Bob Oswald pulled up in his jeep, Mr Buckley came out of his house as if he'd been waiting. ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘Yes. You.’ Bob Oswald got out of his jeep and turned towards Mr Buckley ‘Yes, you,’ Mr Buckley repeated. ‘I want words with you.’ Bob Oswald raised his eyebrows. He put on a voice that wasn't his own. ‘You talkin' to me?’ He was smiling, but he didn't look happy.
Mr Buckley kept right on towards him. ‘I don't know how you can live with yourself. My son. He hasn't done anything to you or your family. Now look at him. Your big mouth and your lying bitch of a daughter. You've made him a nervous wreck. You're a wanker. You're complete fucking scum.’
Beside me, Jed sucked his breath in. Even Bob Oswald straightened a little.
‘You want to come over here and say that? Or do you want to call the police like last time?’
Mr Buckley kept walking towards him. ‘It wasn't my son who shouted rape, was it? Why did you have to go picking on him? Why does it always have to be violence with you? If you had your suspicions, why didn't you just call the police like a civilised human being?’ Mr Buckley was in front of Bob Oswald now. Bob Oswald was looking down on him. He had his hands on his hips. His thick black Maori-style tattoos stood out on his arms and his shoulders. Mr Buckley continued. ‘My son was just minding his own business. Now he won't even leave his bedroom. All because of your fists and your bitch of a daughter's lies. I don't know –'
Mr Buckley stopped talking when Bob Oswald kneed him between the legs. Mr Buckley cried out and fell down in a heap. Bob Oswald bent low and patted Mr Buckley on the shoulder. Then he made his way back into his house. Drawn out by the sound of raised voices, all five of his daughters were lined up on the front doorstep. They greeted Bob Oswald like he had just done something clever:
Good one, Dad.
That showed him.
The fucker.
Bob Oswald ushered them all inside. As Susan Oswald turned away, she looked over at Jed and smiled. Jed looked down at the ground. I looked at Mr Buckley. He was dragging himself away from the Oswald house, half standing, half on his knees. I felt sorry for him. He looked silly. He looked sad. I shouted, Hello, Mr Buckley, hot today, isn't it? But he ignored me. He went inside.
If Mr Buckley ever tried to have a punch-up with Bob Oswald again, I wasn't there to see it. Come to think of it, the only time I really saw Mr Buckley for a long time after that was whenever he came round to see Archie. I don't think he and my father were friends, exactly, but they were the same age and both supported Southampton, so at least they had that in common. Three or four times a year Mr Buckley would come over with a four-pack of Carlsberg and the two men would swear at the widescreen. Jed would watch as well, so even though I hated football I'd often drift in to join them. As an aside, once Southampton had been beaten, Archie would ask after Mr Buckley's son, who he never referred to by name. How's the boy? Or, how's he doing? Or, any news? But, finally, Archie stopped asking, and I can't really blame him. It's not like he ever got a straight answer. Mr Buckley would shrug and say something like, oh, you know, or, no change, or, same as ever, really The last time I ever heard Archie ask him, Mr Buckley said nothing. He put his hands over his face and shook his head. When Mr Buckley's shoulders started to shake, Archie gave me and Jed a tenner to go and buy chips for our tea. As far as I can tell, neither of them mentioned Mr Buckley's son after that. It was as if he no longer existed. He did though, in his bedroom, and one day he would come out.
It wouldn't be for more than a year, though.
This year was long and hard for the Buckleys. Although all charges had been dropped, and although everyone outside of the Oswalds’ accepted Susan had been lying, her accusations somehow stuck. This was mostly due to the other Oswald girls, who would scream rapist across the street every time they saw a Buckley moving about in broad daylight. Once in a while, minor acts of vandalism occurred – Broken's car had its tyres slashed, and some eggs were thrown at the house that Halloween. Rubbish was tossed into their garden, and cigarettes were stubbed out on their UPVC window frames. Nothing to call the police for. Just enough to make life unpleasant.
If Bob Oswald ever saw Mr Buckley in the street, he would always shout something, but Mr Buckley would never respond. One time, Archie Cunningham intervened on Mr Buckley's behalf. He had just taken Jed and Skunk to see Revenge of the Sith at the Odeon in Port Solent, and Mr Buckley was carrying some shopping into his house. Bob Oswald was standing on his doorstep with his huge hands cupped around his huge mouth. ‘How's your prick of a son doing, Buckley? Still touching up the kiddies?’ Mr Buckley hurried into his house and slammed the door behind him.
Archie said, ‘Stay in the car,’ then got out and walked to the edge of the drive. Jed and Skunk wound down the windows so they could hear what the adults were saying.
‘Hey, Bob,’ Archie shouted. ‘You up to speed on your libel laws?’
Bob Oswald turned his gaze from the Buckley house to Archie Cunningham.
‘What the fuck's it gotta do with you?’
‘Well, if Dave or his son wanted me to represent them, I'd be happy to do it for free. Open-and-shut case, considering the police dropped all charges. Like taking candy off a kid, taking money off you.’
Bob Oswald stared at Archie Cunningham. ‘Answer me one question, Cunningham. You let your kids go over the Buckleys'?’
‘More often than I let them go over yours.’
Bob Oswald said nothing.
Archie took a steady step forward. ‘You watch your big mouth in future. And if you ever want legal aid again don't come running to my firm. Get me?’ He stared at Bob Oswald, then turned and ordered Skunk and Jed inside. ‘I don't want you playing with the Oswalds any more,’ he said as they took their coats off. Skunk and Jed raised their eyebrows: like they ever played with the Oswalds. All of the Oswalds were mental. But so, too, was Broken Buckley: he crouched down by his bedroom window and watched his father scurry away from Bob Oswald, then watched Archie Cunningham shout Bob Oswald down in the street. Fearing Bob Oswald might look up and see him, Broken moved away from the curtains and sat down on the edge of his bed. Hunching his shoulders forwards, he tormented himself with memories of the day Bob Oswald attacked him. Then he remembered the policemen coming to get him after Susan Oswald accused him of rape. These memories were nothing compared to the day Saskia Oswald came on to him and then laughed at the size of his penis. Why did she have to go and do that? Why did she do that to him? Broken didn't know. He couldn't understand. Still, though, he went through it over and over, hidden away in his box room, curled on his side on his bed. Sometimes, he stared through a gap in the curtains. If he ever saw Bob Oswald, he relived the day of his beating. If he ever saw Saskia Oswald, he stepped quickly away from the window and paced up and down his small room. Outside of his bedroom, the world continued without him. Time passed without him emerging: days and weeks and months. He didn't just refuse to come out – he refused to open the windows or the curtains or even the bedroom door. He went to the toilet in a bucket and brought it out when Mr Buckley was at work and Mrs Buckley was out shopping. For the rest of the time he lived in a strange world of curtains, shadows and dread. His parents were despairing. Mrs Buckley, on the landing:
‘Rick. Rick. Are you in there, Rick? Can you hear me? Can I come in? Love? Please? Love? Please?’
Silence. A chair wedged under the handle. If Mrs Buckley listened, she could hear him, breathing. If she came home unexpectedly, she could hear his footsteps, scurrying, up the stairs. Late at
