Humber Boy B Read Free Page A

years. Our home was a narrow terrace, upstairs was only Mum’s bedroom and a smaller room that I shared with my brother, Adam. Half-brother, technically, and his dad Stuart lived with us too, when he wasn’t on an Icelandic trawler out in the Arctic somewhere. Sometimes, Mum would get tired of waiting for him to show up with the brass so other men would come and go, and we’d eat for a few days. Stuart would always return eventually, with a pocket of cash and enough fish so we’d be sick of it after a fortnight, telling us about waves as high as buildings and fish as tall as a man. Cuffing me round the head every chance he got, giving Adam treats, then disappearing again for weeks on end, sending Mum into a spiral of sadness that meant she slept lots and there would be no food again, not even fish, and we knew it wouldn’t be long before we’d hear strange noises coming from her bedroom. It was Adam who got me up for school, who made me wash, who stole milk from the neighbours early each morning. Whoever came or went, whatever was going on with Stuart and Mum, Adam stayed the same. And, always, it was Adam and me against the world. Until the bridge.
    After that, we got separated.
    First, I was with a police officer who looked at me like I was rotten, then a social worker who looked at me like I was ill. Later it was secure unit staff, psychiatrists, prison officers, teachers and other inmates. But I was never alone and now what’s behind me is the closed prison gate and what’s ahead is a place I don’t know – how can you know anywhere if you’re in a locked room all your adult life? – and a new home and maybe work and even a new name. The name I used to have, the one Mum gave me is gone now, thrown into the Humber with everything else that died.
    I keep walking, down the gravel path that leads to the train station, checking again that the train warrant is in my pocket. It’s all I have: a train warrant to take me to Ipswich, the address of the probation office and a duffel bag with my drawings and some letters, along with the handful of birthday and Christmas cards that Mum remembered to send. On some she’d signed Stuart’s name though we all knew what he really thought about me, he’d told a whole courtroom.
    Letters and cards, not worth much, and I shouldn’t keep them. Not with my new life, new name and everything. But if I destroy them, then what have I got to show for the ten years I lived before that one moment on the Humber Bridge?
    Melton train station is small, a village outpost that happens to be just a few miles from the prison. It must be obvious where I’ve come from; the prison stench hangs on me, even in my new T-shirt and jeans. My shoes came from a catalogue. I saw a picture of some I really liked, red canvas they were, but Kevin, my personal officer, just laughed at that and instead he picked out a cheap white pair. He said they wouldn’t last but they were all my allowance would stretch to. My jeans came from a proper shop, I picked them myself while Kevin waited a few steps away, trying not to look obvious about the fact that he was watching me. My T-shirt I hesitated over. I kept thinking, But would Ben like it? I’m still new at being Ben and maybe he likes different things to the old me. So I chose a blue T-shirt with a cartoon of Superman on it because I thought it was tacky and babyish and so surely something my old self would hate. Also, because Superman takes off his glasses and he’s a better person, a hero, and I’d like to transform like that. Only I wouldn’t go from ordinary to hero but from villain to ordinary.
    The station is a platform and a track. That’s it. I need to wait for a train to take me to Ipswich and I can see the timetable on the wall. I couldn’t have read that eight years ago, but now I can see the times and work out that the train will be here soon.
    I used to be into trains, Adam and me both were, back when we watched Thomas the Tank Engine while