D. Connell - Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

Mr Chin is more than happy with the dark stairwell because it discourages people from visiting the office. He had the reinforced metal doors installed after a boy scout carrying a plastic donation bucket made it to the landing with the aid of his pocket torch. The boy’s arrival had sent Mr Chin into a frenzy. He began screeching and waving a length of green bamboo around his head. After the boy had fled, I asked Mr Chin why he was so upset.

‘Foolish and stupid!’ he shouted, shoving the bamboo back into his personal storeroom. ‘You understand nothing.’

‘About boy scouts?’

‘About criminal people.’

‘Criminal? Boy scouts assist the elderly.’ I had read only good things about scouts and their love of the outdoors. ‘They know their roots and berries.’

‘Root and berry! Ha!’ Mr Chin wagged his finger at me. ‘Never trust such person. Maybe such person is spy and thief.’

‘He was wearing an official uniform.’

‘Uniform mean nothing. Worst crook in Hong Kong that is so-call police and military wear uniform.’ Mr Chin pounded the top of his desk with a fist. ‘Here office for private and personal business. Trespasser and other strictly forbidden.’

‘But—’

‘Enough of but! This but, but, but get on my nerve!’

He chopped the air with his hand to end the conversation. His face had flushed angry red and stayed that way for several minutes. Later that evening, I made a note in the CHIN subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder: ‘Scouts upset Mr Chin. Suspicious of uniforms. To be followed up.’

The door clicked shut behind me and I paused for my eyes to adjust to the dim light under the awning. Out of habit, I turned to examine the old movie stills in the display case but as I did this, my foot touched something solid and organic. I looked down and saw a boy, curled up asleep on a square of cardboard. It is not unusual to find people sleeping in doorways in the centre of town. Unemployment is high and the list for council housing is long. But I had never seen anyone so young sleeping so unprotected.

‘Hello,’ I said.

The boy’s eyes flicked open. He scrambled to a crouch.

‘You’re not a cop,’ he said, looking me up and down.

‘No.’

‘Social services?’

I shook my head. ‘I work in the office upstairs.’

The boy assumed his full height, which was at least a head shorter than me. He was thin and pre-pubescent with fierce blue eyes and a tight lipless mouth. I could not see the top of his head for a dirty red baseball cap but the stubble around his ears was blond. He looked about ten years old. On his cheek was a furry birthmark. It was brown and perfectly round like a two-pence piece.

‘Got a spare fiver?’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Why do you want five pounds?’

‘Why do you think?’ The boy scowled at me from under the cap.

I had just read an article in the Cockerel about boys sniffing industrial chemicals. The newspaper referred to them as ‘feral’ and said they terrorised the town in gangs and vandalised public property. I had never encountered a gang of savage children but I was very familiar with vandalism. ‘To buy paint thinner?’

‘Do I look that stupid?’

‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Well, you definitely look stupid.’ The boy pointed to my trousers. ‘What the hell do you call those?’

‘Tartan trousers.’ I did not bother commenting on the boy’s grimy, oversized white T-shirt and baggy jeans. Fashion is a matter of personal taste and people can be sensitive to criticism. ‘Do you need money to buy clothes?’

‘I’m hungry, you idiot.’

My purse contained Mr Chin’s one hundred pounds in addition to the one pound eighty I keep on hand for purchasing spiral notebooks. ‘I don’t have five pounds in change but if you come with me I’ll buy you a sandwich and a beverage.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ The boy squinted at me. ‘You could be one of those molesterers. I’m a minor.’

‘I’ll take you to a public place.’ I hesitated. An idea was forming in my mind. ‘And rather than give you five pounds, I’ll employ you and pay you to do something for me.’

‘I’m not nicking anything.’

‘I’m not a lawbreaker and would never encourage a minor to become one either.’ I offered the boy my hand. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

The boy eyed my hand suspiciously. He kept his arms at his sides. ‘That’s not a real name.’

‘It wasn’t my choice.’ I let my arm drop. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Nigel, but that’s not my real name either. And I don’t want a sandwich.’

‘What would you like?’

‘A cup of tea and a cake.’ He thought a moment. ‘And a Coke.’

As we set off down Harry Secombe Parade, the boy hung back, trailing me along the pavement.

‘You don’t want to walk beside me?’

‘Not when you walk like that.’

I stopped swinging my arms to chest height and slowed down but the boy continued to follow several steps behind. I glanced back to check on him as I passed under the old rail bridge. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were in the pockets of his baggy jeans but he was light on his feet and made no sound as he walked. At the high street he paused, scanning it before continuing.

Several people were milling around in front of the council buildings but they took no notice of us as we passed. Ten years previously the town hall square had been furnished with iron benches and rubbish bins stamped with the town’s coat of arms but these had been ripped up under Mr Clench’s drive to give the council a new face. Cobblestones had been imported from Italy and laid in a circular pattern. A marble fountain of a semi-naked woman in a clamshell was installed as a decorative centrepiece. The nozzle of this landmark has not spouted for several years but its clamshell is always filled with rainwater.

As I neared the betting shop, a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked my way. He was my height and looked about thirty-five. His head was small and his dark hair was oily and uncombed. He was wearing a black T-shirt printed with a skull and bones design and blue nylon sports trousers with a mismatched green nylon jacket. His face had an unhealthy pallor and he did not look like someone who practised sport. Smouldering between his fingers was a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘Spare change, love?’ he asked, crumpling his face in a tragic way and holding out his free hand. ‘Down on my luck.’

I turned to see what Nigel was doing only to discover that the boy had disappeared.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked the man, removing one pound from my purse.

He eyed me as he snatched the coin. ‘Nope.’

‘Why do you need money?’

‘The derby.’ He turned to go.

‘You’re going to bet on horses?’

‘As soon as I get five quid together.’

I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.

Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’

‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.

Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’

There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’