The New Kid
Late that summer a new boy moved into the maisonettes. He was living in the ground floor flat next to Jack’s, on the other side of the passageway. There had been a lot of talk about this new boy. His name was Ken, apparently. A few people had seen him hanging around, but no one seemed to have actually spoken to him yet. All I’d managed to find out so far was that he was from Southside, was poor – like everyone who lived down the maisonettes – and that his dad was dead, killed when a train hit him on a level crossing. I wasn’t sure about this last detail because it was Steggles who told me, and everybody knew Steggles was a pathological liar, but I liked the sound of it. Everyone agreed he didn’t look up to much.
One afternoon I was knocking on Jack’s door. There was no answer the first time, so I knocked on the glass again, harder, not wanting to give in to the fact that he might not be home. I was just about to go round the front to his porch when I caught sight of a boy sitting on the doorstep on the other side of the passage. He was cleaning his football boots, gouging out the mud from between the studs with a table knife. He looked a few years older than me, but seemed stocky and small for his age, practically a dwarf, really. Square head. A mop of wiry black hair. The bleached denim jacket he was wearing was far too small for him, and his trainers were definitely on their way out. He didn’t look very bright.
I decided to go over and introduce myself.
‘Excuse me. Are you Ken?’
He glanced up. He had on glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes look huge – there was masking tape around both wings – and big swollen lips that looked as though they’d been moulded out of plasticine.
‘Yep,’ he muttered.
‘Have you just moved in ‘ere?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m Grant. I live just up there, in the second house from the bottom. Number eighteen. The one with the conservatory and the extension on the living room. My Dad did those. I’ve always lived ‘ere.’
He didn’t seem particularly impressed that I lived in a proper house. I turned my ball in my hands, watching him.
‘We were the second family to move onto this estate, after Steggles in the bottom house. That was before they even built these flats. All this used to be just fields originally.’
He went on digging at the boots, flicking flecks of mud onto the porch. Probably, he’d be eating with that knife later on.
‘Are those your football boots?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Which team do you support?’
‘Chelsea.’
‘I support Liverpool.’
No answer.
‘Which school you going to, then?’
‘St Martin’s,’ he said, still not looking up.
‘I’m going to Evesham. I’ve just finished Marshlands. That’s the primary school at the top of the hill.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Flick, flick, flick.
‘Do you know Jack?’ I asked.
‘I met him a coupla times.’
‘He’s a really good footballer. He supports Liverpool as well. I was just calling for him. You ant seen him, ‘ave ya?’
‘Nup.’
‘Jack’s my best friend. We used to go to Marshlands together. We’ve known each other for years. He’s going to St Martin’s now, though.’ I still couldn’t hide the slight crack in my voice when I said it.
Ken didn’t respond. There was an old washing-up bowl of soapy brown water next to him, into which he occasionally dipped the knife. A grubby white rag that looked suspiciously like a pair of underpants draped over the edge.
‘Do you know Dylan?’ I said.
‘Nup.’
‘He’s going to St Martin’s, too.’
Silence.
‘Do you know Steggles?’
‘Nup.’
‘Nettleton?’
‘Nup.’
‘Fester?’
‘Nup.’
‘The Coffin brothers?’
‘Nup.’
‘They’re all going to St Martin’s, as well.’
I set my ball down and leant against the shed wall. He didn’t seem to know very much for someone who said he was a friend of Jack’s.
‘Do you know Ted and Max?’
‘Nup.’
‘They’re both going to Evesham. Evesham’s right on the other side of town. We’ll have to catch the bus to get there.’
He went on cleaning his boots, scraping between the studs. He had big hands like a man’s and there was a grubby plaster on the end of one finger that looked as though it had been there for weeks. Mud everywhere, all over the porch. He hadn’t even bothered to put newspaper down.
I was going to ask him about his dad then, but instead I said: ‘Dylan says he can ‘ave you.’
For a second he stopped what he was doing, then started again.
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Yeah. Ted says he can ‘ave you as well.’
‘Does he?’
‘Yeah. And if Ted can ‘ave you, I can ‘ave you too, ‘cause I can ‘ave Ted.’
Suddenly I heard what I was saying and thought it best to explain – I didn’t want to get into any awkward situations with Ted.
‘Ted and me don’t fight, though; we’re good friends. Neighbours, actually. We’ve known each other practically since we were born. But we both know I’m the best fighter.’
Ken was rubbing between the studs with the -underpants rag now. What I’d said didn’t seem to have registered. I felt sorry for him, really.
‘So I reckon I could ‘ave you if I wanted to.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ he said, still not looking up.
‘See ya, then.’
‘See ya.’
I left him to think about it, and went looking for Jack. I’d said all I had to say. I didn’t enjoy doing that kind of thing, far from it. But you had to put new kids in their place before they had a chance to put you in yours.
* * *
There was no answer when I knocked on Jack’s door the next time, so I decided to check round the front. Often during the weekends and holidays the big kids from Pigsney Close came round to Jack’s place, and we all squeezed on to the doosrstep of his little porch to swap Marvel comics or play for coins with his faded poker-dice. Jack and Dylan had started going to town on Saturday mornings with the boys from Pigsney Close. They all met up at Windy’s house a few doors down from the little shop and then walked down together, often not getting back until the football results. Mum wouldn’t let me go, of course, no matter how desperately I pleaded, saying she didn’t want me gallivanting around town with that lot. She didn’t even like me playing at Pigsney Close, and would have stopped me going down there altogether if she’d known half the things they got up to.
Jack’s mum didn’t mind, though; she seemed to like having us around and sometimes even brought out glasses of squash and biscuits for us. I liked Jack’s mum. She had springy reddish-brown hair, a similar colour to my big sister, Jane’s. She had a really big bosom, too, that swung loose in her tissue-thin frilly blouses whenever she leant over, as if radiating some terrible magnetic force. To dare to glance up was to risk meeting her eyes, but if you didn’t the opportunity would be lost and who knows when you’d get another chance. It was enough to make you feel faint.
On my way through the passage, I bounced my football on the concrete floor. It always smelt pukey in there, especially when it was wet, but I loved the sound my ball made, the way it echoed up the high stone stairwell like gunfire.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
I came through the glass door out the front. Sure enough, on the other side of the high white fence I could hear everybody on Jack’s doorstep. In an instant I had a mental picture in my head of who was there: Windy, little Corryn, Darren, Pete and Tick, Dylan (worse luck), Flem, Jack, of course, and his brother, Tim. I rushed down the slope to join them.
As I did, something struck me in the face. My ball slipped from my hands and went rolling away towards the road. I stopped and put my hand to my cheek. What had happened? Had I walked into some invisible force field erected there overnight? Had something fallen on me from one of the windows above? Then I saw Ken. He was standing a few yards away by the wall, picking at his fingernails. Nothing in his expression gave anything away. He didn’t speak or acknowledge me in any way, but I knew it was him.
‘What did you do that for?’ I said, trying to exert the necessary edge of threat into my voice. Nobody had ever hit me in the face before, not even Dylan. I wore glasses, after all.
‘Felt like it,’ he said.
‘Well ... don’t.’
‘Okay, sorry.’
Feeling my jaw, I went to get my ball from under one of the parked cars on the other side of the road. Soon after, I was sitting with the others on Jack’s porch. Luckily they were all so absorbed in the game, they didn’t notice how quiet I was or how my hands shook.
A few days later, he was there again. I could see his fuzzy shape through the frosted glass doors as I came through the passageway, standing alone against the wall. I was sure it was him. Had he been waiting there for me all night? I considered turning back. Then again maybe it would be different this time? Maybe I could slip past without his noticing? I decided to risk it.
I shouldn’t have. As soon as I stepped out of the door he was walking forward, coming towards me with his huge fishbowl eyes. I tried to dodge him, but my legs were suddenly feeble and his fist caught me on the nose, nearly knocking my glasses off. He went back to his place by the wall as my ball went rolling down the bank towards the road once more.
‘Ow!’
‘Summut wrong?’ he said, examining his fingertips.
‘You hit me!’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘You did that before.’
‘When?’
‘I dunno. Wednesday?’
He looked up, frowning slightly, as if trying to recall. ‘I’m sure it was Thursday, wunnit?’
I was in no mood to argue about it. Tears were blurring my vision and when I touched my nose I thought I could detect bleeding.
‘That really hurt.’
‘I said I was sorry, din I?’
‘Well, just watch it,’ I said from behind my hand. I slunk down the hill to retrieve my ball. Five minutes later I was home again, studying my nose in the bathroom mirror for signs of damage.
Later that week it happened again, this time practically outside Jack’s back door; then again a fourth and fifth time the following week. He never hit me more than once and never very hard – I guessed he could hit me harder if he wanted to. It was just enough to remind me he hadn’t forgotten. Almost what disturbed me most was how matter-of-fact he was about it; bored, even. Each time he hit me he did it as if he were doing nothing more than getting up to change the TV channel. He’d hit me once, and then go back to whatever he was doing, usually leaning against a wall. He hardly seemed aware he was doing it at all.
Every day I prayed Ken wouldn’t expose me and tell anyone about what was happening. At the same time, as the weeks passed, I was desperate to share my secret with someone. But who could I tell? Not Ted or Max. Not Dylan or Steggles or any of the kids from Pigsney Close. Definitely not Jack. Besides, it was my fault. I’d brought it on myself and I knew what their response would be.
I began going the long way round whenever I called for Jack, down the path to Snore Drive, and round the flats to his front door. If I ever took the short cut through the passageway and Ken happened to be there, he’d always do the same thing – step out from his place by the wall with his fist raised. He wasn’t very quick and I was a good three or four inches taller than him, but when I saw his troll-like face approaching I just froze and resigned myself to my fate.
Towards the end of the holidays, Jack’s flat and the maisonettes began to feel out of bounds.
