Ozzie Rozzie #10

[CAUTION: THIS STORY MEANS WELL BUT IS PAVED]

This is a fiction series. It will make more sense if you read: Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine.

They had been entirely wrong about the black pimp, mused Clint as he scoffed the jam sandwich, staring across at Oswald busily doing the same. Mrs Rosbotham, he decided, was cool. She was clearly a government agent, and had been burnt almost to death whilst kept captive in a house, and then gone into hiding for her own safety. Which explained why Ozzie was here, and why he was so weird.

He contemplated for a moment the spectre of his own mother wreathed in flames rather than Chanel Number Five, which she wore constantly in honour of her heroine, Marilyn Monroe. She would insist on applying this even before getting dressed, accompanying him to the front door in a smothering show of care, her full breasts spilling out of her frilly silk nightgown, into the street and halfway to school. He was frequently embarassed by this excess of sentiment and scent. Why she did not just get dressed like other people's mums? In a year's time, he would return having forgotten his games kit, and find her in bed with a delivery man, in the throes of loud and prolonged orgasm. For Clint, this cliché was the beginning of his adult life, the final fire through which his malleable child's mind would pass and be tempered into sharp adulthood.

"Oswald. Have you shown Clint your construction?" asked Mrs Rosbotham, at the moment when both boys were simultaneously chewing their last mouthful. Oswald swallowed and licked his lips.

"Um. No," he replied, looking suddenly more awkward than his usual uncomfortable country self.

"Well, go and show your friend, now he's here." She said it with a finality that Clint did not yet associate with women, and he looked up at her with interest. He felt safe in the room with her. He knew that Ozzie was not going to resume his earlier violence, that was a given, but he was not quite ready to risk another tête-à-tête session. His damaged ear was still throbbing, and underneath the oversized shirt he could feel his bruised body starting to stiffen up.

"It's alright, Mrs Rosbotham," he said quickly, "I really have to get back soon. My mother is expecting me to go shopping."

"What a helpful boy you are, Andrew. It won't take a minute, though. Go on, Oswald, take your friend up and show him."

"OK," said Oswald, rising. He took the plates, and looking carefully at Clint said, "It's in my bedroom."

Clint winced as he rose to follow Oswald, pain from his knee reminding him of the school desks and the doorframe which Oswald had ignored upon their spectacular exit from school. By rights, he should now be about to leave school and take the bus home with ten of his schoolfriends, but reality had been long abandoned this strange summer afternoon, and so now he was going to see something Ozzie had made in his room. Perhaps it would be a full Scalextric track, perhaps, a working scaffold complete with noose.

"Come and say goodbye before you go," said Mrs Rosbotham, "Oswald, when you come back down, would you bring me some water, please, dear." She turned to the multiple bottles, packets and containers of medication, and started to slowly sort through them.

Following Oswald as he left the room, Clint saw that none of the tops were screwed on. Mrs Rosbotham's melted hand seemed to be scattering jewels in the bright, secluded room, as she tipped out different coloured capsules onto her tray one by one.

[End Part Ten]