Blood Relatives

‘I pity people like that,’ Mother said, raising her eyes toward t’ small screen. Then she told me to move, cos I wor blocking all t’ heat from t’ gas fire.

I shuffled back a tad and reread some Black Sabbath tour dates. But really my lugs wor glued to t’ smug, southern voice of t’ reporter, who wor saying that Maxwell Confait wor ‘a self-confessed homosexual who was murdered in South-East London’, and that three teenage lads had been charged wi t’ murder. One of t’ lads wor only fourteen year old, same as me.

It wor like a firework had been lobbed into t’ living room. I remember thinking, clear as daylight, ‘That’s me he’s talking about. That’s me. I fancy boys.’

It befuddled me that anyone my age could commit murder. What wor that about? Adults murdered, kids got murdered. Like that Myra Hindley and that bloke that murdered loads of kids and buried ’em up on t’ moors.

All t’ while Mother wor pretending to be reading her magazine, but I knew she wor listening an’ all, cos she kept clicking her ballpoint on and off. Then, when I saw his face on t’ telly a strange thrill coursed through me.

Jim sat up against t’ bedhead. ‘It did?’

‘Aye. He had these big, pleading eyes and unkempt hair and this black gash for lips. Cos we hadn’t got our colour telly then. But I knew. At that moment, I just knew.’

‘Well,’ Jim exhaled, ‘if I recall rightly, they were all acquitted in the retrial.’

I turned over in t’ bed to ease the pressure on my elbow. ‘Since then, I’ve always thought that one day I’ll be a famous pop star, or be murdered. Or a famous pop star who gets murdered. Or a pop star who gets murdered and then becomes famous.’

Jim laughed and tousled my hair. ‘Just don’t end up like poor Janis. All washed up on heroin.’

Eric started up the engine, let it idle over. ‘Come on, we’ve enough time. Let’s call on Vanessa, if she ain’t too busy. Then we can have a quick cuppa, all right?’

It worn’t good to get too far ahead of schedule. Harehills and Chapeltown before lunch, then on to t’ big housing estates of Belle Isle, Gipton and Halton Moor in t’ afternoon, then finally the tower blocks and maisonettes up Seacroft way. Too early, or too late, and sales would be lost. And Craner wor intent on improving sales. Even a push on malt vinegar had failed to revive the flagging figures.

We pulled up outside Vanessa’s, and Eric headed in while I waited in t’ van.

It must have been a grand house once, but now it wor in a very sorry state. The stone wor sooty and pitted, the rotting gutters all clogged wi’ wet leaves, the paintwork flaking away. A board had been nailed across one of t’ etched panes of coloured glass in t’ front door. In t’ overgrown garden, a few spindly roses soldiered on.

Eric reappeared in t’ porch. ‘Bring a bottle of Coke!’

I fished one off the van and strolled up to t’ house, tossing and catching it as if it wor a baton.

As I pushed the door wi’ my shoulder a breeze gusted in, lifting the hallway linoleum at its edges.

Vanessa lived on t’ ground floor. I paused in t’ hallway at the foot of t’ stairs, my eye following the sweep of t’ banister rail upward into t’ gloom, my nostrils twitching to t’ stale traces of over-fried and boiled food, my ears hearing the steady plopping from t’ laundry slung over t’ banisters.

Although Vanessa’s door wor open, I knocked anyway and entered without waiting.

‘Here he is!’

I set the coke bottle on t’ sideboard, parked mesen on one arm of her grubby sofa.

Vanessa wor a big woman wi’ matted strawberry-blonde hair and a round, pocked face. I tried not to stare at t’ folds of pale skin slithering from her faded pink halterneck dress. Worn’t she cold? I dunked my teabag as she gabbled on in her brittle voice, talking about business mostly. All t’ while she kept one eye on t’ street, t’other on t’ nipper in plastic pants that wor shuffling itsen toward me across t’ lino floor. Vanessa crossed her plump legs and let one shoe dangle. Her feet wor deformed by years of stilettos. Chips of red varnish on her toenails.

‘God, I hate this weather – didn’t know you’d got hitched, Eric,’ Vanessa said in one breath.

‘I’m not.’

‘What’s wi’ t’ ring then?’

‘Engaged.’

‘Ooh, engaged? To that … what’s her name … Julie, is it?’

‘No, not her … to Karen.’

‘Last I heard you wor knockin’ about wi’ a Julie.’

‘Aye. Aye, I wor – but it’s Karen now.’

The subject of t’ ring shunted off into a siding, Vanessa turned her attention to me.

‘Heard a lot about you,’ she oozed. ‘Eric tells me all sorts, he does.’

My innards wor squirming like a bag of mealy worms. When, for pity’s sake, did Eric get to blather on to Vanessa about rings and marriage? We only stopped by when we were on t’ round, didn’t we?

They wor both looking at me expectantly. The ring. Now that I’d clapped eyes on it, it had a permanent look. No hacking that off.

‘All good, I ’ope,’ I mumbled.

‘Well, now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ Vanessa teased. ‘Nice-looking lad, though, ain’t he, Eric?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Trust me. Make some girl very happy one day, mark my words.’

Friggin’ ’ell. Not the done thing – glowing like hot coals in front of a prozzie.

‘Oh, he’s not still a virgin, is he Eric?’

‘What you asking me for? He’s a bit of a dark horse, this one. I reckon there’s summat going on, what wi’ me dropping him off in town after t’ round every week, but he’s keeping mum about her.’

Eric winked at me.

‘A dark horse, eh?’ Vanessa purred. ‘I lay bets on dark horses, them quiet ones wi’ t’ broad smiles and not much to say for themsens. They’re t’ ones you have to watch.’

Luckily for me, Vanessa’s attention wor distracted by her toddler, who wor balanced on fat little legs, trying to clamber onto a chair, fingers stretching toward t’ Coke bottle.

‘Leave it. Leave it, Jase! I said effin’ leave it!’

She scooped up the toddler wi’ one arm and plonked him firmly back onto a different part of t’ lino. The room filled up wi’ a piercing wail.

‘Effin’ kids! Always wantin’ whatever they clap eyes on. I want this, I want that. I want, I want, I want. Well I bloody want, but it don’t mean I can ’ave!’

The wailing brought in Vanessa’s older kid from out in t’ corridor, yelling excitedly. Spotting us, he hid himsen behind his arm, gigglin’, ’til he spied the Coke bottle on t’ sideboard too.

‘Yer can ’ave some later, Barry. Wi’ yer tea. Take Jase out in t’ corridor, there’s a luv.’

Barry ran out again. The toddler set off after him, toppling over, making us all erupt, then hauled himsen up again onto his crooked little legs.