Little Bird. Camilla Way

place are you?’ he’d asked, amazed.

      Frank stared at his shoes and shook his head unconvincingly. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Course not.’

      Jimmy chucked his fag butt into the urinal and slapped him hard on the back. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he grinned. ‘Stick with me, mate. You’ll see: this place is going to be a fucking breeze.’ He held out his hand and Frank reached for it, doubtfully. ‘Jimmy Skinner,’ said Jimmy, grasping Frank’s hand.

      ‘Frank Auvrey,’ said Frank.

      Their friendship had been an unlikely one. By the end of that first week it was abundantly clear not only to Frank, but to the other kids and to the teachers too that in the pecking order of Morden Comprehensive, among the bullies and the geeks, the popular and the hated, the invisible and the lunatics, Jimmy would rule: Jimmy would be top dog. He wasn’t particularly cool or good-looking, but he possessed such an endearing combination of charm, confidence and wit (not to mention two notorious older brothers in the years above), that he was respected and liked by almost everyone he met.

      It was typical of Jimmy’s personality that while others might have been surprised by their friendship, it hadn’t crossed his mind for a second that it should be any other way. And while everyone else might have assumed that the benefits were all Frank’s, they were missing a crucial factor of the partnership: Jimmy needed Frank as much as Frank needed Jimmy. Whereas Frank’s fears and insecurities were on an impressively mammoth scale, encompassing as they did: accidental death, other people, nuclear war, unspecified future tragedy (including unemployment and homelessness), being murdered by a burglar while he slept, and his mother’s probable, eventual suicide, such things did not feature in Jimmy’s somewhat simpler outlook on life. Instead, his secret anxieties were more straightforward, and included such things as spiders, strange-looking food, and ghosts. Thus, Frank could afford to be admirably, reassuringly laissez-faire about his friend’s more manageable concerns while at the same time basking in the novelty of Jimmy’s absolute refusal to take anything much very seriously. Above all, however, the key to their friendship was a simple one: they made each other laugh.

      They’d met Eugene a few weeks later. They’d found him hanging by the hood of his jacket from a fence post not long after the last bell had rung one Tuesday afternoon. He had been trussed like a mental patient, his coat arms tied behind his back, his face a red, spitting ball of rage as he’d writhed and wriggled up there on the post, trying in vain to free himself. Jimmy and Frank had watched the kid struggle for a bit while they sucked on blueberry ice poles. Eventually they’d looked at each other, shrugged, and gently lowered him to the ground. The boy had stood before them, hiccuping and sniffing furiously, scrubbing at his eyes and nose with his stretched-out sleeves.

      They’d recognised him as the skinny, mixed-race kid who’d joined a different class to theirs at the start of term. He had a staggeringly uncool afro, and huge brown eyes with long lashes like a girl’s. There was something a bit pikey about him too – the sort of kid who Had Problems. He wore shit clothes and had an uncared-for look and there was something a bit mad and angry in his eyes, like he’d be a good laugh to wind up. In other words, he was the sort of kid who walked around practically begging to be hung by his hood from a fence post.

      ‘What’s your name?’ Jimmy had asked eventually.

      ‘Eugene Jones.’ Nobody said anything for a bit, and the kid had gazed at his shoes, his eyes filling with tears again. Frank had looked away, embarrassed.

      Finally Jimmy had gone over and patted him clumsily on the shoulder. ‘All right then,’ he’d said. ‘Pack it in now.’

      And to Frank’s surprise, Eugene did.

      ‘State of you,’ remarked Jimmy, impressed.

      The three boys looked down at Eugene’s stretched-out sleeves, the hole in his trouser knee, the skuffs of dirt and blood on his hands and face.

      ‘Yeh,’ agreed Eugene. ‘This kid called me a coon so I spat in his face. Then all his mates jumped me.’

      Jimmy emptied half a bag of Skips into his mouth and thought for a bit. ‘Your mum give you grief, will she?’ he asked, conversationally.

      ‘Ain’t got a mum,’ said Eugene. ‘Live at Eglington Lodge don’t I?’

      Oh. Foster kid, then. Probably a trick, thought Frank. Probably got a gang of mates round the corner who’re going to jump us any second. Frank wondered when they were going to get a move on. But Jimmy had stood rocking on his heels for a while, considering the situation. ‘Come on then,’ he’d said at last. ‘Might as well come back with us. My mum will sort you out.’

      The three had trailed out of the gates and just like that, on the walk over to Jimmy’s, it had happened, the way friendship does when you’re a kid; instantly and irrevocably. Jimmy and Frank were stuck with Eugene now, and he was stuck with them, and an understanding settled over them without them ever really thinking about it; an unspoken acceptance that it was the three of them now. Eugene dried his tears and followed them back to Jimmy’s house, back to the first and last real home he’d ever really love.

      Frank smiled as he rounded the corner onto the New Cross Road, the Hope and Anchor just visible in the distance. He stopped and found something to listen to on his iPod, then continued on his way.

      For Frank too, going round to the Skinner family’s pebble-dashed semi after school had been like stepping into a kind of heaven. Jimmy’s dad was a taxi driver, and outside their front door the black curves of his hackney cab had gleamed proudly from the kerb, infusing number 11 with a kind of authority and glamour cruelly lacking at Chrysanthemum House. Inside, it was noisy and messy and smelt of gravy. Jimmy and his five brothers and sisters all looked identical, with broad, good-natured faces, the same sandy hair, freckles, and small, keen blue eyes. Into the front room they would all pile, every day after school, all the brothers and the sisters and their assorted friends, squashed onto the three enormous sofas that lined the walls or sprawled out on the tufty orange rug, arguing and yelling and shoving each other out of the way. Jimmy’s mum would hand out endless plates of fish fingers and beans, and while he ate Frank would stare adoringly, from the corner of his eye, at Jimmy’s dad, immense and silent in his armchair after a hard day’s cabbying, his arms enormous and tattooed, his lips pursed and his eyes impenetrable while the telly blared and the gas fire burned.

      At 7pm exactly, Jimmy’s mum would rouse herself and say, ‘Right then, whoever ain’t one of mine can bugger off home now.’ The various friends and visitors and hangers-on would reluctantly peel themselves from the sofas and drift off into the night, back to wherever they’d come from, to somewhere else they’d much less rather be.

      And the same thing would happen every evening. Frank would wait patiently by the front door in his Parka while the hunt began. Because as soon as it got to five to seven Eugene would silently slip from the lounge to loiter somewhere else, hoping that the Skinners would forget all about sending him back to Eglington Lodge. It became a nightly ritual. All the brothers and sisters would tear around the house looking for him until finally he’d be found, wedged behind the kitchen door, or standing in the bath behind the shower curtain, or lying still and silent under Jimmy’s bed. Mrs Skinner would be called to haul him out from wherever he was and frogmarch him to the door to make sure he finally went. But then she would always hug him tightly, Jimmy’s mum. ‘You go straight on home now, love,’ she’d say, as she watched Eugene drag his feet down the front path. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? You’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you?’ And there’d be something anxious in the way she asked, as if she was afraid of never seeing him again. He’d had that affect on women, Eugene, even then.

      When Frank walked into the Anchor and saw Eugene standing alone at the bar he felt a brief and unnerving flash of shock at the disparity between the twelve-year-old kid he’d just been remembering, and the reality of the 25-year-old man he now saw before him. The intervening years had been good to Eugene, physically. The small, messy kid was now over six foot tall, his limbs grown lean and muscular, his face angular and handsome. But there was something about the difference between the two images, something that