Boycey

The Panda indicated to take a left off Great Western Road. The heater was on full at the front of the Hillman Imp keeping the two cops in Florida temperatures. Because one of the back windows was open slightly, to prevent condensation building up behind them, Danny Boyce was shivering in the back of the car in Knightswood. His apple green eyes followed the rubber slap of windscreen wipers carving out rain and flecks of snow. It was hypnotic, like watching dandruff being washed away and coming back. He got immersed in it so much he almost missed the turn-off. His neck strained looking back the way he had come. It had been a few miles since he could see his home, but making the left, off the straight road, did something to his stomach. It also brought the sky down inside his head and the road blurred and seemed to be cutting a path through brown granite blocks. He focussed on radiospeak ‘over’ and the ping-pong of grey-metal alien replies, ‘over’. The backs of the two cops remained indifferent. He leaned his head against the side window. The car brushed aside rich houses with bushes and trees in the garden. They slowed and parked at some street that looked the same as every other street, with a big house set back in the driveway. The black paint on the wrought iron fence peeled like scabs, showing the orange speckle of rust and primer beneath.

The one called Sarge got out first. He picked up his cap from the dashboard and put it on his outsized square head that seemed to have no neck. He did not open the passenger door the full way. He pushed the seat back and the top part down and gestured that Danny should get out. He took a step back, but not too far. A rhododendron hedge had bullied its way on to the pavement and he did not want to get his black regulation coat wet by backtracking into it. Although Danny was only ten and not technically a prisoner, Sarge did not want to leave enough space for him to bolt and make a run for it. He thought that highly unlikely. The boy was a bag of snot and tears. But in his long years of police service, the unlikely had become so close to being likely, that his face had forgotten how to frame itself to look surprised when anything unusual happened. He almost felt sorry for the boy, but he was crouched down, his big hands ready like catchers mitts as the boy squeezed out of the back seat and onto the slippery pavement beside him. The gate was half open, squeaking in the wind like an old lady’s laughter, as if inviting them in. As P.C. Thomson got out of the driver’s side, Sarge put his hand on the boy’s shoulder in a paternalistic patting gesture, that seemed to say, ‘there-there’, but he was ready to squeeze and grab like pincers, should the boy make any sudden moves.

‘I want my mum. I want my mum. When can I see my mum?’ Danny shivered. He had only a t-shirt on and his grey flannel school shorts. His teeth were chittering and his voice seemed to hang in the air, a plaintive sound that was like the wind rushing through the trees.

P.C Thompson exchanged a look with Sarge.

‘Let’s get you inside.’ Sarge said flatly and gave Danny a little push, propelling him forward like a wind-up toy.

P.C. Thomson took off his hat and perched it lopsidedly on Danny’s head. He flung his arm around Danny’s shoulder; his body bent over like a Bow saw as he protected him from the worst of the wind.

The red chips bit into Danny’s feet. He had only his sandshoes on. His good shoes were at home and stood, black and shiny, ready for another school day, in front of the electric fire. The trees in the driveway seemed to bend in the wind, eager to show their blunted baldheads and the arthritic branches seemed to whisper and poke out at him as he passed. The big house ahead of him was lit up like an ocean liner. He could just make out somebody smoking in the space between the storm doors and the main door. As they got closer he saw it was a boy not much older than himself, but his hair was done up in the latest Feather cut, a horizontal blond slash across his forehead. There was somebody beside him, leaning into the shadow of the main door. The blond boy flicked his butt out into the red chip driveway like a cut-down Catherine Wheel.

‘It’s the pigs.’ The blond boy was talking to his shadow companion. The front door opened and closed with a click and the shadow boy disappeared into the glare of the hallway like the finale of a cheap magician’s trick.

Inside the vestibule, the two cops plumes of breath met up with each other and shook hands above their heads. They stomped their big black feet and shook out their winter coats. The jingling sounds of their metal handcuffs knocking together with their leather belts were given the free rein of plough horses in from the fields. They were happy their work was done. Sarge pushed the bell and like frost cracking open pristine snow he smiled for the first time that day.

Danny was pushed to the front, like a package. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blond boy eying him up. His head swirled round to catch him out, a smile ready to play on his face. The blond boy did not look away, simply wove a weaving path through the two cops and his shoulder knocking into Danny as he turned the handle of the front door and disappeared inside the house.

‘That’s the Granger kid. He’s a wee bastard.’ Sarge rung the bell again.

‘He cannae be that bad. He’s…’ P.C. Thompson was cold-cocked.

Sarge snorted through his nose, his fat belly buckling up and down, a bodily manifestation of contempt. He was not having an argument he was simply stating an obvious fact.

Danny stood shivering wondering if he too was bastard. The door opened and a man stood beaming down at him. He had slight paunch hanging from his denim shirt over his leather belt and over the top of his denims, which seemed to make him prone to baby talk.

‘Who is this little fellow?’ he said.

Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been tickled under the chin like a puppy.

‘Come-in. Come-in.’ He seemed ready to whip himself up into a flashgun frenzy of warmth, chewing on the tip of his red beard as he spoke. He stood aside. The sweep of his arms was an open invitation to reel them inside.

Danny nose started running as soon as he stepped into the heat of the big house. He felt the cops Goliath solidity behind him. Their walkie-talkies echoed in the hallways announcing the arrival of a new act. Just to his right there was some kind of living room that smelled of vinegar and food. His mouth watered as he remembered he hadn’t eaten all day. A lanky kid was sitting atop of a couch with his feet on the seat, snapping of bubble-gum bubbles as he watched TV, making no effort to look there way. But he was the exception.

Two girls and a boy sat on the stairs looking at them. One girl appeared with a hop and a skip from nowhere, stood in front of the and just as quickly disappeared. A gaggle of boys, one of them the blond Granger kid, stared through the top half of stained glass at them from the room adjoining the living room, distorting their features, putting them in Carnival colours, as if they were on display.