Ozzie Rozzie #8

[CAUTION: THIS STORY DOES NOT FOLLOW THE HIGHWAY CODE]

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.

Clint walked down the hall, still very conscious of his throbbing ear, battered shins, bruised rib and wrenched shoulder. The bizarre fact that he was now engaged in a procession to deliver tea with the man-sized boy who was responsible for his injuries was not lost on him. Oswald walked carefully behind him, carrying the doylied tea tray. Clint could hear the small spoons chinking in the porcelain saucers.

Clint was a sensitive, imaginative lad, and it was only the protection of his older sister, and the love he received from his Grandmother that served as replacements for the tarnished, conditional, occasional care his parents dished up as it occurred to them to do so, which had given him enough emotionally to survive his thirteen years and four months. It was this lack of domestic affection that gave him the resilience of a rubber ball - perenially disappointed, and eternally looking for more - which meant that he was, despite his physical immaturity, eager for experience, and somewhat blind to risk. He was used to his quick humour making him friends and getting him out of danger. This time however, it had precipitated the tumultuous occasion of Ozzie's anger, and Clint was already updating his philosophy to include the maxim: be careful who you mock, because they might hit you. Later he would enlarge this to mean: be aware of how exactly much mockery you can get away with at any given time. Still later, in the context of his career, it would become, get away with as much mockery as you can, as often as you can.

For the moment, he was entering a basement living room which despite its low level was filled with light. On the left he could see a tall, shrouded birdcage, on the right, chairs, a sofa, a television, and Oswald's mum, in an armchair. She was wearing dark glasses, a long lime-green dressing gown, and an obviously synthetic brown wig, which in the company of his schoolfriends would have provided Clint with a thousand opportunities for wit. He kept tactfully and respectfully silent, as Oswald walked past him with the tray and set it down on the small table in the middle of the room, next to the Radio Times.

"Hello, Mum," said Oswald.

"Hello, my dear," she replied. "Aren't you home a little early?"

Her voice was gentle, posher than Oswald's though still with a rural note, and although Clint lacked the hormones to fully appreciate it, attractive. He found himself before her, and saying politely, "Good afternoon, Mrs Rosbotham," and offering his hand.

"How lovely!" she cooed. "Oswald, you must introduce your friend."

"Um, this is Clint, Mum. Clint Eastwood."

"Oh come on," she retorted, chuckling, "surely not?"

"They call me Clint, Mrs Rosbotham, but my name is Andrew. Andrew Eastwood." said Clint, by way of explanation.

As Clint looked at Mrs Rosbotham, he noticed that one hand was badly scarred, burned, with strangely thick whirlpools of distorted skin and crooked fingers. She took his hand with the other, and shook it. He looked into her face, and saw carefully applied makeup, not really hiding the right side of her face, where the same awful scarring had reduced her complexion to dripped wax.

Clint turned to Oswald, who stood behind him, licking his lips, clasping his enormous hands in front of his groin.

"Tea: how nice. Are you hungry?" she asked, slowly adjusting herself on the armchair, pivoting on one elbow to lean forward and take charge. "Oswald: go and make a couple of jam sandwiches. Clint, sit down." She indicated the sofa next to her armchair.

Oswald looked at his mother, and at Clint, then said simply, "OK then," and left the room.

"Such a loving boy," said Mrs Rosbotham, "and so patient while I have been in and out of hospital. I expect he has explained all that, you being a friend."

Very carefully, using her good hand to grip the handle and the damaged one to steady the pot, she lifted the cosy and poured tea into the cups.

"Are you MIFF, or TIFF?" she asked.

"Sorry?" said Clint, nonplussed.

"Milk First, or Tea First. I never think it makes a blind bit of difference myself but there you are, some people are incredibly fussy. Now, " she said, pouring milk into the cups, "Is Oswald doing well at school, do you think? He's not a very popular boy, I know that, too self-absorbed, and especially so since we moved here."

"Where did you live before?" asked Clint.

"Has he not said?" asked Mrs Rosbotham. "We come from Gloucestershire, near Stroud. Lovely place, green and friendly." She paused and for a moment seemed to be in severe physical pain. A shadow passed across the room as someone passed by outside, and Clint heard footsteps and the rattle of a pram.

"Have you seen Frisbie? That's the cat, you know," explained Mrs Rosbotham. "Charming animal, but does like to stay out for days on end. We put butter on his feet when we moved - it's an old wives' tale, supposed to stop them hiking back to where they came from. I always thought they came back because you feed them, nothing more than that. Fickle creatures, cats, but a lot less bother than a dog. Do you have any pets, Andrew?"

"Not allowed," said Clint. He had always wanted a dog.

"Ah, shame, yes, not everybody's cup of tea. Speaking of which, do help yourself." She indicated the tray, and Clint leaned forward to carefully take a cup.

It was dawning upon Clint during this easy exchange that for all her banter, Oswald's mum was really very badly off. She moved with difficulty, and he could see that her place in this room was the centre of her world. Around her were placed the objects necessary for her day; a second pair of glasses, a collection of pill bottles, a pile of library books, two hospital-issue walking sticks propped up against a small bureau, and a typewriter, next to which was a stack of papers and letters. Mrs Rosbotham noticed Clint's wandering gaze.

"Do you enjoy writing?" she asked, slowly turning to indicate the typewriter. "Journalist. That was my job, before all this. Now of course, I am mostly dealing with tedious matters, bills, et cetera, and the court, of course..."

"What did you write?" asked Clint, curiously. He couldn't countenance that someone so oafish as Ozzie could have a mother who wrote for a living. Neither could he quite reconcile this fragile, damaged woman's easy charm with her son's lack of it.

She began to speak, but her reply was interrupted by the reappearance of Oswald bearing sandwiches.

"Righty-ho," she said, "Eat boys, eat." Oswald placed the sandwiches on the table, sat down, and began to stuff his face. Clint paused for half a second, then did the same.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thompson pushed open the heavy door of the telephone box. The young woman he had usurped stood leaning on a fence opposite, looking at him disdainfully. Abandoning pretense, Thompson sneered, "Don't spend that ten pence all at once now, will you?" and, as he opened the door of the MG, he added for good measure, "I think you'll find you can reverse the charges for the Samaritans."

Without looking over his shoulder to witness the effect of this snide comment, Thompson cursed under his breath, fucking bunch of cunts, as the sporty engine sputtered once more into life. He wheeled the car around once more, and pushed his right foot down to the floor. Flat A he repeated mentally. What was it in the boy's file? Something about a court case and an accident - a crime - something horrible. He couldn't recall.

Turning left at the end of the quiet road, he drove back towards Rosbotham's house, accelerating with a growl into the straight. Suddenly there was a flash of ginger and white from his left, and a loud bang as something hit the front of the car. "SHIT!" yelled Thompson, as blood appeared on the windscreen. He braked and the car skidded, out of control, mounting the kerb and careering into the wooden gatepost of a neat 1930s white-fronted house. There was a metallic crack as the car hit the gate and then a low brick wall, the entire length of which promptly fell backwards into the garden, demolishing a decorative line of foxgloves.

The impact threw Thompson forward with a lurch, and he felt his body lift out of his seat. His head hit the windscreen with a dull smack. He fell back and clutched his brow. Blood started to run down into his eyes. He felt sick and dizzy, and there was a sharp pain in his chest where his abdomen had hit the small wooden wheel. He could see the bonnet of the car was open, and a jet of hot steam was hissing from the engine. With great effort, he forced the door open, pulled himself out of the car, and looked up and down the road, which was completely empty of people.

Thompson staggered to the front of the car, and took in the wrecked vehicle and the fallen wall. He breathed in and felt another sharp pain. Broken rib, he thought, Shit. Breathing shallowly, he sat down on the side of the wall, now facing the sky, and looked into the road. There, lying still, was the half-flattened body of a cat. Next to it, his shattered number plate, with writing upon it. His vision blurred, as he tried to focus from three yards distant. He could just make out the words in neat black marker, THOMPSON.. BUTCHER'S.. PUSSY.

Reading this, a chill ran through him, nothing to do with the misuse of the apostrophe. He was being irrational, he told himself, it couldn't possibly say that. His head was splitting. He pulled himself up and looked into his wing-mirror, which had twisted round to face forward. A garish bloodied ghoul looked back at him. He was shocked, and his intake of breath caused another intense spasm of pain in his chest. Then all the light in the world was sucked into a deep drain, and consciousness deserted him.

[End Part Eight]