Short Story: Rough Justice

Short Story: Rough Justice

Of course they wouldn’t tell me but I knew it was that little sod from three doors down. It was only last Monday that I’d had to go round again and had words about knock and run. It scares mum you see, especially when she's on her own. He's well aware of that so I know he's doing it on purpose. Always starts his fun and games before I get back from work, when he knows she's on her own, when he knows he'll scare her most. It’s even worse this time of year, dark by four o'clock, but you can't tell him that.

His parents have no control over him of course. Truth be known I think they’re scared of him. Can't imagine being scared of my own son but there you are. Too afraid to deal with him but then, he’s always in the pub or down the social and she’s spending what’s left at the bingo so what can you expect? Its no wonder the boy’s the way he is. God help us when he reaches puberty if he's like this now.

Still, it gave me quite a turn when they came hammering on the door and shouting, even though I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. I soon worked out it was all his doing of course. I tried to say it was all a mistake but I couldn't seem to get the words to come out right. Perhaps it’s something to do with the uniform, I don't know, but whenever I see them I feel guilty, walk differently, check the rear view mirror, even though I'm a law-abiding citizen. I somehow always find myself checking the recesses of my mind searching for things I may have done even though I know I bloody well haven't. So this afternoon to have them standing in the house saying those things, well, it was little wonder I got tongue-tied was it?

When they said again what they were there for, probably convinced I hadn't heard the first time, I just laughed, nerves I think, but it didn’t help. I tried to explain, you know, about the knock and run but I just made a mess of it, got my words all muddled up and started sweating. That was when they got cross, said they'd heard enough, slapped the cuffs on and bundled me out of the door and into the back of the car.

All the neighbours were out, staring and crowding around the door to get a closer look. Someone spat at me and swore as I was pushed passed. They glared at me and shouted horrible things, the man they had lived next door to for years, the man they thought they knew but now saw for the first time in a different light. How did they know what was happening? How did they have any idea what was going on? You see plenty of police cars down our road these days but you don't always know what they're there for do you? There was even a couple of people there from the local papers trying to make a name for themselves. They were snapping away with their bloody camera and shouting questions over the din. How did they know what was going on?

I just kept my head down and tried to pretend it was happening to someone else. As the car pulled away they began shouting and banging on the roof and boot and trying to open the doors. It was all over in a matter of seconds but I was scared, really scared. What would happen when I got back? What would happen to mother now? She would hate all this attention, all this fuss, she would be scared and she wouldn't be able to understand. Would they attack the house? I couldn't bear the thought of them going after her.

‘My mother,’ I remember pleading ‘she needs someone to help her with her tablets at tea-time. She shouldn’t be left on her own. She'll be scared, she won't understand all this. What if they put a brick through the window or get inside?'

I was beginning to panic. Mother needed me.

'Why can't she come with us?’ I begged.

Stupid question but it’s all I could think of to say. I had to look after her, protect her, I always have, ever since dad went.

‘She’s being taken care of. Ian social services have gone in. You just worry about yourself.’

Worry about myself, what had I got to worry about? I hadn’t done anything, had I?

Much later they told me they had the car in bits and the house wasn’t far behind. I didn’t know what to say. A knot of pain had settled in my stomach and I wanted to retch. This was all too terrifying to contemplate. I just stared at the floor twisting my sweaty hands in my lap and said nothing. I knew they would think my silence was some sort of admission of guilt but I knew whatever I tried to say would just make things worse. My throat was dry and tight and before I realised it I was rocking in the chair, humming that familiar little tune that mother always hummed when I was poorly as a little boy. It failed to sooth me today.

They got even angrier then and started shouting in my face. It was OK when we first got there but then they got aggressive and frustrated. They kept saying that I was wasting their time and worst of all ‘did I know what happened to kiddy fiddlers in prison?’ I opened my mouth to try and defend myself but was sick instead. I couldn't help it.

It was even worse back in the cell with just my imagination for company. I could tell it was getting late from the darkness that crept in through the little barred window which was set high up the wall. I remember thinking that Mother should have had her tablet by now and hoping they had given her the right one. It plays havoc with her digestion if her tablets get muddled up. It would take her days to settle back down if they'd got it wrong.

The cell was furnished with a bed, one thin blanket and a small bucket to pee in. No wonder people kicked off in prison and admitted to all kinds of crimes they probably hadn't committed. It was filthy. I refused to use the bed or the bucket, even though I really needed to pee. I began to feel the old panic rising again, my heart racing uncontrollably and the room beginning to spin. I never could cope with small spaces or filth, even as a child. Now I needed to wash my hands, make myself clean, wash away this filth, this vile stench which seemed to affect more than my sense of smell. I'd usually had a shower by now. I liked to keep myself clean but now I felt so dirty. I hate feeling dirty, nice people aren't dirty.

The cell was putrid; stinking of vomit, urine and something else, something worse, something that I couldn’t describe. I couldn't bear to touch anything but my eyes continuously scanned the hideous graffiti that covered the walls. There were words, awful words; nasty words scraped into the brick walls. Those words seem to loom out of the darkness and draw me in...

As the night wore on I got colder, my body covered in a cold sweat which stuck my shirt to my back and my hair to my face. I hadn’t had time to pick up my jumper but I wouldn’t use the blanket, I wouldn’t even sit on the bed. I paced and paced and paced… My heart still thumped away, banging against my ribs as the walls around me began to close in and spin, faster and faster and faster... I tried to shout but my voice seemed trapped deep inside and the words wouldn’t come...

And then, just when I thought I was going to fall off the edge of the world, I heard a key in the door…

‘Come on mate. You can go.'

I staggered towards the door not sure if I had heard properly. I put my hands up to my eyes as I stepped out of hell and into the bright light of the corridor wincing and looked up at his face.

'Turns out you were right, the little sod made it all up,'

I wanted to be sick again.

'What?' I croaked, 'why?'

'Who knows? Who knows how these kids’ minds work these days? I blame the parents and too much television. He’d made his mate hide in the loft all day but he got hungry and came down for a bag of chips. One of our fellas spotted him walking through the park stuffing his face.’

I walked back up the stairs and the corridor towards the front desk where I was discharged. I felt numb. How could someone, especially a child, be so vindictive? So determined to ruin another person’s life? So cruel? So snide? How did he even come up with the idea? I could feel my panic turning into something else with every breath I took.

'What do I do now?' I asked,

'Go home mate,'

'Home...'

When I got outside the air felt sharp and it was much colder than I thought it would be. I couldn’t call a taxi, I didn’t have any money and anyway, where would I have gone? I couldn't go home. I was too afraid to go home. I could imagine the neighbors still talking behind their twitching curtains; ‘there’s no smoke without fire…’ or worse, waiting for me out on the street. I turned up my shirt collar and began to walk and then it came to me, what I was going to do, and once my mind was set made up I didn't feel the cold anymore, I just set off, heading straight for his house. If his parents weren't prepared to teach him a lesson I was...