dunno
dunno - Chapter 1
{Note : Contains some strong language}
The glass broke easily. He dropped the stone and noticed the blood dripping onto the windowsill.
Slowly, he turned his arm and watched the red line run down to the elbow and fall away. He saw the
first splash on the step and then the pain struck at him, a sharp stinging pain that took a hold more
and more. A cold wind cut at him under his T-shirt and he struggled to see what he had done. His other
hand felt for the nearer pocket, which was empty, then tried to reach a handkerchief from the other side.
"Shit!" There were more splashes, this time on the door, and the mess troubled him.
He had to reach inside the broken window with his injured arm so the blood followed his hand round to the
door handle. As soon as he had stepped inside he slammed the door and went through to the kitchen where
he found the remains of some paper towel. He seized it with a bloody left hand and tore off a piece. The
wound did not look very big, no bigger than some he had had before, but it continued to weep.
He glanced quickly into the top drawers then hurried upstairs to his mother's bedroom. He found what he
wanted in the second drawer down, mainly used fivers which he stuffed into his pockets. He lifted his arm
again to look at the blood and noticed the photograph above the chest of drawers. The familiar faces
stared back at him. He had seen them hundreds of times before; the younger girl was his mother, but he
knew little about the others. He ignored them now and quickly left the house.
"What are you doing home so early?" The old woman from round the corner stared at him through thick
glasses. He wanted to shove her to one side where she could not poke her nose in. She was worse than
the little kids in the next street.
"Mind your own sodding … " He walked on, head down. He could feel the wetness of the blood against his
cold skin and wondered where he would find the other boy.
Across the green stood the empty house where he had first met Dean. Jon turned up the path and pushed at
the front door. Inside, there was silence. Other people's words shouted back at him from the walls where
they had been sprayed, confused, as if the writers had been fighting over a collection of old cans. Some
of them still littered the floor. He paused: who was Tracy?
"You there, Dean?" There was no response.
Jon swung out of the house and walked on. At the next corner, halfway to the park, he ran into some of
the girls from his class. The tall, thin one, the one whose name he couldn't remember, stepped out in
front of him. Immediately, he knew that he would not be able to cope with her; older boys enjoyed her
presence but she always terrified him. Whenever he saw her he tried to escape her angular hardness - she
had no figure, no curves to fend him off with - but he was drawn closer, closer to the voice which rattled
him with its false friendliness. She stood there, insistent, arrogant, a sort of flat-chested page-three
girl. Like the girls in the ads, she meant to bother him. Her mates giggled.
"Where yer been since lunch then? Miss Lambert was askin' for yer."
Jon ignored her but she towered over him, her head twisted downwards, almost striking at him like a
bird of prey and moving with him as he tried to walk past. He was spiked, skewered, and he asked himself
why these bloody girls wouldn't run away like they used to. Instead, she was coming after him, demanding
his attention. Why should he turn back?
"Ah, fuck off you old slag." He shifted his path, pushed her to one side and walked on. For the other
girls this was a signal to join in and they screeched at him as only girls can. Desperate, head down,
Jon hurried away.
Away from their noise and questions he broke into a slow run and didn't stop until he had reached the
other side of the park. He was panting heavily now as, in front of him, he could see the top of Dean's
head over on the other side of the old car. Without waiting to get his breath he walked round to the
other boy. Dean looked at him and grinned. He was leaning against the car like a salesman outside a smart
showroom, about to sell him a real bargain. His arms were crossed over his chest and he had swung one
leg across the other.
"I got it." Jon held out the notes.
Dean took them and started to count the money. "Hey, what's all this?" The older boy held up a
blood-stained note. "This is no bloody use. What the 'ell've you been doing?"
"I cut meself. They'll dry all right." He held his hand out, not to take back the notes, but to indicate
to the other boy that they would be all right.
"What d'yer think I am?" The older boy gripped the notes. "I'll need some more - these ain't a lot of
use, are they?"
"These'll count for half."
Dean paused and looked at Jon. "You still owe me half, right? Anyway, where did yer get this crap from?"
Jon turned away slightly and kicked at a small piece of waste wood that lay near his feet. The wind
still blew cold under his T-shirt and he gripped his arms about his chest.
"Found a house open - the old woman must have gone out for a few minutes, silly cow. I was lucky - found
it dead quick."
"What about the arm, then? How d'ya do that?"
"Bit a' wire - getting through a fence. It don't hurt, though."
"Another two hundred then, by Monday. Okay?" There was no reply. "D'yer 'ear me?"
Jon wanted to be off. Dean saw him nod his head.
"And get that arm fixed, Jon - you're a bloody mess."
Jon walked off, then turned suddenly. Dean stared back at him and called out, "You're a useless little
bleeder." Jon swung slowly away again and the other boy shouted this time: "Don't forget!"
Jon shivered his way back across the windswept park. He was hungry and he had to find yet more money.
Then there was the empty purse to explain next time he saw his mother, and the window. He set off towards
the supermarket now, walking faster in the gathering darkness. They would be stacking up the boxes
outside and the others would not be there until later.
Getting into the place where the food was sorted for shelving was easy - so many of them were busy
humping rubbish outside in bulging plastic sacks. In no time he had entered by the bread counter,
grabbed a loaf and disappeared. He did not hesitate to ask himself whether he should do something -
he just did it. He was hungry, very hungry. His stomach hurt and, like a desperate animal, he would not
rest until he had got rid of the awful gnawing in his guts. There was no thought of what would happen
if things went wrong; he needed food and he got it. As he left, he noticed the security man on the door,
busy lighting a cigarette. Jon smiled to himself - he might as well have been invisible.
For as long as he could remember, Jon had practised being invisible. He remembered his mother striking
the side of his head and shouting once when she had caught him going through her things. That was when
he started to become invisible so grown-ups couldn't get to him. Then there was no looking back.
Jon enjoyed his invisibility. He was like a hamster that learns that there are good times and bad times
to come out of its cage. When there was something to eat, or something good on television, out he came
but the minute he was mishandled, as soon as people turned nasty, he returned to his hole, to his
invisibility. He found that no one bothered him when he was in his hole. So Jon kept hiding, kept
invisible, stayed in his room.
He thought of his mother's voice, rising up the stairs and penetrating the door. It was the sort of
adult voice that knows before it speaks that it will be ignored.
"You coming down, Jon?" He could hear her talking to a visitor. "Jon, I'm calling yer. Tony's here."
There was the sound of youthful feet on the stairs. "Hi Jon. Yer mum says you've ter come out."
The hamster remained silent as well as invisible.
The visitor stepped on to the landing and knocked at the door. "You comin', Jon?" He needed an answer.
"What d'you want?"
The boy stepped inside and stood at the foot of the bed. Jon was watching a small television set.
"Hey, look at that, it's fantastic!"
"Can't. Me mum says I've ter play out."
Tony looked at Jon. "Sod that. Stay and watch this."
"Nah - she'll get on to me dad."
One monster had just seized another by the throat, and blood was spurting out. The victim slowly
collapsed as two more creatures reared up behind them. The screen flashed and flickered then the
adverts took over. Jon did not move.
"See yer then, Jon." Tony's feet clattered down the stairs, and peace returned.
Downstairs all was quiet. When Jon realised that his mother had also gone out, he went down to the
kitchen. He hurried to the fridge and snatched open the door. There was nothing there so he reached
into a cupboard, grabbed the last bag of crisps and retreated to his room.
There had been a time when other kids would take him home to fridges that were full, in places that
were warm and welcoming. They had toys and games. He remembered his mother's anger once when a parent
had come to reclaim a plastic car he had taken a liking to: "Why," she had asked in exasperation, "why
did you leave the bloody thing in the front garden? So's everyone could see it?" After that he sensed
the other kids' wariness.
Once, he remembered a mother calling out, "Can't you get those kids to play outside?" A sort of uncle
turned to Jon and the other little boy: "Go on you little buggers, 'op it."
On another occasion he wondered what another mother had meant: "I don't mind the poor little bleeder
coming round 'ere but that woman should never 'ave 'ad 'im. Anyway, 'e stays out a' doors. 'Es not
coming in the 'ouse again." Something about her tone reminded him of the police and soldiers he sometimes
saw on television, peering into things, giving orders and taking people away.
The gnawing in his guts eased. So long as he didn't rush, his mother would have gone out again by the
time he got back home. Even if he got no more to eat he could get his head down for a few hours. He'd
think about school in the morning.
He let himself into the house - with his key this time. Inside the hall he glanced at the floor where
the glass had fallen. It had gone from there, but a few pieces remained outside where his blood had
dripped. It was the old woman's job to clear that up. Anyway, he was content to live in a mess of his
own making - his own room was barely habitable, with the bed half-buried beneath unsorted possessions.
He was right - the fridge was empty. He switched on the television and threw himself onto the sofa. The
fabric along the edge had worn thin and now there was a long, jagged tear. He got up to find a cushion
to cover the rough edges, then sat down again. He remembered seeing a can of lager somewhere in the
kitchen, set off, and returned with two. From his pocket he took out a lighter and lit the gas fire.
The television screen flickered in front of him. He found the remote by his feet, lifted it slowly and
pointed it forwards. Background music filled the room and he allowed himself to sink back. He opened
one of the cans, drank greedily then looked again at the cut on his arm. The bleeding had stopped and
a long ribbon of dried blood stretched across the white skin. For an hour or so he sat there.
It was easier like this. From time to time he changed the channel and there would be a moment's
flickering and a splutter of sound as the picture returned. Jon scarcely blinked, waiting intently
for some excitement. He waited for something to happen, something to excite him, to motivate him, to
fight off the constant bloody boredom which engulfed him. Inside, these things gripped him, but he
could not think of a way to break out. The skin on his knuckles glowed white as he cursed at the handful
of channels that let him down one after another. But they kept the world at bay: the neighbours, the
other kids, the cold, his hunger, even his mother. The second can of lager helped, too.
Up on the shelf behind the sofa, there she was watching him, always bloody watching him. For a moment he
wanted to smash the photograph and grind it into the floor but he couldn't bring himself even to touch it.
He knew that if he did he would not put it down again. His mother got worked up about the past - why,
he didn't know, it was one of those things they just didn't talk about. The photograph was of a girl,
just like the girls in his class at school.
Jon shook his head and leaned forward, reaching out for one of the cans. Clumsily, he knocked it with
the back of his hand and it toppled over, empty. He stretched out for the loaf and found only the
remains of the paper bag. Unsteadily he got to his feet and shoved the sofa back against the shelf.
He reached the door and made for the stairs. As he went, the girl's photograph fell face forward. The
glass rattled in the frame but did not break. Jon turned, half aware, then trudged on up the stairs.