TOX O'Sé

By Niall MacMahon

In attempting to escape from his enemies, 10 year old TOX O’Sé lands himself in a desperate life-threatening situation. As a widespread search for him is conducted and with his life ebbing gradually away, he is lead through a fantasy world by the improbable Rah.
This novel was written as a Flan O’Brien or Terry Pratchett for preteens - of all ages.
The personalities of the kids are more akin to the characters in Golding’s ‘Lord of the Flies’ than the genteel children of ‘Harry Potter’ or Enid Blyton books.
The events of TOX O’Sé are set in the early 2000s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781447865063

Book preview

TOX O’Sé

TOX O’Sé

Revised Edition

Copyright © 2007 Niall MacMahon

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 781447 865063

All characters in this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Preface

This book, TOX O’Sé, is a revised edition of my first novel ‘TOX’ published in 2008.

In the preceding years, my daily commutes to Central London from St Albans in Hertfordshire, provided me with views of the bleak post-industrial landscapes that corridored the railway line. A significant number of the flat surfaces that faced onto the busy tracks were decorated in graffiti tags. Of these, one artist seemed to be significantly more prolific than all others, namely: TOX. 

Intrigued, I noticed that he only ever sprayed his name followed by an abbreviation of the year of creation, for example: ‘06. This particular year reminded me of a version of the Irish name ‘O’Sé’ - as in primary school I learned that in the Irish language the number 6 was pronounced ‘sé’ (like ‘Che’ in Che Guevara).

The earliest TOX tag I found was ’02. I have since read that the prolific spray can enthusiast was eventually arrested and jailed for his years of effort, in 2011. The eminent artist Banksy even did a mural in support (and coincidently chose the year ’06 in his artwork). 

I was not inspired to investigate and write about the reality of it all. Instead, my imagination was stimulated to draw on my experiences as a preteen, dealing with the kids’ gangs of Dublin and, as a result, the imaginary character TOX of this book, was created. 

A few readers of the first edition of TOX, commented that the kids described are too worldly and nasty. However, my preteens and teens experiences were of many more kids with personalities akin to the characters in Golding’s ‘Lord of the Flies’ than the genteel children of ‘Harry Potter’ and Enid Blyton books.

The events of TOX O’Sé are set in the early 2000s. 

Cut to the chase

"Why fake it?

Why take it?

Leave it to the Tox to break it.

Instead of sufferin’ little dude

From bad ass crew - let Tox intrude

Just remember then

Don’t say amen

When the bad crew knocks…."

Tox was well proud of this toon. He laid it down himself – well mostly. There was a little help from T-QAKE – oh yeah - and Mr. Patel, the teacher who ran STEWDEEYO, the school recording facility, donated to the school by Paolo MacCool. Paolo was a past pupil, who said that the quality of his rapping was down to the anger, that the teachers in his day, had planted in his soul, when he was a school punk. Tox didn’t really understand what all that stuff meant but using STEWDEEYO! was dead cool.

The streaming continued in his ears:

"Just check the box

Bring ching - that talks!

Don’t forget who rocks

That’s right! Call Tox"

His little toon was promo for his business. He had download it to his Cell CS 600 mopho and broadcast it on TikTok.

Access to STEWDEEYO! was on an after-normal-school basis, and Tox was feeling proper dissed at having to miss out, because of what was going down: an unanticipated consequence of his business.

Should have expected the unexpected. Uh!  He thought.

The rhythm in his in-ear phones changed abruptly. The Dr Fear theme replaced his own toon. Someone was phoning him. Although he had been expecting it, it still made him jump. He checked the screen on his mopho before answering.

Good. It’s T-Qake.

Yo Tox!

Yo T-Qake.

Tox, they was at the back gate, four dudes. They was rough, man – proper mingin mutants. T-Qake’s voice was full of joy, at having something important to relate to his main man.

The news confirmed Tox’s worst fears, but he had been clever. Earlier, he had left school by scrambling out of a first-floor classroom window, onto the roof of the disused toilets. Then, with arms raised, like some manic monkey, he balanced a short distance along the perimeter wall, before climbing down on the outside, via the asphalt roof of a rickety garden shed.  Scampering across the cluttered back gardens of the terraced houses, he clambered over a pebble-dashed wall to the alleyway, between Rock Street and Hard Place.

He examined a scrape on his right arm, and another on his forehead, incurred when pushing through a narrow gap in the hedge, between the last two houses. He decided it was minimal:

Huh! Nothin’ compared to what I’d get from SisR’s Crew.

Tox had every intention of ensuring that SisR and his Crew never got the opportunity to prove his fears right. He had identified three alternative ways of leaving school and had used the first of these. He asked T-Qake and Jaap, to be his eyes and ears, at the school gates. As he had expected, T-Qake was first to report in.

Tox liked T-Qake. Sure, he was excitable and sometimes did stupid things. He could be annoying, but mostly, he was dependable. He was also reverential to Tox, especially admiring his business sense - but then, so did most of the kids in the school. This gave Tox a warm feeling of satisfaction.

Have you seen Jaap? Tox asked.

No.

He was supposed to keep watch out front. The dipstick shoulda reported in by now. He gets out before us an’ all. 

Tox did not think of Jaap as dependable. Respectful, yes, but he wouldn’t trust him to fall off a snowboard. He hadn’t known Jaap as long as he had T-Qake, but it was long enough to consider him a ‘last resort.’ Jaap had been the first client of Tox’s business. Ever since he had been trying to hang with his hero Tox.

Tox did not have many close pals. He chose the members of his small posse carefully. This is not to say he wasn’t popular. He was. Everybody knew who he was, and gave him respect, most especially, on account of his business. Lots of kids wanted to hang with him, but he had to maintain a ‘professional distance’ with his clients.  So, on this occasion, he had used Jaap as a ‘best-of-the-rest,’ out of necessity.

A ping sounded in his buds, and the screen on his mopho flashed.

It’s Jaap, I’m gonna take it. I’ll catch you later, dude.

Respect, T-Qake replied.

Tox switched to the other call.

What kept you? He growled impatiently.

Yo Tox! was the relaxed reply.

Chef! It’s not Jaap.

The voice on the other end was tinged with the first traces of the gravel of puberty, and full of sarcastic, melodramatic menace. Though Tox had never heard the voice before, he knew instinctively that it must be SisR.

Tox Buddy! That’s no way to talk to your drone, now is it?

Chef! They got Jaap’s mopho.

This meant they had Tox’s number.

I’ll have to change my SIM again!

Tox said nothing.

What’s the matter, little businessman? Something bothering you?

You think I’m bothered ‘cos you’ve mugged Jaap’s mopho? Tox improvised, feigning bravery, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

No… SisR paused for dramatic effect. But you take a peeps across the road and you’ll see something ‘bout which you should be bothered.

Tox did as directed. To his horror, bunched by the traffic lights, on the far side of the street, were nine boys, all beaming broad, false, smiles at him, and waving slowly, in a loose unison.

Chef! The whole St Wilson’s Crew!

Yo! little businessman, SisR’s voice cackled in his ear.

Tox felt a sudden attack of nausea. He had been close enough to see SisR’s lips moving. Tox was already running, as he pulled the buds out of his ears, and awkwardly pocketed his mopho. He quickly reached the KFC on the corner of Short Street. A glance behind before he swerved, delivered more bad news. The traffic lights had favoured SisR and his squad. The nearest of them was only twenty-five yards behind him.

I need to think fast, and clever.

Behind the row of shops there was a packing plant. The twisted wire-mesh gates were open and Tox sped through. As he ran across the yard, he rapidly assessed the escape potential of his new surroundings. Strewn about here and there, were old rough wooden pallets, large water-sodden cardboard boxes and lumps of polystyrene icebergs of various sizes.

Nothing useful.

Tox darted round the back of a lorry, startling two men in dusty blue overalls, who froze, mouths gaping, in mid-lift of a large card-board box.  As Tox veered right, down the gap between the corrugated plastic walls of two of the buildings, the men looked at each other. But before they could yell after him, they were startled again by the sudden appearance of nine more kids, breathing heavily in hot pursuit.

A short distance in, Tox reached a stack of long wooden planks, that clattered noisily, as he climbed it, like a loose staircase. Arms outstretched, he balanced along the top, until he came to the end, about a foot and a half away from a dirty old yellow-brick wall.  There, the height of the wood stack made the top of the wall about waist high. With little hesitation, he threw himself forward, and caught the wall under his ribs.

As he scrambled to his feet on top of the wall, he could hear the deafening rattle of his pursuers, on the wood stack behind. On the other side, the wall, dropped down to a large carpark for Tesco’s supermarket.

If I can get down, I can try and lose them there.

But the drop was more than three times his height. To his left, about twenty-five feet away, he spotted a white van, backed onto the wall. He tight-roped along the wall towards it, as fast as he dared.  The van was further from the wall than he had hoped, but being caught was not an option.  After some hesitation to calculate the task, he held his breath, shut his eyes, and jumped across. After a moment of timelessness, he crash-landed, bum first, on the dirty roof, with a din like a kettle drum. The three-foot drop from the height of the wall skidded him forward on landing, eyes wide in terror that he would slide off, and fall a further ten feet onto the tarmac. After an agonising moment, he came to a halt.

Recovering quickly, he slid the rest of the way forward, leaving a bottom-wide trail in the dark grey dirt. He climbed down onto the narrow bonnet, and then dropped down further onto the back of the Vectra in front.

By the time all his hunters were on the wall, Tox was already fleeing between the lines of parked cars, twisting frequently to avoid collision with wing-mirrors. He took a sharp left and caught his right knee on a towbar for a trailer, protruding from a Hummer.

Chef! That hurts!

He hopped for several strides, clutching at it, his face contorted with pain, but he dared not stop. A wire-mesh fence formed the boundary on the far side of the carpark.

There must be a hole. Kids are always making short cuts.

He looked along the fence but could not see any gaps because of the acuteness of the angle. On the other side of the fence there was a long mound, formed from the clearance of building rubble. He looked along it. About thirty yards to his left, a muddy path had been etched into it, leading up from the fence.

Maybe….

He ran towards it.

There must be a gap.

There was. At the base of a metal post, the wire had been caught back on itself, leaving a triangular gap. He bent down to crawl through. In his hurry, he snagged the collar of his school jacket, on a hook of twisted wire. With all the strength he could muster, he yanked at it, until it ripped, and he fell forward.

Chef! I’ll get grief from Mum for that. Still, could be worse - coulda been my new hoody.

Using his hands to claw his way up the muddy trail, he reached the top, and surveyed a familiar stretch of wasteland, left by the demolition of several redundant industrial buildings.

Which way?

The metallic sizzling behind him, told him the St Wilson’s pack had reached the fence. Without further deliberation, he started down the sticky slope and across one of the undulating tracks, that he and hundreds of other potential BMX champions, had worn into the muddy mounds. The moist mud caked in the grooves of his trainers, making progress uneven.

As he ploughed his way, a glance behind confirmed that the closest of his hunters were gaining on him. Panting desperately, he reached the ruin of the old distillery. This was familiar. He had been here before several times, but not recently. There was a basement area, dark and scary.

But this is desperate.

There was an old concrete stairwell. Taking several steps at a time, he descended into the gloom.  At the bottom, he strained his eyes for inspiration.

I remember…

Panic strangled his ability to think.

Come on, come on … there was a pipe… a big enough pipe… where?... come on! … Think!

He felt his way along the uneven wall, stumbling on the brick rubble strewn at its base. His blind frantic fingers identified a cold abrasive circular edge.

This is it! The pipe!

It was about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. He bent down and crawled in about five feet. The cold structure of the pipe amplified his panting breath with short buzzing echoes.

I think he went down there.

The anonymous voice from the darkness above, was punctuated by heavy gasps for breath.

Then we’ve cornered the little rat, came the breathless response.

Tox heard the scuffle of brick rubble, as his pursuers began to search for him in the darkness. Holding his breath, he saw the light move across the arch of the pipe entrance, like a lone shaky star. It was some distance from the pipe and did not reflect off any surfaces. Then he saw another, even further away in the otherwise total darkness.

Good news! They don’t about the pipe!

He swapped breaths. His heart sounded like a bass-drum.

Oi little businessman, we’re gonna kill ya, SisR’s now familiar harsh tones, taunted from the darkness.

We’ll never find him in here, an unfamiliar voice declared, its tone betraying apprehension and distaste for continuing the task of fumbling through the gloom.

Shut it! commanded several voices, one of which was SisR’s. 

Oh yes we will, SisR said mischievously, from much too close by.  

To Tox’s complete horror, the breakbeat of the Dr Fear theme exploded from his pocket.

Chef! 

His heart sank. His mopho still had a signal, and SisR was using Jaap’s mopho to call him.

He’s over there, SisR declared triumphantly.

Tox hurriedly scurried further into the tunnel of the pipe.

There’s some sort of pipe, SisR yelled.

In terror, Tox shuffled deeper into the darkness of the pipe. He reached a T-junction and, with nothing to inspire him in the blackness, he decided to take the branch to his right. Another twenty seconds of panicked scurrying on hands and knees and he had reached another T-junction. This time the choice was up or down. Tox looked up. Way above was a circle of silver light.

Daylight! Another way out! I gotta go up.

He moved to go, but then hesitated and grimaced.

It looks high.

He looked down: unrelenting darkness. He felt exhausted.

It is a long up - at least as high as a house. But I gotta do it – not much choice.

He reached out blindly and gingerly felt around. 

Great! Nothing to grip on, up or down.

He went to make a start anyway but stopped again.

What if some of ‘em double back and cover up there? I’ll be trapped between them, and them behind me.

He heard shuffling noises and muffled voices echoing through the pipe behind him. 

Down.

He edged himself over the circular gap. 

Come on, you’ve done this before.

He pushed his feet as flat as they would go against the curved wall of the pipe. Then, after a fearful hesitation, he lowered himself down, very slowly, pushing out his legs, so that as much of his upper back as possible, was pressed against the cold curve behind him. His breaths were short and quick now, with the effort of his concentration. 

This is harder than I remember.

About five feet down, he stopped and looked up. The circle of sky was now a sharp, pointed, oval shape, like an eye in the blackness. The pipe he was descending into was not straight. He lowered his head again.

Can’t even see my own self – but that’s good! If I can’t see me, then SisR’s Crew won’t be able to neither.

Holding his breath, he listened. There were voices, muffled, and distant, and the reverberation in the pipes prevented him from knowing whether they were coming his way, or not. 

They’re not getting louder so that’s good. Maybe they went left at that first T-junction.

He continued to hold his breath and listen.

They don’t seem to be following the route I took.  Things is looking better - but better to be sure.

He could see nothing. With his terror receding, he began to notice his surroundings. The air smelled cold, damp, and stale. 

Ugh! Mingin stink man.

He could feel the coldness of the pipe through his clothes and against his hands, as he strained to maintain his position. 

He was still in his school uniform and could feel the discomfort of the jacket stretched tight under his armpits.

As soon as he left school each day, as a mark of protest, Tox always pulled his shirt out from his trousers. As he hung there suspended in the darkness, he realised that, in the excitement of having to leave by an improvised route, he had forgotten, and left it tucked in. 

He decided to sort his mopho, to prevent SisR from calling again, even though it risked him falling into the gloom below. Pressing his feet and back harder against the sides of the pipe, to bolster his support, he reached into his pocket, and took out his mopho. His balance was good, which gave him the confidence to attempt opening it. The screen burst into life with a cheerful glow. He felt like distracting himself, by opening a game, or something.

I’ll switch to Mum SIM.

A couple of months before, when the volume of calls started to escalate due to his increasing business activities, Tox had taken the initiative of acquiring a new mopho. He purposely chose one, as close as possible, identical to the one Mum had given him – but with a LOVE R 2 dual SIM holder. Mum had been asking too many questions: who was this call to? – Who’s this? – Why so many calls all of a sudden? So, he had invested his new income in a pay-as-you-go SIM and fitted it along with the SIM from the mopho Mum funded. 

Since then, he could use the new SIM for his business. Then, when he needed to call Mum, he’d switch back to the old SIM that she had given him. 

Jaap’s phone ain’t got my Mum number. And anyway, I’ll have to call Mum soon as I get out of here. Mum’ll be worried if I don’t phone soon.

He accessed ‘Settings’ and switched SIMs

His attention returned to his predicament. He carefully replaced his mopho back in its assigned pocket. 

Now SisR can talk to my voicemail forever, man – like I’ll be bothered.

With mission accomplished, the silence enveloped him again like a damp duvet.

I feel like ‘Pussy-in-the-well.’

Four months before, at aunty Asumpta’s wedding reception, his cousin Dermo had related a story to him. Dermo was only five months older than Tox but was considerably bigger and stronger looking. He lived less than a mile away from Tox but attended St Blair’s school. Because of this, Tox did not know his cousin very well. So, he was very surprised when Dermo sidled up to him at the reception and began telling him the story of what he called ‘Ding-Dong-Dell,’ the story that became the inspiration for Tox’s business.

In those days, Tox spent most of his out-of-class time avoiding the attention of several posses of bullies, in his school, St Thatcher’s. At the wedding reception, it quickly dawned on him, that his cousin Dermo obviously didn’t know this, and assumed that Tox was a crew bro in St Thatcher’s, like he was in St Blair’s. Dermo related the story of