The world, so Manny says, is a large and wonderful place; but standing here, it shrinks. Looking at the house that stands on the corner of Wood Street and York Avenue makes everything that I’ve become focus down to the history held within a simple end terrace. Nothing special to most; it wouldn’t even merit a second glance to passers by. Yet it has its own gravity. There’s a certain magic here where the reality is thin and I have to try hard not to slip through into the past, or worse, step sideways and become a different me. Manny says there’s no such thing as magic, but it’s real enough. This is where I began, and in all likelihood, where I’ll end.

~X~

Waiting at the gate, Michael watched the door for his brother. It was twenty to four and all the other pupils had long since rushed from the building and disappeared into the surrounding neighbourhood. Some in groups, some in pairs, they’d all rushed off making plans for the weekend. Now, all was quiet around the Victorian built school adrift in a sea of concrete.

Michael sighed and looked again at the door marked ‘Junior Boys’ in weathered stone. Just as he was about to check his old, Timex watch for what seemed like the tenth time, his brother appeared. Head down, shirt untucked and dragging his bag behind him, Charlie walked into the sun towards the gate. With trousers two terms too short and a grey shirt, once white, he shuffled unhurriedly watching the ground in front of him.

‘ ‘Bout time too,’ Michael grunted as Charlie drew level. ‘What’s up?’

Charlie stopped.

‘Nothing. Can we go to the park on the way home?’

‘No, we’re late already. Come on.’

Michael took Charlie’s bag, threw it over his shoulder and set off towards home with Charlie scuffing his feet behind. The streets, now quiet after the earlier explosion of noise and excitement from other children swallowed the boys into miniature, unexplored universes hidden behind the closed doors and netted windows of other houses. At the corner they stopped and watched their front door.

‘It’s quiet, he’s out,’ Michael said and pushed Charlie through the gate and down the path.

Charlie sat at the Formica topped table and watched Michael stir the beans at the stove. That morning’s breakfast pots still lay in the sink on top of the previous evening’s tea plates.

‘Toast Charlie. Put the toast on,’ Michael gently admonished.

Charlie got up, pulled two white slices from an almost finished loaf and put it under the grill. He sat back at the table and settled to watch his brother.

‘Is he coming home tonight?’ Charlie asked.

‘Prob’ly. Best get these dishes washed and put away after.’

Charlie looked at the sink impassively and then back at his brother.

‘When’s he back?’

‘Later Charlie, later.’

Beans heated, Michael took the toast and emptied the beans on top. They ate in silence.

Charlie lay awake and listened to the strains and creaks of the house as it settled for the night. Beside him, soft, regular breaths told him Michael was asleep. He waited, and with a lurch deep in his stomach, he heard a key in the front door. Michael stirred.

‘That him?’ he mumbled.

Charlie said nothing, only curled up tighter, shut his eyes and hoped.

‘Just lie still.’

Footsteps, uneven, lurched up the stairs and the bedroom door opened to frame a man all but filling the space. He stood, stared, then eventually sighed and left. Another door clattered open and shut and bedsprings popped, strained then settled. Silence returned to the house. Silence, except for the muffled sobs of Charlie and the whispered comfortings of Michael.

~X~

Talking to Manny, it all makes perfect sense, but when I leave, all his words seem hollow and far away as if they apply to someone else – a different me. He tells me I should stay away from Wood Street. I know it does me no good. He tells me it’s all in the past and that I have to move on, make a fresh start. I know he’s right. How could he not be? At night though, alone in the flat, I can hear it calling me. More accurately, I can hear Mikey calling me back. Ever back to that fucking, dirty hell hole.

Day times are fine. Traffic, radio and inane chatter combine to all but drown out the pleading call that wakes me every night. Eight hours in the packing plant really helps. The noise there screens all but the very loudest calls. Manny’s given me Nitrazapam to help me sleep at night but I can’t live all the time in that dulled state. Every so often I miss a few days just to feel again. Those are the days the cry comes through loud, clear and strong. With regret, I return to the drugs and a faded existence.

~X~

Michael stood at the bottom of the stairs in shorts, t-shirt and pumps. In his hand was a bulging grease proof paper bag. As Charlie appeared at the top of the stairs, Michael put his finger to his lips and turned to wait by the front door. Toes first to each step, Charlie descended the stairs and joined his brother. Latch slowly turned and door opened the boys stepped out side into the morning sunshine and carefully closed the door behind them.

‘All day?’

‘Yes Charlie, all day.’

‘Jam butties?’

‘Yep, jam butties. Come on,’ and Michael was off, racing towards the river, bag swinging wildly at his side.

Charlie followed at a jog. He could never keep up with Michael anyway and he knew where he’d find him. Slowing to a walk, he looked at the different houses as he passed: some with trimmed privet hedges, some with wooden fences; all neater than his own home. He crossed York Street at the newsagents, squeezed through the railings and entered the cool of the wood that bordered the river. Here, though not in the glare of the sun and darker, the colours seemed richer. The foliage with heavy shades of green and the earth tones of brown.

Charlie stopped at the only oak in the small wood that sloped down to the river and stroked its rough bark. He plucked a waxy leaf, put it in his pocket and then continued down towards the river. At this point in the river’s course was a weir. Water deep, dark and still on one side, then rushing over the edge swirling into a racing, narrower and faster course on the other. Charlie closed his eyes and made his way to the den by following the sound of the water flowing over the weir.

‘Took your time.’

Michael stood, hands on hips, in front of a low brick building almost completely hidden deep in overgrown bushes, stunted trees and nettles. Its six foot square shape was sunk into the banking with the opening facing away from the river; so if viewed from the water, it appeared much higher. Michael stooped, slid in through the opening and turned to look at Charlie.

‘See, no legs,’ he laughed.

The floor at the front of the den being much lower than ground level, Michael indeed looked as though his body stopped at his waist line. Pleased with the first smile of the day from Charlie, he moved to one side to let him in. Charlie slid in and pulled a few branches over the opening, causing near darkness.

‘Get the matches, Charlie.’

‘Yep.’

‘Come on then. Light the candles.’

Charlie fumbled about in an old meat safe next to the opening, brought out a box of matches and lit four candles that sat in a small tins on the floor in each corner of the den. As the candles caught, the room took on a warm glow. Hung across the back wall was an orange blanket, towards two of the corners sat upturned milk crates, and just below the door, slightly to one side, was the old, battered meat safe. The floor, surprisingly dry, was covered with old newspapers. In the middle of the ceiling hung the remnants of a long since disconnected light fitting. Against the left hand wall, oddments lay neatly arranged: a small paring knife, a tin opener, a small pan, three comics, a chess set, two stout pieces of wood, a length of nylon rope salvaged from a skip and various other things that the boys had found and brought back to their den.

Michael settled back on one of the milk crates, pulled a battered Embassy No 6 from the grease proof bag and lit it from a candle.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Charlie flatly stated.

‘He’ll never know. Came in pissed last night. He won’t know how many he had left.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

Charlie gave his brother a last look then picked up a comic and began to read.

~X~

The bus that takes me to Manny’s clinic passes the top of York Avenue. If I sit on the top deck and look left just before the bus stop I can see the old house. Today I sit on the lower deck. I’m trying to be good. Even so, I get the shivers as we pass through the old neighbourhood. The other passengers, mainly middle aged to elderly women seem happy enough; but just being in the proximity of the place has an effect on me. They sit quietly or chat to one another oblivious of the pull I feel. If there’s no-one waiting at the bus we’ll soon pass through. It’s rare anyone ever gets off here.

In town the noise and bustle soon washes away the last dregs of gravity I feel and walking into the clinic calms me, as it always does.

‘Morning Mr Debney,’ says the receptionist. ‘Take a seat. Mr Mannovic will be with you shortly.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

The receptionist is called Jessica. I only know her name from the tag pinned to her white tunic. About my age, full of confidence and lovely. I’ve seen her in town once or twice coming out of bars – full of laughter, clinging onto the arm of a friend. I’d love to talk to her, but how can a screwed up head case she knows from work, carrying a bag of chips, approach somebody like that?

I’m the only one in the waiting room; white walled like everything else there: Jessica’s tunic, the filing cabinet, the lilies. Only the flooring differs from the colour scheme. It’s burgundy red and matches the solid block of burgundy unframed canvas that hangs behind Jessica’s desk.

There’s a faint beeping noise from Jessica’s intercom.

‘Mr Mannovic is ready for you now.’

~X~

‘Quiet Charlie. There’s someone out there.’

Charlie looked up from the comic and listened. Indistinct voices and the sound of a stick swishing through the undergrowth crept into the den. Picking up one of the pieces of wood and holding it like a club, Michael moved towards the opening and began to climb out.

‘Get your stick and wait here, Charlie.’

Michael disappeared into the light. After waiting for a minute or two, Charlie picked up the other club and climbed out of the den. He followed the sound of raised voices until, from behind dense undergrowth, he could see Michael facing three boys he recognised from school. Alex Killan, a boy from Michael’s class, stood slightly in front of the others, face to face with Michael.

‘Where’s that moron of a brother of yours, Debney?’

‘Piss off, Killan. He’s just quiet, that’s all.’

‘Quiet? He’s so stupid he can’t speak.’

The other two laughed and stepped closer to Killan.

‘Prob’ly runs in the family. You’re all dirty, thick bastards.’

‘Piss off, Killan. I’m warning you.’

Michael lifted the club and took a step back. The gap was quickly filled by the other boys.

‘Dirty, thick, motherless bastards – both of you.’

Killan followed this up with a hard push to Michael’s chest. Michael took one step back and raised the club over his right shoulder.

‘Let’s have him boys.’

Killan stepped inside the swing of the club and butted Michael in the face sending him reeling backwards, tripping over a root and falling. Blood was spurting from his nose before his backside touched the floor. All three left standing crowded round and started to kick at him.

Charlie burst from the undergrowth and swinging his club at waist height with all his strength hit the boy nearest him across the lower back. The scream still in his victim’s throat, Charlie raised the club again and brought it down on the shoulder of the second.

Killan picked up Michael’s club and stepped back. A good ten inches taller and two years stronger than Charlie, he sized him up. Even though his two accomplices were now staggering up the hill to the road, he wasn’t for leaving.

‘Fucker!’ he yelled and launched himself at Charlie, swinging the club straight at the younger boy’s head.

Charlie froze in his path, the club coming directly towards his forehead.

Killan flew sideways, dropped the club and landed on his back with Michael on top of him. Regaining his balance, Michael began to pummel his face with both fists.

‘Fucker yourself. You just wouldn’t leave us alone. Fucker!’

The last word screamed, Michael stood up and looked at Charlie.

‘Alright, Charlie?’

‘Fine.’

Charlie took the four steps over to Killan and landed a heavy kick in his ribs.

‘Fuck off - now. And don’t come back,’ he said.

Killan scrambled up the hill after his friends, sniffing back blood and snot.