He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) by Barbara Arnold Page B

from my head.   That, that ‘thing’ wasn't – couldn’t possibly be - my mate who walked backwards and forwards with me to school every day.   Nobody could change like that in less than a couple of drags on a fag.
    The policeman returned and said, with regard to the deceased, Alan Dobson, although theoretically there was some argument as to whether it had been a case of trespassing, under the circumstances, and this time, the authorities would not be prosecuting.   As if there would be another time, another body, another red blanket.   I listened as if from a long way off, puzzled by “theoretically” and “authorities” and “prosecuting”.  
    Mum smiled gratefully and said thank you.    The policeman replied that I had best try to get it out of my mind.   But I knew the memories would never leave.   They were glued there forever.
    Dobsie’s father called and said I had nothing to feel guilty about.   His face was lined with sadness and his eyes were swollen.   He placed a hand on my shoulder, but I stared ahead.   I didn’t feel guilty.   I didn't feel anything.   I wondered what would happen to Dobsie’s train set.
     
    Mum said we must pray for Dobsie and his parents, and that I should go to the funeral because one day I would be pleased I had.   I didn’t think I would feel pleased ever again.   Everything would always be filled with nothingness.   I wished Fred was at home.   He shouldn’t have gone away to his wife’s funeral.   She had deserved to die for not loving Fred, but Dobsie, not Dobsie.   Dobsie had earned a place on this earth for being young, and my pal.   The people in my life became confused.   Perhaps I would never set eyes on Fred again, but I would see Dobsie walking to school tomorrow.
    I refused to go to school.   Instead I spent my time watching Brian’s wheel-walking, or sitting on Fred's bed and reading the pile of comics Lori got from a jumble sale.   Sometimes I wandered round Fred's room looking at Fred's models, stroking them as if they were a body.
    Mum tried to encourage me back to school.   ‘It’ll take your mind off things.   I'm sure you'll find everyone very kind,’ she said.
    I didn’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t for people to be very kind.   I didn’t want people to be anything.   I didn’t want people at all.   I couldn’t bear to stand there in the hall while Old Williamson announced Dobsie’s death, lowering his voice, like Fred   did when he had talked about his wife being killed.   I couldn’t bear everyone’s sympathy mixed with their blood-thirsty questions.   I never wanted to see anyone from school ever again or to set foot in Blountmere Street.   Life was cruel and it waited like an axeman the other side of our front door.
     
    One afternoon from Fred’s window, I saw Dennis.   He was wearing his pullover back to front.   He kept his gaze directed at the pavement and didn’t look in the direction of our flat.   In the same way, I kept my eyes from Dennis' legs in case I saw the brown slime still there, oozing like the blood had from the body.
    Dennis wasn’t at the funeral.   I didn’t blame him.   There wasn’t any point.   I wouldn’t have gone if Mum hadn’t made me.   It was a mark of respect, she said.   Herbie and his father sat on the other side of the aisle.   Herbie and I wore black armbands that looked like soot rings on our jackets.   People smiled their funeral smiles, but neither of us took any notice of the other.
    Mum took hold of my hand.   I wish it had been Fred, and I kept my eyes fixed on the stained glass window at the front of the church.   I studied a red disciple's robe and a blue angel's wing.   I didn’t want to have to smile a funeral smile back to other funeral smiles. I didn't want to see the white coffin with the body inside with the snapped legs.
     
    The Reverend Roberts called the body "Our dear departed child" and declared, ‘God hath given and God hath