Shelter
A short story about falling through the cracks of society
“Get the fuck out of my house!”
Jason ducked and a metal ashtray flew over his head and collided with the doorframe, falling to the ground with a crash. It rolled around behind him, but he kept his eyes on his mum's face, flushed and contorted with anger.
Like an explorer facing a wild beast, he didn't break eye contact as he bent his knees, hands feeling around on the floor for his trainers. He straightened and reached out for his jacket, then backed towards the front door, opened it and bolted.
He pulled his jacket on in the alley beside the house, and shoved his feet into his shoes. He knew she wouldn't come after him. She'd stay in the house until she passed out, and during the night she would shrink somehow. By morning, she'd have deflated like a balloon, and her tear-streaked apologies would be genuine. That's why he'd forgive her, even though he knew with absolute certainty that the same thing would happen again, and again.
In the meantime, he needed somewhere to lay low. Not Kevin's place again; he could tell Kevin's dad was getting annoyed with him turning up there every week or so. Not Ben's either. Ben's parents didn't approve of Jason, and they made that abundantly clear with their snide comments about people sponging off the government and how tragic it was for a child to grow up without a father figure.
He could stay out - roam the streets and find a bench to sleep on. It was nearing summer, but in the early hours it would still be uncomfortably cold. Plus, he'd never done it before, and if he was honest the idea scared him. Who else would be out in the dead hours? He had nothing worth stealing - he hadn't even picked up his phone or keys - but there were other things people could take from a fourteen-year-old kid, especially a scrawny one who didn't know how to fight back.
In the end, Jason decided to go to the sprawling park on the edge of his neighbourhood. It was dusk - not quite dark yet - and he had suddenly remembered the abandoned building he and his mates had hung out in last summer, smoking their first cigarettes and drinking cheap booze. Well, the others had. Jason hadn't touched it. He knew too much about what it did to people already. He was the world's living expert on alcohol abuse.
He reached the building in the gloom of coming night, and only then did he realise he had no means of lighting the darkness. He pushed open the door, bracing himself for the smell, but strangely the air was not too foul, merely a little musty and stale. He could make out an armchair, the stuffing coming out where mice had eaten through the fabric, a pile of disgusting-looking blankets and a low table. On it was a torch. Jason moved towards it, leaving the door open for what little light it gave. He wasn't optimistic about the torch, but incredibly it worked. He flashed it around the walls and saw a few empty shelves and a fireplace, nothing more. He wondered what this place had been, and why no one had refurbished it or knocked it down.
Jason shone the torch on the armchair. He didn't fancy sitting in it - who knew who else had used this place to crash, and whether they had lice, or dog shit on their shoes. But the armchair looked entirely different under the beam of torchlight. It was clean, and whole. He must have imagined the stuffing spilling out. It looked like someone had dumped it here recently. He sank gratefully into it, kicking off his shoes and curling into a ball. He covered himself with his jacket and switched off the torch - no point wasting the battery. It was still early, but in minutes, he was asleep.
Jason woke at first light, got to his feet and stretched his stiff limbs. He marvelled again at what good condition the armchair was in. The fabric wasn't even worn; it was like new. Then, he let himself out, leaving the torch on the table.
Jason started using the abandoned house regularly, every time his mum got too much. He didn't even wait for her to throw him out anymore - he left as soon as he saw the signs.
Not that the house didn't freak him out; it did. The second time he went there, he found a beautiful patchwork quilt draped across the armchair. He sniffed at it suspiciously, and found it smelled of laundry detergent. The third time, there was food on the table. He didn't touch it, of course, but he kept finding something there, always fresh, until one evening when he hadn't eaten since breakfast, he finally caved. There was a juicy beefburger on the table that night, with potatoes. The meal was still warm, and it tasted divine.
After that, he ate the food, but he often left something in return. Not money - Jason didn't have any, and besides it seemed wrong somehow. He brought things that were important to him: the ring his father had left behind, his best sketch of Deadpool and Wolverine, a metal candlestick he'd made at school. He didn’t know if his gifts were appreciated, but they were never there when he returned, and the food kept coming.
Jason took to spending more and more time at the abandoned house. He was always worried the person who left the food and washed the quilt would show up, but it was the only place he felt safe, and well. For Jason had started to suffer from awful stomach cramps, and unexplained vomiting and diarrhoea. His skin broke out in strange rashes, and he felt weak and tired all the time - except for when he was inside the abandoned house. It was cosy there now, with a thick rug on the floor. When summer ended and the chilly autumn weather set in, he found a roaring fire in the fireplace whenever he went there. On the table, there were takeaway cups of hot chocolate, roast meat, soup and warm puddings. When he ate and slept there, he felt better.
Jason's friends knew something was wrong. He was pale, sickly and listless, but they guessed it was something to do with his mum. Jason didn't talk about his problems at home, but they all knew. It couldn't be easy, living like that. They were concerned about him, but they didn't get really worried until he didn't show up at school one day. Jason never missed school. If he did, he'd have to stay home.
They called on him after class, but his mum didn't know anything. She couldn't even remember when she'd last seen him. They couldn't convince her to call the police, so they went down to the station themselves.
It was three days later that the police discovered Jason's body in the abandoned house in the park. He was curled in a dilapidated armchair, under a festering blanket. He had clearly eaten some of the rotten food on the table in front of him, but the officers on the scene reckoned that a few mouthfuls of the chicken carcass, mouldy bread and vegetable peelings weren't likely to have killed him, and it wasn’t cold enough for hypothermia to have set in.
Detectives came and went, forensics took photos. None of them noticed the goblin leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He wasn’t exactly invisible, but people’s eyes slid over him, unable to distinguish his shape from a perfectly ordinary shadow on the wall. He saw them, though. Oh, yes - he saw everything. He watched the proceedings with mild interest while he fingered the items the boy had left him. They were worthless here, but when he took them back to Faerie, they would become riches beyond compare. It was rare for any of the folk to be given gifts freely these days. The boy's offerings would make the goblin a lord.
He would have liked to have kept the boy alive for longer, so that he could bring him more gifts, but he hadn't the knack for it. The same thing happened every time; like wild birds, the humans he ensnared never lived for long once they were caged.
Still, there was always next time.
There were plenty of kids like Jason, out on the edges of society. It wasn’t difficult to ease them gently through the cracks and down into darkness.
After the inquest, they buried Jason in the cemetery of St Bartholemew’s Church. It was a chilly morning in late autumn, and many local people turned out for the funeral. Some were pulled there by a sense of collective grief, but most were drawn by curiosity. For Jason was lowered into the ground at the age of fourteen - long before his time - and the coroner could determine no cause of death.