Ozzie Rozzie #4

[CAUTION: THIS STORY CONTAINS FICTION]

Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Read part three here.

As Oswald marched and Clint stumbled the last quarter mile across the sun-soaked playing field, to where run-down Edwardian terraced houses' dark, sunless gardens abutted the eastern side of this once-industrial plane, Clint knew he was exhausted and powerless, but somehow, the naked terror had left him. Oswald, though physically large, was now streaming with sweat and puffing heavily as he impelled them the final hundred yards.

"You don't have to drag me, Ozzie, if you want, I'll come in and meet your mum," said Clint quietly, mumbling a little through a swollen lip.

"Shut up!" retorted Oswald, but somehow, the walk had defused the entirety of his anger. He kept them both going without altering pace, his big feet leaving heavy impressions in the thickening grass at the perimeter.

"Look, Oswald," said Clint, reasonably, "I said bad things, you fucked me up, fair enough. OK?"

This time, Oswald said nothing, and slowed up. Sensing a possible improvement, Clint continued, "Oswald. Please stop. Just stop a minute. I am sorry about what I said, really I am, it was stupid. I am stupid. But, if you want me to come with you, just let me go, I will come. You don't have to make me, I'll come."

Oswald stopped, and releasing Clint's arm, stood in front of him, between his captive and the long wall at the back of the houses marking the boundary of the plot. Large bins marked the positions of back gates, which were mostly overgrown and disused. There was a dank smell here, of rot and rats, a shopping trolley long abandoned with ivy growing through it.

The two boys faced one another.

"Orlrite," said Oswald, strangely quiet, adrenalin nearly spent.

"Thanks," said Clint, not daring to look around in case Oswald took this as a prelude to flight. He adjusted his shirt, pulled it down to cover his torso, cautiously touched his bloody face, rubbed his wrenched shoulder. He still hadn't a clue what to do next, but at least he was free from the death-grip. Normality, that's what we need, he thought, a little bit of Norman Normal.

In good middle-class english, as if speaking to the Vicar, Clint asked politely, "Is your mother expecting us?"

"No," said Oswald, and he paused thoughtfully. A wasp buzzed around his head and he swiped at it. A flicker of concern crossed his features, and he licked his fleshy lips. Looking at Clint's face, blood caked down the left side from the ear, the torn white school shirt red with a liberal drenching of blood, he seemed to be weighing up options. "Yew better get cleaned up first."

It was all so bizarre, thought Clint, that he wouldn't be surprised if Ozzie produced a wizard's cloak and demanded he wear that and quote from Lord of the Rings, but relieved that his arm was now free, and possessed of a diplomacy born of necessity, he replied, "OK, then. Where's your bathroom?"

Oswald turned towards the back gardens."This one," he indicated, showing a foot-worn track through untended brush leading down to one of the functioning entrances. "You first!" he scowled, and pushed Clint in front of him.

Nettles as high as their heads crowded in either side as the short bank carried the boys down to the gate. It was surprisingly cold, thought Clint, and he suddenly felt the lack of clothing beyond his torn shirt and thin summer trousers. He could see the remains of an outside toilet, crammed with rusty ironmongery, upturned old enamel bowls, and bedsprings, as he pushed the gate and entered the back garden. Brambles, nettles and ivy grew everywhere, except the twenty foot path leading to a frosted glass back door, its black paint peeling and putty brittle. There was a sharp smell, of cats or foxes, or both.

Conscious of Oswald's presence two paces behind him, Clint picked his way up the path towards he knew not what.

[End Part Four]