Money for the Circus 3

Marcus walks past the strip, low rise shop-fronts with tiny flats on the first floor with entrances at the top of rusting stairs at the back. One kebab shop, one vape shop and three charity shops, one closed for refurbishment since before Marcus’s last birthday. Almost a year, in fact. Three men and two girls are vaping outside the kebab shop. He crosses the road. Last year those girls were playing hopscotch and skipping. They would be in the year above Marcus at the comp now, if they ever came. There’s something scary about the three taxi-drivers, and the way they look at men, or even boys, as they pass. As if they are saying “And?” or “So what?” in their heads, whilst feeling for the knife handle in their pocket.

At the end of this road - which isn’t the straightest, true - the flats jump out as if they’ve been lurking around the corner especially to disappoint Marcus with the news that he’s arrived “home”. These flats are called Holroyd Gardens. There aren’t any flowers just some patchy grass around the broken swings and a disused skate park. Any fall from the first or one in the second might just involve complications at A&E, maybe that’s why they’re not used until after dark,when the sound of breaking glass alternates with the sirens and the screams. Marcus has seen some things from the third floor window that would make Lex Luthor’s hair curl.

The “soldier” is AWOL and the stairs are a little easier to manage, for once. Marcus knocks. Gran opens the door a little,

“Got me fags?”

Marcus hands them over, sees his Gran’s look of disapproval at the measly 2 packets.

“I’ll go straight to the bedroom, Gran.”

“No. sonny. I need an hour. You’ll have to go back out.”

She’s pushing the door to, but Marcus has his foot wedged. It fucking hurts, though,

“Bring me some out, then I’ll go.”

Gran eyes Marcus, looks over his shoulder, then nods slowly,

“Wait there.”

2 minutes later. Marcus is outside with six DC comics under one arm. Gran has picked up the first six she’s found. These are worth money. One is a World’s Finest which is older than she is. He’ll never sell them though. Marcus used to go to Mr Glanville’s house to look at his collection. He took some that last time. Checked on the net first to see which were worth taking. He doubts Mr Glanville is teaching anywhere now. Still, he taught Marcus some things. Like lurid and … Well, whatever... It was someone else who called the police. Not a kid from the school, at least not the one where Mr Glanville showed Marcus how to draw.

It’s getting dark. There’s no youth club, obvs. The pub’s a non-starter when you’re small for your age. Marcus knows boys from his class who get in, no bother, even though they can’t legally buy a drink for another four years. There is somewhere though, with light. Lights. That light up if you rattle the chickenwire fence round the building hard enough. PIR-lights, Marcus has heard them called. You can finish a comic if you move enough times. A security guard comes out eventually, of course, but a bellowed “fuck off, you little twat!” is the only consequence, and Marcus reckons that’s a fair exchange.

It’s a warehouse, according to the sign. What they store there, he hasn’t a clue. He’s never seen a wagon pass through the gates in or out, not even in daylight. Anyway, it’s a short walk. Marcus sometimes wishes he’d taken some of Glanville’s Marvel Comics. Those he really would have sold. Worth lots now, now that they’re all that’s on at the pictures. Not as good, IHHO, not by a long way.