Kit de Waal - My Name Is Leon

“Yeah,” says Castro, “hell is what it is.”

Tufty looks at Leon.

“You better go home, Star. And listen…”

“I won’t tell anyone, Tufty.”

Tufty puts his hand on Leon’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s getting dark outside. Ride carefully.”

The whole house smells of toast. It’s the big-shop day but it’s been raining since Leon woke up. The wind is swirling around outside and making the windows rattle. It looks like it’s going to rain forever. So there’s only bread to eat. Sylvia has toast for breakfast and Leon has the rest of the Weetabix, then they both make toast for lunch; Leon has one slice with raspberry jam and the other slice with a cheese triangle.

Leon moves the net curtains aside and looks at the silver raindrops weeping on the window. Some drops stay where they are for ages but others hit the window and immediately start racing, joining up with little drops until they become a fat river that runs all the way to the windowsill and drips off the edge. Leon tries to guess which raindrop will start moving first. He chooses two drops next to each other, one for him and one for Jake. Jake’s starts to move immediately. It’s got a weaving, sliding movement, veers off to the right somehow, picks up miniature droplets on the way, hovers near a running stream and tries to join in but it’s going too fast. When Leon’s raindrop moves, it’s just straight down, all on its own, glistening, shuddering in the wind, straight down, fast and true, all the way to the bottom. He wins easily and the game is over.

The TV is boring. One channel has horse racing and another has cricket and Sylvia has a rule that they both have to agree on the program. She turns on a black-and-white film with dancing. A little girl with ringlets keeps walking around and singing, so Leon doesn’t agree on the program, but Sylvia says because there is a child in it, he should be interested. Leon sits on the floor with his AT-AT.

“If you pull that stunt again, Leon, I’m taking that bike to the secondhand shop.”

She has been talking about him being late over and over since last weekend. She was standing at the front door looking up the road when he cycled up. She pulled him off the bike, told him to get in, and started asking questions but she didn’t leave him any space to answer, which was great.

“I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? I nearly came out looking for you. Have you seen the time? It’s going dark. One hour, you said. I’m going to get you a bloody watch. Hour, my ass. Where have you been anyway at this time of night? Anything could have happened. Didn’t you think? I’ve been sitting here watching the news. Have you seen what’s happening? Thought you might have been attacked. I had no idea where you were. Where were you till this time? There’s some sort of fight up on Nineveh Road. You haven’t been up there, have you? Did you see anything? You can’t be at the park at this time of the night. Where were you?”

She shut up and looked at him.

“What’s the matter?”

“I fell off my bike,” he said. “I hurt my back.”

She turned him round and pulled his T-shirt up. She looked at the scratches on his elbows and the marks where his backpack had pounded into him.

“Bloody hell,” she said and from then on she was nice and didn’t tell him off anymore. But then the next day, and every day since, she goes back to where she left off.

“No more coming in late, all right? Or that bike goes.”

Leon says nothing.

“Sunday tomorrow,” Sylvia says. “Another week bites the dust.”

He can feel her eyes on him. She’s not watching the singing girl, she’s watching him. She does this sometimes but usually it’s when he’s eating his dinner or when he’s falling asleep. She looks at him like he’s a photograph or someone she’s met for the first time. Sometimes, she looks soft and reminds him of his mom.

“It’s my birthday soon, you know. August,” she says.

He turns around and looks at her. She has her head to one side like she’s trying to measure him.

“I was thirteen when I grew up. I was fourteen when I went to work and seventeen when I got married. I was only a bloody child. You don’t get married at seventeen.”

Leon turns back to the television.

“How old is your mom, Leon?”

Leon shrugs his shoulders.

“They say age is just a number,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “They’re right. One bloody number for every year you’ve been alive.”

Leon remembers when his mom got birthday cards she kept saying she was old, but she was very pretty, so no one noticed. Sylvia isn’t pretty anymore and that’s why she’s sad.

“Can I go to Carpenter Road to the place that does kung fu?”

“Kung fu?”

“It’s where you learn to fight.”

“Kung fu? There’s nowhere like that on Carpenter Road.”

“There is, someone told me.”

“Who?”

“A boy’s dad at school. He goes.”

Sylvia raises her eyebrows and blows the smoke up toward the ceiling.

“Suppose it might keep you out of trouble. That’s the stuff where you chop bricks in half, isn’t it?”

“It’s for making you strong and so no one can knock you over.”

“Is it? Might come with you then. I’ll talk to your social worker about it. But you know what? We’re going to starve if we stay in any longer. Come on. Coat.”

Leon keeps his hood up. They take the bus because of the rain and just as they go to cross the road by the traffic lights, Sylvia takes his hand.

“Quick!” she says and she tugs him close to her and she doesn’t let go even when they are safe inside the new supermarket. He doesn’t want everyone to think Sylvia is his mom, so he runs to find a cart. The new supermarket has a man dressed as a brown bear outside, handing vouchers to people as they walk past. Sylvia and Leon both think of the rabbit story and smile at each other. Sylvia even checks his bum as they walk past.

The supermarket has a massive toy section and Leon asks if he can stay and look at the toys while Sylvia does the shopping.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes. You stay right here till I come back.”

There are so many things that Leon wants and so many things he has never seen before. He even looks at the girls’ toys, because they have a doll that’s the same size as a baby and if you press its belly the mouth opens and it tries to say something. He looks at the Legos and the games and the balls and the videos and the dolls and the paints and pens and paper and the soldiers and the guns and the plastic knives but nothing is as good as the stuff in Mr. Devlin’s shed. He wanders around the aisles looking for Sylvia. There’s loads of stuff in the supermarket that he could take. Loads of stuff he needs for his halfway house. He goes up and down every aisle and then he hears Sylvia’s voice. She’s talking to someone.

“Got used to the little bugger if I’m honest, Jan. You know, someone to make the dinner for.”

The other lady asks Sylvia about Maureen.

“She’ll never be the same, they told me. She had a sort of stroke, then an infection when she was in the hospital. Plus pneumonia. Looks bloody awful but she has lost a bit of weight while she’s been in. I want her to come to me when she comes out so I can look after her and keep her hands off the cakes. She’s not having a parade of foster kids tramping through her life neither. Not if I have anything to do with it. I’m going to see to that first of all. She’s giving it up. She can get back on her feet and put herself first. Twenty-two years she’s been doing it and Social Services have taken her for granted. Taken the piss, they have. They’re always giving her the worst kids with the most problems. Maybe when she was young it was all right but not now. It’s done her in.”