list and now he would have to go searching much, much further down…
Win big! Win tonight!
it said in yellow letters as big as Bully on the giant screen above the zombies at Waterloo.
He waited until one of the guards opened up the disabled gates for a woman with a pram and followed her onto the platform.
“Mum … Mum,” he said, making her look round, making the guard think they were on the same family ticket, him carrying the bags.
He got on the train and hid in the toilets until the guard went past. He didn’t have to stay there long. It was only five stops between the flat and his doorway off Old Paradise Street.
When the train arrived at the station Bully went over the railing and into the car park, Jack on his back in the holdall. He landed on his feet, on the bonnet of a Fiesta. For the fun of it he ran across three cars to get to the exit. Someone shouted “Oi!” but no one did anything.
The flat was less than a Scooby-Doo away from the station. Twenty minutes max. Before he’d learned to read a clock he used to measure out the day in Scoobies because it was his favourite cartoon when he was little and watched cartoons. His old life slowed him down on the way back to the flat, though. It kept jumping out at him, and everything seemed too close, as if he’d put his glasses back on, and it took him a whole Scooby-Doo and a half just to get back to where he’d left the ashes in the bit of dirt.
It didn’t look the same. The broken stone he’d left to mark the spot was covered over with stringy, straggly orange and yellow weeds, just squatting there. He poked around with a stick to clear a patch and then paid his respects, made sure Jack didn’t wee anywhere and made his mind up to come back another day.
He nearly went to the wrong block. All the blocks were in a line and each block on the estate had a big huge arch in it, so that from far away it looked like a giant rat had gnawed its way through all of them. They’d only moved into the new flat overlooking the road tunnelling underneath just before his mum started getting ill. They’d done an exchange and got one with three bedrooms so he didn’t have to share with his half-sister Cortnie any more. Though now his mum was dead, he didn’t consider any fraction of Cortnie as relating much to him at all.
A few people on the estate stared like they thought they recognized this boy in the hot green coat on a summer’s day but no one said his name out loud.
He took the stairs instead of chancing the lift. His old flat was fifteen flats from the lift doors, eleven from the stairs, and just one down from the rubbish chute. He was pretty sure it was why the old man who used to live in it had wanted to swap. No one liked having a chute clanging and banging at all hours, even though the sign on it said to be considerate to your neighbours. He pulled it open to see if there was anything he could eat jammed in the top, like a pizza box, but it was empty. There was just the smell of all that old waste still hanging on to the dark.
He could hear the little kid Declan next door, crying up against the letter box, wanting to play out. He wasn’t allowed to unless his brother was with him because it was too dangerous with the stairs. The little kids played with the rubbish chute, sticking toys and stuff down it, and maybe falling down it, and Bully had looked after his own sister too when he used to live here.
“All right, Declan,” he said, and Declan stopped crying for a sec and then started up again.
Outside his flat Bully flapped the letter box, looking up and down the concrete landing, his heart going and him just standing there not going nowhere.
No one was in. He had a look-see through. In the hall was a
cat
. It was psycho, staring right back at him, just like cats did. He wondered what it was doing there. Phil didn’t like dogs or cats or anything else with more legs than him. It was another reason why Bully had left. He still had his mum’s
Win big! Win tonight!
it said in yellow letters as big as Bully on the giant screen above the zombies at Waterloo.
He waited until one of the guards opened up the disabled gates for a woman with a pram and followed her onto the platform.
“Mum … Mum,” he said, making her look round, making the guard think they were on the same family ticket, him carrying the bags.
He got on the train and hid in the toilets until the guard went past. He didn’t have to stay there long. It was only five stops between the flat and his doorway off Old Paradise Street.
When the train arrived at the station Bully went over the railing and into the car park, Jack on his back in the holdall. He landed on his feet, on the bonnet of a Fiesta. For the fun of it he ran across three cars to get to the exit. Someone shouted “Oi!” but no one did anything.
The flat was less than a Scooby-Doo away from the station. Twenty minutes max. Before he’d learned to read a clock he used to measure out the day in Scoobies because it was his favourite cartoon when he was little and watched cartoons. His old life slowed him down on the way back to the flat, though. It kept jumping out at him, and everything seemed too close, as if he’d put his glasses back on, and it took him a whole Scooby-Doo and a half just to get back to where he’d left the ashes in the bit of dirt.
It didn’t look the same. The broken stone he’d left to mark the spot was covered over with stringy, straggly orange and yellow weeds, just squatting there. He poked around with a stick to clear a patch and then paid his respects, made sure Jack didn’t wee anywhere and made his mind up to come back another day.
He nearly went to the wrong block. All the blocks were in a line and each block on the estate had a big huge arch in it, so that from far away it looked like a giant rat had gnawed its way through all of them. They’d only moved into the new flat overlooking the road tunnelling underneath just before his mum started getting ill. They’d done an exchange and got one with three bedrooms so he didn’t have to share with his half-sister Cortnie any more. Though now his mum was dead, he didn’t consider any fraction of Cortnie as relating much to him at all.
A few people on the estate stared like they thought they recognized this boy in the hot green coat on a summer’s day but no one said his name out loud.
He took the stairs instead of chancing the lift. His old flat was fifteen flats from the lift doors, eleven from the stairs, and just one down from the rubbish chute. He was pretty sure it was why the old man who used to live in it had wanted to swap. No one liked having a chute clanging and banging at all hours, even though the sign on it said to be considerate to your neighbours. He pulled it open to see if there was anything he could eat jammed in the top, like a pizza box, but it was empty. There was just the smell of all that old waste still hanging on to the dark.
He could hear the little kid Declan next door, crying up against the letter box, wanting to play out. He wasn’t allowed to unless his brother was with him because it was too dangerous with the stairs. The little kids played with the rubbish chute, sticking toys and stuff down it, and maybe falling down it, and Bully had looked after his own sister too when he used to live here.
“All right, Declan,” he said, and Declan stopped crying for a sec and then started up again.
Outside his flat Bully flapped the letter box, looking up and down the concrete landing, his heart going and him just standing there not going nowhere.
No one was in. He had a look-see through. In the hall was a
cat
. It was psycho, staring right back at him, just like cats did. He wondered what it was doing there. Phil didn’t like dogs or cats or anything else with more legs than him. It was another reason why Bully had left. He still had his mum’s
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