Part 17 (1/2)

Only Kevin wasn't in the fourth house when he got back.

Stevie stood in the empty rooms, with his fingers raw from climbing. He stuffed them in his pockets, thinking how it was getting dark now, and he should be at his Gran's; he should have kept a better eye on the time.

But then he heard laughing, from just across the site; it sounded like Kevin, so Stevie jogged across the gloomy rubble to the last house in the row. He hadn't seen Paul for ages, maybe he was in there too. But it was just Cammy in the last house with Kevin, at the bottom of the stair.

He had a box in his hand, and more collected by his feet, and he was shouting at Kevin that he should have taken the taps, not pulled a stunt.

”What's the f.u.c.kin point ae that? We could ae got oursels some f.u.c.kin cash.”

He turned, sharp, when Stevie came inside, and Cammy asked him: ”Am I right?”

Stevie stopped where he was: he didn't like the way Cammy stared. And then Cammy pointed: ”Look at him. Never says f.u.c.kin nothin. Boy's a choob. Just like his Da.”

He made a face, like Stevie's Dad was vacant. Cammy started drumming the air, lifting his knees in time, and then he looked at Stevie: ”Can see how your Maw couldnae take it.”

He said it smiling, his eyes cruel because he knew he'd got him, and it made Stevie's guts shrink, the way Cammy knew so much about his family. Cammy said: ”She's f.u.c.ked off, aye? She's f.u.c.ked off back tae Ireland. Good luck tae her.”

He was laughing. So Stevie shouted: ”f.u.c.k dae you know about it?”

He yelled it, loud. But Cammy just laughed at him, even harder. He said: ”You ever wonder how she didnae take you?”

So Stevie flew at him, he had to.

f.u.c.kin b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

He aimed a kick, aiming for Cammy's guts, but his toes. .h.i.t the bottom of the box and sent it flying up, out of Cammy's hands; metal fittings went raining all over the concrete.

Stevie ducked them, arms up, and then he was running, thinking Cammy was after him; he was sure he could hear him, close behind him across the rubble.

He made straight for one of the new builds: sharp inside, to hide. It was dark in the half-built house, but he found the stairs and then he was climbing. Stevie knew Cammy wouldn't climb, so he was just thinking to get to the roof. There was tarpaulin over the skylights, but only loosely pegged, and he was out fast, and scrambling up to the ridge. Stevie didn't stop, not until he got to the top, and then he crouched there, all ears.

No one there. Stevie heard nothing; no footsteps, no one following. But his head was still full of Cammy's laughing, all of what Cammy just said, about his Mum and his Dad. So he stood up, careful, to get a checking look about himself.

The new builds were smaller than the empty tenements, but they were set higher, into the hillside, and Stevie could see over the scheme roofs and beyond. To the wide reach of the city, all lit up. It took him out of himself; it took Stevie a moment to adjust.

He saw the high flats, their red lights on top, and then he knew which way was east, which west. Stevie started to work it out, how to get away: which way was his Gran's house? But his Gran's place seemed miles, and it was too full of arguments, so maybe he should go to Eric's, because that's what his Mum always did. Only then Stevie was back to thinking about her again. What Cammy just said, about her being gone.

He was thinking why she left him. How she let him go to school, and then she took off. Stevie was thinking why she did that, when she could have taken him too.

The city lights were far, and all gone smeary, and he stayed where he was. With the scheme in front: long and black, all the abandoned blocks, no lights on in any of the windows.

Stevie stuck to climbing inside the scheme after that. Kevin still called for him some days, on his own, but then summer came, and marching season, and that was it.

Stevie saw him one time: Kevin was headed across a back court when he was on a rooftop. Stevie stood up, legs straight, arm raised, and gave Kevin the finger. Even if Kevin never saw it, he thought that didn't matter. Stevie knew the places he liked now, the best places for hiding out; he found his own stretch of roof, kept his own stash of cans and crisps in the eaves.

He slipped once, trying a second-floor window catch. Stevie caught himself, so he didn't fall, but he wrenched his knee, and he ripped his sweats.h.i.+rt on the jagged pane too. He didn't see that he'd cut his arm, not until the blood leaked down his fingers. Stevie had to wipe them to grip, only more kept coming the whole climb down. And then there was the pain. It made it hard to catch his breath, standing in the back court, even when he pressed down hard across the tear with his good hand. Stevie knew his Gran would be in the house that morning, so he held his arm into his chest, limping down the road to his Dad's. He'd be at work by now, and Stevie still had the key to let himself in.

But then his Dad was there, off sick. He was in his pyjamas. He got up off the sofa, and stared wordless at Stevie in the doorway. At his torn sleeve and smeary palms.

Stevie stuffed his top into the was.h.i.+ng machine later, when he got back to his Gran's house. She washed it without pa.s.sing comment, but the next time he got it out the drawer, the hole was patched: a Red Hand of Ulster st.i.tched neat across the tear, No Surrender.

Stevie went to find her at the sink: ”Where's that come fae?”

He held the patch up to her, annoyed. The sweats.h.i.+rt was his favourite: same grey as the walls he scaled, it blended in to the flats and the sky and the pavements. His Gran pulled a face: ”No me. Was your Da that done it.”

She gave a stone-hard smile at the unlikelihood. Stevie's Gran was always hard about his Dad these days, even if she wasn't meant to be; it was like she couldn't help herself. She told him: ”He came up here wae needle and thread Thursday last. Your Grandad let him in.”

Stevie reckoned she wouldn't have.

”It was five minutes efter you'd left the house.”

Stevie thought of his Dad, watching for him from the corner. And then of his Gran and Grandad Malky having words; even Uncle Brian and Malky Jnr. shouted over what was best for him, now his Mum was gone. His Gran was still looking at the patch, like she wanted to bin it, and Stevie had thought to do the same, just a minute ago, only then she asked: ”You been at school theday?”

So she knew as well.

”Where's missin school gonnae get you?”

Her eyes were on him, and not so hard now, only Stevie still didn't like it. She made him feel like he was another boy of hers gone the wrong way; wearing her down, while she waited for him to come round.

”How long you gonnae keep me?” His Gran sighed, still waiting for an answer.

Only Stevie didn't have one. And he didn't see why he had to be good now either, not when n.o.body else in the family was. So he made for the door, just thinking to get out and climbing, knotting the sweats.h.i.+rt around himself; July and warm, at least he didn't have to wear it. But Stevie still heard his Gran shouting down to him as he left the close.

”Cannae be waitin on you forever, son.”

23.

Jozef had taken Stevie off the job. He'd seen no other way out.

The boy had made himself scarce, up the stairs, and now Jozef set to work, hauling up the kitchen floorboards. He turned his back on his men, furious with them for closing ranks. Jozef was furious with himself as well: no pride in falling into line.

But it had worked. He'd got them all shoulder to shoulder, for what felt like the first time that summer. He hadn't even needed to shout: Jozef had just told his men to get on, you know how much we have to get done. And now he heard them, picking up their tools, picking up swiftly where they'd left off.

Tomas went out for pipes, and the rest of them all got their heads down, putting in a solid afternoon. The boiler was righted, the kitchen units fitted neatly around it; floorboards re-laid, heating pipes all in place. On any other day it would have pleased him, but Jozef was glad when they left for the evening, especially Marek.

His phone went while he was sweeping, and Jozef thought it would be the developer, calling with a compromise offer, but it turned out to be Romek.

”Don't you pay for the over-run, you hear?”

”I'm not.” Jozef was irked: always someone talking behind his back, thinking he had no backbone. And besides, he'd had three phone calls from the man this afternoon, and hadn't bent once.

Romek told him: ”Good, good.”

And then: ”So you sacked the boy.”