Chapter Four

 

Winnock was a small purpose built housing estate on the southern edge of Warrington, divided from the rest of the town by the cursed motorway that had taken Harry’s father. It was designed to be an ever decreasing spiral, with arms that from above made it appear like a galaxy in miniature. None of the houses in the estate were more than five years old and Winnock had been, as Harry’s father had told him once not long after they had moved there, essentially built as a commuter town. Six year old Harry had asked what a commuter town was, and did it have anything to do with the Russians? He had watched something on the television once about the Soviet Union and he was sure the word that had been repeated was commuter. That the Soviet Union was full of commuters. His dad had just laughed at that, rubbing a hand on Harry’s head til Harry laughed too. He had no idea why it was all so funny, but so long as his father was happy, he was happy. 

“The only thing Harry my boy, is that they did not not have the foresight to put so much as a shop in this here little Russian town, let alone a school, which is why you have to go for the one in Crown Temple.” 

The shop of course had arrived after, a small newsagents a few streets closer to the centre of the galaxy. The school was mooted, which Harry found out later, but had never got further than the planning stage. That meant that Crown Temple and the walk over the bridge it was. Harry didn’t mind though. Seven years there and the worst that had happened was that he had been ignored, which was no small thing, considering some of the catchment area for that school. Areas like Prohill where Archie Cameron and Davey G lived. Harry had never had much of an opinion about Prohill until he had over heard his mother and father talking one night when they thought he was asleep. Harry nearly had been, but not quite, and instead was hovering upon the threshold of unconsciousness, picking up words and sentences, some out of context, but others plain in their meaning. 

“I don’t see why we can’t just put him to a different school,” his mother was saying. 

His father said something low in reply - he could never hear his father’s voice properly when he was keeping it low. It seemed to drop even deeper, becoming inaudible most of the time. 

“Well, we can move then,” his mother had responded, her voice louder. His father had responded and she had continued, her voice lower. Harry guessed that he had said something to her that intimated that he might be able to hear, or at the least be awoken. “We can move then,” she hissed, still not much quieter than she had been before. “I hate him associating with those… tinks”. Harry was sure that’ what the last word had been, but it may have been something worse. 

He had drifted off to sleep not long after, yet had recalled all to well that brief snippet of conversation in the morning. When he had gone to school, he had eyes his classmates with newfound suspicion but it hadn’t taken him long to realise who his mother had been referring to . He had heard enough stories about Prohill to know.  Which was why he was glad to be flying under the radar of the likes of Archie and Davey. 

That had all changed after the brief dalliance in class that day of course. Harry never really understood why but he assumed that he had just finally drifted in to their firing line. He was the wounded animal flailing in the water, his blood merging with the water, and they were the sharks that had picked up his scent. All of a sudden, they were swimming directly towards him. 

It was early December when it really started to kick off. The beef between Archie, Davey and Harry. It was a Wednesday and the last hour at school. Harry had asked if he could use the toilet and although Mr Thyme had sighed and intimated that he should really be at the age where he could hold it until after school, he had let Harry go. He wasn’t in the habit of asking to go during class, which is why he had probably been allowed. He was a good pupil and although he wasn’t the brightest in the class, he was smart enough to keep his head down, work hard and do well enough in his classwork. Any parents evening in the past had his peers talk nervously about in the run up, about how they would get a bad report and their parents would give them hell. Harry had never worried, and he’d never had to worry. He knew that he never had a bad word said about him. One time back in primary three or four, his father had gone to the parents evening and tried to make a joke son coming home. Harry had asked him nervously what they’d said about him and his farther had given him a mock stern look, sucked his breath in through his teeth, and replied “nothing good son, nothing good,” before shaking his head in disapproval. Harry had turned in panic towards him mother so didn’t see his dad crack into a smile. Tears filled his eyes before he even knew what was happening. He recalled his mother giving his dad a reproachful look and comment.He turned back to his dad and saw his grin quickly fade when he reapplied he’d said something stupid. He’d underestimated the fact that Harry cared so much about school and what his parents thought of him that the mere notion of him getting anything other than a glowing report terrified him. 

Later that evening his father had sat on the end of his bed and apologised, which was a new thing completely to Harry. He’d never heard an apology coming from an adult - any adult - in his direction before. He felt that something had changed that night, that he had grown up a little more. Just a little, but enough to be viewed and, heck, valued differently. It meant ultimately that he fell asleep feeling good about himself, better in fact, than he had ever felt after parents evening, despite the tears earlier. 

As he had been making his way towards the door at the front of the classroom - the same one that Mr Soloman had entered via that day, the day he found out his father was dead - he had been lost in thought. Imagining that Mr Soloman was there again, and he would have to repeat the experience.

“Watch it Butler,” a voice hissed from beside him as he felt his foot collide with something solid that shifted with an audible groan.

He looked down as Archie was looking up at him. He’d walked into and subsequently kicked his desk. Only a little, and purely by accident, but that wouldn’t matter. He inhaled sharply, knowing already the ramifications of what he had done. Behind Archie sat a plump girl called Vicky that had only once ever spoken to Harry, and that was to tell him that his parents must be poor because they couldn’t afford to buy him a par of trousers that fitted him. That had been the previous year and it was because Harry’s mum had inadvertently shrunken Harry’s trousers in the wash the night before. She had offered to wash and iron his other pair but Harry insisted that he was okay with them as they were. That had been a mistake. Vicki was part of a elite sect of girls in the class that deemed themselves higher up the social and academic ladder than the likes of Harry. 

Archie scowled up at Harry and Vicky giggled behind him. Harry hated them both. 

“S-sorry,” Archie stammered as he went to move past the seated boy.

“No you ain’t,” he whispered, briefly grabbing a hold of Harry’s wrist and squeezing it hard.

“Are you going or not Master Butler?” Mr Thyme asked from behind bis desk, pausing the passage of the book he was reading aloud. “We haven’t got all day for this disruption.” 

Harry’s face burned red and Vicky giggled again, louder. Her friend Amy was beside her. Harry had known Amy since nursery school. They had gone to the same class and used to be close in the way that only young children can be. A friendship based on nothing else but pure unspoken affinity for each other. They even used to go to each other’s houses, as their mothers were friends woo. Harry and Amy would sit and watch films all afternoon together, play outside, play upstairs. They would play with Amy’s toys, and some days they would play with Harry’s toys. Looking at her now though, and she was a stranger. At some point their mothers had drifted apart, for reasons Harry would never understand. The visits were less frequent and even when they did happen, it was like going to a strangers house (or having one come to visit). The last few years, Amy hadn’t even acknowledged Harry’s existence. Just like everyone else. She smirked at Harry unkindly, and he found himself taking the few steps back to his desk and sitting down so hard that he hurt his tailbone. 

“Changed your mind?” Mr Thyme said, not unkindly. 

“Sorry sir, I guess I don’t need to go all of a sudden.”

“Because he’s already pissed himself,” Davey said from beside Archie. That earned a few laughs from those nearby, including Vicky and Amy. 

Mr Thyme either didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. For the rest of the afternoon, Harry tried his damndest not to piss himself. If he did that, it was all over. That would be him, finished. He would never live it down and he would never be left alone again. 

He ended up drifting off into thought, taking himself back to a few weeks ago when he had been standing on the bridge, shuffling towards that painted star. He recalled how he had felt, the strange sensation on his skin, almost as though it was becoming too tight for his body. He recalled how he had begun to feel faint, and the other thing. The figure that had been approaching him. All a figment of his imagination no doubt but -

He had been looking out the window. Directly outside from the class window was the stretch of concrete used as the primary seven playground, but also where the main gates to the school were. White gates higher than a tall adult that remained locked during school hours. Beyond them was a busy road that was one of the main commuter routes between the suburbs of the town the damn motorway where Harry’s father had died. Beyond that was a row of houses. Thin redbrick five storey townhouses, with a thin line of trees obfuscating most of them. 

There. Under the tree. Between a red car and a white van that said NORTHERN SPARKIES in large foot high lettering along the side of it. There was also a plug that somebody had tried to make into some kind of mascot by turning two screws into eyes, the earth pin for the nose and well as, well, it just didn’t work. Yet it wasn’t the bad graphic design that had wrenched Harry from his thoughts, but the figure that was standing there. The black outline that was int he shadow of a tree between two vehicles. The strangest part wasn’t the fact it seems all to be bent out of shape - Harry put that down to an optical illusion caused by…something. It was the fact the figure also seemed to float over two feet above the ground. The fact that Harry could physically see the low stone wall that ran in front of the houses where the figure’s legs should have been proved in his mind that that wasn’t an illusion at any rate. 

Of course, there could possibly just not be a figure there at all, except there was. He was sure that there was, because he could feel it’s unseen eyes bore into him. He tried to concentrate on what Mr Thyme was reading in his distinctive monotone, but as soon as he turned from the window, he felt it again. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and pricked, and he found himself absently rubbing at the skin just below his collar. 

The bell rang, and Harry nearly lost control of his bowels, managing to constrict his bladder at the last minute. He was sure that a little bit of pee had escaped, so although he was still bursting, he thought he better wait until the classroom emptied before he went to the toilet. Instead of rising, he made a show of putting his books back into his bag, making sure he dropped his pencil case on to the floor as he did so. Thankfully the entire contents spilled out on to the floor, so he didn’t even have to take his time gathering it all up. As he was doing so, one of his classmates - he didn’t look up so didn’t know who for definite, even though only Ronny Johnson was directly behind him and therefore must have been him - stood on two of his pencils. He heard the thin brittle wood crack and thought oh well, there goes two perfectly good pencils. There was nothing he could do. It’s not like he would be able to retaliate. Ronny was quite a mild mannered boy but he still had a malicious streak and had been known on more than one occasion to get into a fist fight with one or more of the other boys. Harry had no doubt that should he want to, Ronny could probably dislocate Harry’s jaw.

He waited until the classroom was empty and Mr Thyme was busy packing his own things away before he rushed out to the toilet, not noticing the figures standing at the far corner of the corridor that lead to the playground and the main gate. By the time he emerged they were gone.

It was nearly dark by the time he emerged from the school gate on to Byfield Road, taking a nervous look towards the NORTHERN SPARKIES van. The streetlights were on but the new white light ones the council had installed the previous summer were further spaced than the old orange ones, and the space between the van and the vehicle next to it was bathed in shadow. Harry stood on the opposite side of the road down the street and started back, trying to force his vision to accustom to that black space and see what (or who) was inside. He began to feel unseen eyes stare back at him, the feeling making him feel uncomfortable. He took a few steps back up towards the school gate, closer to that space. Stopping once he neared it. Something moved inside the shadow. Something furtive and small. A sudden shape darted out in front of him, a black cat. He laughed to himself, his nerves dissipating. 

I guess that explains the feeling of being watched. 

He stood there momentarily, suddenly debating on what direction to walk in. He should obviously go home, yet the thought of going back to an empty house and making his own dinner again didn’t appeal to him. The last few weeks he had seen his mother less and less, and she was becoming increasingly distant even when she was at home. She always seemed to be looking anywhere but at him when they spoke, with her answers to his questions vague and non committal. He had asked her recently when she would be working less and she had given a mumbled response that was either soon or not sure or something else. 

There was some money in his bag, part payment for an end of primary seven school trip that he was to go on in May. It was in a brown envelope. A thought crossed his mind. He could take a little bit out, go left towards the town centre and treat himself to a new CD. He knew it was wrong, he knew that the money was earmarked for something else, but he found himself feeling down after the incident in the classroom, no matter how minor. All it had done was remind him of the fact that he had no good friends. left. He could replace it with some money from his paper round that he had saved Ince he got home, then replace that later on. He might even go grab a burger afterwards, for the McDonalds was only a few feet from the music shop. 

This idea perked him up, and with no more thought, he put his headphones on, pressed play on his discman, and turned left.

Byfield Road continued on for three or four hundred meters before it joined Greenhall Road, another residential road with narrow brick built town houses. These ones weren’t in quite as good condition as Byfield Road, with a more of the front gardens in state of disrepair - those that weren’t in a state of outright neglect. Fences were broken, grass was running wild around stained and discoloured old children’s play equipment. One of the gardens had a swing that seemed to be rusted at a forty five degree angle and as he passed, Harry had strange feeling of deja vu, something that he couldn’t quite identify about it but was instantly familiar. He had never seen this particular swing in his life yet something about the whole scene gave him an almost nostalgic feeling, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. 

He was lost in his music as he walked, still absorbed in What’s The Story Morning Glory. He reckoned he could listen that that album for the rest of his life and never be bored. Once more the opening strummed chords of Wonderwall filled his ears and he found himself humming along, before he joined in with he vocals. If anyone at that point would have heard him sing, they would have been impressed by his pitch and lyrical memory. Something that he had inherited from his dad, who apparently played and sang in a lot of bands when he was younger. He had once let Harry hear some of the recordings he had done before Harry was born, taking a couple of 45’s down from the loft. Harry had pretended that he had loved it, of course he had. Yet in truth it wasn’t to his taste at all. He loved it regardless though, because of who it was he was listening to.  He began to recall the love he felt for his dad then, watching his expectant face as he played his nine year old son recordings he had made before he was even born. As Harry thought of that expression now, that expectancy. He reapplied, that his dad had genuinely wanted him to like it. To be impressed. Not for his won ego, but because his son’s opinion meant so much to him.

“Well? What do you think?” He had asked Harry after it the final song had finished. 

“Yeah, I like it,” Harry had replied, seeing a flicker of disappointment pass over his dad’s face, the expression momentarily clouding over. “I mean,” he added, “I love it”. The joy on his parents face had been unreal. 

“Really? I mean,” he said, taking the last 45 out of the record player and putting it gently into it’s unadorned white sleeve. The Cold Iron had been written on it in black marker pen that was still surprisingly dark given the years that had passed since it was written. “It’s not great, sound-wise. We couldn’t afford much in the way of the recording studio and the records were manufactured quite cheaply. We didn’t have a lot of money back then.” He grinned. “But you liked it?”

“Yea dad, loved it.”

He had lied, something that he had almost never done before to either of his parents, but he thought that at that instance, if there was such a thing as a good lie. Then that was it. 

He reached a junction and stopped, making sure that there was no traffic coming before he walked diagonally across Wayfarer Street, that would eventually turn from lines of more houses into a few sporadic shops. Then all he had to do was follow it until it joined Norburgh Road and he would be at his destination. If he had taken Wayfarer in the other direction, then he would have ended up in the heart of Prohill, which was a way he didn’t wish to go. Ever. His mother’s hissed word rose inside his head again, and he forced it back down. 

Tinks.

Harry himself had never before even had that word in his vocabulary, preferring not to think of more or less affluent areas than his own, and the families that lived in them. Ever since that night though, he had not been able to get it out his head and now, quite against his will, he found himself putting the inhabitants of Prohill, under that one word umbrella, as horrible as it was. 

It’s not my word, not my term, he would tell himself, excusing it. Yet there was no excuse, not really. Even at a young age he understood how harmful stereotypes were transmitted from one generation to the next. 

It was fully dark now, and the traffic on the road was starting to increase slightly as the rush hour began. Commuters making their way home on an uneventful week night. Harry found himself staring absently at the cars as they passed. Wondering as to their occupants. Every so often a car’s interior would be lit up by a vehicle passing by on the other side of the road and Harry would see that there was one person behind the wheel. A worker returning home from a day at the office or whoever they worked. He thought of his father on the way hime from work. A journey he would never make again. He wondered - and not for the first time - what went through his dad’s head on his return to the house. Was he looking forward to seeing Harry? Looking forward to hearing about the trials and tribulations from that day’s school? Perhaps he thought about Harry’s mum instead, or how his own day had been. Perhaps he thought about what was on television that night, or even what he had done at work that day and what he was going to do the following day.

Harry then thought about what his dad would be thinking about in the morning, on his way to work. Then he wondered what his dad had been thinking about just before he died. Then what he was thinking as he died, or had it been too quick for that. He wondered if his whole life had flashed before his eyes, as that’s what they say happens, even if he had no idea who they were. Actually, come to think of it, he reckoned they could go to hell. Because they had no right to speculate on what his dad had thought about as he was crushed under the huge wheel of the articulated lorry. 

He resolved to stop thinking about any of that, as it was making him sad, and so instead looked up into the distance. He could see where Norburgh Road began and -

Is he waiving at me?

There was a figure far ahead, nothing more than a black outline. Another sense of deja vu washed over Harry, yet again he could find nothing familiar in this moment. He stopped, putting his CD player volume down lower, and was now more tuned into his environment than the music. There was a newsagents further ahead, the first of the small row of shops that indicated that he was approaching the centre of town. The light from the small shop spilled out on to the pavement, bathing it in a soft glow that was nothing more than a sliver from where Harry stood. It was enough to cast the figure in sharp relief, for it was within this faint soft light that it stood. It’s arms were above it’s head and it was moving them from side to side, trying to get attention from whom, Harry did not know. He presumed at first that the figure was waiving at the stream of traffic, perhaps it had recognised a car, or - and this could very well be the case - that it was attempting to flag down a vehicle so it could get a lift somewhere. Yet the more he thought about that, the less it made sense. The figure was waiving towards Harry, which meant that not only was it facing the wrong direction to pick up traffic that was travelling on the other side of the road, if anyone did stop, then they would be going in the wrong direction. And it would be the wrong direction. Ten minutes from here and you would be in the centre of town. There as a rail station and bus station, the combination of both taking you anywhere in the country. 

It’s that thing again, Harry thought to himself. It’s that thing you saw between the van and the car. The thing in the dark. 

His legs didn’t want to go any further and found that he couldn’t find it in himself to start walking again. All previous good cheers had gone from him. It was such a good idea, and had initially made him very happy, just the thought of what he was about to do. Yet now he just wanted to go home. 

The empty house, and it’s probably going to be waiting for you there.

The figure kept waiving, it’s arms slowly moving over it’s head. A sudden roar of an articulated vehicle went past Harry, causing him to step back from the kerb in alarm. He hadn’t even been aware of how close to the road he had been, and felt the rush of wind as it passed. When he looked back towards where the figure was, he saw that it had been replaced by two smaller figures. At first the notion ran took hold that the figure had split itself in two, some kind of shadow mitosis. But the strange feeling of deja vu and otherworldliness he had previous felt had vanished, even though there was something that made it difficult for him to relax his muscles. He shrugged, and continued walking towards Norburgh Road, towards the two figures walking towards him. 

He could hear them before he could make out who they were, yet there was no mistaking those voices. He knew them well enough. He groaned to himself. Not here, not now, he thought. He really wished he had just decided to go home after school. This whole experience was his karma for borrowing the money to buy something for himself. He anxiously glanced around, wondering if there was anyway at all he could duck out of sight, or cross the road without being spotted. He was still in front of the rows of houses and all there was beside him was a low wall and the occasional waist high gate. Unless he actively entered one fo the gardens and crouched down behind the wall, he would never escape unseen that way. Knowing his luck, he would either be seen by the pair approaching him, or by the occupants of the house, or both. None of those scenarios had a good outcome for him. So there was no hope that way. The constant stream of traffic informed him there was no hope that way either. He decided the best thing to do was keep walking, keep his head down and hope that they were too busy wrestling a bottle of juice from one another (or whatever it was they were doing) to notice him. 

He was wrong.

Harry walked as close to the kerb as he risked as Archie and Davey pushed each other against the wall on the far side of the pavement. It was thankfully wider there than previously and for a brief moment, he thought he may actually go unnoticed as he passed them by. Too afraid to keep playing his music he reached into his overrides jacket pocket where he had slid the CD player, and paused it, keeping his headphones on so as to keep up the appearance of listening. He hoped the fact he had his headphones on would deter the other boys from shouting anything towards him, yet by having no value he hoped then to be aware if either of them attempted to come up behind him after he passed. Quickening his pace, he drew closer to the small shop that they had left. Only a few paces away. He decided to nip[ inside once he drew level and wait until they had gone further away. He didn’t know exactly what had brought them in this direction instead of taking the other way to Prohill, but he decided that it was irrelevant. They were here, and so was he. 

Nearly there. 

“What you listening to?” Davey was staring at him, nudging Archie who for a moment was still too preoccupied keeping the bottle of juice away from the other boy. “I said, what you listening to?” He shouted the repetition, obviously assuming that Harry had his music turned up. 

“Prick can’t hear you,” Archie added, rowing the bottle from hand to hand. 

Keep your head down, you’re nearly there, Harry said to himself as he walked. The shop was tantalisingly close. He had passed both boys but could still see them out the corner of his eye. They had begin to walk after him, drawing closer. He quickened his pace again, trying to ensure that it didn’t look as though he was quickening his pace. It would be ten times worse if the boys actually thought that he was trying to actively escape them. 

They drew level on the far side of the pavement. Harry could still see Archie rolling the half full bottle of juice between his hands. He was so close now, but he would actually have to cross right in front of the boys to enter the shop, and he became convinced that one of them would grab hold of him before he could enter. The light from inside was so appealing. He was level with the first large glass window, festooned with posters offering discounts of fizzy drinks (presumably the same fizzy drink that they boys had been arguing over), chocolate bars and a myriad of other items. He could see between the posters that the shop was otherwise empty, and could see right down the aisle to the back , where the chiller cabinets were. He could see the figure standing there, it’s arms waving about it’s head. The light was illuminating it clearly, and he was much closer. He inhaled so sharply and unconsciously walked right in front of Archie and Davey before he even knew what he was doing. 

“Dad?” The word left his lips before he had a chance to stop it. Nothing more than a whisper. 

“What did you call me?”

A hand tried to grab hold of his collar and Harry ducked away instinctively, only as the boys were now between him and the shop, he had rot duck towards the road. Despite the very real and present threat, he found himself looking past the two figures that glowered menacingly at him, straining to see inside the shop. He took a step towards the entrance and that’s when the bottle came spinning through the air towards him. 

His reactions saved him. He ducked, once more relying on his instincts. The speed at which the bottle arced through the air was frightening, and he was quite sure when thinking about it afterwards that if it had made contact with his head at that speed, being half full, that it would have hurt. Quite a lot in fact. 

The trouble, was that because it had missed him, it continued it’s trajectory towards the busy road behind him, colliding with the passenger side door of an old Volkswagen hatchback. The road was even busier now, and subsequently the car had come to a halt just behind where Harry was standing. There was a loud and very audible thunk as it collided dully with the door. Harry heard it and instinctively glanced towards Archie and Davey, whose mouths dropped open in such an identical simultaneous fashion that it would have been comical under different circumstances. The sound of a car door opening behind Harry caused both boys to break into a run and in no time at all they had covered the distance back to the junction with Greenhall Road, running straight on towards Prohill. 

Harry was rooted to the spot, turning round to face the irate driver of the volkwagen, a woman in her late thirties or early forties rising from the driver side and marching around to the pavement. 

What followed was the shop owner emerging from the shop and explaining to the woman that he had - much to Harry’s relief - seen the whole incident, and ensured that Harry was absolved of any blame for the damage to the side of her car. Even so, he remained until the police were called and was required to give a statement. He did briefly contemplate giving the names of the other two boys, identifying them, yet he reasoned that his life wouldn’t be worth living afterwards. If he wasn’t marked yet, then he definitely would be after “grassing”.

In the end, he settled on saying that it had been a random attack, and he’d never seen the other boys before. When it was mentioned that they wore the same uniforms for Crown Temple as he did, he simply shrugged and replied that he did not know or speak to a lot of his year. That at least, was the truth. If they wanted to identify Archie and Davey, they would have to do it without his help. 

By the time he returned home later that evening, empty handed, his mother was in, eating from a plastic carton that had originally contained a microwavable lasagna. She looked up, startled, seeing him properly for the first time in what felt like forever. In a strange way, hew as glad of that, at least. 

“Where were you?” She asked, her voice flat. She wasn’t able to even sound concerned. 

“Out, just fancied a walk after school,’ he replied, heading up to his room. She nodded, and went back to the remains of her lasagne. 

By that evening, Harry had forgotten all about the waving figure. Until a few weeks later, when he would see it again.