We’d discussed the information Liam had disclosed at the party. It had been difficult to pry the content of the encounter from him. Harry still wouldn’t tell me of the person who requisitioned his thoughts when the topic was approached. But that didn’t matter, at least he was talking about it; I took that as a positive development concerning his need to bottle things up. It was some weeks before we decided to visit his old neighbourhood and the memories locked in the landscape. I hadn’t forced or pushed the situation, it wasn’t my place. It was only as we were returning from a visit to his sister’s that a detour had been made and the car pulled up to the curb just outside a park.
“Jess and I used to come here on Saturdays to play on the swings. Mum had given us some money for ice-cream, but I didn’t want mine, I gave it to Jess and she bought two scoops instead of one.”
It was unusually quiet, the cooler Summer months transforming into the burning colours of Autumn. Harry took my hand, navigating an apparently familiar set of leafy paths. It was pretty; a classic park with benches and conker trees, an earthy scent that took me back to my childhood.
The sprung, metal gate was held open for me and I proceeded to take advantage of Harry’s gentlemanly gesture, entering the almost deserted playground with him following after me. I smiled upon hearing a delighted squeal; the young child hiding in the wooden fort as his dad sought him out.
The bark chip made for a cushioned walk under my boots as I joined Harry by a set of swings. The bomber jacket he wore was zipped up to the neck, fighting to suppress the blustery breeze. I shoved my hands into my pockets, lightly nudging his shoe with mine. He warmly motioned for me to emulate his position.
“We’d bought her ice-cream and came here. She’d insisted on getting sprinkles and that I had the chocolate flake,” His expression softened with the memory. “There were a group of boys; a couple I recognised from around where we lived. They knocked the cone out of her hand and laughed.”
I perched on the swing next to Harry’s, immersed in the words so much so, I could see it playing out before my eyes. A younger Jess and her little brother. I’d seen pictures of both of them at the time when they were young teenagers, Harry all curly hair and dimples.
My legs straightened, lightly taking hold of the chains attached to my seat and swinging back and forth.
“I pushed him down; told him to piss off. One of his mates shoved me into the bridge,” Harry’s eyes magnetised to the small wooden crossing uniting the slide and monkey bars. “I punched him in the face,” he lightly chortled. “I got beaten so badly that day, but all I could think about was Jess. She practically carried me home, telling me how stupid I’d been to start a fight. I remember mum shouting at us, getting us clean and to our bedrooms before dad came home.”
Harry hadn’t looked at me whilst he recited, probably too caught up in images already played out. With his feet still making contact with the ground, he stretched his long legs, pushing himself back in the seat to begin momentum.
“I think that was the day my mum realised I wasn’t going to stand by any more…It frightened her.”
***
“This is your house?”
It was semi-detached, red front door and a pretty garden; a house somebody else called home. The surrounding area was quiet, a lady and her dog wished us a “good afternoon” as we passed her on the path.
“Was.”
“It looks nice, Harry.”
“Shame life inside it didn’t match up to the outside.”
He put on a small, forced smile. But I could tell just how haunted he was to be stood in front of his old house, wondering how many skeletons inhabited the closet.
“We can go if you want?” I asked, concerned that the visit was having a negative effect.
I didn’t want him to feel remorseful of anything that went on in that house. I imagined the trip to be somewhat cleansing, a sort of detox. However, it was clear that it would take much more than a simple car ride to extinguish the emotions connected to the building.
We stood together, Harry holding my hand almost as if he needed something to anchor him to the present and prevent him from wandering off into his memories. His posture was tight, unwilling to let his guard down. Harry’s previously dwindling concentration snapped back to attention upon hearing a crash from the house’s adjoining garage. I hadn’t really thought much of it until I was encouraged to follow after the curious boy.
Loud, incompetent banging could be heard as we approached the side door sheltered by a well-groomed hedge. It wasn’t the sort of noise that could be mistaken for carpentry or construction; there was no method in the banging. The sound fitted more to the struggle of a caged bird, desperate for escape.
“Harry?”
“I was just gunna see if they were alright.”
His hand pressed to the door that was somewhat ajar, pushing it open to reveal a stumbling figure. It seemed our entrance had gone unnoticed by the man as he staggered into a wall of shelved paint pots. He was drunk.
My reflexes had me take a step back as he turned to confront us. My mind scanned for quick assessment, late forties, hard jaw, stubble, average height and eyes that could reduce even the most courageous into a quibbling mess. Those same eyes hadn’t strayed from Harry and his face was unreadable as I intruded on the staring match between the two males. A fearless warrior, ready for battle.
“Where’s Kathy?”
The man knew Harry’s mum. I had a feeling it wasn’t coincidence. His rough question was tinted with accusation.
“We don’t live here anymore,” Harry sharply replied, using our linked hands to nudge me lightly behind him. “This isn’t your home…You shouldn’t be here.”
The tone he held was an indication that Harry wasn’t just pinpointing this exact moment, it ran to a deeper level. The man was unwelcome in Harry’s old neighbourhood, had no right to be on the premises in which we were stood and he certainly wasn’t worthy of being in Harry’s presence.
“Your bike’s out by the gate,” he slurred.
No.
“My bike was blue,” Harry recalled. “Mum got it for my seventh birthday. You reversed over it with the fucking car when you were drunk and then you blamed me for it.”
It broke my heart that he could recollect in such detail. He’d been carrying these traumatic childhood memories with him for years.
It was that small piece of information that had things clicking into place. It made sense now. Harry’s dad. It was his dad that was back. He was the man that Liam had talked about, the rumours that were whispered as if he were something of a terrible myth, renowned for the family he had tainted. Word had spread like an air-born virus among Harry’s friends who still remained in the area he grew up in.
“You shouted at me when I cried,” Harry roughly spoke. “I was seven.”
I desperately wished I could have been there; cradled the little boy mourning the loss of his cherished present. It should have been his father that comforted him, but it wasn’t.
