-•✦—✦—✦•-
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Course I'm sure. Light it," Henry said.
"Okay…" I said and lit the blue paper at the end of the stick.
The lighter didn't catch on my first few tries, but it worked on the third. The firework on the ground had the word FLASHBANG printed in white and red. When the fire licked the blue paper, it started to emit bright sparkles.
"Run!" I said, laughing. My heart was beating a mile a minute.
"BANG!" Henry shouted proudly.
[BANG!]
The sound came right as he said it—a small white cloud rose, and it sounded like a gunshot going off.
"You damn kids, get out of there!" an older lady with two small corgis cursed at us.
"Mind yer business!" Henry shot back. "Stupid bint," he muttered.
"We're scaring off her dogs or her heart. We should go somewhere else before she tells on us." I suggested.
He didn't say anything as he stood there, a bit angry. "Sure," he finally let out.
"How about the other park?"
"Footy would be nice," Henry replied, smiling.
"They don't share their ball, and I don't have one at home," I pointed out.
"They will," Henry promised.
We went through a hole in the iron fences and came out onto a footpath we used to walk back home. We had been in a playground called Triangle Adventure. The place had all kinds of fancy things like treehouses, tyre swings, and a trampoline. Henry didn't let the fact that the playground being closed on weekends stop him from his visitation rights. But even for him, I think the empty playground lost its appeal quickly.
We passed by our house and took the path I took every single day since arriving in London. Only this time, we crossed instead of turning left to follow the road's curve. The house was a bit of a mess at this time; if you want to know why, you should go to any pub in England during a World Cup year. The day after my preview, England would be playing against Argentina. But today, Clive and Oliver were competing over how much they each hated the French. An Englishman and Welshman could both get behind that for a day, and they were supporting Paraguay of all countries.
I liked France because Gilles was French, so hopefully, he was watching the match with enough praying power to fight back against my family's ill wishes. Football or rugby, I kind of hated how much passion or hatred it brought out of people.
Henry seemed impressed by St. Mark's Church. I got closer to him and whispered in his ear.
"They call it the gallows, just so you know." I said in a spooky voice.
"Why do they call it that?" Henry asked, confused.
"'Cause they hung criminals right there," I said, pointing at the front of the church.
"Huh," Henry said, shrugging.
"Now it's a nice sight you see whenever you exit the tube."
"Do you want to take the tube?" Henry asked suddenly, excited.
I shook my head. "No, Mum will kill us. I haven't got any money on me anyway."
"We can jump the barriers," Henry smirked. "Or you a pansy?"
"No," I denied. "London's not safe—not like Chester."
"Hmph," he scoffed. "Right, let's see this footy park of yours."
We crossed the road again, and there it was—a massive park with large, mature trees. When I first came to London, these had all been naked trees, but now it was a lush green forest. Summer was here, humidity was killing me.
"That's a model house the Prince at the time built." I played the tour guide.
"Model house? What's it modeling for?" He snickered.
"To show what type of houses would be built for the growing population," I explained.
"Ehh, who cares, Wilf." He shook his head, then his eyes lit up. "Is it haunted?"
"I don't think so."
"Come on, let's see if we can break in."
This time, Henry didn't wait for my permission. He lifted the wooden gate and just walked through—there was no lock on the thing. The house was originally designed for low-cost housing, yet it was a two-storey house that could almost pass for mansion if not for its size.
Henry passed by the lush, well-maintained garden and went straight to the doorway. He reached for the door handle once he stepped onto the portico. His hands found nothing. With a surprised look, his gaze followed and found a mark where the handle used to be. It had been taken out and replaced with solid metal, forever barring visitors from passing.
"That's rubbish," he said, then walked around the front of the house.
I looked out to the park where people were walking past us, feeling guilty. Henry didn't seem to mind one bit.
"Look," Henry pointed to a window. "It's got fake ones, see?"
Following my curiosity, I got closer to the window frame and saw what he meant. The window was boarded up with a metal frame from the inside, but behind that layer was a painted backdrop that gave the illusion of the interior of the house.
"There," I pointed to another window. A large sign hung there behind the glass:
[WARNING: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED]
"That's just for the homeless people, or the drunks." Henry dismissed the sign.
"Do you wanna go up on top of this?" He pointed at the portico. "We can stand on the window ledge, and if you're standing there, I can climb on your shoulders. Boost me up?"
"No!" I denied. "It's way too tall even if we are boosted up."
"Ugh, fine. Whoa!" His eyes lit up again, and he went around the stone barrier for the garden to the side of the building.
"Come on," Henry urged. "Here, look!"
I followed after him—at least we weren't visible behind all the plants. Henry was crouching over something. Coming up next to him, the sight surprised me. It was a toad with copper-sheen horizontal eyes that set it apart from everything else.
"It looks like a fat, bumpy olive!" Henry laughed, his hands in his pocket. "Do you wanna touch it?"
"No!" I denied again. "They're poisonous or something. Mum said you'll get sick if you touch them."
"Always the 'Mum said' thing. Ugh— I've got an idea."
Laughing, he took out a packet of Benwell-branded bangers—the fireworks we used before.
"Benwell, ha, let's see how well it does this frog in," Henry said, putting down the banger right beside the toad.
It jumped away, so Henry shifted it again, which caused it to jump again. I started to laugh at the comical sight. Henry looked back at me, his eyes glinting with promise.
"If you think it's funny, why don't you try it?"
"I'd rather not—it might hurt the animal."
"Bah, stop being a pansy. That's why the kids never let you play football with them. Here!" He handed me the stick with the blue tip.
"No, take it back." I shoved it back to him.
"How about this then?" Henry said, taking out the lighter and lighting it. Sparks flew, then he handed the firework to me. My hands reached for it automatically, a reaction to anyone handing me things.
"What the—" I said, and things went into slow motion. It took what felt like seconds to jerk my hand away and step back. In front of me, Henry was doing the same motion in reverse. The toad jumped away from Henry's stride and to land right on top of the banger.
[BANG!]
The white smoke blasted out, and the frog fell over like a stone.
"Oh my god!" I said, my ears ringing—probably due to the adrenaline pumping through me.
"That was amazing!" Henry laughed. "Did we get him?"
I couldn't even speak as my gaze shifted between the unmoving toad and the gleeful boy in front of me.
"Is it dead?" Henry said and kicking at the toad.
Before I could say anything, the toad jumped away as soon as Henry's boot touched it.
"Whoa!" Henry said.
"—God!" I said at the same time.
"It's alive! I thought you had killed it."
"It's just bangers—it couldn't hurt a thing. Probably the noise's got it all confused." Henry shrugged.
"What are you kids doing there?" a voice called out. I saw an older gent through a hedge.
Henry and I looked at each other and ran off as fast as we could.
—✦—
We played football for what felt like hours. Since I was the smallest, they put me in between the sticks. My goal was to stop the opposition's goals—literally. Being the only role allowed to use their hands in the match was fun, but I think I'd have liked being a striker more. If football was a production of film or musical, then strikers were the stars—the main characters. Goalies and defenders were the ensemble characters; they were important but didn't get the love or adoration due them.
I thought I did well, saving a dozen goals—but then I had also let in seven in one of the games, this one I had let in six.
"That was offside!" Henry complained.
A freckled boy denied the accusation.
"Nuh-uh, it was offsides. I've got eyes, mate—or you calling me blind?" Henry stepped forward.
The boy shut up.
"That's what I thought. It's still six-all!" Henry announced.
They moved up front again and played ball. I only had to do something when the ball was in our "court"—which, unlike the expression, was a very bad thing. Henry seemed like a boy possessed, slapping the passed ball aside at a near ninety-degree angle. The kick tore off some grass, dust went in the air, but by then Henry was long gone. The first defender was the freckled boy—Henry swapped his driving foot and dropped his shoulder. A moment later, the boy was on the ground and Henry was still sprinting. A few boys tried to scramble and defend, but it was too late. His kick rolled the ball over the grass and hit bottom right. Opposing goalie stared at the ball unbelievingly, the curve on it probably surprised the boy.
"Yes!" Henry cheered and ran around, his right hand raised in the air like he was waving to someone—Alan Shearer's celebration. I think my dad would want to see that in the England–Argentina game in couple days. I was the last to join the celebrations with how far I was in goal—Henry was good at football. What sport was I good at?
"We win!" Henry said to the freckled boy. "Give us the ball."
"Jared, just give it, mate," their snot-nosed goalie said.
"My mum bought this for me last week," Jared complained.
"Then why'd you go and gamble it on a game? Are you daft, like?" Henry said, his accent sounding more Scouse than usual—pretty common for Chester near Blacon.
"But it's new, and she got it from France," Jared said with a shake of his head.
He held the beautiful tricolore football protectively.
"Doesn't matter who has the ball—I'll come later. We can still play. Maybe I'll give you the chance to win it again," Henry teased.
"Fine," Jared said, dropping the ball and kicking it towards Henry.
"Someone's mad!" Henry said to our team. They all laughed.
I didn't even know we were playing for the ball, but the World Cup ball was a special sight to see.
"Where do you all live?" Henry asked a blonde boy with a gap tooth.
"Kennington Road," he replied.
"Never been there. Show me?" Henry said. He handed me the ball and slung his arms across the two boys. One taller than him and other similar in height.
Henry was really good at this sort of thing. These boys hadn't allowed me to play the last time I was here, but when Henry came in and said a few things, they were all too happy to let me onto their team—something I could never get them to do.
"What's that?" Henry pointed.
"Coffee shop," Dan replied. "You've never been here before?"
"No, it's my first time in London," Henry said.
"Oh, then there's a good place I can show you," Dan said, walking faster.
I crossed the road at a different part of the A3 than usual—a part I'd never been before. How odd that I'd been living here for two months, and Henry had already seen more of London than me in just a day and night.
"That's where Charlie Chaplin lived," Dan pointed to one of the terraced houses.
I squinted to see a sign that said:
"Charlie Chaplin Lived Here 1889–1978."
"That the fella with the Hitler moustache?" Henry laughed, holding his fingers right above his lips.
"Yeah," Dan laughed.
"Who cares where he lived? He almost made it to a hundred though—impressive." Henry whistled.
The next few spots were only interesting to us because we were kids. Otis and Dan were good tour guides; they knew a spot behind a boarded-up building slated for redevelopment that was a hotspot for neighbourhood cats. They hissed at us if we came nearby but didn't mind us ogling them. I saw Black Prince Estate, where Edward the Black Prince had lived—a very famous figure who never lived to kingship. Soon I would perform in front of Prince Charles. Many had the same thoughts about him—a son who would never take the throne. Only I knew better—he would, a couple of decades later.
It felt weird meeting the Queen—someone I knew to be dead but who was living and breathing. Granddad must've felt that way about making friends. I grew introspective, thinking dark thoughts.
"Let's do something fun," Henry said, shoving me lightly.
Coming out of my thoughts, I gave him a questioning look. His eyes sent me a silent signal—glinting, his smile was easy and devious.
"Bangers?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"Yeah. Otis, Dan—want to play a game? Whoever can throw a rock and hit that tree in that hollow is safe. Loser has to light a banger in their pocket," Henry announced the competition.
"What's a banger?" Otis asked.
I brought out the box of fireworks I'd seized from Henry after the toad incident.
"Ah, we call those sparklers!" Otis said.
"Those are banned," Dan warned.
"So what?" Henry pressed.
"So—nothing, I suppose," Dan answered.
"That's right. We'll throw those pebbles from here. Hit the hollow cavity," Henry pointed to pebbles by the walkway and to the open park with the tree opposite us.
London had many park spaces, this one was the longest and thinnest I'd seen. There were Sunday League games going on in a caged pitch on the other side of the park.
"How many tries?" Otis asked, the tallest among us.
"Three's the charm?" Henry said.
"Okay, but how do we know whose pebble is whose?" Dan asked, slightly shorter than Henry.
"It'll be obvious if we take turns throwing," Henry suggested.
"I don't want to play—I'll lose," I pointed out, noting our height differences.
"Why would that matter?" Henry pressed. "It's throwing—it's got nothing to do with height, it's got more to do with accuracy."
"It'll be fun," Otis insisted.
"Don't be a pansy~" Henry sang in a falsetto voice.
Today, I'd spent all day denying Henry's ideas—so maybe I owed it to him. I ended up accepting. My only issue was how far the tree was, and Henry had drawn a line right by the pebbles. Otis threw his first pebble—well short of the tree.
"Watch and learn!" Henry said proudly. His pebble went by whistling and hit the tree's cavity with a thunk.
"Wow!" we all said in shock.
"I can hit a bird like that! But they can usually dodge—it's annoying. I got a slingshot, though, that they can never dodge." he bragged.
I tried mine; it was well short of the target. Dan tried a running start and flung the rock, which came very close to hitting the trunk.
"Oh, close!" Henry laughed.
Otis tried again—it went about the same distance. I messed up somehow and aimed solely at the ground. Trying a different release was obviously wrong. Dan hit the trunk and the cavity on his second try with the same run-up.
"We should try that," I said to Otis.
So Otis tried—he messed up like I did. But mine went as far as his did this time. We went back and forth, improving incrementally. Three tries was forgotten, we would play until a winner was decided.
Otis just barely missed his shot, a foot to the right and he would've had it.
"Come on!" Henry cursed, "How about we up the ante? Loser'll have their hand in their pocket with the banger."
"Ohh, that's sick!" Dan laughed. Henry squeezed his shoulders and brought him close like the buddies they'd become.
"Which hand?" Otis asked.
"Right hand," Henry replied instantly.
That was my dominant hand. Would that hurt? Maybe burn or something?
"You're up, Wilf!" Otis pointed out.
I remembered how close Otis got to hitting the trunk—next shot, he might get it. Before, I wasn't thinking about it much, but now I realised I had to hit the trunk or get possibly burned. I replayed how Dan had run up, then used my revelation-given memories of baseball. That was a lot clearer memory than even what I'd experienced just a minute or two before.
Taking one step back, I planted my legs and swung my arms like a catapult. Energy stored, charged, and momentum given by my twisting torso and swinging leg. The pebble made the whistling sound just like Henry's had and struck the exact center I'd aimed for with a satisfying thunk.
"Ha!" I said, doing my Alan Shearer impression as I ran in circles around the boys.
I might have found out what I am good at, my aim was so true right then and there. Was there a professional competition for throwing pebbles accurately and if so could I join it as soon as possible?
Dan cheered with me then hugged Otis for reconciliation. Henry didn't react much. When I was done celebrating, he shrugged, holding up a banger for Otis.
"Put it in your pocket," Henry said, handing it to him.
"I only got a pocket in my hoodie," Otis said, lifting it to show his shorts which had no pockets.
"Fine, we'll light it up, and you have to put it in your hoodie pocket. Got it?"
"Right," Otis said, his voice nervous.
"Three, two, one," Henry counted out. "Banger!" he shouted as he lit it up.
The lit banger in Otis's hand went inside his hoodie pocket. A silent moment passed—but Otis chickened out, his hand jerking away and out of his pockets.
[BANG!]
The toad had fallen over last time from the noise—but Otis cried out, jumping almost two feet high. His hands reached for his belly.
"Aww!" he cried. "It hurts—it's burning!"
Otis swatted at himself, lifting his hoodie—and I saw a drop of blood in there.
"Holy shite!" Dan shouted. I was right behind him with my curses.
"Okay, I'm fine," Otis let out with a sigh. "It's not burning anymore."
"You're bleeding, mate!" Dan said in a high voice.
Otis looked down, as we all did. His face blanched. He grabbed his belly and rolled it up and over to see the underside he couldn't.
"It's just a scratch," Otis said, rubbing at it.
We fussed over him for a minute or two, but he seemed right—it was only a scratch almost the exact same as the one the neighborhood cat had given him earlier. On the other hand, his hoodie was wrecked. Only reason I thought he wasn't hurt more was because of how thick fabric of his hoodie was. Especially where the kangaroo pocket had that sewn-on patch. Now that part was torn up like it had gone through a shredder and some parts were singed.
"Henry, I think those are banned for a reason!" I said in alarm once we relaxed.
"Yeah, that was crazy," he admitted.
"We should throw them away before we get actually injured," I suggested.
"But I got five left…" he complained but shut up when we all gave him a look.
"Okay, fine. But we'll light them all together and blow them up," Henry tried.
"You can do that," Dan said.
"Fine, you pansy," Henry scoffed.
Otis, Dan, and I watched from afar as Henry arranged the bangers in a rough circle so all their tips met in the middle. He lit the blue tips and ran back to us.
[BANG! BANG! BANG!]
"That was wicked," Henry said with a contented sigh.
"We're going home," Dan said, pulling on Otis's elbow.
"Right, sorry. Our mums will kill us if we stay out too late," Otis explained.
"I need to go too—I have a big day tomorrow," I said, giving Henry a meaningful look.
"Fine, but that ball's mine," Henry said, taking the football from my hands.
No one argued with his claim.
With all the excitement of the day, I had completely forgotten about what was tomorrow—but it was the only thing I could think about now. The sun was about to set soon, and I had a preview performance for friends and family of all the cast members. Butterflies seemed to flutter away in my stomach; it would be Mum and Dad's first time seeing me perform after everything I'd learned since rehearsals started. The butterflies clawed their way up my throat. I wanted to take a piss suddenly from the ballooning pit in my stomach.
Had I even improved over the last two months? Would I mess up? Would my parents be proud of me?
All valid questions—and all would be answered tomorrow.