In Search of Adam Read online

  Fancy a cuppa? They had turned their backs and were wobbling away towards Mrs Hodgson’s (Number 2). I wanted to shout and tell them to stop. But I couldn’t. I was being invisible.

  I sat. Back to the wall. As still as a statue. I wanted to yell. I wanted them to tell me when Eddie was coming back, but instead I let them carry on walking. They kept on walking.

  I stood up. Legs against the wall. I began to follow them. A tiny mouse detective. Squeak squeak. Mrs Clark stopped. She turned towards me. She looked straight at me. I stood perfectly still. Mrs Hodgson turned and looked at me too. What’s the time Mr Wolf? I stood perfectly still. Rooted. Like a statue. Mrs Clark boomed laughter. Harsh. Throaty. Mrs Hodgson snorted a half hoot. Then they carried on towards Number 2. Wibble wobble. They swished their skirts and shuffled their slippered feet along the grey slabs. They turned back every few steps. Still. Still as a statue. What’s the time Mr Wolf? I stayed like a statue. Rooted to the grey paving slabs. Just opposite the lamppost that flamed outside of my mother’s house. I didn’t move. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

  They built a park. Someone built a park. For all the kids from the estate. Somewhere safe for us to hang out. Keep the local bairns off the street corners. It was over the Coast Road. At the far side of the other estate. Next to the Scout hut. Apparently. There was a slide. Six swings. A sand pit. And. A wigwam-shaped climbing frame. It was in the local paper. A free paper called The Guardian. Apparently. If you stood on the climbing frame. Right at the top. Then. You could see the sea sea sea. It said so on the front of the paper. There was a picture next to the writing. It was of Paul Hodgson (Number 2). He was holding on with one arm only. Leaning backwards. Right at the top. He was brave.

  I cut out the photograph of Paul Hodgson on the wigwam climbing frame. Cut it out with my scissors that made a wavy edge. I put it in my parka pocket. I walked over to the park. Took myself across the Coast Road. Looked left. Looked right. Looked left again. Walked. Looked into the houses on the other estate. They were like the houses in Disraeli Avenue. But different.

  I knew about colours. I knew about the colours of doors. I knew about all of the houses in Disraeli Avenue. I had memorised them. I knew the combination. Thirteen had red front doors. Seven had green front doors. Five had blue front doors. Seven had yellow front doors. The garages matched the front doors. Except for Number 17. Mr Lewis had a yellow front door and a green garage. I didn’t know why.

  The colours of the doors on the other estate were different. Different order of colours. But. But the houses looked the same. It wasn’t right. It was complicated. Too complicated. I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t cope. My head was twirling. Couldn’t make sense of it. The houses looked the same. They had to be the same. It didn’t make sense.

  I wanted to get to the park. But. But the colours of the doors were stopping me. Solution. I walked along the street with my eyes closed. With my hands in front of me. Counting steps to lampposts. Thirty-seven. Trying to stay in a straight line. One foot in front of the other. A continuous line of steps.

  I made it. It took a long time. But. I made it. And without walking into any people or lampposts.

  There was a gate into the park. It was open. There were lots of children there. Noisy. Squealing children. I saw Karen and Lucy Johnson (Number 19). Paul Hodgson (Number 2) was there too. With the Pescott twin lads (Number 27) and Sarah Simpson from Number 16 Gladstone Street. They were sitting under the ladder up to the slide. They were sitting on the grass. Close. Talking. Laughing. Paul Hodgson had a stopwatch. His nana had bought it for his last birthday. He took it to school. Timed everything. Had it confiscated twice by Mrs Stouter.

  I walked over. Across the grass. Around the daisies. Over daisies. Careful not to squash any. Careful. Careful. Past the swings. Five of the six were being used. Past the wigwam climbing frame. Four boys and two girls were at different heights. Round the sandpit. No one was in it. Rumours of dogs and toilets had already spread across the estate. I stopped next to them. Didn’t speak. Karen Johnson looked up at me. She giggled. Then whispered something to Paul Hodgson. She put her two hands around his ear when she spoke. In case the words escaped. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

  We’re trying to break the record for the longest snog. You wanna try?

  Paul Hodgson was talking to me. He was asking me to join in. I didn’t speak. Just sat on the floor next to them. Slightly out of their circle. Like a pointy nose on the side of a perfectly round face. Cross-legged. Listening. But not really understanding. I was reading the writing that was under the slide. Sarah woz ’ere. And a picture of an egg looking over a wall. Karen Johnson told me to pay attention.

  It was serious. Record-breaking serious.

  The girls were given numbers. Karen Johnson. One. Sarah Simpson. Two. Lucy Johnson. Three. Jude Williams. Four. I was number four. Then. The boys were given numbers. Paul Hodgson. One. Simon Pescott. Two. Graeme Pescott. Three. I didn’t understand.

  I sat still. Playing a game. Making friends. Trying really really hard not to say anything daft. Had best keep quiet. Ssh Jude. Ssh. Paul Hodgson was in charge. He was going to say two numbers. The first two that came into his head. Then. Then those two people would have to kiss. A real kiss. He would time them with his stopwatch. Make it all official.

  First.

  Numbers one and one.

  Stand up Paul Hodgson and Karen Johnson. Simon Pescott held the stopwatch in his right hand. And Karen Johnson’s Hubba Bubba in his left.

  GO.

  They went on and on and on. No tongues. I could see no tongues. Graeme Pescott stopped them after 5 minutes 29 seconds. He was bored. I wasn’t. I liked watching them.

  Next.

  Numbers two and two.

  Stand up Sarah Simpson and Simon Pescott. They didn’t wait for the GO. They used tongues. They were boyfriend and girlfriend. Paul Hodgson had his stopwatch. Simon Pescott put his hand up Sarah Simpson’s shirt. She started squirming. Tickled. Giggling. They stopped kissing. 4 minutes 17 seconds.

  Next.

  Numbers 4 and 3.

  Me.

  Stand up Jude Williams and Graeme Pescott. We stood up. Paul Hodgson let out a cheer.

  GO.

  I put my lips onto Graeme Pescott’s. I held my breath. He pressed his lips against mine. Hard. He put his arms around my waist.

  Pulled me to him. He was smaller than me. He was little. I needed to breathe. He tried to push his little spiky tongue into my mouth. Tried to push push push it in. I needed to breathe. Quick. Quick. I needed to breathe.

  I pulled back.

  I gasped for air. Gasp gasp gasp. 1 minute 15 seconds.

  Everyone laughed. Rolled around giggling. Paul Hodgson. Lucy Johnson. Karen Johnson. Sarah Simpson. Simon Pescott. Rolling round and round and round the grass. My cheeks were burning. Red. Red. Red. I felt faint. Wanted to sit down. Couldn’t.

  You’re supposed to breathe. You fuckin virgin.

  Graeme Pescott was angry. We hadn’t beaten any records. I had made him look silly. He was angry angry angry. He was going to punch me. Punch punch punch.

  I turned. I ran. Out of the park. Through the open gate. Past the garages and doors that were the wrong colours. Back towards my mother’s house. Quick quick. As fast as I could. Across the Coast Road. No left. No right. Quick quick. I never looked back.

  I stopped running when I got to Disraeli Avenue. When I saw the white sign with the black letters. I stopped next to it. Bent down.

  Ran my finger over the letters. They were real. They were still there. I was in the right place. I had found the right street. My throat hurt. Really hurt. I thought that I was dying. It hurt that much that I thought that I was dying. It was serious. I had been kissing. I had caught a kissing disease. Caught rabies. Or maybe leprosy. Or maybe cancer. I was going to die. I was going to die. Kissing made you die. No one had ever told me that.

  In my dreams you’re there.

  At the top of the slide.

  Waving
me to join you.

  One kiss. One kiss.

  A small price to pay.

  Number four. Number four.

  A kiss. A kiss.

  Adam.

  A boy.

  Adam.

  A man.

  You wave to me.

  In the darkness of night.

  You tell me to come and join you.

  Her bag of secrets. Her bag of her. Still buried. Untouched. Waiting.

  DFT 678T GYS 606S

  EVS 343V POK 776T

  No NPK 911V

  GOY 443V RTS 446T

  KON 908V GOT 654V

  GBT 777S FVX 404W

  No FDT 609X

  No PHC 665X

  No MYG 553W

  DEW 664T No

  GOP 143W MTR 320X

  CWS 694V LPY 529W

  No SRT 744S

  PLB 533X KHC 807R

  No No

  FKT 264R FFH 335V

  My green notebook rested on the windowsill of my bedroom. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I noted what I could see from my window. I stretched and strained my neck, then my head and then my eyes. I couldn’t see all the houses. Not from Number 9 Disraeli Avenue.

  So I would walk. Up and down. Up and down the grey slabs. Stopping. Crouching. Resting my precious green notebook onto my knee and noting. Always scribbling and noting. Checking. Double.

  Triple. Quadruple. Checking. No room for errors. Precise. True. A notebook full of truth.

  RED CAR. DFT 678T

  RED CAR. GYS 606S

  RED CAR. EVS 343V

  BLACK CAR. POK 776T

  NO CAR.

  WHITE CAR. NPK 911V

  BLACK CAR. GOY 443V

  GREEN CAR. RTS 446T

  YELLOW CAR. KON 908V

  RED CAR. GOT 654V

  WHITE CAR. GBT 777S

  MAROON CAR. FVX 404W

  NO CAR.

  YELLOW CAR. FDT 609X

  NO CAR.

  RED CAR. PHC 665X

  NO CAR.

  GREEN CAR. MYG 553W

  YELLOW CAR. DEW 664T

  NO CAR.

  WHITE CAR. GOP 143W

  BLUE CAR. MTR 320X

  WHITE VAN. CWS 694V

  BLUE CAR. LPY 529W

  NO CAR.

  RED CAR. SRT 744S

  YELLOW CAR. PLB 533X

  BROWN CAR. KHC 807R

  NO CAR.

  NO CAR.

  BLUE CAR. FKT 264R

  GREY CAR OR MAYBE SILVER. FFH 335V

  I came home from collecting. I had been at it all day. Sat on a bright red deckchair. My father had found it outside our house. After the Street Party for the Royal Wedding. I liked the red deckchair. It made me comfy while I worked. While I collected. I had waited on the corner of Disraeli Avenue. With my green notebook. And a pencil. Keeping note. Making notes. Collecting.

  Rita was in my mother’s house. Her friend Bet was there too. I didn’t know Bet. I hadn’t seen her before. She wasn’t from the estate. She was from Wallsend. Rita used to work with her. Bet was in my mother’s front room. Lying back on the flowery sofa. With her blue stilettos up on the sofa. The heel was digging into the arm rest. It would make a hole. I wanted to tell her to take her shoes off. I would get the blame for the hole. I didn’t speak. Her long smooth legs stretched out. I couldn’t see any hairs. She wasn’t hairy like Rita. She was smoking a cigarette and Rita was pouring from a plastic bottle of cider. Into a china mug. My mother’s best china.

  I stood in the doorway. That’s Bill’s fuckin strange bairn. Bet tilted her head to look up at me. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled. A nice smile. Showed her perfectly straight yellow teeth.

  Bet had big hair. Piled on the top of her head. A monument of yellow hair. Constructed with nipping hair pins and lacquer. It didn’t flop. It was perfect. I wanted to touch it. To see if it was soft. But. I didn’t. I didn’t dare to. Bet’s eyes were painted with bright blue eye shadow and a dark blue mascara. Her eyelashes curled up to the ceiling. They were so long. Looked like spider’s legs. Her skin was orange. Like Rita’s. Sunbed orange. But. But she wasn’t fat. Her legs were long and smooth. No dimples. She wore the most beautifully shiny gold skirt. It shimmered under the light and it stuck to her thighs. I thought that it might have been painted on. Or. She had been bent up and her bottom dipped into a pot of shimmering gold paint. Her top was white. You could see her black lace bra through it. She was pretty.

  But.

  She said something. I had no idea what. When she spoke her words were wrapped in gravel. Sharp edges. Rough. Bumpy in the wrong places. Difficult to understand. Too difficult to follow. Over the water accent. Not Geordie. Different.

  Fuck off Jude.

  I understood Rita. She told me that she didn’t want her friend having to look at my ugly face. I went to the bottom red step. Back against the wall. Knees to my chest. Arms wrapped around my shins. I listened. I liked to listen. I tried to decode. To interpret the gravel-filled words. She was exotic. She was different from anyone that I had ever met. She was practically foreign.

  Apparently. Mr Lancaster (Number 7). He lived next door with Mrs Lancaster. Our garages joined together. Bet knew him. I think that she said that he was one of her punters. I didn’t understand. He went to her house. Every Thursday. After work. Told Mrs Lancaster that he was working late. He was. Bet said that he was working late. Working late giving her a good seeing to. I didn’t understand what she meant. She said that he paid her sixty quid. Apparently. The pleasure was all hers. I didn’t understand what she was saying. Rita did. Rita was booming. The house was full of the sound of her witch cackle. She was happy. She liked Bet. She liked what Bet told her. I didn’t understand. Bet must have been a butcher like Mr Lancaster. She didn’t look like a butcher. I knew three butchers. Mr Lancaster. Mr Dewstep and Mr Dewstep’s Saturday boy. Bet didn’t look like any of them. I was confused. I didn’t understand.

  Bet went before my father came in from work. She caught the 5.28pm bus to Wallsend. Rita didn’t want any awkward questions. I was still sitting on the bottom red step when Bet left. Bet said bye to me. Rita said that I wasn’t to tell my father about Bet. I had nothing to tell. Hadn’t understood what I had heard. Rita didn’t tell me off. She didn’t hit me for listening. I liked Bet.

  Later when I was in my room. I heard Rita talking on the phone. She was talking to Mrs Hodgson (Number 2). Telling her all about Bet working for Mr Lancaster. Saying it was to go no further. Hush hush. Whirling. Twirling. Round and round. Apparently. Mrs Lancaster was tight lipped in more ways than one. And. Mr Lancaster liked using his big chopper in his whore’s meat. Rita found her story funny. Really funny. She was a comedian. Ha ha ha. Cackle cackle cackle. An evil laugh. I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t understand what she was telling Mrs Hodgson. But. But it was to go no further. Another secret. Another hush hush. I didn’t understand. Rita had worked with Bet. I wondered if Rita used to work for Mr Lancaster too. I wondered if she used to be a butcher too. I didn’t ask her. I dared not ask her.

  NUMBER 1. MR AND MRS NORTH. RED CAR. DFT 678T. NUMBER 2. MRS HODGSON. RED CAR. GYS 606S. NUMBER 3. MR AND MRS DRAKE. RED CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. EVS 343V. NUMBER 4. MR AND MRS BLACK. BLACK CAR. MATCHES THEIR NAME. POK 776T. NUMBER 5. MRS GRANT. NO CAR. NUMBER 6. MR AND MRS WOOD. WHITE CAR. NPK 911V. NUMBER 7. MR AND MRS LANCASTER. BLACK CAR. GOY 443V. NUMBER 8. MR AND MRS DOUGLAS.GREEN CAR. RTS 446T. NUMBER 9. BILL AND JUDE WILLIAM. YELLOW CAR. KON 908V. NUMBER 10. MR AND MRS RUSSELL. RED CAR. MATCHES DOOR. GOT 654V. NUMBER 11. MR AND MRS SYMONS. WHITE CAR. GBT 777S. NUMBER 12. MR AND MRS WARD. MAROON CAR. FVX 404W. NUMBER 13. MRS THOMAS. NO CAR. NUMBER 14. MR AND MRS CLARK. YELLOW CAR. SAME AS MRS JOHNSON’S BUT SHINIER. FDT 609X. NUMBER 15. MR AND MRS SHEPHARD. NO CAR. NUMBER 16. MR AND MRS SMITH. RED CAR. PHC 665X. NUMBER 17. MR LEWIS. NO CAR. NUMBER 18. MR AND MRS ANDREWS. GREEN CAR. MYG 553W. NUMBER 19. MR AND MRS JOHNSON. YELLOW CAR. SAME AS MR CLARK’S. DEW 664T. NUMBER 20. MRS CURTIS. NO CAR. NUMBER 21. MR AND MRS ROBERTS. WHITE CAR. GOP 143W. NUM
BER 22. MR AND MRS WALLACE. BLUE CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. MTR 320X. NUMBER 23. MR AND MRS SMITH. WHITE VAN. CWS 694V. NUMBER 24. MR AND MRS WALKER. BLUE CAR. LPY 529W. NUMBER 25. MR AND MRS SCOTT. NO CAR. NUMBER 26. MR AND MRS BRUCE. RED CAR. SRT 744S. NUMBER 27. MR AND MRS PESCOTT. YELLOW CAR. PLB 533X. NUMBER 28. MR AND MRS STEVENSON. BROWN CAR. KHC 807R. NUMBER 29. MR AND MRS DORAN. NO CAR. NUMBER 30. AUNTY MAGGIE. NO CAR. NUMBER 31. MR AND MRS GIBBONS. BLUE CAR. MATCHES FRONT DOOR. FKT 264R. NUMBER 32. MR AND MRS ALEXANDER. GREY CAR OR MAYBE SILVER. FFH 335V.