Red Leather Slippers
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A teenager is forced outside to confront an intruder. He's wearing carpet slippers; the intruder has a knife.
_____________________________________________________________________
Today was his day to stay off school to look after her, clean the house and do the shopping. One of his sisters would take over tomorrow. They had been taking turns for months now. They all knew she wasn’t really ill; just empty and broken and unable to face the world. It was only temporary, they hoped.
He had returned from the shop along the road and was climbing the steps up to the front door when the door flew open.
“Quick,” she hissed, pulling him into the house and slamming and locking the door behind him.
He placed the shopping bag on the hall table, sat down on the chair next to the table and untied his laces.
She stood over him, watching. “It’s that t’ug from across the road,” she said. Her brogue was always thicker when she was excited or angry.
He looked up at her ghostly white face, at the greying hair hanging limp over her dressing gown. It seemed to him that she had been wearing that dressing gown ever since the day after the funeral.
“He’s been terrorising me,” she continued. “Trying to get into the house. To get me. He was at the kitchen window a minute ago. Trying to prise it open with a knife. When I told him I would send for the Police, he just laughed and waved the knife at me.”
He took off his shoes and put his feet into his slippers. Fleece-lined and made of soft leather that was a deep red colour, the slippers had been a Christmas present. He knew they looked a bit girly, but he liked them anyway; they were very comfortable.
“Did you antagonise him, Mum?” he asked, looking up at her again.
“No,” she lied emphatically.
He knew the t’ug well. Kenny Cooper was a few years older than him, an apprentice mechanic at the local garage. He lived in one of the prefabs across the road with his small, thin mother, who was also a widow. With his long, greasy hair, thick black sideburns and fake Harley-Davidson jacket, Kenny always tried to look and act like one of those rockers that were all over the news nowadays. He even had his own motorbike, which he kept round the back of the prefab.
He didn’t know why, but Kenny’s friends called him Cupcake. He didn’t even know what a cupcake was. What he did know was that Cupcake was wild – uncontrollable, according to his own mother – and easily provoked.
He sighed and stood up. “Maybe I should go down to the phone box and call the Police.”
“No,” she said, equally emphatically. “I want you to deal with him. You’re the man of the house now. You need to act like a man. You need to learn how to protect your women. Like my brothers back home did when they were your age.”
He sighed again. She was always casting up to him about his uncles across in Eire, about how they took to the hills and joined the IRA when they were just boys, about how they were ready to fight and die for their country. But the problem was she told so many fanciful stories about her family that he didn’t know which ones to believe.
He was reaching over to pick up the shopping bag and take it into the kitchen when she grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round to face the narrow hall window.
“Look!” she cried. “He’s coming back!”
He saw from the window that Cupcake was crossing the road and heading straight towards the house. The next thing he knew she was pushing him outside.
“Be a man,” she said before closing the door on him and locking it.
He stood at the top of the steps, feeling bewildered, feeling exposed in those bright red slippers. But there was nothing else for it. He rushed down the steps and charged at Cupcake, who by now had entered their front gate.
He supposed later on that there hadn’t been much of a fight. He could remember his arms flailing and his legs kicking out. Then Cupcake was pulling himself up from the ground and scurrying back in fright to his prefab and his wee mother.
He stood for a while in his stocking feet, breathing hard, watching Cupcake go. When he looked back at the house, he could see her framed in the open doorway. Back straight. Chin out. Proud. Fenian proud.
He turned away from her to retrieve his slippers. One was lying in the middle of the road, a red beacon on the grey tarmac. The other was upside down on the pavement opposite.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A teenager is forced outside to confront an intruder. He's wearing carpet slippers; the intruder has a knife.
_____________________________________________________________________
Today was his day to stay off school to look after her, clean the house and do the shopping. One of his sisters would take over tomorrow. They had been taking turns for months now. They all knew she wasn’t really ill; just empty and broken and unable to face the world. It was only temporary, they hoped.
He had returned from the shop along the road and was climbing the steps up to the front door when the door flew open.
“Quick,” she hissed, pulling him into the house and slamming and locking the door behind him.
He placed the shopping bag on the hall table, sat down on the chair next to the table and untied his laces.
She stood over him, watching. “It’s that t’ug from across the road,” she said. Her brogue was always thicker when she was excited or angry.
He looked up at her ghostly white face, at the greying hair hanging limp over her dressing gown. It seemed to him that she had been wearing that dressing gown ever since the day after the funeral.
“He’s been terrorising me,” she continued. “Trying to get into the house. To get me. He was at the kitchen window a minute ago. Trying to prise it open with a knife. When I told him I would send for the Police, he just laughed and waved the knife at me.”
He took off his shoes and put his feet into his slippers. Fleece-lined and made of soft leather that was a deep red colour, the slippers had been a Christmas present. He knew they looked a bit girly, but he liked them anyway; they were very comfortable.
“Did you antagonise him, Mum?” he asked, looking up at her again.
“No,” she lied emphatically.
He knew the t’ug well. Kenny Cooper was a few years older than him, an apprentice mechanic at the local garage. He lived in one of the prefabs across the road with his small, thin mother, who was also a widow. With his long, greasy hair, thick black sideburns and fake Harley-Davidson jacket, Kenny always tried to look and act like one of those rockers that were all over the news nowadays. He even had his own motorbike, which he kept round the back of the prefab.
He didn’t know why, but Kenny’s friends called him Cupcake. He didn’t even know what a cupcake was. What he did know was that Cupcake was wild – uncontrollable, according to his own mother – and easily provoked.
He sighed and stood up. “Maybe I should go down to the phone box and call the Police.”
“No,” she said, equally emphatically. “I want you to deal with him. You’re the man of the house now. You need to act like a man. You need to learn how to protect your women. Like my brothers back home did when they were your age.”
He sighed again. She was always casting up to him about his uncles across in Eire, about how they took to the hills and joined the IRA when they were just boys, about how they were ready to fight and die for their country. But the problem was she told so many fanciful stories about her family that he didn’t know which ones to believe.
He was reaching over to pick up the shopping bag and take it into the kitchen when she grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round to face the narrow hall window.
“Look!” she cried. “He’s coming back!”
He saw from the window that Cupcake was crossing the road and heading straight towards the house. The next thing he knew she was pushing him outside.
“Be a man,” she said before closing the door on him and locking it.
He stood at the top of the steps, feeling bewildered, feeling exposed in those bright red slippers. But there was nothing else for it. He rushed down the steps and charged at Cupcake, who by now had entered their front gate.
He supposed later on that there hadn’t been much of a fight. He could remember his arms flailing and his legs kicking out. Then Cupcake was pulling himself up from the ground and scurrying back in fright to his prefab and his wee mother.
He stood for a while in his stocking feet, breathing hard, watching Cupcake go. When he looked back at the house, he could see her framed in the open doorway. Back straight. Chin out. Proud. Fenian proud.
He turned away from her to retrieve his slippers. One was lying in the middle of the road, a red beacon on the grey tarmac. The other was upside down on the pavement opposite.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.