“Got news for you, son. He’s not your real brother,” said Brian.
“What?” Greg’s eyes pinched. He let out a sigh.
Greg’s a kid again, living in the Midlands, scared. The streets are littered with rubbish. There are strikes and power cuts. It’s bible black – the air’s thick with choking smog.
In the mornings, Greg’s Mum goes to work. If he or his brother leaves and shuts the front door that’s it: they have to wait until she gets home to be let back in. It happens often. Sometimes they sit on the damp doorstep and talk. Other times they cuddle, freezing, hoping she’ll come home soon but knowing she’s more likely gone off on one of her benders.
Pitch black, a glimmer of light from the remnants of a fire smouldering in a tiled Victorian fireplace. There were piles of shoes spilt over each side, drying out. Latchkey kids, grey jumpers, junior school ages, fumble and toeing the shoe pile, hurriedly rushing out the door. Rain tensed their shoulders as they stood there thinking.
"Have we got everything?" said a young Greg.
Smaller boy Jordi, nodded yes, shivering.
"Sure, gonna shut the door? She took the key this time," said Greg.
Jordi turned to walk, as the door slammed, he stopped, turned and stared at Greg who looked down at his own shoes.
Jordi saw the horror. They both knew what this meant. He was wearing one brown shoe and one black, and even worse...
"Our Sunday best. Mum will go mad," said Jordi.
Silence between them as they splashed through the rain. Jordi leapt every puddle. Due to the massive holes in his soles; his socks were already soaking.
The whispers about Greg’s dilemma spun through the school playground. A crowd gathered at a rack of steps that went up to a bricked-up door. There was a gap between the stairs and a wall creating a tunnel. Boys already took position on the steps, ready to kick him in every part of his body, vicious and lusting for violence. Greg approached as the chants from the crowd got louder and intimidating. He hated being the centre of attraction. Jordi didn’t mind. He grabbed his arm and saw the fear quivering on his older brother’s face. Jordi removed his shoes and swapped with Greg, who ashamedly let him.
"Alla Prima, hey. Greg."
"Alla Prima. Jordi."
Jordi rushed the tunnel of death, stopped at the back wall, paused and took a moment to reflect on his decision. The rain had stopped and through the chinks of sunlight he felt a modicum of hope as he breathed in the petrichor. He stuck his chin out and made his way back out. The further you went through, the higher the steps. Jordi pushed through a gauntlet of wet leather shoes and fists. He emerged out the other end, red-faced, dishevelled, blood-smeared, fat-lipped, and black-eyed. As he was patted on the back from some of the older boys for going through with it, he managed a smile at his brother.
"I watched in fear. He said he did it because he wanted a day with dry feet and said he was amazed at how many of them also had holes in their shoes from when they were scuffing his face. Don’t tell me he’s not my brother," said Greg.
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