Читать книгу The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge - Juliet Bell, Juliet Bell - Страница 10

Chapter Two

March, 1978

‘Is he for me?’ Cathy peered at the scratchy-haired, dark-eyed boy standing behind her daddy in the hallway. ‘You said you’d bring me back a present. Is he my present?’

‘No, dear.’ Her father set his bags down next to the front door. He didn’t hug her the way he normally did after being away. But Cathy didn’t mind too much. She was far too interested in the boy, with his tatty clothes and hunched shoulders. ‘This is your new brother. His name is Heathcliff and he’s going to stay with us for a while.’

Cathy’s mother bustled out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She stopped in mid-stride and looked down at the boy. Her eyes narrowed and her lips almost vanished as she frowned. Cathy knew that look too well.

‘What is that?’ Her voice was hard, the words clipped.

Her daddy shifted from foot to foot. ‘Cathy, why don’t you take Heathcliff upstairs?’

That always happened. Every time there was anything interesting, Cathy got sent upstairs. It wasn’t fair. Mick didn’t get sent upstairs. Mick got to go out round the village with his mates. Mick had even had a ride in a police car. He’d come into her bedroom and shown her the bright-red mark across his cheek where he reckoned a policeman had clipped him round the head. Mick got to have all the adventures.

But not this time. Mick wasn’t here. Getting a new brother was almost as exciting as riding with the police. Maybe more exciting, especially if Mummy and Daddy were going to row about it. And for now it was all hers. Being sent upstairs was not fair at all, but she knew how to deal with that.

‘Come on,’ she said.

The boy followed.

She stopped on the tiny landing. ‘So my room’s down there. That’s Mick’s. Mummy and Daddy sleep in there. Bathroom’s downstairs through the kitchen.’ She looked around. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Is your name really Heathcliff?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

Cathy wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not a name. Names are things like Gary or David. Have you got a last name?’

Heathcliff shrugged again.

Cathy sat down on the top step.

Heathcliff hesitated for a few seconds then sat down next to her, squashing himself against the wall, as far away from her as he could get. She sniffed. Did he think she had something catching?

‘What are we doing?’

‘Listening.’ This was Cathy’s secret listening spot. From here you could hear people perfectly if they left the door at the bottom of the stairs open. This time they hadn’t. She had to strain to make out bits. It sounded like her mummy was doing most of the talking. And when she yelled, it was easy to hear her.

‘What were you thinking?’

‘What about his mother?’ Mummy got louder.

‘Did you really think you could just bring him here? That I would cook for him and wash his filthy clothes and treat him like my own children?”

‘Well, I put up with Mick…’ That was Daddy. He was getting angry now too.

‘That’s different. It were for ever ago.’

‘Was it?’

Cathy blew the air out of her mouth so that her lips tingled. Everyone had to put up with Mick. She didn’t want to listen to her parents talking about Mick.

Cathy heard the kitchen door slam. That was it then. Her mother would hide in the kitchen and sulk while her daddy sat in the back room and read the newspaper. There was nothing more to hear.

She turned her attention back to the new boy. ‘Do you play with Sindys?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, what do you do?’

He shrugged.

‘You don’t say much, do you?’

‘Dunno what to say.’

Cathy didn’t know either. ‘You talk funny.’

‘I talk like me mam. You’re the one who talks funny.’

She didn’t. She talked normal. ‘Come on. I’ll show you how to play Sindys.’

Mick Earnshaw strode up the hill towards home. This winter was turning into a pain in the arse. His dad reckoned they were going to bring back the three-day week. That was the last thing he needed – his dad hanging round the house the whole time, winding his mum up even more than she already was. His dad had been away this week, some union thing in Liverpool. He always came back from union meetings ranting and raving about what a waste of space Callaghan was. Mick didn’t care. He probably would when he finished school and got a job. Until then, he had his mates. And as long as the lasses kept looking at him the way they did, he was happy.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of fags. He lit one and took a deep drag, then stretched out his hand. The scabs across his knuckles had gone now, but he liked to picture the blood, and the bruising, and the looks on his mates’ faces when he’d rammed his hand into the police car. The buggers had all run away after that. They hadn’t seen the copper clip him over the head. Shame, but he’d told them all about it. He’d seen the respect in their faces. That was the important thing.

Mick grinned as he got to the top of the Heights estate. Theirs was the last house in the row. The end of the terrace. Mum reckoned that meant you could call it a semi-detached. Mum needed her head looking at.

He flicked his fag end away, stuck his key in the Yale and opened the door. They didn’t used to lock it during the day, but now you heard stories about neighbours stealing from one another and his mum said you couldn’t be too careful. Mick wasn’t worried about that. Anyone who tried to take anything from him would be sorry.

‘Who is it?’

‘S’Mick.’

His mother came into the hallway. She looked angry, but then, she looked angry most of the time these days. ‘Your father has something to tell you. I’m going to my Ladies’ Group.’

Mick shrugged. His mother was for ever going to her groups at the church. There was a cookery group, and a group for wives, and another group where some old women taught the young women how to do darning and rubbish stuff like that. Half the time, when she said she was going to the church, Mick saw her nip off in the opposite direction anyway.

His dad was sitting in the back room. They never sat in the front room. Mum said that was for Best. Best wasn’t something that happened very often. Dad was wearing his weekday suit. He had one suit for Sunday and one for during the week and a scrappy old one for working round the house. Mick would see the other miners walking along the road in jeans and tracksuit bottoms. They didn’t know how to present themselves. That’s what his dad reckoned anyway. His dad was a cut above.

‘I need you to make some space in your room.’

‘What? Why?’

‘We’ve got someone staying with us.’

‘Not in my room.’

‘Well, he’s a young boy so he can’t really go in with Cathy.’

‘How long for?’

His dad stood up. ‘For as long as needs be. I’ll bring the foldout bed down from the loft. Go clear some space.’

Mick’s chest tightened and his fingers closed into a fist. It was crap – there was no way he was going to share his room with some kid. ‘Why’s he here anyway?’

‘He needed somewhere to stay.’

Mick shook his head. ‘You can’t just bring a kid home. There’s social services and that. Like when Keely Baldwin’s mum went off and it was just her and them babies in the house. Social services took them all away in the end.’

His dad’s face grew dark. ‘This is different. The boy’s staying here. Now go and clear some space.’ He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a fist, but Mick’s legs turned and carried him towards the stairs as surely as if he’d been whacked on the arse.

There were two faces watching him from the landing. Cathy, sitting at the top of the stairs, like always, and this new kid sitting next to her. ‘What the hell?’

The boy had a thatch of thick black hair, above dark skin, and dark eyes, but that wasn’t what Mick first noticed. The first thing he saw was the bright-red shine on his lips and the glittery blue rings around his eyes.

Cathy shrugged. ‘We were practising doing make-up.’

‘He looks like a freak.’

Cathy stuck out her chin. ‘Well, I like it.’

He looked at the boy, but the boy was staring at Cathy, eyes wide. The look on the brat’s face said it all. Cathy had him wrapped around her little finger. Like the old man. In their father’s eyes, Cathy was his little princess. She could do no wrong, while Mick couldn’t do anything right. And now his dad had brought this brat home. Not that Mick cared.

He stalked past them up the stairs, jabbing the boy in the ribs with the toe of his boot as he did. The kid started, but didn’t make a sound. Mick wondered if the brat would cry if he knocked him down the stairs. Maybe one day he’d find out.