My Kingdom for a Horse

By Sarah Huggins

Zack, 14, hasn't heard his own name for two years. Life is an everyday, endless blur of running meth to feed His habit, in return for a roof over his head and a daily kicking. When it all goes horribly wrong, that day in the park, Zack has a choice - he can continue the everyday or he can begin again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244211233

Book preview

My Kingdom for a Horse

My Kingdom for a Horse

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Huggins

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN #:978-0-244-21123-3

Lulu press, Inc

1

Every Day.

We’ve all got one.  The Every Day routine.  Most kids of my age are scrambling out of a warm, cosy bed, mum yelling to them to come down to breakfast, followed by the half-dressed run along the street, their open bags spilling their contents onto the chip and ketchup-streaked pavement as they run to catch their bus.  Is that you?  I did it for a while.

Some have it even better, rising in their posh, thickly carpeted bedrooms and slipping into the scorching power shower.  They wander down to the kitchen for a lazy breakfast before mummy backs the 4x4 out of the garage to drive them ten minutes down the road to greet their friends.  For me, that will never happen but I’m not even sure I would want it to.  They’re all wankers anyway. 

My Every Day.  It’s a little different.  Unique you might say.

Every day for me begins with a ferocious but ‘don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you this time,’ growl and a huge paw landing on my chest, accompanied by a long, glistening string of slobber.  It comes from His dog, the ugliest, nastiest beast you ever saw.  It stands over me, its foetid breath coming at me in waves.  I ignore it until I can’t.  He never hears it.  It’s always me.  Wearily, every morning, I tip myself onto the filthy, beer-stained lino (it’s only a mattress, I haven’t far to go), roll away from dog until I reach the door, where I pull myself up, throw on his lead and stagger down the three flights of stairs to let him relieve himself in the corner of what passes around here for a garden. 

Why do I do it?

Well it’s a good question with an equally valid answer.

I didn’t once.  Big mistake.  I ignored the thing.  Turned over and headed back to dreamland.  As I said, Big Mistake.  He cocked his leg and pissed all over me.  Never again.

Boy, that dog can piss.  I watch blearily as it balances perfectly on three legs, an arc of golden, steaming rain spattering on the mud.  Every day I count the seconds to see how long it can last.  The record is 45.  That’s a lot of piss.

And that’s my wake-up call.  6.15am on the dot. Every morning.  I know it’s 6.15 because I can see the church clock behind the flats.  Time to begin my Every Day.

He doesn’t even stir.  He won’t until I’ve got back later with the money.  Then he’ll begin his own Every Day.  Take the money and the stuff, fart, get up, meet ‘people’, get wasted, come back, sleep.  If I’m lucky, he won’t notice I’m there.  If I’m luckier, he won’t smack me round the head. 

Once dog has finished pissing for England, I head back upstairs to the bedsit that is ‘home’.  Always quiet, always creeping.  Don’t want to disturb him.  At the tap, I splash cold water on my face and smooth some over my hair in an attempt to make it look slightly less crap.  I use an old sock to rub at a ketchup stain from last night’s cold chips that I spotted a bloke chucking in the bin, on my top. 

My jeans have definitely seen better days.  They’re fraying at the bottom, are about an inch up my ankle and ingrained with the dirt of the streets.  The trainers, however, are my pride and joy.  Brand new Nikes.  I couldn’t believe it when I saw them lying on the grass in the park.  In the carrier bag and everything!  Must have been a lift gone wrong I reckon.  Their loss.  With these on my feet, I feel like a king!

I scan around the room, taking it all in.  He’s snoring on the couch as usual, mouth open, a sliver of dribble sliding down towards the sleeping bag.  It’s your typical ‘got it out of a skip after it has been sitting in the rain for several days’ sort of couch.  Beige/brown/shite.  Stuffing leaking out of it.  Littered with greasy kebab papers, cans, strands of tobacco and bits of tin foil.  There’s not much else in the room.  My mattress is in the corner behind the stand-alone cupboard that serves as a table. 

I glance at the bare floorboards beside him.  Bum.  No leftovers.  Sometimes there’s a bit of kebab left or a Mackie Ds but to be honest, the dog from hell usually cleans up after him.  It’s not like he gets his regular tin of Pedigree Chum.  Ah well, you win some you lose some. I pick up my rucksack and leave silently, closing the door behind me then jumping down the stairs three at a time and landing with a flying leap into the front entrance, making sure I don’t slip on the multitude of fliers and paraphernalia lying around.  I close the main door with a bang and step out into the early morning June sunshine.  That’s something I love about the world.  The weather’s the same whoever you are.  Even shitty kids like me can enjoy the sunshine for free.  Heaving a sigh of relief just to be out of His way, I turn in the direction of the skips with a spring in my step.  Breakfast.

Now the thing about skips is you’ve got to get there early.  Late at night in the dark is best but to be honest, the way I look, early morning is good enough.  Who’s going to notice a skinny white kid skanking about in the early morning rush hour?  Everyone’s too busy getting somewhere, continuing their Every Day. The early isn’t just about getting caught though, it’s also to beat the rest.  Have you any idea how many people rely on the food in skips to feed themselves and their families in this country?  I know the answer cos I’ve talked to plenty.  They’ve got family everywhere.  There are hundreds. I could write a book on it, if I could write.  100 Best Skips in England.  Best advice is, if you don’t get there early enough, someone else will have got the prizes.  There’s also the staff.  By and large, they know not to go near the back yard before 7.30 am.  They’re very aware of the importance of the skips and there’s always a kind one, probably because he or she has needed a skip meal before now, who makes sure wet and dry food are bagged separately.  I mean, who wants a pie that’s covered in strawberry yogurt?  We’ve all got standards!  So, same plan every day.  Get in before 7.30 and you’re home and dry, blind eyes being turned.  If you’re later than that, the fag breaks start.  After that, forget it.

The best skip by miles is the Co-op.  Everyone knows that.  Only two streets away.  Easy for a kid to get in at the back of the warehouse because that’s where the recycling bins are, so they’ve got to keep it open.   They keep the skips out of the way, around the corner from the milk cages. 

I reach the Co-op dead on 6.45.  I can still see the church clock.  A quick glance around tells me nobody’s watching and nobody’s in there.  Either I’ve arrived before the others or I’m too late.  Won’t know until I look.  Swiftly, I sidle down between the hedge and the warehouse wall, leaving my empty rucksack hidden out of view.  The yard stands still and today it looks like it’s the skip furthest away that’s the money shot.  Now’s the time to get the swagger on – saunter in the gates like you’re the friggin’ manager.  Casual glance over at the nearest skip, nah, closed.  Next, nah…the final one.  Bingo!  Open and full.  Just how we like it.  Keep cool, there’s no-one around.  Pull the first two bags out.  I give the first one a quick feel – if they’re squidgy I tend to put them back – no, this one feels good, lots of interesting shapes in there.  Two bags are enough.  With luck, there’ll be spoils in there to feed me all day.  No point being greedy.  As I said, that skip feeds a lot of people.  Casually swinging it over my shoulder as though it has my name on it, I amble back to the gates, scramble through the hedge and I’m on my way. 

I love this bit, the finds.  I imagine it’s a bit like winning the lottery.  The best thing about the skips is you never know what will be in those bags.  It never ceases to amaze me what they’ll throw away.  One man’s rubbish etc…

Of course, I don’t look there and then. Do that and you’re done for.  The management are probably dying to lock those skips – don’t give them a chance, I reckon.  I have my own place. 

Still sauntering like I’ve got all the time in the world (I have a little, work starts at nine), I turn out of Graston street onto the Canal Walk, one of those newbie, ‘Let’s live by the canal ‘cos we’re groovy,’ developments.  Swinging my bags jauntily, I pass by the new ‘canal view’ flats, with their freshly blacked iron-railed balconies. Makes me laugh, the ‘canal view bit’, I mean they can see the canal if they stand on a chair at the edge of the balcony, well a little bit of it at least.  I quite like glancing in the windows as I pass though.  It tickles me to see the couples eating their blueberries that they paid £2 a punnet for from the same place I just got for free. Horses for courses. 

There’s a narrow, overgrown path that leads down to the towpath.  None of the canal view people probably think of actually going and viewing the canal so it’s quite hidden by all the weeds.  It swings right and soon the city disappears behind the tall hedges.  Under the red brick bridge and on the other side of it, I could be anywhere.  It’s like magic and I love it.  The canal lies still, khaki green and silent.  As the sounds of the city are left behind, the birds begin to make themselves heard, busily catching their morning breakfast on the wing. I look over to the bank and as usual my two mates, the moorhens, are bobbing about on the other side. They’re already excited to see me – yesterday they feasted on doughnuts.  A score in the skips for me is a score in the skips for them.

A couple of narrowboats are moored up about a hundred yards away, painted red and blue.  The smoke from one of their chimneys’ curls lazily up into the air, strange for this time of year but maybe it’s their way of getting rid of rubbish.  The boat is rocking slightly and I picture the owner climbing out of his cosy cabin bed, waking to this peace, lucky sod. Outside the other, the towpath is golden yellow from where the owner has chain-sawed wood.  A cat sits on the roof, daintily washing its paws in the morning sunshine and keeping one eye on me.

Just by the bridge, tucked in by the brickwork is my place. It’s not much; a hollowed-out part of the hedge covered over by a tarp and hidden by branches.  I’ve had it about six months now.  It has, at times, been discovered by others and once I found a bloke sleeping there. That’s OK though, it’s not like I have rights on the place.    Share and share alike, I was taught.  Today, I pull the tarp aside, hook it back slightly to let the daylight in and crawl inside.

I’ve made it nice inside.  It’s a green, hollowed out space.  It took me ages to break all the twigs and branches to make it just like this but I enjoyed every minute.  There’s just enough space to sit or curl up comfortably on a leather sofa cushion I found, balanced on a pallet to keep it dry, which is covered in an old bit of blueish patterned carpet.   There’s also a kind of cupboard that I made out of an old gas oven that someone had tipped – the boater bins a bit further up the canal sourced this, it’s a great place to find treasures and in this weather it’s as good as a fridge, keeping my skip food cool and protected from wildlife.  At the back of it is my hidey hole, where I stash my fags.

Reaching my hand behind, I pull out the plastic bag, carefully wrapped round my pouch of tobacco and rizla.  I’m not much of a smoker, can’t be when you don’t have any money, but every so often G gives me a pouch as payment and I quite like having it, here, making a roll-up once or twice a day, while I prepare to open my prize.  Makes me feel important somehow.  Not sure why.  I take my time pinching and rolling, making it a ceremony.  The lighter’s stashed here too, I lifted it from Him one morning.  He was too wasted later on to remember. I spark up the fag and take a long drag, all the while gazing at the water, lost in its murky depths, tracing the ripples left from the moorhens.

It’s time. 

I loosen the knot of one of the bags.  This is the make or break.  I imagine that this is what it’s like to open a Christmas present. I had them once but not anymore and even now I can’t quite remember what it was like.  But hey, this happens every day. I get to open a present every morning.

Gently opening the first bag, I peer inside.  At first, it’s disappointing.  A box of eggs, one egg smashed, lies on top.  No good.  Haven’t got anything to cook them with. I throw the eggs into the cut; the moorhens dash over and then back away disappointed.  That makes three of us.  The box, I lay to one side.  Next, a carton of soup.  Not bad, I put it next to the egg box.  I could eat that later if there’s nothing better.

At last, I spy a triangle of plastic and yes!  There it is!  Today’s prize, drumroll, please….is three packs of sandwiches, egg and tomato, beef and horseradish and ham and cheese.  My life, for the next 30 minutes is one of pure pleasure.  The taste of the sandwiches and more importantly, food in my mouth and belly whilst I gaze at the water, entranced by the life going on in there, is pure luxury.  Finally, I roll a last fag and wash everything down with a small bottle of orange juice that was peeping out at the bottom of the bag under a cracked jar of coffee.  I feel more than good. For now, I am the ruler of everything I survey – my own little kingdom.  The moorhens are happy too.  They wait their turn patiently but they know they’re going to get a bit.

Swooning with the sensation of a full stomach, I look more quickly through the rest of the bags.  Not bad at all!  There’s a couple of pot noodles that I can boil the kettle for before he gets home, a packet of ham, still good, which I stash in my fridge cupboard and woah!  Two cans of lager!  Might have me a little party tonight before I get back.  There are also six cans of shaving foam, one with a dent in it which is why they threw the whole box away.  I’m not ready for shaving foam yet, I’ve barely got bumfluff but you never know when it might come in handy.  I stuff a couple in my bag – a gift for one of my regulars.  And there, lurking at the bottom of the second bag is the best prize of all – chocolate.  It’s a family bag of those kinder stick things, you know? With the creamy stuff in the middle.  I wolf down two and stash the rest in my rucksack for later.

I finish the smoke and it’s time to go.  Got to get on with the day. G will be ready by now and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

Carefully, I arrange the branches over the tarp and step back out onto the towpath.  There’s no sign of life yet on the narrowboats, they’re perfectly still again and the cat has disappeared. 

Turning left back under the bridge, I head back to the city. 

It works for me every time in my place by the canal.  Gets me going, thinking right.  Happy to be alive, which is a very good thing because I’m about to enter the lion’s den.  I need to get my swagger on to buoy me up for the day, to get me through it.  In fact, you could say it’s necessary.

On emerging from the towpath and retracing my steps by the flats, I head towards the High Street.  It’s already coming to life for the day, the shop shutters are being dragged up, revealing their wares.  25% off here, BOGOFF there, enticing the benefits brigade to spend, spend, spend. 

I decide today is a day to wander through the market – I don’t really have to but I love it in here.  It’s an old, iron-covered building, a bit like a train station but filled with stall after stall of treasures, echoing with the shouts and bustle of the traders.  The smells alone are enough to give you a high – fruits from every corner of the world, barbecued and smoked meats wafting their riches into the atmosphere.  Even the fish stall gets me dreaming, imagining a life by the sea.  I do my travelling in here.  I’ve been everywhere. Perhaps one