He was
sat on the wall when I first saw him, hugging his knees to his chin. Like a cat in the sunshine, I thought – but
actually, no. As I came close I saw the
furrows in his brow, the slight pallor in his cheek.
He
watched me approaching from the corner of Peel Street
- He will be all right, won't he?
It seems we had been conversing all the time – in his
head.
I turned to look back at him. He was evidently close to tears, or at least
as close as a ten year old boy would allow himself.
- Sorry?
I had missed the rhythm of my step and had to allow him
his say.
- He'll be all right, won't he?
It was a genuine question.
He sought reassurance but the tone of his voice implied that I should
actually know the answer.
- Who?
- Kenny.
I didn't mean to hurt him, he said.
He so needed me to pick up the thread. His lip quivered. But then sudden fury.
- But he was being such a fucking twat!
A tear spilled down his cheek. He angrily pushed the ball of his thumb into
his eye to stem the flow.
- Did you have a fight?
Brilliant deduction.
I was all over it.
- He was asking for it! So I give him a tap. He was asking for it.
Poor kid, I thought.
He's frightened himself.
- So I hit him…
- I expect he'll be fine.
- ...then the ambulance came and they picked
him up, but they couldn't wake him.
Fucking twat. Why wouldn’t he
wake up? It was only a tap.
An ambulance?
Blimey! Maybe I should shut up.
- … on his head …with a bit of brick. He will be all right won't he?
- Er… They know what they're doing.
I floundered for words.
He needed something to cling to but for all I knew Kenny was
dead. I couldn't just make it up. Hit on the head with a brick. Death was not unlikely!
I could just see him stood over the limp boy, bloodied
brick in hand. Perhaps a passer by
raising the alarm – 999. Then him, just
stood there, while yellow-vested paramedics busied themselves dressing the wound;
trying to revive their comatose patient; asking questions:
- What's his name, son?
- Kenny.
- Kenny?
Can you hear me, Kenny?
Nothing.
- We're taking you to hospital, Kenny. Kenny.
Nothing.
- Who are you, son? You his brother?
- Yeah.
- What's your name, son?
- Ryan
- Well, Ryan, can you go and get your
mum? We'll need to take Kenny in to treat
him straightaway. Your mum'll need to
know.
They must have disappeared off leaving Ryan struggling
with the enormity of knowing nothing.
- Did you tell your mum? I asked
- Mrs Webb went. Me mam's at the hospital.
- Who's at home then? Maybe you should go home and wait. Where's your Dad? Will he be home soon?
- Christmas.
- Sorry?
- He's on rigs. Oil rigs.
He won't be home while Christmas.
- Oh…
Nothing else came.
Reluctantly I succumbed to the silent fog invading my
brain.
I stood there looking at Ryan.
He looked at me – waiting for me to become of some use.
Nothing.
After a dumb, eternal moment, a police car drew up on the
other side of the road - no siren but the lights were flashing. The back door opened and a woman with
untidily bleached hair got out onto the pavement.
- Ryan, she barked. Get here now!
She scowled at me.
Ryan slid from the wall, rucking his track suit bottoms
into the crevice between his buttocks.
He stepped into the road pulling at the cloth.
- Watch the bleeding traffic!
Ryan hesitated as a van volleyed passed him. Then more carefully he stepped off the
pavement and ambled across to his mother.
She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the car.
I stepped back and leant against the wall, and watched the
vehicle speed away.
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