Some residents living in Bloy Street firmly believed that young Henry Wallace was insanity just waiting to hatch. Some of the other locals duly acknowledged that Henry was, at the very least, a little odd. There was, however, a firm and consistent understanding throughout the entire length of Bloy Street and the adjoining neighbourhood, or at least the area where the milkman made his regular deliveries, which recognised that any horse manure deposited on the daily milk round was Henry’s.

Suppose anyone wished to lay claim to these precious leavings with thoughts of fertilising their small garden or allotment. They would want to dismiss the idea instantly. Henry’s father told him he needed the horse droppings to grow vegetables. Henry had taken this to be an irrefutable fact. He even believed that his family would starve to death without them. Henry was convinced that unless he dutifully retrieved this life-saving material and stored it where his father could spread it, he would be contributing to the death of his parents and siblings.

At this point, nobody, no school teacher, no Doctor, no policeman,  could shake Henry’s belief. The seriousness of this problem became evident one weekend when Henry’s father took the whole family to the seaside. There did not seem to be any potential risk when Henry’s parents gave him a small bucket and a spade to make sandcastles. Henry’s mother assumed that Henry was merely being himself when he demanded that the chosen toy was not suitable; Henry selected a giant beach spade with a long wooden handle and a broad, flat steel shovel-style end.

It had become public knowledge that some of the older boys who knew of Henry’s obsession had been teasing him. Sometimes, even attempting to steal the horse manure that Henry had laid claim to. The moment Henry appeared back on the local streets after returning from the family day at the beach, a few of these manure thieves learned a hard lesson. Henry had become highly adept at handling his spade; he could swiftly and accurately—and quite painfully—slap a potential thief’s thigh with the flat side of the shovel far faster than any known local child could jump out of the way.

Henry was barely 13 years old; nobody could reasonably describe him as a big lad. He was extremely quick with his mouth, agile in his body, and seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

Tim, the local bookmaker, had noticed young Henry. Tim himself had a considerable reputation for protecting what was rightfully his. Known for his powerful presence and steely demeanour, Tim was not just a mild-mannered bookie; he was a hard man, someone who demanded respect and fear in equal measure. Engaging in lucrative cash loans, he was regularly seen around town in the company of Basher Billy Watson, a well-known hard man himself. Basher had once fought for the heavyweight boxing title and had been banned from the sport after he kicked an opponent in the head before the referee finished the ten-count. Tim would often say, “Basher is not an evil guy. He gets a bit enthusiastic sometimes,” but even the bravest souls knew it was wiser to stay on Tim’s good side.

Together, Tim and Basher recognised Henry’s potential. In the echo of Tim’s booming voice, he was once heard to say, “Henry could be a handy lad in a few years.” Tim organised for Basher to drop a shilling in Henry’s direction every week, viewing it as “an investment in the future.” Basher, with his muscle and intimidating presence, had concrete instructions to keep a fatherly eye on Henry. After all, there had been several occasions when older lads came into the Bloy Street district to check out the local tough kid whose obsession with horse manure had evolved into a fierce reputation.

Tim had a vested interest in maintaining the status of the Bloy Street neighbourhood. To him, little things—minor vulnerabilities—could attract competition, other moneylenders seeking to establish their presence. Tim was a proud man and often boasted that within a local half-mile around his Bloy Street neighbourhood, “You cannot even steal horseshit.” This was indeed a fact, and young Henry saw to that, under the watchful eye of a bookmaker who was as formidable as he was shrewd.

Several weeks later, Tim challenged Basher to see if he could buy some of Henry’s horse manure. “Tell him I want to add some improvement to my mother’s vegetable patch,” Tim ordered, the tension in his voice reflecting the stakes of the request.

Basher returned later that day empty-handed. He told Tim, “The beach spade that Henry wielded has been flattened on one side; it now has a freshly filed edge. When I made your request, young Henry held the spade and turned it away from flat smack mode into cutting mode. I have seen him use that spade. I have looked him in the eye.” Basher paused, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. “You go get your own shit.”

In the world they lived in, it was best to respect the boundaries of both Henry and the hard men who guarded their turf.