if he's posing a danger to himself or the general public.’
Mr Buckley rubbed his eyes. ‘Doctor. I'm not sure I'm making myself clear here. This is a situation I really struggle to talk about. But my son, Rick, who you've treated all his life, has been through a hard time lately. Ten months ago, he was beaten senseless by a total nutter and then falsely accused and arrested for rape. Since these events have happened, he's hardly left his bedroom, let alone the house. He's lost his job. He's lost contact with his friends. He's become moody and uncommunicative with his mother and myself. I'm worried about his mental health and his physical safety. I've asked him to come and see you, but, as I've already mentioned, he won't leave his room, let alone the house. So, clearly, he's suffering some form of mental illness. So, please, won't you come out and see him?’
Dr Carter blinked. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Buckley, but I can't go out and see your son on your say-so unless he's being aggressive or posing a danger. Is he being aggressive or posing a danger?’
Mr Buckley said, ‘No.’
‘Then I'm afraid I can't come out and see him. You'll have to get him to come here.’
Mr Buckley said, ‘Christ.’
Dr Carter blinked. ‘There's no need to be aggressive.’
Mr Buckley left.
Poor old Mr Buckley. He came in to the hospital to see me last night and stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped before him. He didn't speak, but I knew he was wishing me better.
Mrs Buckley never came with him. Obviously. She's dead.
Even after everything that's happened, I feel sorry for the Buckleys. All they ever did was love their son. And they used to buy me stuff for birthdays and Christmas. Mrs Buckley used to talk to me while she did the weeding in her front garden. In fact, before Jed got me too scared of axe-murderer-psycho-killers to go anywhere near their side of the square, I used to spend ages following her around and asking her questions. Unlike my father, she was never too busy to answer, and, unlike Cerys, she never shouted she was busy, Jesus, get out of my face. Sometimes, now, lying here, I wonder if I could have helped them: Broken Buckley only ever wanted someone to be kind to him, someone to make him feel better. I could have done that. I could have been his friend. Archie sees it differently. He sits and he holds my hands and I feel his thoughts flooding through me: Fucking Rick Buckley Bastard. Fucking bastard. I should have had him put away. But Archie could never have done that, because once Mr Buckley stopped talking about Broken, Archie never gave Broken a second thought. Once the novelty of his situation wore off, none of us did. We all just stopped thinking about him. We all just got on with our lives.
Then, suddenly, he reappeared.
It happened towards the end of the summer holidays fourteen months after Bob Oswald attacked him. Jed was thirteen and Skunk had just turned eleven. They had spent most of that summer holed up in Jed's bedroom playing Star Wars on Xbox, but, occasionally, they would venture out so Jed could smoke. As Drummond Square – with its four sides of houses facing in on each other – didn't have anywhere to hide his habit from Cerys (whose cigarettes he was stealing), the best place for Jed to smoke was down Shamblehurst Lane South, a long, winding overgrown path that ran from the One Stop to the train station via the Hedge End Household Waste Recycling Centre. Archie once told Skunk that the only reason the houses on the far side of the square were Housing Association and not privately owned like the rest of the square was because their gardens backed on to the Recycling Centre. Skunk hadn't known what Housing Association meant. She asked Archie to explain. He said Housing Association properties were rented dirt cheap to people who couldn't afford to buy their own houses, and the reason the planners had made these properties Housing Association was because no one in their right mind would buy a house that backed on to a rubbish dump.
Across the room, Cerys had laughed, which was unusual for Cerys. Skunk asked why she was laughing. Cerys nodded in Archie's direction and said no one in their right mind would buy a house opposite a row of Housing Association properties that could be rented dirt cheap to scum like the Oswalds.
Skunk had thought they were both talking rubbish. The dump was cool, and so was Shamblehurst Lane South. There were always loads of fallen branches to use in light-sabre battles with Jed, and people often walked their dogs there, which meant she sometimes got to pet one. It was also where she and Jed met Dillon.
He was riding his bike, but it wasn't his bike, it was a bike that had been left outside the One Stop. It was far too big for Dillon, so he was weaving all over the path. He nearly ran Jed over.
‘Watch yourself,’ Jed told him.
‘Watch yourself yourself,’ Dillon said, and then fell over. Skunk couldn't tell if he'd ripped his jeans when he'd fallen, or if they'd already been ripped. They were so big on his hips that they practically hung off his buttocks. His Calvin Klein boxers were worn like a badge of pride, as was his pale pink hoodie. Glowering from underneath it, Dillon had scraggy blond hair and bucky-beaver teeth. His skin was freckled and greasy, and his knuckles were bleeding from falling over. He held them out towards them. ‘Look what you made me do.’
Jed blew smoke out through his nostrils. ‘Didn't make you do anything. Not my fault you can't ride your bike.’
‘Not my bike. I nicked it.’
‘Stealing's bad.’ Skunk knew this. Archie had told her. Cerys had told her. And she'd been taught it at school.
‘Shut your face, dick-splat.’
‘You shut your own face, twat-head.’
‘Both of you shut your faces.’ Jed stepped closer to the bike. ‘Where'd you nick it?’
‘Just outside the One Stop.’
‘Aren't there cameras at the One Stop?’
‘Duh. That's why I put my hood up.’
Jed nodded his approval, then offered Dillon a drag on his cigarette. Dillon said cheers and took it. Skunk could tell Dillon didn't smoke much, because he didn't take it all the way back the way Jed said you were meant to: he just sort of inhaled, kept his mouth shut for a second, then puffed out a big grey cloud. Jed took his cigarette back, but Dillon's blood had stained the filter, so Jed heeled it and put his hands on the bike's handlebars. ‘Couldn't you nick one more your size?’
‘Didn't nick it cos I wanted it. Nicked it cos I could.’ Dillon wiped his knuckles on long grass. ‘Who're you, anyway?’
‘My name's Jed. And this is Skunk, my little sister.’
‘I'm Dillon,’ Dillon said. ‘Skunk's a crap name for a girl, though, ain't it? What happened? Did she stink when she was a baby?’
‘No,’ Jed told him. ‘Our mum liked Skunk Anansie.’
‘And anyway,’ Skunk said to change the subject, ‘Dillon ain't much better. Where's Zebedee and Florence?’
‘Yeah,’ Jed laughed. ‘Where's your roundabout and Dougal?’
Dillon looked from one Cunningham to the other. ‘What the fuck are you two on about?’
Jed took the bike from Dillon and tried to pull a wheelie before Skunk could admit they both watched The Magic Roundabout on Children's BBC. It was then that the bike's owner saw them.
‘Oi. You little wankers. Give me my fucking bike back.’
He was a big bloke with a shaved head. He was running towards them. His belly heaved with the motion, and his two bags of shopping knocked against his legs.
‘Give it back,’ he yelled. ‘I'll kill you.’
Before Skunk knew what was happening, Jed had climbed off the bike and was running in the direction of the Shamblehurst Barn Public House. She turned round to ask Dillon where Jed was going, but he had run off as well. In their absence, the bike remained standing of its own accord for a second,