Crime, Mystery, Children, Humour, Fable, Abstract and Thriller

As soon as I caught him with a pelter that angled in off a crack in the pavement they made me first-choice strike bowler. Mum thinks I remind her of a young Bob Willis on account of my bowling arm being slung down low on run up. ‘Just like ‘im off the telly,' she'd laugh, wringing her hands on her bleach-clean pinny. Dad, though, says cricket's a game for toffee-nosed ponces with daylight between their ears. ‘You kids are wastin' your time wi' all that, if you ask me. Hardly likely to get yous a ruddy job now is it, eh?' And that's what it's like in our house. Mum tries to understand while dad understands that trying brings you nowt in the end, no matter how much you give. And trying didn't do him much good, let me tell you. Still chokes on the same claggy factory belch that clings to the lampposts and front terraces of our street as he did the day he plopped, bloody and screaming, out onto nanna's quarry-tiled kitchen floor. Still. They may be resigned to a life of hanging washing out in the backyard and bringing it back indoors dirtier than it was fresh out of the bucket, but I wasn't. They also insist on calling me ‘William' too, but you can call me Billy.

Games of cricket are spun out on our street with the lamppost opposite Paddy's front room window as wicket. And we use a proper leather 'n cork ball, too. My cherry red cricket ball. Not like the grammar school centre-partings in their cosy, privet-hedged avenues who cop nowt but the odd wasp sting from fluffy yellow tennis balls. Out here, when our ball hits you, you bleedin' well stay hit. Just ask Paddy. Bit clean through his bottom lip once after being chinned by a beamer while on thirty four runs to the good. And Paddy was only three runs shy of a half-century, too, when the front door rattled on its hinges and his mum screeched onto the cobblestones brandishing a fresh pot-towel to soak up the blood. ‘Get yersel' inside that house, you, and get cleaned up. And woe betide you get any o' that on my soddin' clean carpet...'

It was two weeks on from his dad's wake when I caught Paddy with that pelter. It was a corker of a ball, too. Everyone said so. I'd chucked a few loose ones down leg side for him to nibble on, but the spindly shadow of square leg lurking outside the Patels' put paid to any flick-of-the-wrist trickles for a single. It was the last ball before tea and the pomegranate rim of the late August sun was slinking slowly behind the hulk of the smeltworks. Paddy'd notched up a stint and trudging slowly back up the sloping, narrow red-bricked street to start my run up, I snuck a sideways glance to mid-on. A nod meant the road was clear and the game was on. I was on my bike.

It takes twenty-four strides to get from my marker to the chalk-marked crease - the marker being the gloss-green front door of number eleven. And in that time (just over six seconds, I've counted. ‘One elephant, two elephant...') the world puts down what it's doing, and waits. The damp, whitewashed linen stops flapping against the cold-brick back-alley walls. The scraggy jackdaws perched on chimney stacks and wonky television aerials stop mid-chatter to gaze down below and the distant drone of car horns and revved engines fall silent at imaginary red lights. And it's in those six seconds - when my plimsolls slap-slap so hard on the pavement every grain of cement and stone cuts through my red raw soles, and when a charge of crackling rage trips a switch in my brain - that I catch a glimpse of what it's really like to make sense of something. And a sense that, in those six seconds, life is somehow real... in focus. Like those fleeting moments of pin-sharp clarity you sometimes get which, just for a few glorious moments, allow you to see every connection and every endless possibility, before being snuffed out like a candle in the dark heart of midnight. Don't get me wrong, it's not just having a cricket ball in my hand that makes sense. It's just that nothing comes anywhere near to the feeling of beating man and bat in a fair fight. I mean, all the sums and books in the world make sense to me, but not the snotty teachers who use them to put me on detention. The broken crockery and angry kitchen table tears in our house make sense to me 'n all, but not the sulking resentment that follows day after day. Bugger that, what really makes sense is the here and now. Those six seconds. Not the ‘what has been' and the ‘what's to come'. Those six seconds. Which more than make up for the 23 hours, 59 minutes and 54 seconds of heavy emptiness. An emptiness that holds nothing and offers nothing. The nothing that some round here would happily rather you have.

That stretch of pavement between number eleven and the corner that leads down to the backs slopes the most. I've seen many a bowler go over on his ankle and have to be carried off home to get a note from his mum excusing him from PE the next day. Not me, though. Not this time. With bowling arm slung low and the rushing head-long wind squeezing out tears I try desperately to blink away, the chalk crease hurtles towards me like a length of cheese wire ready to cut clean through my ankles. Jamming my left foot into that concrete turf and with eyes fixed on a two-inch gully in the pavement just to the left of Paddy's imaginary left stump, the ball arcs and flames on a good length, snicking the crack before cutting back through the gap between Paddy's bat and front leg.

A clang from the metal grid in the lamppost meant the undeniable sound of clean bowled. I'd had him. And that's why I was made first-choice strike bowler. I knew all the snags, cracks and pockmarks in that stretch of pavement like no-one's business, and could usually hit one, too, making the batter think twice before leaving his willow hang out to dry. Paddy's, though, was a wicket to tramp home happy about. Not even the Indian kids a couple of streets down could plumb him with their wind-up top spinners.

The wail of the factory claxon lent a dreary soundtrack to the whoops and hollers as everyone clambered for their pale-grey school sweaters and graffiti-d Parkas before darting through backyard gates and indoors to tea. And as the wrought-iron gates were flung open to let the oily-blue boiler suits swarm out onto the cobblestones, I shouted across to Paddy if he fancied tea round at ours. ‘No, ta. Mum'll be staggering back from the Con Club soon and if there's nowt on the table, I'm on for a good hiding.'

Paddy's mum had taken to drink ever since her husband died. Some of the curtain-twitchers say they don't blame her... two teenagers to drag up on her own, ‘n all. We'd all seen the cop car outside the house. Seen the scuffers get out, shaking the creases out of their neatly-pressed black uniformed trousers. Seen the ties adjusted in the wing mirrors and the black peak caps resting under the arm. Seen the gentle, almost apologetic, rap on the plastic glass of the front door. Seen it all. And when we heard her screams billowing out of the half-open front room window from the top of the street, we all knew. And Paddy knew.

It was my dad who'd found him. Swinging limply from a length of knotted flex. It was my dad too who, a few weeks' previous, had to tell him not to clock back in again 'n all. They said Paddy's dad couldn't stump up his union subs. Not with the repayments on that new telly of theirs. And that's why the factory floor banged him out. And that's why Paddy goes to school in hand-me-down, studless football boots, and why his mum's taken to drinking down the Conservative Club. ‘Maybe someone there'll buy Paddy some new shoes for school', dad said once from behind his evening paper. ‘Surely, you shop stewards could help ‘er out?' asked mum, stood starching the collars of his tomorrows. ‘He topped himsel' love, fer Christ's sake. The union won't pay out on that...'

Paddy and me ended up being joined at the hip ever since we got roped into helping his older brother up and over the back wall of the bakers in the high street. Gabriel was known to everyone as Angel. But a harbinger from heaven Paddy's brother wasn't. That was my reckonin', anyhow. Although if I knew then what I know now, maybe those wings of his wouldn't have seemed so rotten. The men at the factory nicknamed him Angel because as a nipper he'd run the odd errand. A tatty five bob note would be thrust through the railings during fag break with instructions. Usually for either an ounce of baccy or a back on a dog. Whatever the ask though, Angel would tear across the cobbles and be back before the foreman got out of his chair to call them back in. And with the odd coin handed back to keep him honest, Angel wasn't far off affording those cherry-red, 14-hole, yellow-stitched Doc Martens dazzling in the shop display, despite them being five sizes too big.

Years later, it was those same shin-length lace-ups that left blister-red tread marks across our fingers and palms as we tried to push him up the grimy brickwork. ‘I can't see over the top, lads. You're gonna ‘ave to push me higher...' ‘Soddin' ‘ell, Angel. We're tryin' as best!' ‘Well, try ‘arder then, Paddy. And tell yer lanky pal here to quit wimperin' like a lass, unless he wants's collared.' ‘Mam wants a white loaf, remember?' ‘Stuff mam. An' stuff you 'n all.' And that was him, over the wall and gone. Down into the baker's backyard where he'd swipe broken pastries and pies before selling them outside the Town End on a Saturday afternoon. I got to feeling sorry for Paddy as we trudged through the winding ginnels back home. It's him who'd cop it from his mum if nowt was in the bread bin come teatime. So that's why I offered to be his best friend. And that's another reason why I, and Paddy, play cricket in the street every chance we get. At least with a ball in our hands, we have a say in where it lands...

Dad has this saying. A sort of party trick. And he can't wait to tell it every time the living room has an audience, neither. Usually, it's trotted out for the benefit the button-down collar in-laws lined up on the settee across the back wall, rigid and uncomfortable. ‘As soon as our William here's eighteen,' he used to say sitting back in his armchair with a bottle of brown ale nestled in the fold of his arm, ‘it's straight out of the front door for ‘im. And we'll ‘ave his keys off ‘im, ‘n all. Won't be our responsibility anymore, will he? His job at the factory will pay 'is rent.' Everyone's eyes shifted to me, sitting cross-legged next to the fireplace. And with heads tilted slightly to one side, sympathetic laughs and gentle shakes of the head spread from one arm of the settee to the other. Because they thought my dad was teasing, see. What they didn't see, though, was the lingering, blinkless stare he'd give me long after the smiles and sympathy were soaked up by another pot of tea. I'd taken to staring straight back at him. Past his pale, lifeless eyes and into the back of that thick skull of his. ‘I'll be long gone before then,' I used to tell myself, wishing the words could be inked indelibly into his brain in flaming ten-foot high letters. ‘Leave 'im alone,' mum used to say to him, ‘he's no harm, are you love?' And long after the biscuit crumbs had been hoovered up and the chipped mugs left to fester on the draining board, he'd be left cradling his drained bottle of beer staring into the solitary orange element of the electric fire.

‘Tek no notice of 'im,' said Paddy the day after the last in-law visit. ‘He's just full of horse muck. Anyways, who else's he gonna knock about if he kicks you out?' Slouched against the cold, dank charcoal-coloured wall of the smeltworks with fingers picking at the lining of my school trouser pocket, I squinted up at the yellow and blue sun speckles refracting from the broken bottles cemented into the top line of bricks and got to thinking. And it was a good deal of thinking I'd got through, too, when Paddy tugged at my arm. ‘Let's be off Billy, eh. It's a fair trek across town and it's gone half-past, already'.

We had an away match lined up with the Catholic bum boys from the school out on the edge of town. To claw back some time, we cut along the towpath - past where Angel and his gang bagged aerosols they'd taken to nicking from the chemist - and out into the cul-de-sac conifer green and white fascia suburban calm. Out here, there were no faultlines running through the pavements, no cracks in which to hit. The smooth, speckled black tarmac offered nowt to a seam bowler like me, 'cept pace. And plenty of height too, if you're willing to hit the track hard and throw your shoulder until you thought it was gonna pop. The last time we played these chinless wonders from St Mary's, Paddy'd made a tidy innings and I'd taken three for twelve. Didn't stop us from getting licked, mind. But this time, it was our turn with our ball. A few of the lads from our team were waiting at the top corner of the avenue. ‘Hope you remembered to bring yer bloody ball,' hollered someone as we approached. ‘Course,' I grinned, holding it up between thumb and middle finger. ‘Thank frig for that. An' let's hope you're in the mood to do some damage 'n all. We owe 'em one.'

Turns out, it was Paddy and me that were owed. We hadn't even made it to the red and black shiny post box half way up the avenue, the choirboys' usual meeting spot and makeshift wicket, before they appeared. Some had brought older brothers while some were carefully winding their yellow and blue striped school ties tight around their knuckles. ‘Didn't think you'd be stupid enough to come,' shouted someone from behind. ‘The rest of you can get lost, yeah,' the shout said with a dismissive flick of his head, ‘we're just after Paddy and his girlfriend.' There were a good dozen of them. A few had laid low around the side of houses waiting, while others crouched behind parked cars. With blood throbbing through my ears making my whole body judder, I had to think. And quick. Paddy and me were gonna get whipped, good and proper - and judging by the fast-fading sound of feet smacking on the deck, we were gonna have to face them on our tod. ‘How's your big brother, Paddy?' said one of the blazers, stepping towards us.

They say, it's always better to kill two birds with one stone. Aye well, over the course of the next day or so, Paddy and me laid to rest more than just a few birds. And the stone, which started it all, turned out to be my cherry red cricket ball. My only cricket ball. Truth is, I'd spent what seemed like most of my life running towards a chalk-mark line I'd drawn on the pavement, but now the urge was to run away from one. ‘Pick the fights you know you're gonna win, hear?' dad used to say. I tended to think the opposite, though. The fights I always wanted part of were the ones I had no hope of winning.

The ball sailed over the striped lawn and ranks of primly-planted deliahs and clean through the leaded front window. It certainly got the attention of the fast-approaching congregation who stood mouths wide, rooted to the spot. It also got the attention of the poor family inside, just about to sit down to watch telly. The large, triangle-shaped pieces of broken glass hadn't even fallen limply out of the putty by the time I grabbed Paddy by the scruff of his shoulder and together we streaked back towards the top of the avenue. I couldn't tell you what happened the few minutes after that. Couldn't tell you whether the choirboys set running after us. If they did, they never caught us. Couldn't tell you if the scuffers were called to attend, neither. If they were, they never turned up at our house. Or Paddy's for that matter. I expect, though, some magistrate living opposite noted it down in his copy book for future reference.

Now, I know what you're thinking: ‘How come you've legged it, if you like fights you know you can't win?' Well, it's like this. Paddy and me have been fighting most of our lives. Whether it's on the street, in our house or in the And most of the time it's been with fists buried deep in our pockets, if you understand what I mean. Damned if I was going to wait for yet another detention from those cane-wielding moustaches, or for these rich snobs to wipe the shit off their shoes on me. And, above all, I wasn't gonna stick around here to walk out of the school gates one day only to walk through another set of wrought-iron gates the next. Like my dad. And like nearly everyone's dad that lives on our street. No way. And no way was I gonna rot in this grubby town and my ply-wood coffin carted off past the factory to the cemetery where Paddy's dad now lives, underground. And whether it was my brains or theirs that muck up the glossy-brochured, gravel driveways and golden yellow hyacinth borders in that avenue wouldn't have made a jot of difference in the long run.

Being a tall, skinny pace bowler, I was built for quick bursts of speed. Running long distances wasn't my bag. At least that's what our games teacher said when I trotted out last in the cross-country run last term. And not unlike last term, I had a stitch in my side that near bent me double so I was glad to stumble into the dark, safe shadow of the old brick bridge that arches over the canal. ‘What the bloody 'ell was all that about Paddy?' ‘Dunno. But I bet our Angel does.' ‘Well, we won't be playin' much cricket for a while, unless you wanna ask for our ball back...' ‘Nah, you're alright. Don't think I'll be heading back there in an 'urry.' ‘Dunno about you Paddy, but I'm getting bloody sick and tired of being pushed around, eh?' ‘Aye, well. Let's bugger off home, yeah, before we meet someone we don't like the look of.' As we headed up along the towpath and towards the smoking chimneys poking through the late-afternoon heat haze, I got to telling Paddy how we were going to leave this town behind. And everyone in it.

For a split second, I'd forgotten. It's usually right here, sat precariously on top of the push buttons of the electric alarm clock next to my bed. And as I fumble for it in the dark, with just the muffled canned laughter from the goggle box and the constant clack-clack-clack of mum's furious knitting needles seeping through the floorboards, I throw my head back on the pillow and get to thinking where it's ended up. Probably in some bin somewhere. Or maybe down the cop shop locked in some drawer wrapped in cellophane marked ‘Evidence'. Wherever it was, though, that cricket ball was long gone now. And that's where I aim to be come morning, long gone.

It's the fourth step from the bottom that creaks the most. I've spent countless years listening out from under the blankets for the two sets of slippers climbing the stairs once the lights have been switched out and the springs in the settee settle still. And as the shadows pass underneath my bedroom door cast by the bright orange light of the street lamp outside my window, I only hope that Paddy is as sure-footed on the stairs as I'm about to be.

I'd packed a rucksack with what I needed. I'd even thought to snaffle a crisp ten bob note that peeked out from behind the clock on the mantelpiece earlier that afternoon. And as I padded by their bedroom door for the last time, the thud-ump, thud-ump, thud-ump sound of my heart bounced off the skirting boards and peeled wallpaper walls which, for a moment, I thought could well stir 'em out of bed. I stopped though, just for a second, on the top step of the stairs for just one quick glance at that closed door. But instead just turned up my collar and slipped quietly down the stair