TIME ON HIS HANDS

 by Richard Banks        

Danny looked at his watch but it had stopped and no amount of prodding and shaking was going to make it work again. Other boys would have just ditched it and got their parents to buy them another one, a solar powered one with extra functions, like a compass and thermometer. But he wasn’t like other boys, never had been, never would be, of that he was certain. 

      He flipped a stone off the jetty and watched the ripples spread across the lake towards the band of shiny water that reflected the moon and the security light of the boat house. Soon it would be day; the main road that bisected the forest would roar with the sound of traffic and the boat keeper arriving to bring in the boats from the island where they were moored. The boat keeper didn’t like feral boys who tried to break into the boathouse. He was a big man, belligerent, not a fellow to tangle with. Best to be gone before he arrived, to lay low in the wood where Shoeless, Irish and Old Jack lit fires at night and drank super strength cider. Like him they were outcasts, no-hopers, good for nothing. Maybe that’s why he kept the watch, a reminder of better times when everything was normal, sometimes good, like things should be, like it was for other boys - even then the bad times were never far away. 

      He remembered that Friday, in the school holidays, when he was late back from football. Dad was angry but Mum said it wasn’t his fault, the boy didn’t have a watch, how was he to know what time it was? The routine of another row was brewing; Dad trying to lay down the law, Mum talking back, defiant, hands on hips, raising her voice as he raised his, then Dad shouting, inarticulate with rage, losing the plot and Mum screaming as he lashed out. 

      Danny abandoned the opening hostilities and retreated to his room where he lay on the bed reading a comic. Next door the emotional tumult of voices reached their inevitable conclusion and doors slammed, signalling that Mum had taken refuge in the flat’s other bedroom. A few minutes later the living room door opened and Dad was on his way to see if she was okay, he hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t do it again - of course, Danny could have a watch.   

      The next day Dad took him down to the jewellers in the High Street and asked the man to show him the watch in the window, the bright blue one with a picture of      Thomas the Tank Engine on the dial. “But that’s for kids at infant’s school,” Danny protested, “the other boys would laugh.” He needed something more grown up, with a window in it to show the day of the month. Dad was getting angry again but the man said he had just the watch, the New Trekker,  and although it was more expensive than the one in the sale it was stronger, better quality, and came with a five year guarantee. When Dad hesitated, the man, sensing that he was about to lose a sale, said he would take half the money now and the rest at the end of the month. The deal was struck and Dad paid with a crumpled ten pound note and a fistful of coins.   

  On the journey home, they stopped off at the park and Dad strapped the watch to Danny’s wrist and showed him how to change the time and date. They examined the instructions together and discovered that the watch also had a light that lit up the dial and an alarm that they set for 7.30 in the morning. They hurried home to show Mum, to explain how it worked, and Mum said it was the best watch she had ever seen and that they should fill out the guarantee and send it off before something happened to it. Then Mum read the instructions and found that the watch also had a stopwatch and she set it for fifteen minutes to remind her to take the dinner out of the oven. The sun shone warmly and no one wanted the day to end.

      Two weeks later Danny was back at school and Dad was in and out of another job. There had been an argument, punches thrown and the police called to escort him out of the factory. Life was back to normal; three people struggling to coexist in the unwanted togetherness of four small rooms. Mum threatening to leave but with nowhere to go. Dad affecting indifference, inwardly seething, a time bomb ticking. Danny with the golden memory of a perfect day, that made the spring days that followed seem dull and deficient. He consoled himself with the thought that he now owned a New Trekker, not a hand-me-down from the cousins or something from a charity shop; a new watch that was the envy of his school friends. Not even Barrett, who lived in the big house next to the church, had anything that good.

      Ever the pragmatist, he knew it couldn’t last. In time, maybe before the end of term, other boys would get new watches, better watches, and his unexpected rise in their esteem would be at an end. But until then he was someone, the indispensable someone who was needed to time their races and football matches, the boy who told them the minutes past the hour, the free meals boy who was now ‘one of them’. Although revelling in the novelty of his newfound popularity, he was, nonetheless, troubled by uneasy feelings that linked the outstanding balance on his watch to his father’s unemployment. What if Dad couldn’t pay? What would happen then? The answer came on the penultimate day of the month. 

      He arrived home to find Dad sorting out the household bills into the usual columns: those that were the subject of a final demand requiring at least partial payment, those only one or two months overdue, and those that could be safely ignored because the amounts were insufficient to warrant recovery action beyond an angry demand for payment. If the jeweller’s invoice was in the third column all was well; instead, it occupied a separate space on the dining room table; a puzzling anomaly in Dad’s system. Mum asked if he would clear the table for tea and Dad, unusually compliant, returned the bills to his box. There was an uneasy silence and Mum said that Dad had something to say. His words came slowly, in short, clumsy sentences. The watch had to go back. He had spoken to Mr Drewett, the jeweller, who was going to refund the money already paid. It was needed for other things.  

     Dad couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, it wasn’t his way. Neither was he a man to explain his decisions. He was a man of action, not words and Danny saw that he had failed in both. This headstrong man, full of bluster and defiance, was going to surrender his watch for the paltry sum of £12.50. It wasn’t fair, it mustn’t happen. Rage surged through his body. As his father reached out a palm to take possession of the watch Danny brought up his hand in a tight fist that struck the tip of his father’s bristly jaw. There was a look of disbelief on both their faces. For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Dad tried to catch him by the arm. Danny stepped back two paces, anger giving way to fear, aggression to flight. Another backward step took him almost to the front door. In a few panic stricken moments he was through it and running hard towards the woodland at the end of the road. Dad was shouting at him, and Mum was shouting at Dad, but as their voices decreased in volume Danny realised that neither were in pursuit. 

      He reached the trees and stopped to catch his breath; to decide what to do next. They would soon be looking for him, he had to get further away. On the far side of the wood, there was a boating lake with benches and an ice cream parlour that stayed open late on summer evenings. There would be people there. People that might save him from a beating if Dad appeared, belt in hand. By the time he reached the lake, the sun was low in the sky and the boat keeper was no longer hiring out boats. Two of Danny’s classmates were there. They talked, played football with a tennis ball and threw stones into the lake. It was nearly dark, the last rowers were returning to shore and family parties drifted off towards the car park. “Is it 9 o’clock?” said one of the boys. Danny confirmed that it was and they sauntered off to their homes on the other side of the main road. The boatman took several boats in tow and moored them on the island. He returned in a dinghy and dragged it up the gravel bank into the boat house. The ice cream man served his last customer and put down the shutters. “Fancy a pint?” he asked. “Why not,” said the boatman. They locked up and departed together, unaware of the boy sitting cross-legged on the jetty. 

        On the other side of the lake, an invisible figure observed the boy he had first noticed an hour before. He knew the boy and where he lived. There was no time to lose. If the boy moved away from the security light, he too would become invisible. He moved around the side of the lake where there were trees and bushes close to the waterline, finally arriving at the boathouse end where the boy still sat. 

     The man knew not why he did the things he did, only that he must, his mind was too full of nightmares, paranoia, and White Ace. He had once been a boy, an abandoned boy; there had been pain, and suffering. He tried hard to forget, he drank to forget, but the memories wouldn’t go away, he hid them in dark places, but no place was deep enough and memories, fragments of memory, would break free and burst into the light, and the light became a nightmare. 

       He was closing in, nearly there, only a cricket strip between them, his bare feet silent on the stony ground. The man was once a soldier, won medals, twice promoted, he had strong hands, he was used to death. The stones no longer hurt his feet, he was on the jetty now, four more steps, maybe five and he would be there. He reached out his hands and rushed forward.

 

                                                 *****

      Danny tossed another stone into the lake. It had been a long night, frosty cold, the trees leafless, dark skeletons against the dawn sky. Was it seven or eight am? He wasn’t sure. If the watch still worked he would have known the time, known precisely when to leave. What good, he thought, was a watch with broken glass and hands stuck on ten o clock? The breaking of it he did not remember. His only memories were of the thick fingers that gripped his neck, that forced his head and shoulders into the lake, and the bitter taste of the water that flooded his lungs. He struggled, splashed the water with his arms, made one gargling cry for help, but no one was there, only the man, and he was too strong. 

      The sun was rising, it was time to go back to the wood, to the shallow grave in which his body lay. One day someone would find him and Mum and Dad would scrape together enough money to take him to church in a big limousine, just like they did for Granddad Jones. Things would be different then, better, maybe good. For now, he felt only sadness.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks