GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2024/25

GARRIE FLETCHER

‘Counting Backwards’

 Ten

MY JOB IS HELPING TYSON COUNT TO TEN. Tyson will not count to ten. Tyson does not give a shit about my job.

Tyson is a four-year-old, six and a half stone, pale-skinned, baby-powder-white, soft as rose petals, lump. He sits on my lap, astride my legs, his shorts tight across his fat thighs and does that thing where his head comes within millimetres of me and looks at me out of the corner of his eye for less than a second, birdlike, eyeball flickering, before leaning back and clapping his hands. One day my knees will break. He lets out a high, delicate, elongated sound: reaeeer. He rubs his cropped, suede head against my cheek and says it again, reaeeer.

Back from toileting, Tyson stops, stares intently at his dancing fingers and then legs it down the corridor. Boy, he can move for a fat kid. I run after him as he goes past the computer area, past the entrance to the hall and veers right into Medical. I find him laughing sweetly, rocking back and forth smiling. A new nurse with the darkest brown eyes, stares at him. Her mouth forms an almost perfect ‘O.’ She does not move. Her tawny hair is pulled up tight to her crown, a stray wisp, like a wayward question mark, trails on her cheek. She doesn’t see me, but I see her and nothing else. 

‘He’s sound,’ I say. ‘He won’t hurt you. He doesn’t know how.’

I run pointless errands to Medical, hang with the smokers at lunchtime, use the playground's furthest entrance, all to get a glimpse of those large, dark eyes.

*

Two forty-five, circle time. Instruments out: tambourines, shakers, bells, cabasa. We sing, ‘one, two, three, four, time to leave, open the door.’ Tyson laughs, claps and stares at the ceiling. ‘Five, six, seven, eight, the buses are waiting don’t be late. Nine, form a line, be on time.’ Tyson gives a gleeful reaeeer as I guide his arms through his backpack straps. ‘Ten, ten, begin again,’ which we do another three times before heading out to the buses. Tyson’s guide, a sharp woman with nicotine fingertips, and technicolour hair says, ‘Off we go, my heavyweight champ,’ and smirks as if she’s the wit of the walk. Tyson pauses and looks at me, not out of the corner of his eye, but dead-on, no mistaking, and a second stretches to an uncomfortable age like a latex glove reluctant to give up a finger. Then, he spins around and walks hand-in-hand with the guide towards his bus shouting, ‘ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.’ The little shit.

‘You make a lovely couple,’ says the nurse as she nods at Tyson, colour blushing her cheeks. I say nothing and she keeps walking. I say nothing. Nothing. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Nine

‘He can count.’

‘Who?’

‘Tyson. I heard him yesterday as he got on the bus with Spray Can Hair.’

Kulvinder narrows her eyes, boarder guard stare.

‘I’m not shitting you. Clear as day.’

Kulvinder spends the morning working with him, a one, a two, a three. All of us waiting for the knockout that never comes. ‘What does it matter?’ I ask. ‘The counting? What good will it do him?’

‘It’s communication,’ she says. ‘He’ll be able to ask for things. ‘

‘Like what?’

‘Biscuit.’

‘Don’t you think he’s had enough biscuits?’

I’m sent to the quadrangle with Akram. Our classroom and another have doors that open onto it; a corridor with floor to ceiling windows and two offices also border it. I’m to stop Akram grabbing himself or banging his head and there I am with what must look like my hand down the trousers of a young boy as she walks past. Her brow is tight with questions, she slows, moves closer to the window, stops, stares. I let go. Akram’s hand dives into his pants. I pull it out and when I look up, she’s gone.

*

Reaeeer, says Tyson and places my hands on his cheeks. Again, he’s on my lap. Christ, he’s a weight. He looks briefly at the card I’m holding, a stylised drawing of a chicken stood next to a large, black number one. ‘One chicken,’ I say, and I say it slowly, just like Kulvinder does, like I’ve necked ketamine instead of E. I say it again, ‘one chicken,’ the words stretched out like chewing gum. Tyson snatches the card, throws it into the air and runs into the far corner of the classroom. He screams. The others sink into themselves, back away. Kulvinder nods to leave the class and I take Tyson’s hand.

 Eight

‘What’s her name then?’ asks Gavin as he teases the life out of a cigarette. 

‘I don’t know.’

‘What? Bloody ask her.’

‘I will.’

‘So, you’ll ask Siobhan what her name is?’

‘Siobhan? Her name’s Siobhan?’

Gavin’s leer stays with me all morning. How can he talk to her? Why can’t I talk to her?

At lunchtime, I walk past the smokers. She, Siobhan, is talking to Gav, Ray and Chris and her fist’s shaking, swiftly and they’re all laughing. She sees me, blushes, but her hand continues to do the wanker sign.

SEVEN

‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ she says.

‘What other day?’

‘The wanking day.’

‘Oh.’

Tyson’s refusing to stay still on the scales. He keeps rocking back and forth in the seat making the digital display flick up and down through the grams and kilograms. I crouch down. He leans in and gently puts his hands on my cheeks, reaeeer.

‘He’s very good with you.’

‘That’s ‘cause I wank him off every day.’

Horror dissolves into shock and slowly to understanding, she smiles. ‘You’re a cheeky sod.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kathleen.’

‘Not Siobhan?’

‘Give me credit to know my own name.’

Tyson’s put weight on, so we’re sent for a walk, a tour of the school, all the way from Reception, through Primary up to Secondary and down to Continuing Education and then out onto the playground. It’s not a walk he needs. It’s a gastric band and an industrial hoover.

Six

We go out to the crumbling old park: a swathe of green hemmed in by Victorian red and blue brick buildings, a hotel, a factory, a warehouse, top and tailed by Moseley Road and Alcester Street. The park is on a hill, the playground, midway down, looking over the city. Tyson struggles onto the swing. I steady him, take some of his weight and feel it pull on my back. I push, softly, gaining momentum. ‘One, two, three,’ I drag my words out to match the slow arc of the swing. ‘Four, five, six,’ Tyson holds one chain with his left hand. His right arm hooks around the other leaving his fingers free to dance in front of his face. ‘Seven, eight, nine.’ An old couple walk past, big coats on a mild day, arm in arm. They smile at Tyson, the sweet fat kid at play. I push hard, ‘ten!’ The jolt leaves him clinging on with both hands — a distressed reaeeer breaking into tears.

‘What were you thinking of?’ demands Kulvinder.

‘I wasn’t thinking. I was counting.’

That night, after I’ve brushed my teeth, I stare in the mirror, mind blank. Fingers spread apart in front of my face I flick my wrist back and forth until they dance.

Five

‘Have you ever done that thing?’ I ask Naz. ‘That thing with the hands and the fingers in the face?’

She laughs and says, ‘you can’t catch it.’

‘I’m not daft.’

‘Really?’

Kathleen wears a uniform, they all do, blue dress with dark blue piping. It's snug on her arse, the skirt flicking left then right as she strides along the corridor. She has a very purposeful stride, a very purposeful arse.

At night, on the futon, close to the floor, the reading lamp beside me, I do the hand flicker in front of the bulb. Shadows shimmy across the slanted ceiling and I think about the swish of Kathleen’s rear. Reaeeer.

 Four

‘Coats off and on the peg. Look for the peg with your picture. Bags on the bench beneath your coat and then into class for an activity before circle time.’ Tyson will not look at his photo. He will not place his coat on the peg. Tyson does not give a shit about my job.

I don’t always work with Tyson, Kulvinder’s good like that, but he fills my day like a man in a child’s t-shirt.

I wander into the nurse’s station on the pretext of asking when Tyson’s due to be weighed. Slappy is there, the one with the glasses and pin-hole eyes, the one that, when she’s had a few gins, likes to smack me around the face – I imagine her fella’s face is like a bloody side of beef. She looks at me as if to say I know why you’re here you dirty git, and then attempts a smile that looks more like she’s holding something in rather than letting it out.

‘Kathleen’s away today. She’s a study day.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Because your face is asking.’

In the evening, I go into Mosley to see Mad Pete’s band. I catch the Number One and walk from the crossroads to the Jug. I like it here. I don’t know many people, but you don’t need to. Upstairs, away from the lights, TV screens, and the ching, ching of the fruit machines it’s darker, less polished, like the veneer has been scuffed away to reveal the true heart of the place. Pete’s all eyes and teeth, whizzing on a school night. He says something I don’t catch — it doesn’t matter, he’s always two conversations ahead of you and often with two different people.

Kathleen is there.

Kathleen in civies.

Kathleen in DMs.

Kathleen in conversation with anyone but me.

Three

That night, car headlights cross the ceiling exposing ravines and swirls in the Artex. The tight space and angled wall feel like a cave. Below me, the house is hollow and cold. The slats of the futon dig into my back and the prick in the front bedroom drones into his phone. His phone. The phone he bought. The phone’s long cable stretching from the extension socket on the landing into his room. The cable I dream of cutting. A high-pitched shriek cuts up through the floor. Laughter or castration it’s hard to tell. At work, I’m a pair of hands, a body to position, a mouthpiece, a gatherer, a herder, a wiper, a holder, a checker. Here, I’m the guy in the roof.

I click the kettle on. Moonlight through the trees in the garden throws shadows onto the kitchen wall and the fingers of branches pick at my thoughts in the cold light.

Kathleen has a few days of placement left.

I finish my tea and try not to think about that.

In bed, I try touching myself but it’s like I’ve taken speed. All I get is frustrated and sore. Eventually, morning’s faint beginning smudges across the wall. An icy shower blasts the night away and I get ready for work.

Kathleen asks, ‘why didn’t you talk to me at the gig?’

‘You were busy with Gav.’

‘Busy?’

‘Looked that way.’

‘He wouldn’t leave me alone. There’s something creepy about him.’

‘Only something?’

Kathleen laughs, her face bright and clear. She hasn’t spent the night staring at shadows.

‘Tomorrow’s my last day.’

‘I thought it was Friday.’

‘Study day.’

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

* 

Tyson soils himself. Toilet training, along with counting, is on his to-do list. There’s a knack for taking a nappy off a chronically obese child. It’s something you master quickly if you want to keep shit off your shoes. I position Tyson in front of the sink, his hands grip the ceramic, and he stares intently at himself for about two seconds before lifting his left hand to his face and flickering his fingers. He sounds ridiculously happy. I slide his jogging bottoms and pants down to the floor. Tyson’s legs, like the rest of him, are albino pale and smooth as a baby’s. The nappy slips from his considerable waist, stops at his thighs and hangs low between his legs, a full load, warm to the touch. He rarely acknowledges anyone, and I wonder what his take on the world is. In Tyson’s reality, am I merely part of the furniture, an extension of the room, something that comes into play when needed, that repeats sounds at him while flapping bits of card until I take his hand and lead him to the bus that takes him home? I tell Tyson what I’m doing every time because I’d want to know if someone was about to remove my pants. 

‘Okay, mate, pad’s coming off.’

‘Reaeeer.’

‘Reaeeer.’ I counter, my mimicking of him almost perfect. Sometimes I feel it’s him mimicking me, that he’s conditioned me to be like this. I’m not teaching him to be more normal, he’s teaching me to be more Tyson.

I snap the blue gloves on and place a pack of wipes on the adjacent sink. I position my right leg softly, against his backside to hold the pad in place and I swiftly rip the sticky tabs off and gather the front and back parts together taking care to keep the noxious content level. His waste has a distinct aroma, pungent and sweet, like baby food mixed with cat shit.

It’s her last day tomorrow.

‘Reaeeer.’

Yeah, fucking reaeeer.

I clean him up with the wipes, drop them inside the nappy, curl it over on itself and reseal it so that everything’s captured and drop the lot in the yellow bin. New pad on and we’re done.

‘Hands.’

Tyson hates washing his hands. This is one of the rare times he looks me in the eye, glares at me with something close to hate as I take his hands and guide them under the tap. I stand to the left of him having been on the end of a reverse head-butt in the past. It’s difficult to control his right arm from this side, but after a very distressed reaeeer his hands are clean, and I take him back to class. He enters the room screaming and heads for a corner where he slaps the wall and wriggles his new nappy into a more comfortable position. Kulvinder smiles at me and asks me to take Alice to Medical to get her bloods checked. She’s good like that, Kulvinder. Knows when you need a break.

Slappy welcomes Alice in as if she’s a favourite granddaughter. Alice looks confused but smiles back. She’s a skinny kid full of nervous energy and unlike Tyson can string a few words together. Slappy guides her to the chair and Alice sits there swishing her legs in and out under the seat.

‘Hi,’ says Kathleen as she walks in.

‘Hi.’

‘It’s her last day tomorrow,’ says Slappy with a forced smile. ‘Will you miss her?’

The blood rushes to my cheeks. I start to say something.

‘I meant Alice, she’s gorgeous. Not you, you half-wit,’ says Slappy.

Later, after Spray Can Hair has put Tyson on the bus, I see Kathleen walking out of the school gates. She’s wearing a smart, black three-quarter-length coat with the collar turned up like she’s in a film.

 Two

Tyson counts in blocks of time, not minutes and hours. He knows bus leads to coat leads to circle. Singing leads to cards, words, quadrangle, snack and drink then hall where a man he only sees in hall speaks word after word after word. He has these blocks down pat. Some, like snack time, he tries to will sooner by slapping the walls and running around the class. Others, like the hall assembly, he tries to avoid with the same behaviour. Tyson’s smart, he just does things differently.

‘One,’ I say, and show him the card with the single chicken. He looks off to the left and slightly towards the ceiling glancing back to me for a thousandth of a second to see if the card has gone. I say it again. Nothing. A smile colours Tyson’s face, a hint of pink heating his pallid skin and I glimpse the angelic boy his mum sees. He looks at me and lets out a long, loud reaeeer and collapses into an infectious roll of laughter that sweeps me along with him. Kulvinder catches my eye and I stop laughing.

‘Marvellous, Tyson. I’ll go through the cards, and you watch and listen.’

My words are supplemented with Makaton, a simple form of sign language. I draw an imaginary line from my eye to the card to indicate that Tyson should look, and cup my hand to my ear to indicate he should listen. Tyson has seen these signs a thousand times but the only ones he acknowledges are drink, biscuit, eat, and toilet – a man of simple tastes. I go through the whole set finishing on ten ducks whereupon Tyson, in one swift move, leans forward, cups my face in his hands and, in a long slow delivery, mimicking my own, says, ten. He maintains eye contact for what feels like forever, like he’s saying, okay, I’ve said it. I’ve said your stupid word. The background clatter of the classroom dissolves – all eyes on us. He lets go of my face, jumps up from his chair, knocking the small table over, and sends the animal cards flying. He starts to spin around and around his right-hand flickering in front of his eyes and his left arm held out for balance. ‘Ten, nine, eight,’ he shouts in a shrill voice. ‘Seven, six, five,’ as he continues to spin. ‘Four, three, two, one, Mum! Mum! Mum!’ He hammers on the classroom door desperate to get out. Kulvinder nods at me to sit with the group she was working with and goes over to comfort him.

Later, when I’m toileting him before home-time I apologise and tell him I was following orders, but the incident is forgotten, his reflection more engaging than me.

In assembly, Kathleen is called out to the front and presented with chocolates, words, the door is always open, blah, blah, blah. She looks incredible and somehow tolerates a wet handshake from the Head. I try to catch her eye but I’m invisible.

The day ends in the usual tangle of buses, tail-lifts whirring up and down, guides shouting, kids shouting, and staff slinking off early. Spray Can Hair takes ages to collect Tyson. I watch him count backwards onto the bus and think about what I’ll say to Kathleen.

‘You get her number then?’ Gav leers at me.

‘Who?’

‘Piss off. You know who. She was a fine sight walking out of here.’

‘She’s gone?’

ONE

The shape of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows, her eyes; I picture all this as I run across the park to the bus stop. I am committed. Possibilities flutter in my chest like a small bird trapped inside my ribcage. Words start to form in my mouth, my mind speeding ahead, and I dash out onto Moseley Road to see the bus pulling away, the bus stop empty. I drop down onto the narrow seats at the stop and take a deep breath in through my nose, heart drumming in my ears. The city swirls around me, traffic revving in my head. I focus on my breathing, let out a long breath and, without thinking, a high pitched reaeeer. I do another one, louder this time. Then, I watch, as if detached from myself, as my fingers flicker and dance in front of my eyes.