Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.
(Parts 1-10 are available to read in the menu)
Part 11
July 1982
It should have been the perfect summer evening. Large Victorian houses lined both sides of the street that stretched to the top of the hill where a spectacular sunset could be seen. The sun reflected from the leaves of large trees that cast shadows on the pavements, while birds chorused their final songs of the day. Yes, I told myself, it should be an idyllic end to the day. But I was miserable.
The streets of Nether Edge did not belong to me, nor were they willing to welcome me. For a boy from Park Hill, where life consisted of concrete and hardship, these streets were borrowed from another world. I was out of my depth here. I was also tired because robbing a newsagent had been stressful.
A few hours earlier we’d hidden our stolen cigarettes underneath Andy’s bed, not quite knowing how we were going to sell them without arousing suspicion. There was also the woman who’d been knocked unconscious by Andy, and we’d felt bad about that. We were used to dishing out violence to scrap-heap kids like ourselves, but hurting a grown woman was something that we weren’t used to.
I clutched the piece of paper and decided that number 68 was on the right hand side. I walked nervously towards it and felt the cuts on my left cheek where the woman had ripped at it with her fingernails. The bleeding had stopped but it was still tender to touch.
“My god, we’ve got scarface tonight,” said the smartly dressed man who opened the door of number 68. “Come inside, we all enjoy a rough boy.”
The door was shut behind me and I was ushered into a smartly decorated lounge where a video was playing on an expensive looking TV set. I could hear male voices in a room next door, and laughter, and I sat on a sofa that was twice as big as the one at home. I didn’t recognise the film, and it wasn’t long before I realised that it was an American porn movie.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one.”
“Not here. It’s cheap and nasty. Let me give you a large Pernod because it will help you to relax.”
It tasted like aniseed balls, and when the glass was half empty, the man topped it up again.
“Where do you live?”
“Park Hill.”
“That says it all.” Raucous laughter erupted from the other room as though they’d been listening to the conversation.
There was a weak knock at the front door, and the man flounced away to answer it. I could hear muffled conversation, and Paolo appeared looking anxious. He relaxed when he saw me sitting on the sofa.
“I didn’t know that you’d be here,” Paolo whispered as he sat beside me. The man handed him a large Pernod and poured more into my glass. He looked at us, assessing what he had before him, and flashed a wicked smile. “Not long now boys.”
It was a traumatic experience, one that we’d never forget. Men did indescribable things to us, and a few hours later, we left the house in silence, feeling used and dirty, Paolo stayed close to me, and I saw a tear run down his cheek. We walked for ages, not knowing where we were going, until we found a bus that would take us back into the city.
“Are you okay?” I asked Paolo,
“Promise me something,” he said. “Tell me that you will never leave me on my own with them.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
Later that night, Andy phoned, and I told my parents to say that I wasn’t in. It was the same when Jack phoned afterwards, and when Louise rang at midnight, and my dad shouted to me through the bedroom door, I pretended to be asleep.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 