Nine Days Read Online Free Page B

‘As much as I’d love to stand around taking tea with you ladies, I have my own ha’pennies to earn.’ I try to walk past them but Cray grabs me by one arm and Mac takes the other. The parcel of meat falls to the ground. Again. By the time I get home it’s going to be mince.
    ‘Actually,’ says Pike. ‘There’s a job going where my dad is. On the line. You should pop your head in, Kipper.’
    Mac shakes his head. ‘A problem with that plan, Mr Pike.’
    ‘Ah so,’ says Pike. ‘The notice says cattle ticks need not apply.’
    Cray starts laughing.
    ‘This is one of them boys?’ says Manson. ‘Master Mick MacMichael of Ballymicksville, eh?’
    ‘Keep up, Sydney,’ I say.
    ‘Shall I tell you the story of Kip the drip?’ says Pike. ‘It’s a long and sad tale that reminds me of a storybook. Who wasthat writer? The old timer, Kipper? He was, I believe, a— what you would call a proddy dog. English. Name escapes me.’
    ‘That’d be Dickens,’ I say. ‘Nobhead.’
    ‘Ah yes. Just like Grape Hexpectorations, our story starts with the family in somewhat reduced circumstances on account of the sudden demise of Kipper’s old man. Who dropped off the tram in Swan Street somewhat the worse for a whisky or three and hit his head. Blam, splashed his brains all over the read. A sad end.’ Pike shows his teeth. ‘Goodnight Josephine.’
    I can feel Mac’s and Cray’s sticky fingers pressing the flesh of my arms. My heart’s racing like it’s going to pop through my chest. I don’t wriggle. I stand dead still.
    ‘Those shortsighted men in full and gainful employment who neglect to make provisions for their families in the case of accidental death or dismemberment deserve what they get,’ says Mac, whose father is in insurance.
    ‘Yeah,’ says Cray.
    ‘I see the elocution lessons are paying off, Cray,’ I say. ‘Any day now you’ll come out with a full sentence.’
    ‘Funny,’ says Cray.
    ‘A bit of respect, Kipper.’ Mac kicks the back of my calf with a thick toecap. It’ll come up in a beaut bruise tomorrow, but right now it hurts like there won’t be one. I turn my head to the side and deliver a huge yawn into my shoulder.
    ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say. ‘Don’t mind me. As well as a face only a mother could love, you’ve got a real knack for storytelling.’
    ‘With your permission, Fishface,’ says Pike, but all at once I am no longer here in the lane with these gorillas but backin the kitchen those first days when I knew we would never see Dad again. I had been reading that morning before he left, sunk so deep in a book I barely looked up to see him go. His hat would’ve been pulled down over his ears like always, satchel in his hands, nails black from the ink, and when he rested his hand on the top of my head, I barely gave him the smallest glance before he went to work and then that night Ma crying, in shock the doctor said, and Connie red-eyed and running up and down the hall with tea and hot washers and tablets from the chemist’s. I remember the edge of Dad’s hat had some tiny black hairs stuck to the brim. The barber hadn’t brushed him down properly. I thought we should buy him a new hat for the funeral because he wouldn’t have liked to rest through eternity with those little hairs stuck there but I didn’t dare ask Ma, her face was so white before his Mass, and now he’s under the ground and it’s much much too late.
    Pike is smirking now and the new boy, Manson, spits a big gob right next to my boot with remarkable precision for such a hefty hoik, clear and frothy white. He smiles. By that I mean the corners of his mouth go up. Cray’s fingers are hot on my arms and I have just one chance and I’m going to take it. No sense worrying about future repercussions if I’m not alive to enjoy them. I lean a little forward. On the bottom of Cray’s chin, a few stray hairs are peeking through.
    ‘Cray,’ I say. ‘You’re holding me awful tight and awful close. Are you