Jog On Fat Barry by Kevin Cotter Read Free Book Online Page A

was outside, and when her dad was done, she came in and helped Róisín clean up the mess. Róisín said they never talked: they cried a lot, but they never talked. Róisín had just turned eleven, and had been getting fucked by her dad off and on ever since.

    Chelsea played away to Wolves. Madden and me were drunk on a train hurtling towards oblivion. It had been three days since I’d walked away from Róisín. I could still see her, it wasn’t hard to do, I only had to close my eyes and there she was, sitting at the bandstand, the tears running down her face. I hated her, and I hated the world, and I took that hate out on a boy who never did a thing to me: Darren Jacks; he was thirteen.
    The judge said society was fed up with hooligans like Madden and me. Said he was locking us up and throwing away the key. Two months later Róisín had the baby. It was a Saturday. She named the little girl, Jade. Dad told me she stepped off the platform at Camden Town the following week: half an hour after she had smothered Jade. The train driver told police there hadn’t been enough time to stop, and the coroner’s inquest stated mitigating circumstance, with postnatal depression playing a leading part. I bought Róisín a coffin spray with some of the money I’d been saving: Forget-me-nots had always been her favourite flowers.

    I looked at Jackie Pepper and Harry the Syrup, at Big Pat and Kelly Day, at Jimmy King and Frankie Toast. I had no words of wisdom for them: was in no position to give any even if I did. I had walked away and killed the only thing that ever really meant anything to me, Rosy: too frightened at five to say boo; too worldly wise at eleven to think anyone would care. Rosy was gone now and forever, but the Father was giving me a second chance, in his own roundabout way, to stop something that I’d been unable to do back then. I knew what I had to do: knew what had to be done. I saw the man through the steam; could see him waiting in the corner for me.

    I parked the car by the canal and popped the boot. It was early Christmas morning and still dark. A full moon hid behind dark clouds. The sack was difficult to lift out and twelve stone hit the ground with a thud. I dragged it to the water’s edge, and then went back to the car. The paving stone was easier to carry. I used a mallet to break it in half. Then I put the broken pieces inside the sack before tying it back up again. When I stood up to catch my breath, the bloke inside the sack suddenly moved and cried out. I couldn’t believe it. I had lamped him with that mallet two times. Hit him harder than I did the paving stone but he was still alive. He squirmed and whimpered. And it was sort of ironic when you thought about it. So much so I started to laugh. Because here he was making the exact same sounds that little girl he raped and murdered on the Heath must have.
    “Merry Christmas, slag,” I said, shoving the sack over the edge.
    It slid into the black water. The moon broke through the clouds, and, for a few moments, it was bright enough to see bubbles rising to the surface. Then the moon was gone again. The police arrived ten minutes later. Big Pat had made the call. He’d waited eighteen years to put me in it. Said time and again there were no hard feelings, but Big Pat had just been biding his time. I’d thrown his brother Darren out the window of a moving train, and no one in the Jacks family was ever going to forgive that.

    Sometimes, sitting here, alone, I miss things. Not that I’m complaining, I’d do what it was I did again; only, I miss things. Grass swaying in a wind that blew warmly, grass that seemed to surge like an ocean, and small birds rising out of it like flying fish. I miss seeing kites flapping high overhead; miss seeing kids splashing about in paddling pools; miss seeing dads teaching their boys the fundamentals of football.
    “Here you are, son! On me head! On me head!”
    Two boys. Best mates. Sat on a park bench. Washing