Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.

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      My purse contained Mr Chin’s one hundred pounds in addition to the one pound eighty I keep on hand for purchasing spiral notebooks. ‘I don’t have five pounds in change but if you come with me I’ll buy you a sandwich and a beverage.’

      ‘Why should I trust you?’ The boy squinted at me. ‘You could be one of those molesterers. I’m a minor.’

      ‘I’ll take you to a public place.’ I hesitated. An idea was forming in my mind. ‘And rather than give you five pounds, I’ll employ you and pay you to do something for me.’

      ‘I’m not nicking anything.’

      ‘I’m not a lawbreaker and would never encourage a minor to become one either.’ I offered the boy my hand. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

      The boy eyed my hand suspiciously. He kept his arms at his sides. ‘That’s not a real name.’

      ‘It wasn’t my choice.’ I let my arm drop. ‘What’s yours?’

      ‘Nigel, but that’s not my real name either. And I don’t want a sandwich.’

      ‘What would you like?’

      ‘A cup of tea and a cake.’ He thought a moment. ‘And a Coke.’

      As we set off down Harry Secombe Parade, the boy hung back, trailing me along the pavement.

      ‘You don’t want to walk beside me?’

      ‘Not when you walk like that.’

      I stopped swinging my arms to chest height and slowed down but the boy continued to follow several steps behind. I glanced back to check on him as I passed under the old rail bridge. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were in the pockets of his baggy jeans but he was light on his feet and made no sound as he walked. At the high street he paused, scanning it before continuing.

      Several people were milling around in front of the council buildings but they took no notice of us as we passed. Ten years previously the town hall square had been furnished with iron benches and rubbish bins stamped with the town’s coat of arms but these had been ripped up under Mr Clench’s drive to give the council a new face. Cobblestones had been imported from Italy and laid in a circular pattern. A marble fountain of a semi-naked woman in a clamshell was installed as a decorative centrepiece. The nozzle of this landmark has not spouted for several years but its clamshell is always filled with rainwater.

      As I neared the betting shop, a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked my way. He was my height and looked about thirty-five. His head was small and his dark hair was oily and uncombed. He was wearing a black T-shirt printed with a skull and bones design and blue nylon sports trousers with a mismatched green nylon jacket. His face had an unhealthy pallor and he did not look like someone who practised sport. Smouldering between his fingers was a hand-rolled cigarette.

      ‘Spare change, love?’ he asked, crumpling his face in a tragic way and holding out his free hand. ‘Down on my luck.’

      I turned to see what Nigel was doing only to discover that the boy had disappeared.

      ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked the man, removing one pound from my purse.

      He eyed me as he snatched the coin. ‘Nope.’

      ‘Why do you need money?’

      ‘The derby.’ He turned to go.

      ‘You’re going to bet on horses?’

      ‘As soon as I get five quid together.’

      I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.

      Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’

      ‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.

      Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’

      There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’

      I motioned for Nigel to follow and led him down the side street towards Ted’s Famously Fine Coffee and Teas. The café is a small place with colourful plastic tablecloths and solid wooden chairs. It serves an all-day breakfast of fried bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs on a pool of baked beans. The price of breakfast includes a large mug of tea or coffee. There is a sign above the counter that reads: ‘Our teas and coffees are made the old-fashioned way – by Ted’s very own fine hand’.

      For a month now I have been going to Ted’s every Monday and Thursday after work to observe people and collate my notes. I would like to go every day but I do not want to overstay my welcome. This has happened to me before in other places and I have learned to pace myself. Most people are able to pace themselves without thinking but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.

      Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.

      This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.

      ‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.

      ‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.

      ‘Don’t try any funny business.’

      The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’

      ‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’

      ‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’

      ‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’

      ‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’

      ‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’

      ‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’

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