2nd Prize - Owen Townend

THE SCAFFOLDING JACKET

By Owen Townend

That morning on the site, everyone bowed their heads in memory of Wes. A sweet
kid and an up-and-coming builder, good in a team but much too easily led.

Of course, none of the lads had formed as close a bond with him as old Hal.
Since landing the Robarge Hall contract, he had spared an hour each day to show
Wes how to take pride in a well-shingled roof. Hal never asked the lad about how he
spent his evenings though he knew enough to be concerned.

Living life like that was often short, sharp and obliterated by bullets. Hal had
got out in time but not Wes. All that potential wasted one night in the warehouse
district.

Much as he would rather have taken the day off to get his head straight, Hal
put on his hard hat and joined the others at work. He gazed up at the structure,
grease marks on the long steel pipes and brick dust covering the wooden
floorboards.

Something moved at the top right corner, a dark shape tucking itself away.
Hal could barely perceive it from this low angle. Was somebody already up there? All
the lads were currently watching the kettle boil, muttering platitudes in Wes’s
memory. Everyone except...

“You all right, Hal?” a voice asked.
Jake appeared from around the corner, sagging his shoulders and shaking his
head.

“Could be better,” Hal replied.

Jake nodded and glanced upward. “About a day’s work, I’d say.”

“Scaffolding still coming down tomorrow?”
 

“First thing.”
 

“I’ll get up top then, check last night’s rain and cold didn’t crack owt.”
 

“Right,” Jake said. “The owners are coming in a couple of minutes. Want a
word about what happened.” He coughed. “I’ll handle it.”
 

“Right,” Hal replied and turned back to the ladder.
 

As he grabbed the first rung, Jake cleared his throat again, more purposefully
this time.
 

“He was a good lad. Responsible. In his way.”
 

Hal sighed. “Thanks, Jake.”
 

The climb to the top was slow and exhausting. Jake probably hadn’t meant it
but he was right about Wes. He was responsible to a point. Responsible on the site,
responsible about the work he did there but when it came to staying out of trouble
elsewhere, Wes was pretty damn reckless.

When the car pulled up yesterday afternoon, Hal should have told Wes to say
no to his brothers. He may not have known the particulars, but he knew that their
urgency meant they wanted Wes for a big job. He was a tall, wiry lad, good for
slipping into some tight spaces.

Of course, Wes had rushed to help them, crammed himself into the back seat
before they all sped off together. Hal knew how hard it was saying no to family but he
could have given Wes an excuse to stay at the site. There was always work to be
done. If Hal had asked Wes to help him with something, offered extra pay, he might
have saved the boy’s life.

​

He reached the top of the ladder now and used the nearby handrail to work
out a kink in his back. The sky overhead was thick with cloud and the air up here
prickled with moisture. If the rain hadn’t fallen last night, it surely would today.
 

“Get to it,” Hal told himself.
 

As he turned left, breath caught in his throat. He reached for the handrail
again, almost missing it. At the other end of the level was a figure in a big black
puffer jacket. That must have been the shape he just saw earlier. Its back was turned
towards him, hood up and peering down over the edge. A twenty-foot drop to a
concrete drive.

Hal was about to call the figure away when he recognised a cut on the elbow
of the right sleeve, yellowed stuffing lolling out of it. This was Wes’s jacket.

Hal rushed over and saw that the jacket didn’t actually have a body inside. The hood was

up because it was being used to hang the jacket on top of the scaffolding pole. Pulling it away,

Hal’s trapped breath surged out of him. Wes had left it yesterday. His brothers didn’t even give

him time to grab it. Folding the jacket over his arm, Hal wondered if Wes had felt the cold last

night, if he had shivered as he was shot by one of his brothers.
 

What did any of that matter now? Wes lacking his jacket didn’t kill him, being
dragged to the wrong place at the wrong time did. It didn’t help anyone to wonder
how it exactly happened. Only Wes knew and he wasn’t coming back.

Still Hal felt it only right for his jacket to return home. Wes’s mother would take
little comfort in receiving it but it shouldn’t stay on the site, not with the scaffolding
coming down tomorrow morning.

Hal peered at the van below. Taking the jacket down and throwing it in the
back wouldn’t take two minutes. The roof tiles could wait. He could see no cracks there.

Returning to the ladder, Hal descended carefully, keeping his eyes off that
tatty jacket and his mind off the things he could not change.

Though down in number, the construction team were done in good time. Robarge
Hall was reinforced from foundations to chimney and looked as fresh as buildings
from the new estate across the road.

Hal was pleased with the roof’s condition and spent the rest of the day helping
Jake and the others fit new windows on the lower section and fix the squeaky door
hinges on the new staff entrance. Anything to keep him busy.
 

When the others carried tools to the van, Hal realised that his smallest
hammer was missing from his belt. He had left it on the top level of the scaffolding
before lunch.
 

Climbing the ladder again, he felt a sinking feeling. Normally this only hit him
when he noticed a drainpipe sagging or a rusted tack still sticking out of the rooftop.
Nothing bothered Hal more than knowing something was out of place. However he
couldn’t see anything on the lower levels of the scaffolding to suggest this or hear
any tell-tale creak or rattle of a fitting coming loose overhead.
 

Nevertheless he proceeded with caution to the very top. Feeling the moisture
and atmospheric tension again, he remembered the momentary distress he felt this
morning. Still Wes’s jacket was tucked away under the tarp till the time came to visit
the lad’s family. There was nothing to fear, except...

No. Hal had done nothing wrong. He had helped the kid as much as any workmate could, perhaps more.

If anyone was to blame, then it was the trigger-happy brother who ended Wes’s life. What happened

to the lad was an utter shame but Hal couldn’t change a thing about it. He had done enough.

Hal reached the top level. The hammer was a short walk away, handle
leaning on the new brickwork. Wes had worked hard on that the day before.

Hal swiped up the hammer and was about to hurry back down the ladder
when he saw movement further along. It was right at the end. Wes’s jacket hanging
from the top pole again.

“What the-?” Hal muttered, glancing around. Which of the other lads had done
this? Why? It wasn’t their property to mess with. Bad taste, too. The scaffolding had
to be just as they found it for tomorrow’s pick-up.

Seething, Hal marched up to the coat again and reached for the torn sleeve.
Except this wasn’t just hanging down. It looked to be folded in front of the jacket
along with the other sleeve. In fact, the jacket had prominent shoulders now. Almost
as if it had been filled out. Almost as if someone were currently wearing it.

The wind whistled. Hal shivered. There hadn’t been a breeze up here all day.
Not only that, the temperature had plummeted in no time at all. A dark patch of cloud
settled overhead, giving everything around him a grey pall.

“It was you...”

Hal twitched. Whose voice was that? Was it even a voice? He had never
heard such a faint whisper. As for where it had come from, he couldn’t be sure.

And yet he checked the jacket, still faced away from him. The shadow it cast hung much lower than

this morning and was so black it almost seemed three-dimensional.

“You called them...” the voice continued.

Hal swallowed. It was definitely a voice, gradually getting louder. Not only this,
it was coming from the other side of the jacket’s hood.

“Who?” he found himself asking.
 

“The feds!” the voice rasped. The force of it almost hurt him, as if the
vibrations were searing past the exposed flesh of his wrists.

The feds. Wes had always referred to the police as feds. Hal had called the
lad out on it again and again, but the kid didn’t seem to care about the inaccuracy. It
was a part of the way he spoke. His identity.

Hal swallowed again, fingers stretching out towards the torn sleeve. “Wes?”

The jacket turned.
 

Hal saw no face within the hood. He searched for Wes’s eyes but found
nothing but thick darkness. And yet the jacket was definitely filled by some kind of
presence.
 

The torn sleeve lashed out. Something firm gripped Hal’s forearm, drawing
him closer.

Hal finally remembered to breathe though this came out in dry, painful rasps.
 

“I didn’t...” he said then tried again. “I only did it stop the robbery. I tipped
them off but they were only meant to scare you, to chase you all away. If I had
known about the gun...”
 

The hood slowly moved up and down, as if searching Hal’s face for
something. Maybe lies. Well, Hal had told nothing but the truth. His call may have led
to the shootout but all he had intended was to stop a crime from happening. Maybe it
would have given Wes the wake-up call he needed, kept him off the dangerous
streets.

Now though Hal was transfixed by something beyond all that. Wes, with none
of the warmth or presence but all of his young rage.

Hal gasped. “Wes. Please. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

“I fell!” Wes hissed.
 

That much Hal knew. The arrival of the police had startled one of Wes’s
brothers. The fool had been carrying a gun. This went off in Wes’s face and he fell to
the ground dead.
 

“I’m sorry!” Hal replied. “You know I cared for you. Right?”
 

Wes’s impossible grip released slightly from Hal’s arm. In his panic, Hal pulled
loose and started backing away. Wes just crossed his empty sleeves and watched
Hal stumble over to the handrail. He tried to catch his breath there but couldn’t quite
manage it. Every time it seemed like he had it back under control, the painful rasp
burst out of him again.
 

Finally chancing a glance at Wes, Hal saw the unbearable jacket flutter and
shift forward. As Wes’s sleeve reached out again for him, Hal clambered up and over
the handrail. In all the madness, he had forgotten he was on top of the scaffolding,
twenty feet from the ground.
 

Before he could properly grasp the rail again, Hal fell over the edge and
plunged to the concrete drive below with a bone-shattering crunch. His ears rang
and he could no longer form words. Nevertheless he could just about see Jake and
the others rushing around him, though their faces and everything else in front of Hal
was blurry. The only clarity he could find lay high above it all, the very top of the
scaffolding. Wes peered down at him, shaking his head.

Then when Hal finally stopped breathing, Wes’s figure sagged and fell too.
When it reached the ground, there was only the tatty old jacket, as empty as Hal had
found it that morning.

Feeling the torn sleeve touch his heel, Hal shut his eyes and gave in. He
shouldn’t have called. He should have done so much more.