Home Boys

by Alex Wheatle

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

'Alex Wheatle writes from a place of honesty and passion with the full knowledge and understanding that change can only happen through words and actions' - Steve McQueen

Four schoolchildren decide to run away from the the horrors of their everyday lives in a children's home. Seeking asylum in the woods, they enjoy the exhilaration of freedom and the first flush of adolescence. Yet the forest slowly asserts its own power and what happens out in the wild will affect the four boys' lives forever.

With his compelling narrative directness, rhythmic prose, and trademark humour, Alex Wheatle shows himself to be an author of real calibre, exposing the social stigma associated with children's homes, and the horrifying psychological consequences of their impact on children at the most sensitive stage.

Never losing pace or failing to engage the reader at every moment, Home Boys is an unflinchingly honest depiction of disrupted childhoods.

Release date: May 24, 2018

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 240

Sample

PROLOGUE

Croydon, April 1985

It had been the third suicide of one of Curvis Butler's junior classmates within five years. In 1980, Samantha Redding strangled the life out of her three-month-old baby, then, with the dead infant in the passenger seat, she drove at high speed, smashing head-on into a concrete pillar. During the summer of 1982, Mark Kelly had launched himself from a platform and met death under the steel wheels of a Northern line tube train. A few weeks ago, Elvin Walker had flung himself off a motorway bridge and died instantly beneath the hard rubber of a HGV truck. Following Samantha Redding's funeral, Curvis vowed never to attend another one. But shared memories tugged at him to pay his respects for Elvin.

A strange sense of apathy overtook Curvis as he approached the house. Flowers and cards showed how popular Elvin had been, but somehow, his friend's death left him numb. When he had heard of Elvin's fate, he couldn’t summon any tears. He rebuked himself for becoming immune to the constant knock of death — a visitor that would never disappear.

Curvis swabbed his forehead dry of rainwater as he entered the lounge. Noting the teak-armed furniture, he wondered if he had remembered to wipe his feet on entry into the house. He surveyed the room and picked up a glass of apple juice from a table. The framed picture of a leopard in the African wild, hanging above the mantelpiece, caught his attention and he stood perfectly still, trapped in its gaze.

Elvin's wife, Michelle, who circulated the room, accepting hugs and kind words, noted the lines on Curvis's forehead. He had the eyes of a man who had witnessed bad things, she thought, yet there was a strange calm in his expression that bordered on indifference. She noticed the way he hung his head when he walked, almost staring at his feet. His goatish beard grew freely. He was of slim build but had a powerful presence, something between that of an 800-metre runner and a lightweight boxer. Dressed in an old mac and flared trousers that had been in fashion a decade ago, he was scanning the room as if he had to write an essay about it.

She approached him quietly and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Why did Elvin kill himself, Curvis?’ Michelle asked. He stiffened before recognising Elvin's wife. ‘I knowyou weren’t best friends with Elvin but you grew up with him in that home. You knew him better than most.’

Curvis fingered his brown, shoulder-length locks. The glass of apple juice shook in his other hand. He felt that Michelle deserved the truth. But he had been avoiding the truth, blocking it out of his everyday life since he was sixteen. For Curvis, only when death called did the truth return to invade his life. But he was sworn to lifelong secrecy. He glanced at the framed wedding photos of Elvin and Michelle resting on the mantelpiece. He closed his eyes as an image of Elvin grew large inside his mind. ‘It's ... hard to explain what he went through in the home,’ he finally answered.

‘I thought he got over all that,’ Michelle replied. ‘The last three years were the happiest of his life. He had a decent job, good prospects and someone who loved him.’

‘But all of that couldn’t wipe away the memories,’ Curvis replied, training his eyes on the leopard.

‘What memories?’ Michelle raised her voice. ‘What happened to him in the home? Why can’t you or anyone else tell me about it? I was his wife! Haven’t I got the right to know?’

Curvis sipped his apple juice and met Michelle's eyes. If neither he nor any of his peers could handle the past, how then could a poor widow who could never understand or even begin to accept the unacceptable? ‘He was picked on a lot, you know, beaten up by the people who were s’posed to look after him.’

Michelle led Curvis to the sofa and ushered him to sit down. Curvis hesitated before taking his seat. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘That's basically it. That's all we know. Every now and again his housefather would pick on him.’

‘Everyone gets a walloping from their mum and dad now and again,’ Michelle said. ‘There must’ve been something else.’

‘Not that I know of

‘Not that you know of? You’re a liar! Just because people get picked on when they are kids doesn’t mean they gotta kill themselves when they’re adults!’

Michelle wiped her eyes as Curvis's discomfort spread through his body. He shifted in his seat and scratched the back of his head. ‘Look, I’m doing more damage than good, maybe this wasn’t a good idea.’

Michelle stood up. ‘I didn’t mean to...’

‘It's alright,’ Curvis reassured her. ‘It's natural to try and understand why Elvin took his own life. What we go through in our childhood shapes our whole life. Sometimes it can be a blessing, sometimes it can destroy you, no matter how successful you are as an adult.’

Curvis got to his feet and prepared to leave.

Michelle watched him. ‘What destroyed Elvin's life, Curvis?’

For a split second Michelle detected a glimmer of rage in Curvis's eyes. It went as quickly as it had come. ‘Why didn’t you come to Elvin's funeral?’ she asked. ‘A lot of your old Pinewood Oaks friends were there.’

‘Because I want to remember Elvin as someone who was happy, not someone in a coffin.’

Michelle shook her head. ‘You homes people are weird, different to everybody else.’

‘That's cos we were treated different to everyone else. Look, like I said before, I’m gutted for what happened to Elvin. I would like to show how sorry I am but I don’t know how.’

‘You could try,’ Michelle interrupted.

Curvis took in a breath. ‘Elvin was alright, a good mate, but he wouldn’t want you to look into his past.’ He bade her farewell and left.

The rain had relented. Small puddles filled the potholes in the tarmac. Curvis debated whether he should have told Michelle the truth about what Elvin had suffered. But if Michelle learned the reality, she would remember Elvin as a victim, not as a husband, not as a best friend and not as a man who enjoyed adult life. Elvin wouldn’t have wanted that, Curvis concluded.

As he trudged to the bus stop, images of his childhood in Pinewood Oaks flashed through his mind. He could see his friends, Bullet and Glenroy, wrestling on the grass. He saw Carlton, his best pal, speeding by on his bike. Elvin came to life, giggling and hiding behind a bush. Lastly, Curvis saw himself, adventuring into the Pinewood Hills, running up and down between the trees and the foliage.

Curvis boarded the bus. His mind refused to return to the present. ‘Four, mighty are we,’ he muttered under his breath. He ran a quick check to see if there was anybody else on the top deck. There wasn’t. A second later, he slammed his forehead against the Perspex glass.

Wormwood Scrubs Prison, May 1985

A young man's head was tilted over the metal rail of the bed, his throat viced by taut fingers. The victim's eyes betrayed his fear as blood spilled out from his torn nostril, spotting the concrete floor.

‘Don’t dare tea-leaf my bacco again, right?

A right fist connected with the thief's cheekbone, sounding like a cricket ball against a billboard. ‘Do you hear me? You fucking tea-leaf. Do you hear me!’

A black guy entered the cell, chewing a matchstick like a stressed soccer manager grinding gum. For a moment, he was strangely fascinated by the victim's petrified eyes. He was about to turn around and leave the thief to his sorry fate when he noticed the flecks of blood on the cold floor. In a calm voice, he ordered, ‘That's enough, Gravesey I think you’ve persuaded him not to do it again.’

Gravesey released his grip, turned around and looked at the solid, coffin-shaped jaw moving up and down and reducing the matchstick to a pulp. ‘You know I hate tea-leaves.’

‘You’re gonna have to get used to ’em here.’

Satisfied with the punishment inflicted, Gravesey left, wiping his bloodstained fingers on his denim prison overalls.

‘Thanks, Carlton, you’re a diamond,’ the thief stuttered gratefully. ‘A real mate.’

‘And what makes you think I’m your mate?’ Carlton replied. ‘I just don’t like to see someone who can’t defend themselves getting the shit kicked out of them. You’re new here, and you’d better learn rapid-like that bacco is like gold when you’re doing bird.’

Before the man had a chance to say any more, Carlton about-turned and left. As he made his way to his own cell, he glanced down from the iron-railed balcony and surveyed his fellow inmates playing a variety of games: table tennis, cards and draughts. A trio of wardens patrolled the stone walkways, each bearing enough keys to open any treasure chest.

Carlton could always recognise the new arrivals. More often than not, they sat silently in isolation, their faces full of regret, pondering their crimes and missing their loved ones. They recoiled at the sound of metal doors slamming. Carlton liked to get to know the fresh intake. He knew that he would receive their respect and they would look up to him.

He found he had his cell to himself; his cellmate was gambling downstairs. The walls of his living quarters were partly decorated with pictures of topless women. The wardens thought this normal, but what they sniggered at were the pictures and cut-outs of trees that surrounded Carlton's bunk. Fellow inmates never questioned him, but during lights out, in whispered conversations he was referred to as the ‘tree man of Wormwood Scrubs’.

Sellotaped to the wall, just above his pillow, was the only clue to Carlton's life before prison. A black-and-white photograph of a twelve-year-old boy sitting on his bike, flanked by his friends: one with a spanner in his hand, another eating a chocolate bar and a boy with a comic war magazine jutting out from his back pocket.

Parking himself on his bunk, he recalled fond memories of his mates and that rusty bike. He also remembered how much he had loved the woman who took the photo. But since being incarcerated he had never replied to any of her letters. These recollections had come to him every day since his imprisonment eight years ago when he was just sixteen. In the dead of the night, he could hear his friends’ voices, backdropped by the gentle rustling of leaves in a calm wind. It was a soothing memory, a quiet natural moment far away from everything else that filled his past.

A tapping at the cell door jolted Carlton awake. Standing at the door was Smokey Davis.

‘Ain’t ya gonna play any table tennis? Games time over soon.’

‘Nah, don’t feel like it. I’m bored with it.’

‘How about a game of poker or something?’

‘Nah, fuck that as well. Been playing table tennis and blackjack every day for years. I wanna try something different. They should bring in a pool table or something.’

‘So what’re you gonna do? We’ve only got twenty minutes left.’

Carlton shrugged. ‘Read a book or something. And stop Gravesey from kicking the shit out of Wallace.’

‘Wallace is a bacco robber.’

‘Yeah, he is. It's kinda surprising cos he's new. New people don’t get so brave early on. Especially if they can’t fight. But Gravesey isn’t exactly the archangel Gabriel. He's always beating up the new ones. I wouldn’t give a shit but the screws kinda expect me to keep order in this wing. I don’t want anything to fuck up my leaving date.’

‘Wallace should fight his own wars,’ said Smokey. ‘What's he gonna do when you’re out of here in a few weeks?’

Carlton shrugged again. ‘If he carries on robbing he's gonna have to learn to fight.’

Smokey rolled a bacco joint. ‘So what’re you gonna do when you get out? Have you thought about it?’

Carlton looked at the photo of his friends just above his pillow. ‘I dunno, maybe do some joinery that I learnt. I’ll be staying with an old friend when I get out. Then I’ll try and find a gaff, I s’pose. After that I might look for a whore to grind, if I’ve got enough money. Who knows, some liberal wanker might wanna give me a job.’

Smokey tossed the roll-up to Carlton and began to roll his own. ‘I’ve always wanted to ask — who are the other guys in the photo?’

‘None of your business, that's who they are.’

‘Sure you don’t wanna play any table tennis?’

‘You want me to print a statement?’

‘Yeah, alright. I get your drift.’

Smokey left. As he made his way downstairs, he wondered why he could never work Carlton out. Carlton had saved his arse twice, literally, and rescued his hide once. In the time he had known him, he found it impossible to sway Carlton to talk about his past — any attempts always resulted in Carlton becoming aggressive.

Remaining in his cell, Carlton stared at the photo of his friends. He placed his roll-up underneath his pillow, saving it for the night. ‘Glenroy, where are you?’ he whispered. He spat out the remains of the matchstick and found a fresh one on his bunk. He inserted it into his mouth and gnawed violently. The small muscles around his jawbone bulged as the tissues within his eighteen-and-a-half-inch neck danced to the rhythm of chewing. His head sat on a body of perfect strength; within the prison he had plenty of admirers, though none of them were forthcoming with their praise.

The only thing that scared him was the prospect of being free of the prison walls. Being locked up, he didn’t have to worry about paying rent or when his next meal would arrive. In prison, he was king, the fittest of the fittest; even the screws respected him and invited him to ‘deal’ with the convicted perverts, with just one rule: don’t mark the face. But in the outside world, he would be a nobody, a back-marker in the rat race that he would have to join to survive.

Maybe he could brutalise a shirt-lifter to extend his sentence, Carlton suddenly thought. Fuck up his face. Or pick a fight with one of the screws, fist one of them for no reason. That's bound to cause an extension to his sentence. Nah, fuck that, he reasoned. Don’t wanna do that isolation shit. Had enough of that already. He looked at the images of trees surrounding his bunk. He still couldn’t understand why they held such a fascination for him. He could never express it in words, but he felt that trees were more alive than people realised. They could manipulate you, instruct you to do things. Like kill people.

Toronto, Canada, May 1985

Bullet felt his guts sink and remain on the ground floor as the lift raced to the viewing platform of the CN Tower. A Korean tourist fretted in her own language, while an American kid, dressed in a Michael Jackson T-shirt, sang ‘Thriller’.

Monty, Bullet's one-and-a-half-year-old son, blinked wildly as the lift door opened and natural light flooded his eyes. His wife, Linda, touched Monty on the cheek before smiling at her husband.

Bullet's brown hair was cropped short, as if he still wanted his army life to be acknowledged. Brown freckles dotted his face, almost entirely covering his dented nose. Thin lips and a hard chin hinted at his determination.

Bullet led his family to the large, angled windows that presented a view of the Toronto skyline and Lake Ontario. The buildings below looked like stepping stones for giants and the blue brilliance of the lake forced Bullet to squint. The sails on the yachts far below pricked the calm waters like white bayonets.

Linda took out her camera and started taking snaps of her family. ‘Smile then,’ she said. At least pretend you’re enjoying yourself.’

Bullet forced a half grin. Monty had no time for the camera. ‘Let's get away from it all, you said,’ Linda snapped. ‘You’re about as miserable as when we were back home. What's the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

Bullet passed Monty to his wife and looked out onto the lake. Suddenly, he saw himself peering out from the highest point of the Pinewood Hills. The first time Curvis had shown him the view of this particular slice of Surrey countryside, Bullet was ten years old. From that day onwards, he always wondered what went on in the outside world. A world away from Pinewood Oaks Children's Home.

Well travelled with the army, Bullet had now seen many countries and many peoples. He felt that the evils he had thought confined to Pinewood Oaks were everywhere — in Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Hong Kong. Children are always the big losers, he concluded. They’re the ones who suffer from war, poverty, hunger and the rest of it.

Turning around, he gazed lovingly at Monty. He then thought of Glenroy, Carlton and Curvis, the only real friends he had. His wife, tired of waiting for him to react to her warm smiles while serving from the mess canteen, had made the first move. In the army you’re forced to get on with everybody. He knew he had swapped one institution for another. Now he had to face the outside world. At least he had the memories of the Pinewood Hills. No pointless war, hunger or poverty could take that away. One moment of freedom in his life that nobody but his friends could understand.

‘Did I tell you Carlton's coming out in a few weeks’ time?’ said Bullet.

Linda's smile died. ‘How could I forget? It's all you talked about on the plane over here.’

‘It's gonna be great,’ said Bullet. ‘We’re gonna be together again. As soon as he gets out we should take him for a meal.’

‘When's the last time you took me for a meal?’ Linda glared.

‘I took you on this holiday, didn’t I?’

‘Remember what I said last night. Me and Monty are the priority in your life now.’

Bullet didn’t reply. He stared out to the horizon and saw a light aircraft gliding high over the lake. ‘It's a shame Glenroy won’t be there when Carlton gets out.’

Linda rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep on saying.’ She took Monty a few yards away to look in a different direction.

Lost in the past, Bullet didn’t notice his wife walking away. He closed his eyes. ‘Glenroy, where are you?’ he whispered.

Carshalton, Surrey, May 1985

Glenroy felt a massive sense of achievement as he successfully made himself a cup of tea. It had been two weeks since he was discharged from the mental hospital, and only now was he beginning to think he might cope. But only if he could remember to take his medication. He needed to find out where his nearest chemist was, for when his pills ran out.

A community nurse was supposed to call on him the day before to check if he was okay, but they never arrived. Even though he was in the outside world, he felt like a young skylark that had just watched his parents fly away. Two days ago his sworn enemy, Panic, had found a secret entrance to his brain, causing him to smash his head on the cold water tap in the bathroom. He cut his scalp and ended up putting his head in a bath full of cold water, holding his breath for as long as he could before dunking again.

When Panic finally departed, he ate a dinner of cold sardines and boiled lemonade and retired to his bed, fully clothed, adopting the foetal position. He preferred to keep his bedroom window wide open because the sounds of the birds at dawn soothed him. Only now, two days later, had he emerged from his sleeping place.

He was frightened of this outside world. The shopping trip to the supermarket unsettled him. So many people, all in a crazy hurry, it seemed to him. They all knew where they were going. When he finally reached the cashier, he thought Panic might run amok inside his head again. ‘Eight pound fifty, please,’ the cashier asked politely, recoiling at his eighteen-stone frame and his wild hair. Glenroy felt the sweat sogging his eyebrows and watering his untamed beard. Should he give her the blue note or the brown one? It took an eternity to decide. ‘I haven’t got all day, you know,’ the cashier snapped. Panic, Glenroy's eternal shadow, was very near.

He gave her the brown note. Glenroy expected a fierce rebuke. The cashier opened the till, giving him change of one pound fifty and a receipt. He stood for a long second, smiling widely. Panic had to retreat. Mission accomplished! Yes! He congratulated himself.

Hours later, he sat down in his kitchen, downing his over-milky tea and eating a Mars bar from the collection of sweets he kept in a fruit bowl. He recalled the day he left the hospital. His eyes hurt from tears at leaving his friends behind. Everyone said he’d be alright and that he was better, that he would be okay to go home now. But the hospital was his home, and there he knew what he had to do every day. Make your bed in the morning, breakfast followed by chores. Eleven was games time; Glenroy always hogged the table tennis table. Lunch at twelve thirty. Training in the afternoon, where he learned to cook, count money, read essential shopping lists and fill in various forms.

Dinner was at five thirty followed by another games session. At nine, he would politely ask for his supper of a chocolate roll or fairy cakes, then he would watch a bit of telly; his favourite programme was the Young Ones. Ten p.m. was lights out.

In those quiet hours of darkness, he wondered about his life before coming to the hospital. He was told he had spent his childhood in an orphanage. But that's all he knew. His pre-teenage memories were lost in a fog of tablets, injections, beatings and straitjackets.

Almost every night he dreamt about an enchanted forest, where the terrain was hilly, the trees were incredibly tall and the sun baked the grass brown. Now and again, a little girl would appear in these dreams. She looked very poorly but s. . .