CHAPTERNINETEEN
George arrived home to find everything in darkness. Even the lights on the Christmas tree were switched off. There was a smell of fresh baking, but in the kitchen, all signs of cooking were cleared away. Upstairs was silent, and in his room, Owen was asleep on the put-you-up.
Disappointed, George shrugged. He’d wanted to tell Owen what a great evening he’d had, but never mind. Tomorrow would do. He settled under his duvet and contentedly sighed, thinking of Millie.
‘Are we moving down to the sitting room tomorrow?’
‘You are awake.’
‘Yep. Did you invite Millie?’
‘Yes.’ George smiled to himself, remembering how pleased Millie had been with the invitation. Christmas was going to be great. Except now he really had to explain about his father. He couldn’t risk Millie meeting one of the gang members calling in for some free Christmas grub without knowing who and what they were. He had to tell her the truth.
‘When’s she coming?’
‘Tomorrow, at the end of her shift. I thought you and me could spend the evening at the pub and bring her home after. She wants to go to the midnight mass at St Luke’s on the way.’
‘You can count me out of that,’ Owen mumbled from beneath his bedding.
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe in that holy Joe shit.’
‘I know. Neither do I, but I’ll still go to church on Christmas Eve with Millie, if she wants.’
Owen shifted under his bedding and said, ‘That’s because she’s your girlfriend. She’s not mine.’
George considered this for a moment. It was good Owen accepted the situation, but bad if he didn’t want to come to the pub or the church. Was he retreating into his inner self again? George shifted on to his side and tried to see what Owen was doing. The shadowing hump was still, lifeless.
Deciding he’d got to do something, George said, ‘I discovered this evening she’s Catholic, same as Mum.’
Owen grunted. ‘Well, good for her, but it’s not for me. Okay?’
‘All right.’ George decided it was pointless to continue. Owen had made up his mind, so perhaps it was best if they both slept on it. Maybe, George thought again, unable to resist planning, maybe if he and Owen did something together tomorrow during the day… just the two of them. Mates having a good time, relaxing, putting their troubles out of mind, something to dig the hermit crab out of his shell, before he got too deeply embedded… maybe… he yawned, unable to fill in the gaps as his brain slowed and sleep took over.
A very fewshort hours later, George was woken by chaos. Someone was banging on the front door. Blearily, he checked the alarm clock. Just gone five a.m. Only one thing this could be. Immediately his heart started pumping adrenalin around his system. Completely awake, he swore, under his breath, switched on the bedside lamp and leapt from his bed, yelling, ‘Get up, Owen, quick!’
Already partially woken by the noise, Owen uncoiled himself from the camp bed and sat on its creaking edge. Awake but confused, he asked, ‘What’s happening?’
From downstairs, splintering sounds and shouting voices gave the impression of an invasion in full progress.
‘It’s a police raid.’ George replied.
He watched Owen blinking and rubbing his eyes, knowing if he had not known already, his friend was not a morning person. Then with another round of yelling and banging from below, George scrabbled on the floor for his discarded clothes, saying with as much urgency as he could muster, ‘Come on Owen, don’t just sit there. Get up! Get dressed. They’re breaking the front door off its fucking hinges.’
‘Why?’ Bemused and shivering in nothing but his boxers, Owen sat watching while George pulled on his jeans.
‘What’s it going to take to get you to move?’ George barked, running out of patience. ‘I told you it’s the police! You know what my dad does for a living.’
‘Ye, but couldn’t they press the doorbell?’
George threw up his hands in exasperation, uncertain if Owen was being ironic or simply naïve. He said, ‘They don’t work that way, Owen. Now stop frigging faffing around and get your clothes on. The bastards will be up here any minute, and it’s best to have your kecks on when you greet the law.’
At last, Owen obediently stirred himself, retrieving his neatly folded jeans from the top of the chest of drawers.
George grabbed his t-shirt from the floor, dragging it on over his head before searching for his sweatshirt and remembering his embryonic plan from the night before. This, he thought, was definitely not the sort of boy’s day out he’d had in mind.
Like something out of a crime drama on television, the door burst open just as George was pulling on the sweatshirt and Owen was putting one leg into his jeans.
