was walking down the street where an African family whose kids went to the same primary school as him were packing their belongings into a big removal van. He stopped to talk to them and the boys told him they were going back to Africa. Pupatee pretended to listen, but what really interested him was the brand new, shiny push-bike in the van. He said goodbye and walked off, but he kept looking behind him, and as soon as the coast was clear he ran back, jumped into the van and took the bike.
All that day, Pupatee taught himself to ride. He fell off a hundred times and kept smashing the bike, and by the end of the day it looked twenty years old. The wheels were buckled and the paint was scratched, but Pupatee wasn’t bothered; he couldn’t take it home anyway. He parked it somewhere it could easily be seen, hoping that someone else would take it. Then he went home where he found Miss Utel cooking. They were chatting happily in the kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. Pupatee went to answer it and his eyes almost popped out of his head with shock. It was the father of the African family.
‘What did you do with my son’s bike?’ the man said. ‘Somebody saw you steal it so there’s no point denying it.’
Miss Utel had come to the door. ‘Can I help you please,’ she said stiffly.
‘I want my son’s bike,’ the man repeated. ‘Somebody saw this boy steal it and somebody else saw him ride it around.’
‘We don’t know anything about your bike,’ Miss Utel said. ‘You will have to come back later when his brother is home.’
‘That bike cost a lot of money, madam.’
‘Come back after six, to see his brother.’
With that, the man reluctantly left, vowing to return at six. Miss Utel grabbed Pupatee. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you know your brother will half kill you if these people come back and tell him all this, so if you know where the bike is, go give it back quick. You have time.’
Pupatee dashed out to find the bike. But when he reached the spot where he had left it, the bike was gone. He had walked sadly home, certain of a beating now.
Joe walked in not long after Pupatee. Miss Utel softened him up by giving him his dinner and stroking his head and smiling and joking with him. When she thought the time was right, she told him about the bike. Joe threw his tray with all the food aside and dived straight at Pupatee, knocking him to the ground and then pulling him up and punching and kicking him. In the middle of all this, the African man turned up again.
While Joe went to the door, Pupatee fled down into the cellar. He had taken enough and he felt he couldn’t go on with these beatings. Down in the cellar he knew there was some rat poison. He emptied half the box of poison into a cup and added water and then drank it down as quickly as he could. He waited for death more happily than he ever waited for one of Joe’s beatings. But that poison could not have been strong enough, for death didn’t come. It was not his time. And when he crawled to bed that night Pupatee was black and blue from Joe’s beating.
Sometimes Pupatee’s friends took pity on him, and went to places on foot so he could come too; sometimes he managed to borrow a bike and explore further afield with them. Jimmy and the others liked having Pupatee around. He was growing bigger and stronger every day, and if anyone crossed the boys, Pupatee would fight their cause. With every skirmish he won he liked fighting more and more. He watched The Saint, Dangerman and The Man from Uncle on television, and practised hitting and kicking the way the men did in those shows.
One time he and the gang all went down to an adventure playground in Peckham Park. The main attraction was a sliding handle on a rope slung between a platform and the ground. Pupatee had just climbed up to the top of the platform when a white boy slid the handle fast back up the rope and it hit Pupatee smack in the face. He was so surprised he nearly fell off the platform, but he managed to hang on with one hand while rubbing his face with the other. He looked down and saw the boy in stitches.
‘Wha you done dat for?’ Pupatee screamed.
‘You should have caught it,’ the boy laughed back.
That was it. Pupatee couldn’t slide down fast enough and when he hit the ground he confronted the boy. Before they could come to blows, one of the keepers broke them up and threw them both out. They left, followed by the other boys, who wanted to see what would happen. They walked out on to the grass away from the keepers, and it was agreed that Pupatee and the white boy would fight alone. Pupatee was fuming and threw the first blow. The boy came in close and swung at him but Pupatee ducked and then flung himself around his opponent’s middle. They wrestled to the ground, trying to get the best of each other.
The other boy soon began to tire, but Pupatee was still strong. With one hand he held the boy down and with the other he fired a blow to his face. He heard the other’s breath escape and saw his eyes and nose suddenly gush red. He was just about to throw a final punch when Jimmy stepped in. Jimmy was never one for violence – he relied on a quick tongue and sharp humour to win his battles – and he dragged Pupatee off, telling him he did not need to win the same fight twice.
Pupatee allowed himself to be pulled away, but he felt better for that fight, as he always did when he won. Without his realising it, he had learned from Joe that there was pleasure to be had from violence. He enjoyed the power his growing physical strength gave him, and being victorious over others in the playground made the beatings from Joe easier to tolerate. But he also envied Jimmy’s way with words, and listened to his friend.
One evening, not long after the fight outside Peckham Park, Pupatee went round to Jimmy’s house to see if he would come and play.
Jimmy’s mother said hello to him, and then she called up the stairs, ‘Jimmy? Pupatee is here. Get out of that bath, you’ve been in there long enough.’
Jimmy didn’t answer.
‘He’s been in there for ages,’ Jimmy’s mum said. ‘Jimmy!’ she bawled out again. ‘Jimmy!’
She shrugged her shoulders and turned and went up the stairs to get him. Pupatee listened to her footsteps on the landing as she called out his friend’s name again. There was still no answer. He heard her knock and then the creak of the opening door.
‘Oh, my God! Mick! Oh, my God!’ The words were screamed through the whole house. Jimmy’s dad and brother came out of the living-room. ‘What is it?’ they called.
‘Oh, my God, get an ambulance! Jimmy’s drowned!’
Jimmy’s dad and brother ran up the stairs. Pupatee still stood by the open front door listening to the despairing talk. He heard Jimmy’s father say that it must have been the boiler; the pilot light must have gone out and the gas had leaked, putting Jimmy to sleep and then he had drowned. By this time, half the street had come out of their houses to see what the screaming was all about.
‘He’s not dead, is he?’ someone asked.
Pupatee stood there in shock, fighting back the tears. No, Pupatee told himself, Jimmy couldn’t die just like that.
‘Someone call an ambulance,’ screamed another voice.
‘It’s already on its way.’
And so everyone waited on their doorsteps and on the pavement, wondering when the ambulance would come. But it took half an hour to get there, and when it did finally arrive
