at Snotty as he disappeared down the street. “He pretends he’s the go-between. Pretends he works for Mr. Big. There is no Mr. Big. That child is it. You know what he does, Terry...” At this, Alan leaned forward, eyes bright, as if he could see it all. “That boy...that CHILD goes down to the docks on his own. Tells the men there that his father sent him. Or his uncle. Or his brother. He buys the stuff cheap, brings it up here, distributes it himself. And he’s twelve years old! Think of it!”16
But Terry didn’t think. He growled instead.
Alan was too caught up in his own vision to care. “Think of the BRAIN,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “Think of the willpower! The nerve! Think of it, Terry. Could you have done anything like that when you were a kid? Could I?”
Terry gave Alan a disgusted look. Alan was going soft. Terry planned on reporting this at the right time to the right authorities, after which, with Alan gone, he, Terry, would move up in the hierarchy. In the meantime he had to keep his focus. He wished Alan would shut up so that he could concentrate on the job.
But Alan wasn’t done yet. “I look around this place,” he said. “I look at it and I think: the kids who’re stealing, setting fire to buildings, breaking car windows—they’re angry.”
The combination of Alan’s philosophizing and Terry’s distracted annoyance meant that neither of them noticed Mick come out of the Crown and Mitre and follow Snotty down the street.
“Those kids,” Alan said, still deep in his own thoughts, “they’ve got reason to be angry. At least they’re not beaten down, sitting at home watching television and letting their brains turn to mush. Maybe the angry ones can change this stinking world.”17 Here he winced at the unlikeliness of such an event. “Somehow,” he trailed off.
Terry started up the car. “I like the world the way it is, thanks,” he said. “Tell me where we’re going, would you, please?”
Alan sighed again and pointed ahead. “Up there,” he said. “Back Hamercy Street.” And the car lurched away.
Chapter III
IN THE SEVENTH GARDEN
And all that time, the Seventh Garden waited behind the six houses on Hamercy Street.
The alley of Back Hamercy Street was an L-shaped dirt path that curved around the houses in front of it, and it was here that Snotty went now. “This is the last time,” he thought as he walked into its shadows and heard the familiar sound of water dripping—plop, plop—down the fences and the walls. A rusted skip sank into the dirt at the side of the lane. It waited there for him, buried to its belly in dirt and filth, stewing in old rags, yellowed newspapers, and bits of barbed wire.
Snotty’s look softened. This was familiar. It was what he knew. “Now then,” he scolded himself. “Don’t start going sentimental on me.” There would be other skips, he knew, in other towns—bigger and better skips, and filled with a higher quality trash, too.
With that in mind, Snotty now set to work, methodically digging in a special, particularly disgusting spot marked by an old green and gold coffee can. It didn’t take long for him to uncover a battered metal box, flaking red and gray paint, which he opened. He gave a contented sigh.
The box was full of money.18 Snotty scooped this up and would have stuffed it in his pockets—except there was this sound.
Instinctively he shoved the money back in the box, and shoved the box back under the trash. Then he looked around.
That was when he saw the dog. It was standing there, quiet. It stared at him.
“Hey there,” Snotty said in an uneasy voice. “Heh, heh.” But the dog just stood there staring.
“What are you looking at?” Snotty was annoyed at being interrupted, but he was curious, too. The dog was covered with bloodmatted fur, the result of its recent encounter with Stan and the boys.
“Go on,” Snotty muttered halfheartedly. “Shoo.” He and the dog looked at each other. Snotty couldn’t help being impressed by how big it was, and how it just stood there looking at him. The whole thing excited him in a way he couldn’t figure out, so he did what he usually did when in doubt. He picked up a rock and threw it.
The rock hit the dog’s side with a dull thud, and Snotty tensed, getting ready to run, and eyeing the exact fence over which he reckoned he could get a good head start. But the dog, to his surprise, didn’t chase him. It didn’t even growl. It just put its head down and gave a deep sigh. Then it shook its large and shaggy gray-black head and sighed again.
“What’s your problem?” Snotty said defensively. He already knew that throwing the rock was a mistake, but experience had taught him never to apologize.19 Instead he looked down at the ground resentfully and scratched his head.
The dog just looked at him. Snotty looked back. And the dog, still looking at him over its massive shoulder, trotted down the alley of Back Hamercy Street and stopped at the door of the Seventh Garden. It cocked its head.
“No,” Snotty said firmly. “I’m not coming down there. There’s something spooky about that garden.” In spite of himself, he counted the gardens again. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven...
Seven gardens.
Six houses.
Seven gardens.
The dog barked. Snotty backed up a step.
The dog barked again.
A wind blew, and the door to the Seventh Garden opened. The wind rushed through the alley, right into Snotty’s face.
Snotty had backed up another step, planning to turn and run, when the wind blew over him, and with it, its smells. These were layers of smells, all of them good. One was of warm taffy apples, one of buttered corn, one of coffee and cream.
Snotty had never smelled any of these things. Startled, he took a step forward. The smells multiplied. Cinnamon. Tomato sauce. Lemon and sage. You and I have smelled these things, but Snotty—never. Sniffing, Snotty followed them until he was at the open door of the Seventh Garden. He sniffed again. There was no doubt. The smells came from inside.20
“How about that, Dog?” Snotty said, peering into the dim shadows of the garden. But the dog was gone. At any rate, it was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you there?” Snotty said. There was no answer. Just a rustling noise that came from all the overgrown corners of the Seventh Garden. A gold light flickered behind this rustle, and the green tangle of weeds and flowers and vines heaved in a slow moving tide. The trees leaned forward toward Snotty, their branches waving. But there was no wind now.
“I don’t think I like this,” Snotty said. Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t true. He did like it. He didn’t know why. Something here was familiar, as if it were a place he knew very well from sometime long ago.
