever I looked at them, you don’t have to go out there at some point and face those boys, and it was true. So she’d moved us to this seaside town called Redchurch.  She used to holiday there when she was a kid.  She raved on and on about the beaches, and the quay, and the ancient Priory church.  I didn’t give a shit.  She’d made it sound like we were moving to millionaires row or something, like we would be out on a fucking yacht every day or whatever.  Of course, she was on her own since my dad bailed out years ago, so all we could afford was a rented end terrace house on the housing estate at the edge of town.  It was like a box, identical to all the others.  Dull.  The kitchen was tiny, just big enough to squeeze the round table into one corner, although you had to suck your tummy in when you passed it to reach the back door.  The kitchen window gave a view of the postage stamp sized garden.  Like all the other rooms in the house the kitchen was painted magnolia.  The floor covered in cheap beige lino, and all the other carpets were grey. From the kitchen, the hallway led to the front door, with a downstairs toilet under the stairs, and the living room to the right.  I’m not saying we lived in a mansion or a castle or anything before, but this place just hung with inescapable dullness.  I felt nothing but apathy for it, and I needed some excitement.


What was amusing was watching her stride purposefully from room to room, in those first few days.  Always with this cloth headband on her head.  I’d never seen her wear things like that before, so it made me sneer a bit.  She had an outfit for every occasion, my mum, and denim shorts, red vest top and matching head band appeared to her moving house ensemble. I watched her scurrying about, lugging boxes, scrubbing windows, and knocking down cobwebs, and all the time she was spouting all this excited drivel at us; “we’ll soon put our stamp on it won’t we boys? Can’t wait to start decorating! Don’t you want to go out and explore Danny? There is so much to do around here!”  She was doing her best to be positive I suppose, I’ll give her that much, but there was guilt behind it, and that irritated me.  She wore a permanent fake smile, painted across her face, while her eyes gave her away as usual.  The smile had shown no signs of cracking just yet, and I knew that when it eventually did, it would be because of me. “Wait until you see the beach, it’s gorgeous!” she was prattling on behind me.  “You’ll want to spend the whole summer down there Danny. It’s amazing.  And the town even has its own cinema you know? Did I tell you that already?  Why don’t you go out for a bit and have a look eh?”

To this I turned and looked at her.  I suppose she was getting sick of the sight of me, so I sighed in response.  As much as she tried to keep up this jolly front for us, I knew that my dark moods irritated her.  Unable to think of a response that was not rude, I looked back out at the street, my stomach giving a little lurch when I remembered that I would be starting school in two days.  “You’re really going to love it,” she was saying now. You are going to love it, I corrected her inwardly, you think it’s all amazing, not me.  At that moment John came into the living room with an armful of books.

“You could pop to the shop,” he started saying, without even looking at me.  He dumped the books on the sofa and trudged back out again. “You’re not exactly any help to us here,” he threw back over his shoulder.  I glanced at mum.  She had a bottle of cleaning spray tucked under one arm, and had picked up one of the books.  Her blue eyes regarded me cautiously.

“You can go out you know Danny.  Go on, go out and explore! You’re started to get on my nerves just stood there the whole time staring!  What are you looking at anyway?”  She dropped the book and came around the sofa.

“You guys can never wait to get rid of me, can you?” I shot back, arms folded, as she arrived at my side.  John groaned out in the hallway, but that was all from him.  He hated confrontation, and never liked to get involved in anything.  That didn’t stop my mother from calling on him constantly for back up though. He’d always do his best to be fair.  He’d try not to take sides, and he was really good at calming mum down when she lost the plot with me, but you could always see he hated it.  It made him uncomfortable, stepping in, playing the father figure.  We looked nothing alike, John and me, and everyone always mentioned it.  John was tall and broad shouldered, thick chested, and kept his mousy brown hair neat and short.  I suppose he was good looking, in a traditional, conventional kind of way.  Girls always seemed to go for him anyway.  He was the double of his dad, everyone always mentioned that too.  They never said I looked like my dad though; just that I had my mothers’ eyes as well as her temper.

With mum beside me, I felt the niggling urge to nudge her away, to poke an elbow at her, but I didn’t.  Instead I folded my arms even tighter and looked back out of the window.  I noticed right away that the boys had gone.  I had not seen them go, and wondered what exciting distraction had finally torn them away from me.  I reached out then and scraped my finger nails down the pane.  I wouldn’t say I did this deliberately to annoy my mother, I just sort of did it without thinking, but she reacted like I had, leaping backwards, slamming her hands against her ears and looking at me in horror.  “For God’s sake Danny!” she practically shrieked at me. “Stop that awful noise and just do something!” I didn’t look at her then, but I could imagine her perfect red smile splintering on her face.  I turned to her reluctantly and right away the expression on her face made me decide to get the hell out of there after all.  It was the face she only seemed to give to me; all taut and tight, anger mixed with anxiety, fear mixed with love, I don’t know, but it was always the same and it always depressed me one way or another.  I narrowed me eyes at her.  Looked her up and down, which I knew she hated, because she had a real paranoia about being judged, by anyone.  I wanted to shake my head at her, maybe I did just a little bit, just at the sight of her, not quite forty with two teenage boys.  She was always wearing tight fitting clothes which made me question exactly how the hell I was meant to take her seriously.


I threw up my hands in mock and exaggerated defeat and stormed past her. “All right I’ll get out if it makes you happy!” I yanked open the front door and paused long enough to shout again; “happy now?”  They said nothing, but I could feel their relief.  I’d walked for a few fast minutes before I realised how warm the day was.  I slowed down, blinking in aggravation at the sun, and removed my shirt to tie around my waist.  Under the shirt I had this cool Guns ‘N’ Roses t-shirt I had picked up back home.  Black, with the guns and roses logo in the middle.  I could smell the sea. It twitched my nostrils and I wondered if I could even hear it.  The sky was pale blue, and streaked with low slung clouds.  I shoved my hands into my pockets and stomped along, my hair hanging down over my eyes the way I liked it.  I remembered then that I still couldn’t even listen to my music, as they hadn’t found the cord for my stereo yet.  That was part of the reason I’d spent so much time staring out of the window, I reasoned, as I marched on.  My mum had laughed when she saw me organising my small collection of tapes on the desk in my room, tapes I couldn’t even play until they found my cord or bought me some batteries. “You seem to love everything I hate!” she remarked, and then she had given me a stern look. “I don’t want to hear swear words coming from your room young man.” I’d smiled secretly at this.  What she didn’t know was that all the tapes I owned had swear words on them.  It wasn’t the swear words I liked though, not really, it was the music, you know the screeching guitars and the mad drums, but not just that, it was the lyrics.  She always moaned and said she couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but she didn’t listen, or she didn’t care.  The lyrics were brilliant, and I was always scribbling them down, so I could learn them or think about them.  I don’t know why, but they just always seemed apt to me.  It’s like I would be thinking or feeling something, for whatever reason, and then a song would come on and I would think, hey fuckinghell, that’s exactly what I mean! I had Axl Rose in my head as I walked then, and as usual the words were spot on; when I look around, everybody always brings me down, well is it them or me, well I just can’t see, but there ain’t no peace to be found. You see what I mean? Brilliant. There are song lyrics for every moment of your life, you know.  Every second.


Nodding to the music in my head, I walked to the end of Curlew Close, and turned right.  There were more houses, identical to ours, with a wide expanse of green in the middle of them.  There were kids out, riding bikes and scooters in loops around the houses.  I stalked quickly past them, lifting my head long enough to see trees in the distance, up on a hill. I was looking for a place where I could smoke my cigarette in peace.  I was thinking about my smoke, and I was thinking maybe I would stay out for hours and make them worry about me, and I was also thinking what would happen if I ran into those boys?

By the time I reached the top of the hill I was a bit out of breath, and sweating under my hair.  I pushed it back and walked on.  My mum was constantly on about the hair.  She hated how long it was, which only made me want to grow it longer.  I had this huge poster of Axl Rose on my wall above my bed, and his hair was way longer, and looked so cool.   

. I crossed the road and slipped under the low fence that surrounded the park.  At the bottom was a football pitch, and some younger kids were in the middle of a game.  I slunk around the edge of them, and headed up the hill.  To the right was a swing park, which didn’t really interest me.  I kept on until I was at the top of the hill, and from there I could see woods in the distance.  I was getting desperate for a smoke now.  I didn’t think I was addicted yet though.  The first time I’d smoked at all was when I was twelve.  Me and this boy from my old school used to walk home together, and one day he just had some, so I gave it a try.  I’ve got to be honest, I found it pretty disgusting to start with.  I left it alone for about a year, and then I started pinching them from my mums’ handbag when she started going on about moving us.  It was the stress, you see.  I didn’t find it disgusting anymore.  I loved everything about it.  The taste, the smell, the feel of the fag between my fingers, lighting them up, everything, especially the thrill of not being allowed.  I spotted an empty bench under a tree, not far from the woods, and headed for it, one hand in the back pocket of my jeans, fishing out the stolen cigarette.


I sat on the bench, pulled up my legs, hugged my knees and lit up.  I felt momentarily happy.  I watched the smoke circling above my head and I felt my body loosening up for the first time in days, relaxing.  Behind me, I thought I could hear the distant roar and crash of waves, and guessed I must be pretty close to the beach my mother had been raving about.  I’d only taken a few tokes when I spotted the trio of boys entering the park down where I had.  I didn’t recognise them at first.  I had to squint down, hold one hand up against the glare of the sun and still I didn’t realise it was them until it was too late to move.  Not that I would have run off or anything, anyway.  I watched them plough through the younger kids football game, charging at the kids when they protested, sending them scattering like skittles across the grass.  They came up the hill quickly then, but I wasn’t sure if they had seen me or not.  It was them.  The three boys from the street.


Shit, I thought, and lowered my feet to the ground.  I had no choice but to stay put and try to appear either cool, or invisible.  So I sucked on my smoke and watched them get closer.  They had slowed right down now, and were slouching their way towards me, and I saw the tallest one flick back his hair and say something to the other two.  I took the chance to look them up and down and take them in properly for the first time.  They were all dressed alike, scruffy jeans with holes around the knees, checked shirts worn unbuttoned over t-shirts, and hair that was too long.


They stopped right in front of me, so I looked up at them expectantly and wondered whether I ought to smile or not.  For some stupid reason I felt the strongest urge just to grin at them.  The tall one stood back slightly, his arms crossed loosely around his middle.  He had pale brown hair that curled in wisps around his ears and danced across his forehead.  His face was lean, his cheekbones high and his hazel eyes sombre.  The smallest one had a squat and stocky build.  His hair was rusty orange, stiff and wiry, while his eyes were a bright and inquisitive green.  He placed one foot up on the bench beside me.  I glanced at the dirty Adidas trainer next to me, and then looked back at them.  The dark haired boy was just staring at me, his only movement being a quick shake of his head to knock the hair from his eyes.  I had to concentrate hard now, to keep the scowl on my own face.  My lips wanted to smile, and there was a tremor of a giggle caught in my throat.  I sat up, straightening my back, reacting to a shiver of excitement that shot up my spine.  “You’re on our bench mate.” The dark haired boy said finally.  Again I had to fight hard not to smile, or laugh, but it just sounded so funny.  I looked at each of them carefully in turn, and then I glanced down at the bench I was sat on.  I drew on the cigarette and puffed the smoke out towards them.

“I don’t see your name on it mate.”

The boy raised his thick black eyebrows in return.  The other two looked at each other, and the small ginger one sniggered.  “You’re the boy who’s just moved in.”

 I nodded. “You’re the boys always out the front.”

“What’s your name?”


“Guns and Roses are so fucking over mate,” the small one said then, taking me a little by surprise.  He was sneering at my t-shirt, the one I was so proud of, and the other two were laughing softly now.  I tried not to let my confusion show.  Part of me wanted to explain that I had only recently been getting into music, and there was just so much of it, that I felt I would never be able to catch up.  I frowned a little at the small kid then. I wondered what he knew that I didn’t.

“In your opinion,” I told him.

“Where you from?” back to the dark boy.


“Why’d you move here?”

“My mum,” I shrugged, and told them. I was still trying to work out if there was any chance they were actually being friendly, but the persistent scowl on the dark boys face was not giving me much hope.  I could tell they were waiting for more. “She had this mental boyfriend,” I explained. “She dumped him and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.  Started following her everywhere and making weird phone calls, so we moved.”

“You mean like a stalker?” the ginger boy asked, leaning over his knee now, while his green eyes widened in interest.  I felt doubtful.  I hadn’t heard that word before, not in relation to crazy old James anyway.  So I shrugged.

“Think so.”

“So where’s your dad then?” the dark boy wanted to know.

I shrugged again. “I dunno.”

I saw a look pass between them, and it gave me the feeling that I was going to get away with it this time, that I was going to be able to walk away from this.  The other two boys had their eyes on the dark one, and I felt like they wanted to discuss me.  I also knew I was right, about him being the ringleader, the one I had to beat, and I felt that fizz of excitement course through me again, churning my guts and making my limbs feel restless. I wanted a fight.  I needed  a fight. Finally the dark haired boy put his hands on his hips, dropped his shoulders a little, and sighed.

“Okay Danny, whatever your name is, this is our bench right? We come up here to have a smoke and a chat, so I’m gonna’ ask you nicely to get up and fuck off back where you came from, okay?”

I blew my breath out really slowly, and glanced down for a moment.  I took one last, long drag on my cigarette before tossing it behind me. I wanted them to think I was considering the offer.  What I really wanted to do was either laugh in his face, or smash my fist into it.  I quite liked the idea of a fight, to be honest.  I wondered how mental my mother would go if I came back home all bloodied and messed up.  But I was outnumbered, and I was smaller than two of them.  I was waiting urgently for some kind of fucking growth spurt, but my mum kept telling me not to hold my breath.  You have my build, she would tell me, making me want to tear out my own hair and stuff it into my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen to her.  Small and light, like a bird, she was fond of saying.  Yeah great, a fucking bird no less, exactly the look a teenage boy wants to have.  I shrugged carelessly and got up from the bench.  I tried to move as slowly and casually as possible, exaggerating all of my movements to make it look like the most boring thing in the world.  “Okay go for it then mate,” I told him, sliding through them and gesturing back towards his precious bench.  “I was leaving anyway.”

I started to walk away, but walked backwards for a bit. “Maybe I’ll see you guys in school on Monday,” I told them.  I nodded at the dark boy then.  “Maybe I’ll see you in school on Monday.”

“You starting at Somerley?” he called after me.  I nodded and kept walking.  “See you Monday morning then,” he said, and when I looked back at him one last time, I saw him nod at me.  His face was dark and serious, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his lips tight.  I understood that expression perfectly, so I grinned and laughed.

“See you then,” I said, and didn’t look back again.

I walked back with a small smile upon my face.  It was all spinning around and around inside my head.  The boys, the bench, the threat.  School.  When I thought about those mean eyed kids, I felt something fill the emptiness inside of me, and it was a relief.  I would either have to fight them, or win them over. Whatever happened, it was going to be interesting.

The Boy With…Epilogue




Extract from the Bournemouth Echo-June 20th 1996

Fatal Stabbing In Redchurch-16yr old boy is held

Mystery and shock surround the tragic events that unfolded yesterday, in the quiet, seaside town of Redchurch. Police have now confirmed that the body of local nightclub owner Lee Howard, 42 was removed from his Cedar View home, where it appears he was stabbed to death in the kitchen.  His wife, Mrs Kay Howard was home at the time of the attack but was not harmed.  Very little is known about the nature or the motive of the attack which took place in the early hours of yesterday morning.  A sixteen year old boy was taken into police custody.  Police are appealing to anyone who may have further information to contact them in confidenceCaroline Haskell


Letter dated July 16th 1996

Dear Danny,

            Hope you are well?  Hope they are treating you okay in there? It’s so fucking wrong you are even there.  We’re just hoping it will all come out in court and then people will know the truth.  The rumour mill has gone into overdrive around here. Had reporters at the door and everything!  Getting pretty close to punching someone’s lights out to tell you the truth.  They’re all talking crap when they don’t know anything about it! We’ll all be there in court mate, don’t you worry.  Your man Stanley doesn’t think we’ll be allowed to give character references though, but he is going to see if he can get some of us called up to speak in your favour.  He says this is unusual, but he’ll push for it because of your age.  We’ll be able to tell them about your state of mind and stuff, what life was like when Howard turned up, that sort of thing.  I’m really hoping this happens.  I want to get up there and tell them how it really was! They all think you got coked up and stabbed him to death, something to do with drugs, fuck me, it’s driving me crazy mate.  He’s good your man though, I like him, he’s been through it with us loads, and he’s got a lot of evidence building in your favour.  I suppose you know all this already.  Like Jake going to the cops that time, it’s all on record and stuff.  So that’s good.  And your mum calling the police the day before it happened.  Should count for something right?  He wants to get the sentence pushed down to manslaughter, because of the mitigating circumstances.  Think that’s what they call it?  He wants the admission you made on the scene thrown out before the jurors even get to hear it, because it can’t be trusted, because you were badly injured and in shock and that.  So don’t fuck it up and say it again Danny.  Your mum thinks you will.  Even if you did intend to do it mate, don’t fucking admit it, don’t tell them that. I really need to see you Danny.  I will come and see you regularly if you let me.  You’ve no idea how shit I feel.  Should have woken up that morning, then we’d have stopped you.  We should have made you talk when you came back that night.  I wish so many things.  At the end of the day mate, you lost your mind a bit and who can fucking blame you, you did what you had to do, and we all know that.  Please write back when you can.  When you are ready.  We all miss you.  We can’t play the music without you.  Hope to see you soon, your brothers,

Michael and Anthony


Letter dated July 20th 1996

Dear Danny,

            You probably won’t wish to hear from me, and who can blame you?  I will be there to support you in court, though.  I don’t know what to say to you.  This is a pretty hard letter to write.  There are no words to express the shock and confusion I am feeling.  It won’t mean much to you now, but please believe me when I had no idea what was going on between you and Lee.  I blame myself for this.  I did not stay in touch, I went to Leeds and concentrated on my own life.  I didn’t look back.  You would never speak to me on the phone, or answer my letters, so I guess I gave up trying.  Thought maybe you and I would get on in the future, when you were older.  I regret this so much.  I really thought that your behaviour was just some teenage rebellion, and the usual dramas with mum.  I wish you had phoned me and told me.  I wish you had trusted me to help you.  I would have believed you Danny, if you’d told me.  I would have helped you.  I would have helped you get away, I would have done something!

            I don’t understand why you didn’t tell the police, or the school. I know I don’t know the full story, but did you really think no one would help you?  I am meeting with mum every now and again, to try to piece it all together.  She blames herself of course, and I blame her too.  Once this is over, I won’t be calling her my mother again.  I cannot understand how she didn’t know, I cannot believe she allowed all of this to happen.  She says that you have forgiven her, and that she sees you once a week.  Well, if this is true, you are a better man than I will ever be, and I mean that.  You are still my brother.  I know we have never been close, but I do love you, always will.  I will stand by you, whatever happens.  Let me come and see you, and please answer my letters.  There is so much unsaid between us, and I don’t want it to stay like this.  Take care of yourself Danny.

            Your brother, John.


Letter dated August 12th 1996

My dearest Danny-boy!

            Thank you so much for my letter!! Finally!! You don’t know how happy it made me to receive it!  Please, please, do not leave it so long from now on.  Please write back to me right away!  Please, please let me come and see you, send me a pass!! I am just so desperate to see you.  We all are!  I will see you in court baby.  Please look my way and let me know you have seen me.  They are saying that me, your mum, Jake and Michael, will be able to give factual evidence on your behalf. Fingers crossed.  They say it’s unusual but it’s because of your age, and they want the jury to consider events leading up to the crime.  We can all speak about what happened in the years before, what we saw, or knew, or whatever.  But baby, I don’t believe this, but they say you want to stick to your guilty plea? They are saying if you change it to manslaughter, or self-defence, it would be an open and shut case. You took the knives for protection, not to attack.  They will discount what you said at the scene!  You know all this Danny. They say you want to plead pre-meditated murder.

            Please, please, please, I am begging you, do not do this baby!  You were not yourself that day, you were out of your mind, thanks to him!  Please believe me that you deserve some happiness.  Please please, listen to me, I am begging you to think again.  I am waiting here with Kurt.  Michael and Anthony are moving again, so I am looking after him for now.  He needs you back and so do I.  That man already took so much from you Danny, you cannot let him damage your life any more.  Come back to us, and life will be so good.  Please think about me, and your friends, who all love you so much.  Please let me visit!  It is killing me not being able to see you!! I will never give up asking and sending you letters, so you will have to let me come sooner or later! I love you so so much, I always have, and I always will, forever. It is too quiet here without you.  We cannot listen to a single song xxx

Your loving girlfriend forever, Lucy xxx


Extract from the Bournemouth Echo-October 22nd 1996

Rechurch Murder Trial- drug dealing and child abuse uncovered in seaside town

As the case continues against the sixteen year old local boy who stands accused of stabbing his step-father to death, increasingly unsavoury accusations about the deceased, are coming to light.  The defendants mother, Kay Howard, wife of the deceased, took to the stand yesterday and told the court she knew her husband to be a ‘violent drug dealer’.  Mr Lee Howard, 42 was the owner and manager at ‘K’s nightclub in Redchurch town centre.  He was a prominent businessman and well known figure in the town.  He was discovered dead at his Cedar View home on the morning of June 19th 1996.  His sixteen year old step-son, who cannot be named for legal reasons, was arrested at the scene and is currently standing trial for murder. 

The defence are currently attempting to plead diminished responsibility.  The core of their defence appears to be the defamation of the Mr Howard’s character.  Extraordinary scenes unfolded in court yesterday when Mrs Howard described how she had been in the process of leaving her husband.  She even called the police station the day before the murder, to ask for their help in leaving her violent spouse.  She went on to explain that her son, the accused, had run away from home almost a year before, because he was afraid of his abusive step-father.  She then went on to accuse her husband of ‘abducting and torturing’ her son, the night before the murder took place.  The prosecution warned Mrs Howard that the accusation would not be upheld as there was no evidence to support it.  Mrs Howard proceeded to ignore the warning, and attempted to influence the jury by claiming she knew her husband had pushed her son to the brink.  In an emotional tirade, she then went on to accuse her late husband of being a child abuser, wife beater, and drug dealer.  She was held in contempt of court and removed from the stand.

The jury were then reminded that they were not present to determine the character of the deceased, but to decide whether the defendant was guilty of pre-meditated murder, or whether he had acted under the grounds of diminished responsibility. 

This newspaper can reveal that the picture painted of the late Mr Howard as a rather shady character, has come to no surprise to locals who knew the family, and were prepared to talk to us outside the court;

Michael Anderson aged 17, had this to say; “The defendant was in fear of his step-father from the age of thirteen, and he was pushed too far in the end.  He acted in self-defence as far as I’m concerned. That man, and another man, whose name will also come out in court, deliberately enticed him into drugs so that they could abuse and control him.  Everyone knows this! All this has bearing on the case! There is a long story behind what happened that day, and people need to be able to hear it!”

Jake Miller, aged 17: “I reported the deceased to the police when he attacked me for no reason in an alley way because he wanted t know where his step-son was.”

Terry Swain, aged 46; “The defendant worked very hard for me in the record shop. He even worked for free for a while, trying to convince me to give him a job.  When he left home, his step-father came into my shop several times, threatening me and him.  That is a good lad, and he can come back to work for me when this is all over.”

It is also alleged that the defendant consumed Class A drugs before he left his bed-sit in nearby Belfield Park, on the morning of the attack.  He then made the journey on bus, and on foot to the house on Cedar View.  What the jury need to decide, is whether he went there with the sole intention of murdering his step-father, or whether he went there to help his mother, and killed the deceased in self-defence.  The trial continues.

Readers Comments page 22.

Anonymous 27; ‘Howard got what was coming to him.  Anyone who knew him thinks that.’

Mary Jenson 54; ‘Very tragic case, has touched the entire community.  People are extremely shocked round here. I wonder where the mother was in all of this.  If her son was being abused, what was she doing to protect him?’

|Brian Hooper 61; ‘If it’s true he was abused then I feel sorry for the boy, but we still cannot allow people to take the law into their own hands. He should have gone to the police and allowed the judicial system to deal with Mr Howard’

Donald Madison 45; ‘I have known the defendant for years, as he is good friends with my son.  I hope he gets the justice we all know he deserves. If a child is bullied and tormented for so long under our very noses, we need to ask ourselves as a society if we are not also to blame, when that child fights back?’


Letter dated November 19th 1996

Dear Danny,

            So they moved you then! Finally got my visitors pass in the post!  Can’t wait to come and see you mate!  Anthony is pretty gutted, but hopefully he’ll get the next turn.  Well I’ll have so much to tell you when I come to see you, but I had to write first, to tell you how fucking sorry I am.  You should have walked free of that court with your head held high.  With everything your mum, and Jake and me said to them, you’d think they’d have known it wasn’t your fucking fault.  Fuckinghell mate.  I still can’t believe you stood up there and pleaded pre-meditated murder.  Lucy was destroyed mate.  She’s in pieces.  She had her heart set on you getting diminished responsibility and getting out.  We tried to warn her, but you know.  Let her come see you, and be patient with her.

            You gave the judge and jury no fucking choice, but I can kind of understand your reasons.  Well, Anthony has tried to get it through to me, anyway.  You know what he’s like.  He always gets you.  He says you were being true to yourself.  Standing up there and telling the truth, exactly how it was, exactly what it was, and why.  He says you wanted to accept the consequences. I don’t really get it.  Wouldn’t you rather be free?? It kills me so much I can’t sleep at night.  I’m just pleased you are finally letting us come to see you though.  Feels like we have got you back, in a weird sort of way.  Some of it served you pretty well to be honest.  Everyone knows the truth about Howard and about Freeman.  Their names are dirt around here now.  Shit sticks, and people love a good gossip.  Still keep getting this one reporter at our door.  Keep telling her to fuck off but she must have a thick skin!

            The rumour is that Freeman got arrested, but they won’t tell us anything.  Maybe he’ll do time, who knows?  Have you seen all the fuss in the media? Shittinghell mate!  Fucking debates on daytime TV!! You’re famous mate!  Well you didn’t get the justice you deserved, but I guess I feel like Howard and Freeman got what they deserved.  And you are right.  It is over.  Well I guess I will see you soon Danny.  Billy and Jake and Lucy all say hi, and they all have stuff they want to give to you.  Take care of yourself mate.  Listen to some music.  Tell us how good it is.  We’ll prove them all wrong yet, won’t we? 

Your best friend, Michael


October 2004

            When I come out, into the Autumn sun, it makes me blink, and smile.  I am moving stiffly at first, and I do not know what to expect, or what to hope for.  I have no idea what I am supposed to think, or feel.  My bag is on my shoulder.  All my possessions in this world are packed inside of it.  I stop to light a cigarette.  Seems like a plan.  You probably want to know what song is in my head, so I will tell you.  It goes like this; Where did our sweet love go?  Who stole away our time?  Why do the stars above, refuse to shine?  The harder I try to paint a picture, of the way it was back then, the more I miss the good times baby, let it roll again! You might not know it’s by a band called The Stone Roses.  They split up years ago but I still love them. It’s a good song to have with me, because it’s quite loud and aggressive and although the lyrics suggest things are not great, the chorus points you towards a belief that it will be!  Let the good times roll again. See?  I smoke, and smile, thinking about this, because it’s a good thing to think, a good way to feel.  I walk towards the gate, remembering  good times, and I remember as well, all the young men I have seen come and go through these gates.  I think about them, like I think about me.  They all have what I have; rolled up newspapers and old journals stuffed inside a bag.  A story.  I don’t know how I will feel, if she is not there though…

            The truth, is stuffed inside my bag, and stuffed inside of me.  I have told the truth, all along.  They asked me questions once.  They asked me if I regretted it, and I said no, because that was the truth.  They asked me if I felt remorse, and I said no. There is still no remorse, not yet.  I told the truth, and I stood by it, as I had during the trial, and throughout the years that had stretched ahead of me.  I could have told them what they wanted to hear, but it felt important to stick to the truth.  To take what came.

            The gates open slowly for me.  They scream out their goodbyes from rusted hinges, and the sound makes me flinch.  I look back over my shoulder, just once.  I realise that I feel a lot lighter walking out, than I had walking in.  I had been a person picked apart, and scattered about.  It had taken a long time to find all those pieces and put them back together again.  Years to assemble them into a person.  A decent enough person.  I hope so, at least.  I suppose if they are letting me go, then they must believe that I am.  I have no idea what will happen now.  How I will adapt to life beyond those gates.  To being an adult.  The only thing I have decided is that I will take each day as it comes, and do my best to be happy.  That is all there is.  That is all I can do.

            I can see the car now.  Parked along the road, just waiting.  A crappy rust red Ford Fiesta with the back number plate gaffa taped in place.  It is better than nothing though.  Better than catching the bus.  I am smiling, and I can see them hanging out of the windows, laughing and waving at me.  They look like twins, I think, waving back.  As I get closer I can see that their faces hold so much, all the promise of youth, all the anticipation for what is to come, all the relief of letting go what has passed.  It can barely be contained.  I grin, and my shoulders relax.  Their dark eyes are shining back at me.

            My body tenses again, and there is a hand clutching at my guts, because she is there too.  She gets out from the back seat.  She starts walking, then running towards me.  She is laughing and her face is wet with tears. I quicken my pace and my throat feels constricted and tight, no words there, no words anywhere, as I reach out for her, and she bumps into my chest, and I think uselessly, how much I have grown.  I can lean over and plant a kiss on her head, while she throws her arms up and around my neck.  She pulls me closer.  I can hear them hooting and yelling from the car.

            “Lucy…” I rub my face into her hair.  It still smells like the beach and brings back a thousand memories.  I squeeze her tight and lift her up briefly from the ground, making her squeal in surprise. 

            “Look I’ve got something to show you…” she says, so I put her down and kiss her nose. 

            “What is it?”

            “Look,” she turns to one side, holds back her long purple coat, and lifts up the edge of the dark green jumper she is wearing.  I help her out, tugging the material upwards to reveal her creamy flesh, and the little dark scrawl of a tattoo she has across her hip bone.  Danny-boy.  I step back to examine it, grinning and biting at my lower lip. 

            “You’re a nutter,” I tell her. 

            She tugs her top back down and finds my hands with hers.  “I had it done the day after the verdict,” she tells me.  “I needed you with me and this was the only way I could think of.  So you’ve been there, you see, all this time, right with me.”  She lifts one of my hands to her lips closes her eyes, inhaling me, before kissing the back of my hand.  “You’ll be there forever.”  I slip an arm around her shoulders, fight back the tears, and hold her close.  We walk on towards the car.

            “You know I’m gonna’ have to get one of those done now, don’t you?” I joke, looking at her, and at all that is to come.







The End

The Boy With…Chapter 89



            I wait for them to answer.  The music roars in my head.  And I forget just why I taste, oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile….I raise my fists, I pound and I hammer and I yell….I found it hard, it’s hard to find….oh well, whatever…nevermind….Finally she opens the door just a crack and finds me standing there, and I have succeeded in dragging myself into an impossible and unbearable state of grief, and rage.  I pull the headphones down, and I watch her blue eyes grow big, and round, before I kick the door from her grasp and push violently past her to reach the hallway.  She swings around, clawing at me, trying to pull me back out.  “No!  No!” she hisses at me. “He’s here!  He’s here!!”

            “I know,” I tell her, and I slam the door shut on all of us.  I look around, bouncing on my feet, feeling the knife up my sleeve digging its tip into my skin.  I feel bigger and taller than ever before!  I feel like my chest is all inflated, and puffed out, all pumped hard with muscle and threat.  “Oi!” I shout out, and spread my legs, claiming my space in the hall. “Oi!  You sick fucking bastard get down here!”

            My mothers hand flies towards me, panicked and talon like, grasping and digging into my arm, pressing the cold steel knife against my skin, her face horrified.  “Danny no!  No!  What’re you doing?  He’ll kill you!”

            I ignore her.  I face the stairs.  “Oi fuck face I’m talking to you! I’m down here!” I hear a noise on the landing, and then he appears, he slides into life.  His feet are bare.  He is wearing a black silk dressing gown.  There is a steaming mug of coffee in one of his hands, and his expression is murderous as he stares down at me.  I stare back in triumph.  I bet he wasn’t expecting to see me so soon again!

            “There you are you sick motherfucker!  Come on then!”

            He starts down the stairs.  “What are you doing here?”

            “I’m here to end this,” I nod at him, running my tongue over my dry, cracked lips.  I can feel the desire for violence pulsing behind my eyeballs and I like it.  I wonder if this is how he has felt, so many times before.  “Guess what?” I ask him.  “I’m not gonna’ take your fucking job!  I was lying to you!  I’m here to end all this!”

            “Danny please stop this, Danny look at me,” my mother is pulling desperately at my clothes, and my arm. “Please don’t be silly, please just go, go!”

            “Kay, you better pick up the phone and call the police,” Howard tells her coldly. “Look at him.  He’s on something.”

            “What?  How do you know?”

            “His eyes!  Look at his eyes!” Howard barks at her. “He’s out of his mind on something!  Call the police!”

            “I told you last night,” I say, grinning at him.  “I told you I was gonna’ call Jaime.”

            “Last night?” Mum shakes her head and lets go of me. 

            “Yeah last night,” I say, keeping my eyes on Howard.  He has reached the second to last stair.  “Didn’t he tell you about last night mum?  You want to know what went on last night when he got hold of me?  Here, check some of this out!” I use one hand to push back my jacket and my t-shirt so that she can see for herself, and I hold it there long enough for her breath to draw in sharply.  She backs off from both of us, towards the lounge doorway.

            “Oh my god Lee what have you done!”

            I drop my jacket back down.  “Go on Lee,” I hiss at him.  “Tell her then, tell her everything you did to me last night!  Let’s see what she thinks!”

            His eyes look smaller than ever.  They are gleaming back at me, like two perfect shiny marbles, sparkling amidst the reddening blaze of his face.  His head drops low, as if preparing to charge, and his top lip curls when he speaks.  “Kay,” he says slowly.  “I am very serious honey.  Pick up the phone and call the police.  He’s high on drugs and he’s dangerous.”

            “What did you do to him you bastard?” she screams back at him.

            “Go on then tell her!” I shout, my hands knotted into tight fists, the palm of the right one growing hotter against the end of the knife handle.  “Tell her how you found out where I live!  How you’ve been hanging around making threats trying to get me to deal drugs for you!  Tell her how you came last night, and smashed my dog into the wall, and then put me in your fucking car with my hands tied up!  Tell her then! Mum, look!” I thrust one arm towards her, yanking up my sleeve, not taking my eyes from Howard’s raging face.  Mum steps forward, examines the crusty rings of red around my wrist, and then she stares slowly up at her husband, her lips stretching back in disgust.

            “You’re an animal,” she tells him.  “And I want you out.  I want you out now!”

            He does not even give her a glance.  He takes another step down and looks me up and down with his piercing eyes.  “You better think again mate,” he warns me.  “Because if you do anything stupid, you’ll be going to jail.”

            “Yeah I know that,” I reply.  I let the knife slide down to my hand, I grip hold of it and pull it out and show it to him.  “I don’t care.  There’s nothing can happen to me that’s worse than what you’ve done.”

            “You’re wrong,” he nods at me calmly.  “Jail is not a nice place Danny.  Jail is full of men like Jack, you know.”

            “I don’t fucking care!” I scream at him, and I am dancing from one foot to the other now, and my rage is black and blinding, pushing tears of hatred into my eyes, as spit sprays from my lips.  “I know what he did, you fucking filthy bastard, I know, are you happy now? Are you happy you’ve ruined my entire life and turned me into this?  Yeah, I just pretended I was asleep, pretended I was dreaming, and you knew, you knew though, you fucking shitting bastard, you knew!”  I stop.  I try to swallow.  There is a massive lump stuck in my throat, and just behind it, an endless scream of pain that I do not want to give into.  I have to keep it back there.  I have to concentrate on now.  On doing this.  Howards eyes are searching my face carefully.  They dip down to focus on the knife, and then rise back up again. 

            “Call the cops Kay, I am serious for gods sake, look at him!  He has a knife!  He’s lost his mind!”

            “Because of you!” she bellows suddenly, losing control and rushing for him with her hands raised.  “Out!  I want you out!  Just get out!” She punches him in the middle, knocking his coffee from his hand and then she rains blows down upon his chest and stomach.  He takes a slight step back in surprise, and then pushes her away from him and knocks her wildly to one side with a blow from his fist.   The force of the blow sends her down to the floor, where she lays in a crumpled and silent mess, half in, half out of the lounge doorway.  Keeping his eyes on my knife, Howard steps down, and uses his foot to push her still body into the lounge.  He rolls her right in and then closes the door on her and faces me, puffing out his chest, flexing his hands, and smiling faintly. 

            “Well that shut her up didn’t it eh?  Just you and me now little man.”

            I wrap both of my hands around the knife handle.  “Yeah and you haven’t won, do you get that?”  I hold the knife up, and waves of repulsion shudder through me, one after the other, and I lick my lips compulsively, and blink away the sting of tears in my eyes.  “Because I’m never gonna’ do what you tell me do to, so you can never win!  All that shit last night?  Total waste of time Lee, ‘cause it didn’t work!”

            “Nice speech,” he responds, with a slight yawn.  He gestures at me then, with both hands, beckoning me forward.  “Come on then, no time to waste, what you waiting for?  Show me what you got you fucking little coked up shit stain!  Oh yeah, I know what you been up to, I can see it in your eyes!  It’s written all over your face!” He shakes his head at me sternly.  “Bad move.”  I step forward stiffly, tightening my grip on the knife handle.  My palms are sweating, polishing up a dangerous grease.  He smiles and gestures again.  “Come on then, come on Danny, come on then pal, come on mate.”

            I lurch forward suddenly, but I don’t thrust the knife at him, I take him by surprise by swiping at him with it instead.  I hear him cry out in pain.  He had put up an arm, either to grab me, or shield himself, and the knife has slashed into it, and a spray of red hits the wall behind him.  I try again, launching myself at him, but this time he is too fast, he knows what is coming, and he reaches for me, and grabs both of my wrists.  With a roar of pain and fury, he swings me around, and I hiss in pain when my back slams into the wall, but I hold onto the knife, I still have the knife…

            “You fucking little shit!  You little shit!” His voice is a storm inside my head, crashing and screaming, and he gets my wrists pinned to the wall, and then the monster is back, the monster is right fucking there, and upon me, and his face is sweating and fuming just an inch from mine, and his eyes bulge in the sockets.  I glance at the knife still in my grip, and I see the red rolling down his arm and onto mine.  He pulls my wrist from the wall and then slams it back again.  “You fucking shit you stabbed me!  In my own fucking house!” He is banging my wrist against the wall, again and again, until my hand goes numb, and I cannot hold the knife any more, and I feel it slip from my throbbing fingers, and it thumps down onto the carpet.  I look down at it, and then I look up into his glinting eyes.  “Well that’s that over with then,” he tells me.  “You pathetic little cunt.  And now comes the part where I am forced to kill my drug-crazed step-son in self-defence.” His eyes are smiling along with his upturned lips and he cocks his head at me.  “Are you ready?  Are you ready to die now Danny?  One last chance and you fucking blew it.  Now you are going to die.  And so is she.”

            He spins me away from the wall and hurls me into the floor.  He lifts a foot quickly, rams it viciously into my ribs.  I cry out, as the sharp pain echoes through my body, and I try to crawl towards the kitchen.  He is silent in his attack.  Like so many times before.  I have been down here before.  Me and the carpet, old friends.  He takes his time and considers where to aim each kick, and then he lashes out with no mercy.  He follows my crawl towards the kitchen, and he lifts his foot and brings it down on me, again, and again, and again.  I am being broken up.  I push myself forward, and every time I try to get my hand down to the waist of my jeans, or down to my boot, to reach the other knives.  I feel the ice cold smoothness of the kitchen tiles beneath me, and it is easier to crawl, and when he stops kicking me for one magnificent moment, I am able to free the small knife from inside my boot.  I grip the handle, tug it out, conceal it underneath me, slide forward, further into the kitchen, breathing harshly, dimly aware of the feeling of collapse within me.  I close my eyes and try to find the courage I had before, the anger, and I hear his feet padding in there after me, and there is another kick, right up my backside, and I choke on the pain, I curl up on it, and I clutch the knife tightly.

            He steps over me and kneels down next to me.  I am lying with my arms underneath my body.  My hand aches from holding the knife so tightly.  “You sorry little bastard,” he is telling me softly.  “You’re more of an idiot than I thought you were…fucked up completely now, haven’t you?”  I can feel him sliding his fingers slowly through my hair.  “Coming to my house, cutting my arm…thinking you can beat me.  I told you last night, didn’t I eh?  There won’t be any more chances now.  You’ve fucked up big time.  And to think, I was actually looking forward to us working together.  I actually believed you.  We could have been like father and son Danny.  Oh well.”  He grips my hair, lifts my head from the floor.  “No one can say I didn’t try to warn you.” His fingers tighten in my hair, and he rams my head, back down into the floor.  I feel it bounce up, then down again.  I muffle a groan and splutter, as my mouth and nose explode with blood.  He pulls my head up again and blood oozes from my nose, dribbles in thick clots from my mouth… “No one can say I didn’t try to help you…so many times, but you wouldn’t listen would you boy?  You didn’t want to know, did you?”

            He slams my head into the floor again.  For a moment, I cannot see.   I think my eyes are bleeding.  Or my head has split open and the blood has washed down over my eyes.  I feel unconsciousness wavering close.  I feel him pulling my head up again, and I think no, no, I am not gonna’ die like this, I am not gonna’ die with my head in pieces on his fucking kitchen floor, and I tell him this, but the words don’t come up properly.  Howard pushes his face closer to mine.  “What did you say?  What you trying to say?”  I open my mouth and blood pours out, but I look up, I stare right into his eyes.  I move my lips, push out words he cannot not hear.  He moves closer.  “What did you say?”

            “I said fuck you…” I roll my body to free my arm, and thrust at him with the knife.  I feel it sail through silk, through flesh, and jar against solid muscle.  I slam it right in,  I get up on one elbow, shoving it in, ramming it through, get in, get in, get in there!  I push until the blade has disappeared inside of him, and his flesh is eating up the handle and then I let go and I move back, I move away, watching.  Howard falls back so that he is sitting on his ankles.  He moves in a slow and clumsy fashion, as if he is half asleep.  His mouth has dropped wide open, this massive chasm of disbelief, and his eyes rage huge with pain and shock, and his hands lift up and flutter hesitantly around the knife handle that protrudes from his chest.  I am on my hands and knees and I crawl backwards now, away from him.  I turn slowly, and reach out to the handles on the kitchen drawers.  I use them to pull myself awkwardly up to my feet, and I grip the counter with both hands, as the room sways and dips beneath me.  I put my hand to the waist of my jeans and pull out the third knife, the largest knife.  I hold it out in one hand, and look back at him, sat there.

            Oh what will I become?  I start to laugh.  He is sat there, drooling thin streams of blood and panting heavily, with his hand resting on the knife handle.  His face has gone completely white.  I start to smile.  “Look what you done!” he half screams, half gasps.  “Look what you done to me! You fuck!” I narrow my eyes at him.  I want to tell him how much I don’t give a shit.  “Call an ambulance,” he splutters.  “Call a fucking ambulance!”

            “Not yet.” They are only two small words, but they change everything for him.  He looks like he is going to cry.  I wave the big knife back and forth, and I move forward.  Suddenly, I cannot feel the pain any more.  None of it.  It has all gone.  Believe me.  I have never felt so alive.  I laugh and my shoulders shake with it, and I stare down at the man on his knees, and I feel ten feet tall and loaded with power.  “Look at this one Lee,” I say to him, moving the knife slowly through the air.  “Where do you want this one, big man?”

            “You’re insane,” he grunts at me, and his head slumps forward, his chin crashing into his chest, his eyes fixed manically on the knife.  His big smooth forehead is gleaming with sweat and fever.  “They’ll lock you up….idiot…throw away the key!”

            I laugh and step towards him.  “I told you, big man, I don’t care!  I’d rather be their prisoner than yours.  I’ll get out at some point.”  I smile and lick my lips and gaze down at the blood soaked man before me.  I have never seen him look weak before.  It is like his entire life is flowing out of that hole in his chest.  “I’ll still be alive,” I tell him, and the thought is wonderful and delicious and tingling in my mouth.  “I’ll be alive, and you will be dead.  And when I get out, I promise you this, I will go and piss on your grave.”

            He sucks air up into his nostrils with a noisy, gurgling sniff, and his mouth is a screwed up hole of agony, as he wraps his hands around the knife handle.  He grits his teeth, and he wrenches it free, releasing a wailing, hissing scream. Fresh bright blood pumps freely from the wound.  I got him a good one alright.  He reaches for the counter, as I did, and he grips it weakly, and starts to pull himself up, and I look on, watching curiously.  His face is deathly white, and dripping with sweat.  The knife dangles limply from one hand. “It’s not over yet….” he mutters at me.  “I’ll be the one…pissing on your grave…”

            I think differently.  I don’t think I’m gonna’ let that happen now.  Not now.  I lurch forward, jabbing at him with the knife, sticking it right into his side before pulling it back out again.  He throws back his head and howls.  It’s not easy, I think, stabbing someone.  Especially not someone with so much fucking muscle.  I stick him again, just to keep the momentum going, because I know he could overpower me in a single second, and that would be it.  Game over.  But this is my game.  This time.  He slips back down to his knees, one hand pressing into his side.  He stares at the wounds, and then he stares at me as if he just cannot believe it, and his movements as he sinks back down, they are juddering and stiff, and his face is a frozen mask of horror.  I kick the knife from his hands, and now he has nothing.  He has no one.  He is all alone.  He is at my mercy.  I am king of the fucking world!  I grin down at him excitedly.  “Well look at this Lee!” I sing out in ecstasy.  “Who’s the strongest now Lee?  Who’s the biggest?  Why don’t you tell me eh?  Is it me, or is it you?  You know what I’m gonna’ do now big man? I’m gonna’ make you regret everything you ever did to me!”

            I dance out in front of him.  I pull back my foot and boot him right between the legs.  I watch him go down, like a sack of shit tumbling.  I see his eyes roll up into his head, before he cracks it against the floor, and then he collapses sideways, curls up, hands between his thighs, rasping breath struggling from his pursed lips.  I step closer, sensing his weakness and relishing it.  “Gonna pay you back now,” I say to him. “Look at you now, not such a fucking hard man now are you?  Fucking evil cunt!”  I slash at him with the knife.  Once.  Twice.  Blood flies up into my face and I wipe it away.  I hear a noise in the hallway, this groan, this utterance of grief and horror, but I ignore it.  Howard can only moan and shiver on the floor.  I think, I should have done this years ago!  What the fuck was I waiting for?  Why was I such a weakling?  Why didn’t I fight back before? 

            There is a puddle of deep ruby red growing larger around him.  I take a risk and stand over him, one leg on either side, and I think about every time he did that to me, pressing his foot onto my chest, or my neck.  Bastard.  “Do you regret it yet?” I ask him.  I peer down into his screwed up face.  I want to locate a glimmer of regret in those beady dead eyes.  I kick at his head.  Once, and then again, and again.  It is like a rock hard football between my feet.  I roar at him with the knife.  I am slashing through silk to reveal torn up skin and bloody curls of flesh, and blood that just keeps coming.  So much blood.  So much.  “Do you regret it yet?” I am screaming.  Everything is insane.  Blood soaked, and insane.  There is a great black noise bellowing inside my head.  “You like that do you?  How does that feel you fucking bastard!”

            “Danny no!”  She is screeching at me.  I am dimly aware of her.  She is inside my brain.  I keep kicking and slashing.  I can’t risk leaving it undone.  What I came for.  What I wanted.  “Danny no!  No!  No!”  She is there now.  Pulling at me.  Wrestling me away.  I stand my ground, but I am growing weak. “What have you done?  Oh god what have you done?”

            “Say sorry!” I am calling out to him, but he does not listen, he does not speak.  “Say you’re sorry to me!”

            “No Danny, oh no, please no, what have you done?”  She has her arms around her middle and she wrenches me away.  She is pulling, and yanking, and shaking me awake.  I let her lead me away.  I give in to her.  I am shaking my head.  I am laughing and sobbing and stumbling away from her, and wondering if I will wake up soon. “Oh god Danny!” She is wailing at me.  “What have you done?”

            I turn to look at her.  “I think I killed him.” She was kneeling down beside him, the edge of her cream dressing gown draped in the puddle of blood.  She looks over at me.  I lean back against the far wall, next to the door.  “I came here to end it,” I tell her.  “I did it didn’t I?  I killed the fucker, didn’t I mum?”

            She is feeling for his pulse.  Then she pulls violently away from him.  He does not move.  He does not make a sound.  Silence swallows the room as we stare at each other.  She walks towards me slowly, her eyes huge, her head low, her hands shaking uncontrollably as they reach for me.  She finds my arms and grips them.  She stares into my eyes.  “I have to call an ambulance,” she says. “When they come Danny, I want you to tell them you did it in self-defence, do you understand?  You defended yourself.”

            “Did you check his pulse?”


            I roll my eyes and walk past her.  I walk back to where he lays and press two fingers against his neck.  “What are you doing?” she screams at me.  I straighten up and head back to her.

            “Checking. In case you’re wrong.  He’s dead though.  Yeah, he’s dead.”  I stumble past her, out into the hallway.  She follows me out there.  She watches as I pick up the phone from the table.


            “Gotta’ call the cops,” I tell her. “Don’t need an ambulance if he’s dead…Just need the cops to come get me…Tell em to take me away..I’m done.  It’s over.”  I am breathing hard now, my chest is rising and falling too quickly, pain coming in sharp waves every time I suck air in, and every breath I take does not seem to be enough to fill my lungs.  I drop the phone, suddenly overcome with a sick, dizzy feeling.  My knees buckle.  I find the bottom stair and drop down onto it, lowering my head into my hands.


            “You have to do it,” I whisper hoarsely.  “I don’t feel good…You have to do it..Call them.  Tell them to come and get me.”

            “Don’t say you did it,” she is hissing at me.  She is at the front door.  Pulling it open.  “They’re already here.” 

            “Oh.  That was quick.”

            I do not look up from my hands.  I can hear the sirens, many many sirens, wailing into the street outside.  The door opens, and footsteps hurry inside, and I can hear my mother weeping and babbling, and voices talking and shouting.  I hide behind my hands.  I am not here anymore.  It doesn’t really matter.

            People are running past me.  Calling for help.  Speaking into radios.  Crackling.  My mother sounds far away, and weeping, weeping.  Behind my hands my vision swims in and out.  My head is in a world of exquisite pain.  I glimpse life through my fingers and find a sombre, watchful face looking back at me.  That guy.  Heaton.  How funny.  You’re in the soundtrack to my life, I want to tell him, but I don’t, because it does not make sense.  “What happened here Danny?” he is asking me.

            The darkness rushes in on me, and I bury my head in my arms on my knees. “I killed him,” I say. I breathe out, slowly, steadily.  I feel my body relaxing into something, into nothing, into no one.  Is that what happens when you take a life?  You die inside.  My limbs are turning into soft jelly.  They can take me.  Bend me.  Yield me into whatever they want.  “I didn’t fall off my bike,” I am telling him as he sits there.  “I didn’t.”

            I fall forward, and he catches me.  “Need help over here!” he yells out.  I feel them taking my pulse.  I dip in and out of life.  I want to sleep.  “Hospital,” someone says.

            “Might be wise. Head injuries.”

            They pull me to my feet.  I open my eyes and look around.  “I killed him,” I say again, in case they did not hear me the first time.  “I came here to kill him.  Okay?” A wave of nausea washes over me, and my ribs are screaming, but I can smile.  Someone is pulling my arms behind me.  Reading me my rights.  There is an argument.  I loll against the door frame.  I am laughing.

            “Don’t be ridiculous, what are you doing? Look at the state of him!”

            “There’s a man in there, knifed to death.  He just said he did it.  I am only doing my job.”

            “We don’t know what’s gone on here.”

            “Look at this!”

            They are pulling at my wrists.  I want to tell them that I do not care.  Put the cuffs on me.  Arrest me.  Do it properly for fucks sake.  Take me out there.  Take me out into the bright sunlight, and I will be free.  I am limp, like a ragdoll, soft and boneless.  “I killed him, I killed him, I killed him,” I hang my head, stare at the floor and chant for them. “I came to kill him, I brought three knives, and I killed him, I killed him.”

            They had hold of me now.  They moved me on.  They were still arguing.  Muttering. Hissing at each other in scorn and anger.  Whatever.  Fuck it!  “I’m recording what he said,” someone is grumbling.  “He said he did it.”

            “Yeah I did!” I laugh at him.  “I killed the bastard!  Yes!  Thank fuck!”


            We go outside.  It is a morning, bathed in gentle heat.  Everything has that soft orange glow to it, as the sun rises up from the ocean.  I can hear birds singing.  I let them move me along.  I watch the ground moving beneath my feet.  I do not lift my head until I hear them calling out my name.  I can see them on the pavement.  There they are.  Anthony, Michael and Lucy.  There are police officers everywhere, holding them back, stringing up tape, talking into radios.  Squad cars rolling in, one behind the other.  I squint, the sun is in my eyes.  I can see Lucy, and she is nodding at me, just nodding, and I can see she has my letter, grasped in her hand, and in it, I asked her to forgive me, I asked her to understand, I hoped I would see her again one day.  Anthony is holding onto Michael.  He is struggling against him.  He is torn up.  He doesn’t understand it.  “Why’re you arresting him for?” he is bellowing out at them.  “What’re you taking him for?  For fucks sake!” I see them all and I wish I had the strength to call out to them, but I don’t.  I want to tell them not to worry about me anymore, I want to tell them that it’s over, I ended it, and I will be back one day.  I am pulled away, led over to one of the ambulances.  The darkness falls over me again and I feel myself going down, and down.  It swamps my mind and my body, it is too thick to claw my way back out of.  I feel a numbness spread through me, and I welcome it.  I see the floor of the ambulance rushing up towards me, and people are calling out my name, and I open my mouth.  “It’s okay,” I tell them.  “I’m okay.”