Garbage Man (8 page)

Maybe he should have been less concerned about someone judging him to be crazy, worrying about what a seventeen-year-ld girl might think of her heroic, meal-ticket photographer. Maybe if he'd gone ahead and told her the whole story she'd have left without him having to ask her and without any intention of ever coming back. But his woodland history was too delicate for him to spill to anyone, least of all the too-young-to-care and destined-for-the-streets Aggie Smithfield. If he was ever going to tell it, it would have to be to the right person. Someone who would embody it the way he had. Someone who would pass it on.

Knowledge, he'd discovered, came with certain built-in responsibilities. First off, once you knew something to be true, acting in ignorance or against that knowledge would always be a kind of sin. There was no way to un-know what he had learned. He carried it in his blood now, he supposed. That was the other problem. Knowledge existed to enrich the world. To help people make sense of their existences and help the world make sense of its people. How the people behaved affected the behaviour of the world. Mason knew he was one of the very few individuals left who understood this and used it as their guidance system. His morality was based upon such understanding now. To allow himself to reach the end of his life without propagating his knowledge would be the most ignorant and irresponsible thing he could do.

He thought about that every day; woke each morning, pure from the Earth's drawing, and wondered how he could disseminate what he knew. When he'd reached full consciousness, in other words, by the time he'd finished his first cup of tea, he was convincing himself that this world he now inhabited, this cushioned, blinkered suburbia, could not take the truth. There was not one person left out here in the places where tarmac and concrete separated people's feet from the ground who would listen long enough for his words to make any difference at all.

He'd be sectioned in a heartbeat.

Aside from that, Mason felt no sense of authority conveyed upon him by his knowledge. He had stumbled across a heavy burden in the woods, picked it up and shouldered at the behest of the farmer. Now he couldn't put his load down without condemning himself. His only option would be to share the weight. It was an option which didn't exist.

Other than the issue he'd brought back with him from the forested valley in Wales - that of his responsibility - Mason was unused to having to solve any kind of problem. This was one advantage of living alone and steering clear of people. He only ever had to think about or deal with himself. Most of the time, because he stayed in tune with the Earth and the seasons, there was little to concern him. Occasionally, his memories troubled him. Those from the woods and occasionally those from his time on the London scene. All of that was manageable stuff.

Now, in the space of a few minutes, he had a real problem. One that wouldn't just go away without him doing something about it. This was what happened when you talked to other people. Every word uttered, every gesture employed in expression and the concealment of expression led to complexity. He didn't need this girl hanging around. He didn't need to talk to her about the farmer. He especially didn't need to take photos of her - that was the kind of activity which would lead to him being run off the estate whether he'd decided to leave or not.

He drained his tea mug and stood up. Moments later he was standing on the stairs again looking at the picture. It was mesmerising. All you wanted to know when you looked at it was ‘who is this man?' and ‘what is it that he sees?'. No matter how often he looked at the photo the effect was the same. He could only imagine the effect it would have had on the girl. Intrigue was not the thing to arouse in someone like her. She was tenacious and determined. He knew she'd be back. What he didn't know was how he would handle her return.

He looked away from the picture with an effort. The truth was he didn't need the photo. It didn't need to be framed there on his wall. Everything about the farmer was inside him now and firmly in his memory. It would all stay there forever. The physical photo itself was unimportant. It was time for change - something the farmer had always told him was important to accept, even to welcome. He had also taught Mason ways to encourage such change.

He snatched the frame off the wall. The space it left was like a hole in his armour but he ignored how that made him feel. He unclipped the frame as he walked back down to the kitchen. He removed the rear panel and exposed the photo for the first time in several years. The frame had kept it clean and bright. The back of the picture was still white. He took the picture out carefully and turned it over. It seemed a fragile thing now, its power diminished. It was vulnerable in his callused hands.

Photos were lies, he reminded himself. He knew it so well and yet he still found it hard to make his body do what his sprit knew was right.

‘I don't need it any more,' he whispered.

He opened the back door and stepped out into the cold air. When he reached the shed, he hesitated, fumbling for the padlock keys in his pocket. He stopped and withdrew his fingers without retrieving the key. He wouldn't need a shovel for this job. Sometimes it was better to dig with your bare hands, let the earth taste your skin and smell your wishes.

6

‘I can't believe we live in such a shit-hole.'

‘It's not that bad.'

‘It's a fucking pit and you know it.'

Aggie Smithfield and her friend Moira sat on the swings shivering and smoking. The last hour and a half of school was a double revision period, self-supervised, so they'd left early. The recreation ground was a natural gathering point for the children of the estate and there was no better time to be there than when school was still in and they had it to themselves. Aggie turned her legs from side to side, assessing the shape and the length. It was too cold for the short skirt she was wearing but her legs were too pretty to keep covered. She could feel Moira looking too.

‘I don't know why you hate it so much,' said Moira. ‘My family's lived around here for generations.'

‘That doesn't make it a nice place.'

‘They must have stayed here for a reason.'

Yeah, because they're all too stupid to leave. Aggie liked Moira enough to know better than to say it.

‘Maybe they didn't have any choice,' she said instead. Moira blew out smoke. The wind bent the stream and snatched it away.

‘No. They like it here. They know everyone. Everyone knows them. It's home.'

‘What about you?'

Moira pulled her jacket tighter against the cold blow.

‘I'm happy enough.'

‘Don't you ever think about leaving?'

‘I'd miss them all too much.'

The conversation was going nowhere. At least, not to the place Aggie wanted it to go. Why was there no one she could talk to?

‘You'll keep in touch, won't you?' asked Moira.

‘What?'

‘I know you want to get out of here. Just promise me you'll text me sometimes, eh?'

Aggie looked at Moira but she'd turned her head away. She was putting her hand out to take hold of Moira's when she sensed movement behind her. Too late to evade them, she felt fingers close around her ribs and a shout by her ear.

‘RRAAA!'

She leapt off the swing with Don still clutching her. Her heart hammered, she'd nearly wet herself. Don was laughing.

‘You twat,' she shouted. ‘You juvenile fucking twat.' Moira was laughing too. The idiots. It wouldn't be like this in London. People would respect her.

‘Alright, Moira.'

‘Alright, Don.'

‘What are you doing here, Donald?' asked his sister. ‘Why aren't you at school?'

‘Why aren't you?'

‘You haven't skipped the whole day have you?'

‘Got a sick note.'

‘Real or imaginary?'

‘Real, I think. Doctor says I might have migraines or something. I had this pain inside my eye. Really bad it was, like someone was pumping it up with air. Felt like it was going to explode.' He eyed his sister's cigarette. ‘Give us a fag, will you?'

‘No way.'

‘A drag then.'

‘No, Donald.'

Moira leaned over with an open packet of ten Benson & Hedges.

‘Here you go,
Donald
,' she said.

As he took it, she caught his eye and smiled. He looked away quickly. She passed him her cigarette and let him light up off its tip. Aggie looked disgusted.

‘If they smell it on you, I'll get the blame,' she said.

‘Spray him with a bit of perfume,' said Moira. ‘Works for me.'

Aggie ignored the suggestion, concentrating on what

Donald had said about his sick note.

‘I suppose your eye just got better, did it?'

‘Mum got a prescription for some painkillers. They work too. Make you feel . . . I don't know, far away or something.'

The pissed-off wrinkles of Aggie's face dropped out as she caught sight of something over Don's shoulder. His instinct was to look but she stopped him with her hand.

‘Drop your fag and crush it out,' she said. ‘Don't turn around.'

Don grinned.

‘Dad home early, is he? Out walking Sasquatch?'

‘Seriously, Don, I'm not kidding. Do it now.'

He took only his third drag and dropped the butt, squashing it under one of his Vans.

‘Happy?'

Then he heard the sound of steps approaching on the tarmac footpath leading to the play area. Now he turned around.

They all recognised the approaching figure. A woman of forty-five dressed as though she was sixty. Flat brown shoes, grey tights and an ankle length woollen skirt. She wore a drab cardigan and a padded green jacket over the top. Her hair was black but she styled it like it was already grey in unflattering, homogenous curls. Around her neck was knotted, as always, a plain silk scarf. The scarf made her look like a sailor.

‘Shit,' said Don. ‘The vigilante.'

Moira giggled, catching his eye again. Don appreciated the attention.

The vigilante approached at a march. This was how she walked everywhere. She had a message to deliver, a mission to the darker limits of society. Don found himself giggling too but it was nerves in his case. The woman actually frightened him.

She was still twenty yards away when her tongue leapt forth.

‘Why aren't you children at school?'

None of them said anything. The marching quickened and she arrived.

‘Have you got cloth ears? Answer me, why aren't you at school?'

It fell to Aggie.

‘We've got a free class.'

‘Rubbish, girl. I'll report you to your headmaster.' Aggie sighed.

‘My name is Aggie Sm -'

‘I know who you are, child.'

‘I'm in the sixth form and we have a free class. Go ahead and report us if you like. The head
mistress
will put you straight.'

It was a risk. The vigilante wasn't beyond making the call and then they'd be in proper trouble. But Aggie was banking on the woman's most obvious frailty - she hated to be wrong. Especially in front of ‘children'.

‘You should learn to speak to your elders with some respect.'

‘What? The way you respect us, you mean?' The vigilante looked at their faces individually.

‘What about you, young man? You're not in the sixth form.'

‘I'm off sick.'

‘You don't look sick to me.'

‘The doctor made me better.'

It was true but it came off like backchat and he regretted it.

She scanned their faces harder. She wasn't going anywhere yet.

‘You've been smoking, haven't you?'

She said it more to Don than the girls and Aggie answered quickly to shut it down.

‘
We've
been smoking,' she said gesturing to Moira. ‘We're seventeen so it's perfectly legal behaviour. He can't because he can't afford it. Besides, he's too young.'

‘Filthy girls. Filthy habit. How can you sully yourselves that way? Don't you care about your . . . bodies?'

That tiny hesitation was enough to lose the battle for the vigilante. Now they all knew she wasn't talking about their ‘bodies'. She was talking about their ability to bring forth children. She was talking about sex. It was a wrong turn.

‘What do you mean?' asked Aggie.

‘I mean it's unhealthy for you. You should stop.'

Aggie capitalised.

‘What have our
bodies
got to do with you, Mrs. Ahern? What do you want to know about our bodies for?'

The vigilante stood straighter, moved her intense head away from them. Staying clear.

‘I'm only concerned for your health, girls.'

‘Don't you know it's inappropriate to talk about
bodies
with
children
, Mrs. Ahern? There's a special word for it nowadays. What is it that word, Moira?'

Moira's smile was all sharp teeth.

‘Grooming,' she said. ‘Yeah, grooming's the word.'

‘Grooming,' repeated Aggie. ‘You could get put away for that.'

The steel went out of the vigilante's mission.

‘I feel sorry for you,' she said. ‘I really do. You walk through this world with sin as your companion and the devil for comfort. It could be paradise. Heaven on Earth and you won't give it a moment's attention.'

‘I think you ought to leave now, Mrs. Ahern. You're making my little brother upset. He's not even sixteen, as you know. All this abusive language could have a damaging effect on him. He might need to go for counselling. He'd have to tell them all about you.' She looked at her brother. ‘Wouldn't you, Donald?'

She had more power over him than the vigilante. She'd make his life hell if he didn't side with her. So he nodded and the counter-attack was complete.