Changing Lives by Mabel Marsters

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Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

Spike was restless all evening. He kept thinking of how his own and his mom’s belongings would just be disposed of. He looked at the clock on his bedside table – one thirty. He stared at it for a time then made his decision and got out of bed. He quickly got dressed, took the key to his own home from the drawer where he’d hidden it, grabbed his duster and crept out of the apartment.

Half an hour later he was outside his former home, knapsack in one hand, flashlight in the other. He stared at it for a few minutes before walking around the side to get to the back door. He didn’t turn the flashlight on in case anyone spotted it; but regretted it as almost immediately, he tripped over something on the ground and fell against a trashcan with a clatter. He held his breath and stood still. He heard nothing and so snapped on the flashlight and continued to the door. He slipped his key into the lock and quickly stepped inside, closing it behind him. He leant his back against the door. The house was cold and silent. It felt to Spike as if the house had died along with its occupants; there was no feeling of welcome in it.

He walked into his mom’s bedroom and sat on the bed. The room was exactly as she’d left it; door to the closet open as she’d searched at the last minute for something - he couldn’t remember what.

“Oh God,” he muttered, laying down sobbing into the pillows. “I miss you so much.”

The worse thing was there was absolutely no essence of her left in the house at all; no connection for him to feel, no comfort for him to draw on. She was gone, totally gone - forever.

He sat back up and wiped his eyes. There were no photographs for him to get of her; no family snaps. His father had burnt all of the photos in the house in a fit of rage, when Spike was a young child. His mom’s state of mind after his father had been jailed had been so poor that no more had ever been taken.

Spike looked around the room once more before walking through to his own. He stared at its sparse and worn furnishings and thought of all the hours he’d spent in there with his books, escaping from a reality that had so rarely given him any pleasure.

He walked to the bookcase and started to take books from the shelves and put them in the knapsack. He chose the ones he’d loved the best. As Spike he hadn’t read at all, instead losing himself in music, but looking at them he realised he’d missed his old friends. He put all the Dresden Files into his bag along with his Harlan Coben collection and the hardbacks of English classics that his aunt had sent him over the years. He pulled open the door to his closet and peered at the few clothes hanging up in it. He smiled ruefully; there was nothing in there that ‘Spike’ would want to wear. He sighed deeply and walked out into the hall. He paused as he thought he heard a car outside. He listened intently, heart pounding, but there was no sound of car doors opening or closing so he reckoned that it had driven by. He carried on and was just about four yards from the door when it was cautiously opened.

“Freeze! Police!” shouted a gruff voice.

“Oh fuck,” thought Spike. Needless to say he froze.

The beam of the second cop’s flashlight shone in his face. Spike blinked and put his hand up to shield his eyes.

“I said freeze,” growled the cop, his gun trained unwaveringly on Spike’s chest.

“Okay,” said Spike.

“Put the bag on the floor – slowly,” the officer ordered, “Keep your hands in sight.”

Spike let the bag drop to the floor with a thud and raised his hands at waist height, palms facing the two policemen.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said quietly.

“Shut up and turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

Spike did as he was told. As soon as he turned his wrists were roughly grabbed and he felt the cold metal and heard the click of the cuffs as they were snapped into place. One of the officers started to read him his rights- the words didn’t register.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he repeated.

“Save it.”

One officer indicated for him to walk out of the house, the other picked up his bag. As he stepped outside Spike had the beam of another flashlight shine in his face. He squinted and lowered his head.

“They’ve got you. Good job, too,” said Mrs. Johnson from next door, “Breaking into a house and stealing from the dead – it’s sick. He’s been hanging round a lot, knew he was up to no good. Look at him, with the hair and the black coat; trouble, that’s what he looks like and that’s what he is.”

“But I didn’t….” started Spike.

“I’ve told you to keep quiet,” ordered the officer, giving him a push, “Thank you for calling it in, very neighbourly of you.”

Mrs. Johnson puffed up at the cop’s words. “It was the least I could do. Mrs. Pratt had a hard life but her son William meant the world to her. He was such a good boy. Tragic, that’s what it is, to be killed on vacation like that….”

“Yes, well, thank you again,” interrupted the cop, “It’s late. Why don’t you go back to your bed? We’ve got him now and he won’t be bothering you again.”

He prodded Spike again, “Go on – get moving.”

Spike stepped forwards, almost falling, the cop getting hold of his shoulder just in time. He was bundled into the rear seat of the patrol car and driven to the station. He gave his name to the officer when he was booked in. A few taps on the computer showed he’d been in there before although all charges had been dropped.

“Put him in room three until his guardian gets here.”

“Oh sodding hell, Rupert’s going to freak.”

“Look, I didn’t break in or steal anything,” protested Spike, “I have a key, it’s my h….er…my cousin’s house. It’s only some books.”

The officer just ignored him and led him to room three. He pointed at a chair near a table and Spike sat in it, then the officer turned to leave.

“Hey, aren’t you going to take the cuffs off?” asked Spike.

The officer fixed him with a hard stare. Spike quailed under it, and then the officer left, locking the door behind him.

“Good plan, Spike,” he said quietly, “Wouldn’t it have just been easier to tell Rupert that you wanted some of William’s books? Soddin’ stupid bloody prat.” He leant forwards and slowly banged his forehead on the table a couple of times.

Spike had no idea how long he sat there but it was long enough for his shoulders and arms to start to protest at being held behind his back. He cringed as the door opened, and looked at the table.

Rupert walked into the room. His heart went out to Spike sitting there in handcuffs looking petrified, but did the boy ever know how to make the wrong decisions? He didn’t speak as the officer who walked in behind him went over to Spike.

“Stand up,” barked the cop.

Spike stood up so quickly he almost knocked the chair over. His eyes were still fixed on the table. The handcuffs were removed and Spike brought his hands in front of him and rubbed his wrists in relief. He daren’t look at the still silent Rupert. He knew he’d really messed up this time.

“He’s all yours,” said the officer.

“What?” Spike looked up.

“Come on,” said Rupert.

Spike followed him out noticing that he was carrying his knapsack. Spike took a look at his watch - it was after four am. They’d certainly taken their time to get hold of Rupert.

The journey home was silent. Spike felt almost sick with nerves. This was worse than getting shouted at. Once they were home Rupert walked into the kitchen.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Um…yeah…please,” replied Spike, sitting down at the dining table.

Several minutes later Rupert reappeared and sat down opposite Spike, pushing a mug of tea towards him.

“So?” he asked.

Spike looked at him. To his surprise Rupert didn’t look angry, just perhaps disappointed, resigned. He couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than anger. What could he say? He opted, wisely, for the truth – well, more or less anyway.

“I just wanted to get some of …er…William’s books. He loved them and I couldn’t stand the thought of them just getting sold off or thrown away. I didn’t break in. I’d found a key.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that you wanted the books?”

“I’m not sure,” said Spike honestly, “I didn’t think you’d understand why I wanted them. Why I couldn’t just let them go.”

“How did you know where the house was? We’ve never been there.”

“William gave me his address and I was curious, I guess. I went to have a look, not tonight, but soon after we got here. That’s when I found the key.”

“That neighbour said she’d seen you there many times.”

“Yeah, I went quite a bit when I was…er…when I was drinking,” said Spike, avoiding Rupert’s eye, “I’ve done it again, ‘aven’t I? I’ve totally screwed everything up again. I know you won’t believe me but I’m really sorry I’ve let you down again.” His voice cracked a little and tears brimmed in his eyes, threatening to spill.

“Oh, Spike,” said Rupert, walking round to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, “All this could have been avoided if you’d only opened up to me a little. Promise me that in the future if you feel so strongly about something you’ll just talk to me before you go and do anything rash.”

“I will, Rupert, I promise,” said Spike in a small voice.

“Now get to bed. You can get a couple of hours sleep before school.”

“Okay.” He stood up.

“Don’t forget your bag,” said Rupert, holding it out for him, “Not after you went to all that trouble for it.”

Spike met Rupert’s eye and visibly relaxed as he saw him smiling at him. He took the bag, muttered his thanks and went to gratefully to his room. He sat at his desk, took the books out of the bag and carefully stacked them on his desk. Then he wearily pulled off his clothes and fell into bed. He surprised himself by falling asleep instantly.

Ooooooo

Rupert nursed his cup of tea for some time after Spike had gone to bed. His thoughts went back to the conversation he’d had at the police station. They hadn’t been impressed that Spike had once more been in trouble but had had no charges raised. He had been told that if something like this happened again that they’d be charged with wasting police time. Rupert had decided not to tell Spike of this. The boy seemed to make everything so difficult for himself as it was – he didn’t want to add to it.

He took his mug back in to the kitchen and followed Spike’s lead by going to bed; but, unlike Spike, he found he couldn’t sleep. He thought of the times he’d spoken to Spike’s mom Julia and how she’d said what an easy boy he’d been to raise, never giving them any worries at all. Popular at school, confident, always letting them know where he was when he went out. Rupert was worried about Spike – there was no denying it. He knew he wasn’t a bad kid but he just seemed to lurch from one problem to another.

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