Broken. Daniel Clay
side alley, but I do remember Mr Buckley coming over to our house later that evening. I was pretending to be asleep in Archie's lap. He had his hands in my hair. I could hear the depth of his voice through the itch of his polyester shirt. Mr Buckley's voice was distant in contrast.
‘The police were utterly useless. They ignored what we said about Bob Oswald, then took every word he said on oath. You know, after they dragged my son down the station, they stripped him naked and took loads of swabs.’
‘They couldn't have done that without his permission.’
‘He didn't know what he was agreeing to. Since he took that beating, he doesn't seem to know if he's coming or going.’
‘You should have phoned me,’ Archie said. ‘I really wish you'd phoned me.’
‘It all happened so quickly. We didn't know what we should do.’
I looked over at Mr Buckley. I didn't really know him, but I couldn't imagine Mrs Buckley not knowing what she should do. After my father, she was the cleverest person in the square. Sometimes, when she was out in her front garden, I'd go over and ask her about multiplication or spelling and she always knew the right answers. How could she not have known to call my father? She must have known he was a solicitor. I'd told her about loads of his trials.
‘That bloody Bob Oswald,’ Mr Buckley continued. ‘He's reduced my son to a nervous wreck and got away without even a caution.’
‘You need to go back to the police, Dave.’ Archie's voice rumbled from deep inside his stomach. ‘A vicious attack on a nineteen-year-old boy…no matter what Bob Oswald thought he'd been up to … they have to do something about that.’
Mr Buckley laughed in a way I found scary. ‘What like? An ASBO? A caution?’
‘It's GBH at least,’ Archie said after a moment. ‘Bob should be facing prison.’
Mr Buckley's voice was high and shaky where my father's was soft and deep. ‘You know better than I do he'll be facing no more than community service. What'll probably happen is the police'll decide to charge me with wasting their time. It's been an eye-opener, this has. A real bloody shock.’
A long silence followed. Finally, Archie broke it.
‘How's the boy, anyway?’
Mr Buckley's voice went from shaky to jumpy. ‘Broken,’ he said. ‘Utterly broken. He reckons he's never leaving the house again.’
Another silence followed. I was very nearly asleep. It was way, way past my bedtime. Only Archie's voice kept me awake.
‘He just needs time,’ he said to Mr Buckley. ‘Don't worry. He'll be OK.’
But Archie was wrong. Mr Buckley's son was not OK. Just as he'd said to his father, he stayed inside the house. The car he had been cleaning the day Bob Oswald attacked him stood unused on the drive. The curtains to his room stayed shut.
For a time, he was a topic of fascination to me: Has he come out yet, Daddy? Never you mind. What's he doing in there, Daddy? Never you mind. Do you think we should go round and see him? Keep your bloody nose out of other people's business, for Christ's sake, I won't tell you again. Leave the poor Buckleys alone.
Jed was fascinated as well. Why would anyone want to stay in their bedroom when there were so many things to be done? He, being older, got a little more sense out of our father, who told him Mr Buckley's son had suffered a breakdown, and people who suffered breakdowns did things differently to everyone else. Jed still didn't understand though. Why had he suffered a breakdown? Archie shrugged. Some people just do.
This fuelled our fascination. A breakdown? What, like a car? Would a man from the AA come round and jump-start Mr Buckley's son, or tow him away in a tow truck? Eager to see how it ended, we sat on the kerb outside our house. Here, we watched the Buckley place for further developments. As we didn't know Mr Buckley's son's name, we started calling him Broken, as in, any sign of Broken Buckley yet? Nope. Oh. OK. After about an hour of watching, we got bored of just sitting, so we played football while we watched, then rode our scooters up and down the pavement, honking our horns at each other.
‘You kids shut that row up,’ Bob Oswald yelled as he stepped out into the sunshine. And then, seeing Mr Buckley on his knees in his garden, ‘Hey, fuckwit, how's your rapist son healing up?’ When he didn't get an answer, he spat in Mr Buckley's direction, then got in his jeep and sped off. The deep thud of bass music echoed in his wake.
Mr Buckley stood with a small trowel in his hand and stared off into the distance. He stood there for a long time, then dropped the trowel and went inside. The slam of the door seemed final, but ten or so minutes later Mrs Buckley came out and picked the trowel up. The Buckleys were tidy like that.
Later, when 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