Sam: Loserville

I trod on the spot this morning – I wasn’t thinking, just hurrying down the stairs, grasping onto Alex’s hand. We were late for school and my foot hit the remains of the bloodstain without me even realising it.

I expected to feel something – a tremor in the air or some kind of a chill – anything that would mean a trace of that poor man was still there – but there was nothing. The only way I knew I’d stumbled on it was the plastic flowers I’d twisted into the grimy handrail to mark the spot.

I’d asked that kid upstairs about him. Nguyen I mean – he told me he was Vietnamese, that his father had been a mechanic before going into the Vietcong. That he could speak perfect English but refused to open his mouth as it felt like a betrayal. And that’s how he ended up here.

“Losers, that’s who ends up here,” Scratch had said.

“So you’re a loser now,” I’d joked. And when he didn’t answer I’d said “And I suppose I’m a loser too?”

His eyes narrowed a little bit and he said. “It’s the luck of the draw. And yes, you lost.”

I’d wanted to explain then about Si and the debts, the rent and the eviction. How the housing office wouldn’t put me anywhere else. And then I’d thought – why the hell should I explain it to this runty kid? And would he even understand if I did?

As I paused on the step, an elderly West Indian looking lady was staring at me. She wore a huge camel-colour overcoat and had her hair tied neatly in a colourful wrap – her eyes fixed on me accusingly and I flushed with guilt, stammering an apology.

“Did you know him?” I asked. “I’m sorry to ask this but, how did he die?”

“Like they all do,” she said. “He was eaten. Best you don’t know the details and just get your son out of here. This is not a good place.”

“Mum,” Alex had a tremor in his voice and I notice he hadn’t snaked his hand out of mine, which he usually does as soon as we’re out in public. “I think everyone in this place is nuts.”