James Clarke - The Litten Path

HIS DAD WAS squatting by the bed directing the Anglepoise into his face. Through the glare Lawrence could smell fresh outdoors, cigarettes masked badly with peppermints.

What? he said.

Said wake up.

He turned away from the bother but his eyes were so scrunched that he misjudged the distance and clumped his head against the wall. Cold stucco. He bit the inside of his cheek and kept his mouth shut.

Kid.

Movement. Then what sounded like his homework being blundered off the desk. When his blanket was peeled back, Lawrence yanked it towards his neck again and hissed Jesus over his shoulder.

Not him.

Youre funny.

Not as funny as this.

The blanket was torn away entirely.

Shit, whatd you

Arthurs rough palm smothered Lawrences mouth. Those beer lips were always so clumsy against the ear.

Quiet. An watch your lip. Your mother didnt raise a bloody yob.

Even the gentlest moments could turn against you. A minute ago Arthurs outline had been dimly lit between the doorway and the landing. Now this. Lawrence finished his sentence anyway. His curses emerged as muffled nonsense.

Calm it.

He prised Arthurs bastard hand off. No one else had a dad like this, the human equivalent to a poke in the eye.

Am calm.

But not quiet.

What do you want, Dad? Lawrence clamped either shoulder and tucked his legs in until he resembled the shape of a question mark.

Ive a job for you, but you need to keep it down.

Dads grin rictus was like always. Lawrence had a similar face, except his wasnt as grey and there was no blot on his cheek that drew the eye. A pit wound that coal dust had seeped into, tattooing the slash-mark blue.

Dad.

I know, kid. But Ill make it worth your while.

A handful of coins landed on the mattress: warm coppers strewn next to Lawrences torso that was as hairless as a babys kneecap. Worth getting up for, he supposed.

Time is it? he said, sitting up. Hed been sacked from his paper round and needed the money. Sixteen and skint. Gristle, bone and bags under the eyes.

Arthur laughed. Wrong question.

Kind of job?

Special ops. Now get some clothes on and meet us downstairs.

Ten minutes later they were crunching along the strip path around the back of their house on Water Street. It was late February and the moon was monstrous. It undermined the sodium road lamp flickering on the corner ahead.

Summat about a carpet?

Bloody rug I said.

Right.

Cracking rug it is.

Right.

You listening?

Fucking carpet. Never mind all the cloak and dagger business, a bribe in the offing meant Lawrences mam wouldnt be allowed to find out about all this. Lawrence stumbled in a clutch of weeds, not that Arthur noticed.

When they reached the road they headed north, the opposite direction to Litten centre. Litten was a pit village that called itself a town. Its angled streets were crammed a hill or two away from the rest of South Yorkshire. Factories and works studded every outskirt, chimneys burst out of the ground like raised middle fingers and the clouds of pumped smog were caught still in the daylight. Litten was tired pubs with stone troughs outside that they used for watering the sheep back in the day. It was the odd scrat of grass at the end of your row, an arcade under a metal awning, a roundabout, too many traffic lights, charity shops and an old bandstand in the centre where the brass band from Brantford pit still flogged the dead horse every other weekend.

And still Arthur smiled. His hair looked static-charged against the unreal glow of the street.

What dyou mean a rug, anyway? said Lawrence.

What do you mean, what do you mean?

Well, really a rug?

Course.

Then why this hour? His Casio said half two.

As this is the only time we can get it.

But its freezing, Dad

Bloody hell, youve a coat, and youre always whining about early bed. I thought youd be up for this.

I am.

Well stop acting the fairy then.

They walked on. The sky could have been indigo, purple, black, as they advanced deeper into the sticks. A steeper incline and visible breath. When Arthur put his hand on his shoulder, Lawrence let it stay.

Could at least say where youre taking us.

So you know Threndle House, right?

Lawrence began to say no.

Course you do.

Big place?

Where Brantfords lived.

Aye, what about it?

Well thats where were off.

Lawrence stopped in his tracks. Its a mile off!

Come on, kid, I did say this were Special Ops.

It was always so funny. Lawrence began to head back the way theyd come, no longer the eternal boy, adding for good measure that there was nothing special about these ops.

Wait, said his dad, grasping him by the elbow, his voice so many things; pick your bloody adjective. I need your help, kid. Them muscles.

What muscles? Lawrence was being led back towards Threndle House.

Well, these for a start, said Arthur.

Get off, Dad, Gods sakes.

Look, Id not ask other than its for your mam.

Now they were getting to it. There had been a lot of overtime in the run up to Christmas, and on Shells orders Arthur had taken on all that he could get. Hed described to Lawrence the great mound of coal collecting outside of Brantford pit. Perceptible from the road, the pile had to be climbed over on the way in: an immense blackness the men could look at from way upon the gantry.

With his tongue, Lawrence touched his top lip, where hair had started to grow. These were the deep hours, when the bobbins and the sprockets of the mind squeaked. Why always me? he said, surprised by the whine in his voice.

Because.

You always say that, Dad. There must be a mate or

Theres no one, said Arthur. There is no one.

It took them the best part of an hour to get there, but eventually they reached a grand stone building that loomed like a mural at the end of the road. This was Threndle House, and Lawrence was being pushed to it by his fathers hand.

A five-foot wall protected the house from the public. Detached and remote, it was a large property, though still smaller than Lawrence remembered.

Knows exactly who it is, said Arthur, hauling himself up the wall. Kind of what I like about the place.

For once Lawrences dad was right. Threndle House made up in grandeur what it lacked in size. Watch out or someonell see you, said Arthur, nodding in the front doors direction. Swarsbys are on holiday.

Doesnt answer my question.

You didnt ask a question.

Lawrence took the hand offered and was dragged up the wall.

Just trust us, said Arthur. Theyre not in.

They sat kicking their heels against the brickwork. Threndle House would have been shrouded were it not for the silver light draping over everything. The place was thick, almost sullen in shape. Across the lawn you could see mullioned windows and doors, curlicues of metalwork and masonry along the roof. Roughly on top of all that was a gherkin. Gargoyle, probably. Though Lawrence couldnt quite be sure from such a distance.

Arthur produced a canteen from his anorak and removed the lid. It was a dented old thing that his own father, Alec Newman, twenty years coal dust in the lungs, used to keep hot vodka blackcurrant in. Lawrences grandad was a Shotfirer. He set charges in bore holes and detonated them to make headway in the pit. One morning after a blast failed, Alec went to check the line for a problem in the circuit, only the young man he was training wasnt the brightest spark; he tested the detonation key the moment the connection was repaired. The canteen was the only surviving thing they found left buried in the debris.