On the Side - Chapter One
He paid the cabbie and stood on the street corner. The cabbie looked at him again, just to be
sure. He was somebody’s son, but he couldn’t put a name to him. Not your average teenager –
got a bit of style – the trainers and the leather coat told you that. And he’d wanted change
of a fifty-pound note. The cabbie folded the note and inserted it in his wallet.
If only the boy would turn around, he’d get another look at his face. But the boy continued to
stare down to the end of the mews. The cabbie pulled the wheel round and swung out into the
traffic.
The boy had stood here several times before. Once he had tracked the man down, he knew what had
to be done. Once he had come this way at night, lost, but he had turned the corner and had known
the place. Twice before he had set off along the mews, gazing at the large house. At the bottom
of the steps he had waited, hoping that someone would appear. It would have been enough, at first,
just to see who came out.
But it had not happened like that. He sensed his own impatience and walked up to the door.
“You can’t see him. It’s a private house. Just clear off!”
The boy kicked the metal strip at the foot of the door. It was a red door and the man who stood
there was a big man, a strong man who looked on impassively.
“You’re not impressing me or the door.” The man continued to watch him without moving a
muscle. “So just go away.”
“I’ve told you, I’m his son. He’s got to see me.”
The man laughed, watching the boy’s face crease up with rage.
“Doesn’t mean he’s got to see you. Never sees anyone unless he wants to.” The man looked up
from the angry boy on the step to the busy street at the end of the mews.
“Now, just take yourself off and save yourself trouble.”
Again the boy’s foot found the foot of the door.
“I keep telling…”
There was a strong hand shoving against his shoulder. His feet felt for the lower steps and
missed. When he sat up the door was shut. There was no one to shout at now so he hammered on
the side of the door then bent and yelled his anger through the letterbox.
Silent and impassive, the house looked down at him. He turned and headed for the street where he
hailed a taxi.
Back at the flat he found his mother’s note on the kitchen table.
“Mr. Smith rang. See him before school. Don’t forget.”
He let the note drop and jabbed at the button on the answer phone. The machine clicked and
whirred, then stopped. The boy looked around the large kitchen. It was where much of his life
had been lived, away from the smart room, the room where his mother lived her life with her friends.
For a long time he had not known about that other room. He could remember the boxes of toys on
the top shelf to the left of the stove; one of the au-pairs had bought them. He had come home
from boarding school to find his mother away on holiday. For a moment he wondered what had become
of this girl and the others who had looked after him.
He decided to eat in.
Alex had only the one address for his father. He had seen him a few times now, always on
television, once on a chat-show. That had been worse. His father had spoken about the two
wives and their daughters, but had said nothing about a son.
Alex picked up the phone and ordered a pizza, a “four seasons,” his favourite. At the other
end of the room, tucked into a wide alcove, was a large, slim-line television. Alex sat on
the sofa and flicked the remote. The Saturday afternoon schedule was packed with talk about
football. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of a match, goals being scored and crowds cheering.
They held Alex, these glimpses into his father’s world, until the doorbell rang.
Alex took the pizza from the delivery boy, carried the box to the worktop and found a plate. All
the time he faced the corner with its television and as he tore open the box, a familiar face
appeared on the screen. It was the team coach, standing on the edge of the pitch. The man
spoke for a few moments to an invisible interviewer. There was a sudden switch to a game and
the screen came alive briefly until the presenter took control again. His father had not
appeared, only his deputy.
The picture changed to a paddock where horses and riders milled around, bright colours dull in
the rain. One rider fought to control his mount. Someone mentioned the closing odds and the
result of a race elsewhere but his words were wasted on Alex who looked on as the horse finally
unseated its jockey. He ignored his half-eaten pizza and watched the small man clinging to the
reins.
Another click of the remote and there were shampoo advertisements. Another click and it was
shower gel. For a second, a girl’s brightness held him then he clicked again.
The race had started and the man in pink was doing well. The commentator’s voice rose. Alex
ignored him but enjoyed close-up shots of the rider, urging his horse forwards, lifting him
over the hurdles, willing the animal on. The commentary rose to its final crescendo then the
riders wheeled their mounts around and the man in pink headed for the winner’s enclosure. The
final odds appeared and the scene dissolved.
“We’ve just heard that Dickson is not at Wellside this afternoon, so we’re taking you back to
Martin Andrews at the ground, talking again to Charlie Gates.”
The familiar stand appeared behind the two men.
“I’ve had no contact with him since yesterday – he’s had a bad cold for the last three days
but he’ll be all right in a day or two”
The conversation continued but Alex sat back now.
He turned off the set and sat still for a moment. Then he got up quickly, seized his coat from
a chair and felt in his right-hand pocket. From a pile on a low table he took a newspaper and
left the flat. Outside, he soon found a taxi and directed it to the house he had visited earlier
in the day. The house looked down at him as he paid the driver and stepped up to the door. Behind
him, the cab turned out of the mews. A different man answered the door and Alex was nearly able
to duck into the house.
“Just want to see my dad, that’s all.” The man was pushing the door so that it held him firmly
against the doorframe. The man laughed.
“I don’t know about your dad, but Mister Dickson’s seeing no one, not even you.”
“He’s my dad. I want to see him. You can’t keep me away from my dad.”
Alex stepped back, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Come on Dad, where are
you? It’s Alex, Angie’s boy.”
The man stepped away from the door and started towards him.
“You keep away from me or I’ll call my dad.” The man came over to him and reached out a large
hand. Alex glared defiance. “You keep your bloody distance.”
The hand arrived and took his elbow. Alex twisted, unable to escape.
“I told you - you keep away from me.” He felt the other hand take hold of his collar. Then
there was a voice in his ear.
“I’m keeping you away. That’s my job, sunshine, so just you push off, see. Do us both a favour.”
Alex looked over the man’s shoulder. He could see little apart from a wide corridor that ran away
from the street, away from him, and into his father’s world. This time there was no need for the
man to push him; Alex pulled away from him and away from the open door. Before the man could shut
it Alex had already stepped back from the house.
Next time both men answered the door.
“Takes two of you now.” The larger of the two men, the one he had encountered earlier in the
day, stepped towards him, wagging a finger.
“You’d better sling yer hook.” The finger was jabbing directly towards him now. Then the door
was closed again.
He resisted the urge to shout. From one pocket he took out a lighter and a container of fuel. He
upended the container into the letterbox and squeezed until it was empty. From inside his coat he
slid out the newspaper. He eased the pages, gently, so that they separated a little, then held the
lighter steadily underneath them; the orange flame flowed slowly upwards. When the paper was well
alight he slid it into the mouth of the red door and listened as it fell, plop, onto the mat
inside. He peeped through the letterbox to make sure that it was still burning then retreated.
He did not have long to wait. The flames flickered beyond the windows, then an alarm wailed. This
time Alex hoped to see his father with the two men but again he was disappointed. When they
opened the door he tried to get past them.
“You again is it?” This time the larger man held onto him. He turned to his companion.
“Go back and call the police. I’ll hang on to this stupid twat.” He caught Alex by the collar
and a sharp fingernail tore the boy’s skin. Alex held his head to one side and said nothing. The
man expected a struggle but his prisoner was more interested in the fire.
The smaller man set off round the outside of the building. Soon he returned.
“On their way - told them we’ve got daddy’s boy here.”
The larger man turned to Alex.
“You keep shouting out for Mister Dickson and now you’re gonna get the shock of your bloody
life. He rather likes this house - look what you’ve done to it.”
Alex felt their contempt as they shook their heads. The older man relaxed his grip on Alex’s
collar. Alex jerked away from him, dodged to one side and rushed through the open door, into
the smoke and flames.
He paused, saw a patch of smoke where there were no flames and hurried through. The lamps in
the house had already gone out and there was little light to see by. Behind him, flames spread
themselves along the walls and the skirting. For a second, Alex looked back through the smoke, found
a door and wrenched it open. He could neither see nor hear anything in the room beyond so he
turned back and groped his way further along the wall. Another door opened and again he found
nothing. Other sounds joined those of the fire; the bell of a fire engine followed by the wail
of a police siren. He turned back to where he had thought the stairs had been but they remained
hidden in the dark and the smoke.
The coughing was beginning to hurt and his eyes streamed. Less certain of the door’s position he
turned around and bumped into a small table. There were shouts and the sound of a powerful hose
from near the door, then two bright lights bobbed up and down together. The firemen heard his
cries and within a few minutes he was safe outside.
Just as a police officer was getting out of a patrol car. He slid his cap onto his head as he
approached.
“Is this the boy?”
“Yes. Says he’s our boss’s son - course, we haven’t the faintest idea who he is.”
“Who is your boss?”
“Ron Dickson.”
“The soccer manager?” The man nodded.
“What are you gonna do with this joker?”
“Find out who he really is.” The policeman turned to Alex.
“This your doing?” He nodded to the group of firemen working around the door. Already the flames
were falling back. No one else had come out from the house. A few neighbours stood in the road.
“What does it look like?”
Another police car turned sharply into the mews, slowed down and parked well away from the fire
engine. Two officers got out.
“I think you’ve some more talking to do then.”
“He’s been hanging about out here on and off all day.”
“Something about seeing our gov’nor.” The speaker, the smaller man, jerked his head back towards
the house
“I told you, I just wanted to see my father – it’s his house.”
“E’s only got daughters - everyone knows that.”
“Your name young man?”
“Alex.”
“Surname?”
“Dickson.”
“You heard what they said.”
“I’m Dickson, Alex Dickson.”
“Okay, so you’re Alex Dickson. Address?”
“14, Arkwright Mews, W3.”
“You don’t live here. That’s quite obvious.”
“I do now. It’s my father’s home so I can live here if I want.”
The officer tapped on his notebook.
“Stop buggering me about, young man. Do you have any identity with you?”
”Don’t need any, do I?” He glared at the sergeant.
“Come on, we’re wasting our time here.” The officer turned to his colleagues.
“Can you get a statement from these gentlemen and speak to the brigade - and the neighbours. Our
young friend here’ll see more sense down the road.”
©2009 Peter Inson
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