War Dance

Molten oranges and scorched reds were beginning their tango inside a cooking pot left on the stove. Never quite touching, but flirting with one another. A twirl around a lover, the promise of a kiss, but then a twist away, inching ever closer to the curtains. Building strength and growing, evolving. potatoes hissing and popping their outrage, but the flames wouldn’t deflect. Some kind of ancient tribal war dance, all knee slapping and ugga-bugging right there inside Cole Walters tiny Dagenham kitchen. He liked that description. Perhaps he’d even write it down later in his notebook.

Cole threw his school bag down by the fridge with a thud, and grimaced, shoving his hands against his ears to block out the screeching fire-alarm. A banging from below, ‘Keep the bloody noise down!’ Mr Leonard’s broomstick from the flat downstairs. He seemed convinced Cole and his gran had some kind of conspiracy against him.

That was the thing with council flats, the walls (and floors apparently) were paper thin and you could hear everything. Well, not the only problem. Far from it. The building was a 1940s Marxian monstrosity, all sharp angles and pigeon hole flats, flickering fluorescent strobes and the customary rain clouds rallying overhead ― just to make sure that any hope of a bright future was left at the (broken) keypad operated door.

Used needles and passed-out druggies the internal corridor decor with a splash of vomit here, or poo smearing the walls there for a little extra jeu ne se quoi. That was French for I don’t know what. He’d learnt it at school, in English lit, randomly. His favourite lesson. Cole would be a millionaire author one day and buy his gran and dad a nice big house with a garden so they could all get a dog.

But first he needed to put out that fire. He grabbed a jug from the counter-top and flipped up the tap. A waterfall of furry beans spilled over the edge and patches of green mould rose to the surface. He threw the contents across the room. A sizzle and pop of victory. Cole exhaled and then his stomach rumbled.

The fire alarm was still screaming overhead!

‘What’s that noise, Adam?’

‘It’s Cole, Gran, remember?’

‘The coals in the shed outside love – put some on the fire, would you? It’s bloody freezing in here!’ She spoke with a whistle, which meant she’d forgotten to put her teeth in again.

Gran didn’t have a fire. Or a shed. Even fitting a bucket on their balcony would be a stretch. Seriously, what was even the point in those things? Cole shivered. It was cold, but the radiators were as useless as a mirage. They’d stopped working around the same time as the red letters started arriving. There was a pile of them now. A tower even as high as his waist. It wasn’t a guess either, he’d actually measured them. Stacked them up all neat like, edges all perfectly aligned so he could look down the tower and see the perfection of 1 single rectangle ― a lot like the shape of their block of flats.

 ‘Will do, Gran.’ He rolled his eyes – no point arguing anymore, she was a barmy as a brush. Cole giggled, imagining what a barmy brush would look like.

‘What’s that noise Adam?’

‘It’s Col― Just sorting it now, mum!’ He pulled a dining chair over the peeling chequered lino and using a pencil to add a few centimetres height, he pressed the off button. Peace at last.

‘Such a good lad! Shall I make us some tea? I fancy something with mashed potatoes!’

‘I think you just used the last of them!’

‘the last of what?’ her voice was getting louder now. Closer.

‘The potatoes!’

‘Oh, I could just eat some mashed potatoes. I’ll put us some on, love.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it!’ A crumpled, lone £5 note lay on top of the microwave. Cole grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Maybe it would be enough to get some of that ready-made stuff. That microwaveable stuff. Something she couldn’t burn the block down with. What else could he get with a fiver? he was sure there were still a few tins of tuna left in the cupboard, so maybe he’d be best holding on to it for now.

‘Oh! who are you?’ Gran appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowed. Cole could see a resemblance to the lady in all the hallway photographs. Pure, innocent, bordering on naïve blue eyes and a posture that invited hugs, but her straggly hair missed its perm and her gummy smile looked more like that of an infant than the proud woman he remembered. He hugged her now. ‘Hi Gran!’

‘Gran? Ooh you’re a little monkey, I should put you over my knee for that!’ She laughed and squeezed my shoulder in that wobbly, yet comforting way only grandma’s can do.

Cole half smiled at the old lady.

‘Who are you? One of Adam’s friends?’

‘Erm ― sort of I suppose!’

‘Where is he? The cruel so and so leaving you all alone like this! Adam! Adam!’

‘Don’t worry, Dad ― erm Adam will be home soon.’

‘I should think so too.’ She bent down and sniffed Cole’s head. ‘I think you could use a bath while you’re waiting young man. A good wash behind those ears.’

Cole nodded and headed to the bathroom.

A dirty face stared back at Cole in the bathroom mirror, a stranger’s face. He smiled and the mirror smiled too, but it didn’t reach the strange boy’s eyes. They were dull and grey, ― lost eyes that didn’t know where they belonged. Cole washed his face and the mirror washed its face too. In the lounge Grandma was calling out for Adam again. Cole hung his head. His dad wasn’t coming back.

Fists banging on the door, shaking the room ― or was that just Cole shaking? Shouts and screams from beyond, ‘We know you’re in there!’ Dad’s eye’s wide, black, feral ― pushing him under the dining table with a fistful of banknotes. A hummingbird in Coles chest and waterfalls from his eyes as he begged, ‘Dad, No! don’t go! Don’t leave me!’ and then a crash and splinter of wood. A lightening-bolt splintering a tree as the door caved in and a deep, booming voice ‘Adam Walters, I am arresting you for the possession of class A drugs with the intent to sell. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given as evidence.’

Cole wiped his and the mirror boy’s tears’ and they scrunched their faces up and straightened their brows to stop anymore from flowing. They lifted a sort of black pencil from inside Grandma’s make-up bag and set to work. One dot at a time. Both boy’s eyes narrowed, a tongue peeped through the side of the mouth. Careful. Concentrated. Starting at the side of their chins and working up and over the lips, down over the other side of the chin. One dot at a time until a beard grew. Just like their dad’s.

Two men now stared at each other, ‘It’s up to us now!’ they say.