The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  falling

  falling

  falling.

  In the afternoon she has me sitting at the window, looking out at the estate. This is to remind me that there’s a world outside. She comes in every five minutes to ask me what I’ve seen.

  Tower blocks. Clouds. Tower blocks.

  Birds. Clouds. Tower blocks.

  ‘No people?’ she asks.

  ‘I can’t see that far down.’

  She helps me stand up, pushes my chair closer to the window then angles my chin down. I push the chair back as soon as she’s out of the room.

  I’m hoping that with all these new exercises Amma will have forgotten that it’s bath day but when she comes in, towel draped over her arm, she has a renewed zeal in her eyes.

  ‘Today we shall get in the bath!’ She says this as though it’s a brand-new idea and quickly begins levering me out of bed in the same awkward way she does every time. She hauls me onto her small body, her shoulder bone stinging in my armpit as I breathe through the pain.

  ‘Maybe I could walk myself next time,’ I say, as she opens the door to the bathroom. ‘You know, as an exercise.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she says, lowering me down to sit on the wooden toilet seat.

  I look at the steam rising from the tub, the bubbles lining the sides. Amma draws baths that are close to boiling.

  ‘In fact, I should probably run the bath next time too,’ I suggest.

  She smiles down at me as if I’ve offered to help her with brain surgery.

  ‘Do not worry yourself,’ she says, pinching me on my good cheek before leaving.

  I stare at the water. There have been times when getting in the bath has caused me so much pain that I’ve had to bite into a loofah so Amma won’t hear me scream, rush up the stairs, quickly assess my curled-up body and immediately call the city council to request the installation of another strange contraption. A seat to swing me in and lower me down like cargo, or a pulley device with a variety of straps and padding that could lift my naked body up and down at the flick of a switch. My mother has a knack for finding the most elaborate and embarrassing equipment. So it’s easier to just bite the loofah.

  Chronic pain is a bizarre bastard of an illness. There are no symptoms before it strikes, no blood tests to diagnose it, no machine to analyse the level of pain. It is a doctor’s nightmare. Repeat visits, negative tests, anger, frustration: and that’s just from their side. For some people the pain is localized to the back or the neck, through headaches or stomach cramps, but for me it’s in the left side of my hypersensitive body.

  It began the night you vanished: 30 December 1999. The night before New Year’s Eve. The night my calf was burnt. It was a severe burn, but nothing that wouldn’t have healed with time. But the pain signals, designed to tell my brain about the damage and prevent further harm, decided to take a detour. They hitchhiked along the nerve pathways of my entire body then added insult to literal injury by staying switched on long after my recovery.

  It’s always there, the pain, though its strength varies. Sometimes it’s like a dull headache all over. At other times a major limb could be throbbing, deep and monotonous; stinging, like a papercut, like muscles being punctured by needles from the inside out; or, at its worst, it burns. Nothing is as bad as the burning.

  Do you remember when we both caught the flu and Amma put us in quarantine in my room? At first we were excited, thinking we were on a never-ending sleepover.

  ‘Let’s sing songs and dress up,’ you said. ‘Let’s write stories and figure out how to fix the world.’

  By the time night came we were both lying immobile in bed, shivering and sweating as our mouths gasped for air. We could barely speak, not even you who spoke so much your mother literally taped your mouth up when she’d had enough.

  When the illness was over I remember you telling me, ‘It was like dying, Ravine, but worse.’ I knew what you meant because when you’re dying you know it will end. That’s how the burning is for me – worse than dying. It’s an unbearable heat, relentlessly coursing over my skin, and the fear is that this time it will last for ever.

  You’ll probably find it difficult, reading about all this pain. Most humans are programmed to empathize, which is why horror movies make them yelp out loud. We feel each other’s pain whether we want to or not. Don’t worry, there’s only one more thing I need to tell you and then all this pain business will be over.

  On bath days, when I lower myself into the tub, the pain starts in my hand as I grip the handrail, and then shoots up my arm and to my shoulder. When I step into the water the sole of my foot hits the enamel of the base and makes my whole leg cramp. I drop myself into the liquid quickly, before I keel over, and then curl up into a ball with my arms wrapped around my knees. I try not to look down at my calf. It’s not a pretty sight, not even to me, and I should be used to it. But when I rub soap over my lower leg I can still feel the bumps and knots, the waxy smoothness of each scar along the back. You’d think this would be the most tender part of my body but chronic pain doesn’t discriminate.

  Or at least it never used to.

  This is the thing. Something’s changed and it’s only today, as I get in the bath, that I realize what it is. This is a big thing so, like a plaster that needs to be ripped off, I’m going to tell you quickly.

  I think I’m cured.

  Cured, not in the sense of preparing meat, fish, etc. for preservation by salting or drying. Nor in the sense of promoting the hardening of fresh concrete or mortar but in the standard, everyday use of the word.

  cured v. to relieve or rid of something detrimental such as an illness or a bad habit i.e. to restore to health.

  That’s me, Marianne. I’ve been restored.

  The Constellation of Spies

  Two days after Jonathan slammed a door in my face, Uncle Walter arrived. We saw him from the fourth floor of Bosworth House, our legs dangling down through the gaps of the railings that stopped us from hurling ourselves to oblivion. Even from up there we could see the enormity of him. As he stepped out of the taxi, we watched it lean to the side then bounce up, released of his bulky weight. His smooth, plastic skin was glazed with sweat, his chin lifted in the air. We thought he was looking straight at us but later we learnt his upturned head was permanent, caused by the unfortunate roll of under-chin fat cushioning his neck. He wiped his brow as he scanned the estate, then waddled to the boot to haul out his luggage. He only had one suitcase, small and boxy in his round, doughy hands.

  He didn’t have a clue.

  At first, not knowing this man was your uncle, we assumed he was a spy. It was an easy assumption to make as he was wearing a shirt and trousers. No one we knew on Westhill ever wore a shirt and trousers, while spies on the television always did.

  ‘Follow me,’ you said.

  You pulled your legs out of the railings, crouching low as if the sky had dropped. I followed you in this round-backed way – hands fanned out, feet shuffling against the concrete – all the way down to the third floor. Peering through the steel railings to the concrete stairwell below, we heard the slow resonating noise of feet hitting steps.

  Ph-lud! Ph-lud! Ph-lud!

  This was followed by a pause and laboured panting. When the top of your uncle’s head emerged beneath us, thick black hair in a neat businessman’s cut, we watched with unblinking eyes as we waited for him to pull out a walkie-talkie or other such spy equipment. He slid his hand into his trouser pocket, our knuckles turning white as we squeezed the bars in front of us, but when he brought his hand out it was only clasping a handkerchief folded neatly in a triangle. He pressed it to his brow, taking in a deep breath.

  Everyone knew everyone on Westhill Estate and we weren’t the only eyes watching Walter that day. Bradley Patterson and his gang of bicycle goons were standing by the rails at the entrance of Bosworth House, watching your uncle with the scrutiny of a pack of wolves. The gang loved nothing more than standing around propped on their bikes in the mo
st inconvenient of places. Their usual haunt was outside Poseidon’s fish and chip shop where they took great joy in leering at girls and terrifying pensioners. Whenever Amma passed by in her brightly coloured sari, Bradley Patterson called out ‘but but ding ding’ in what was supposed to be an Indian accent. My mother ignored him. The last thing you ever wanted to do with the bicycle goons was respond. Attention fed them like water feeds a sponge, bloating their egos, making them fat with pride.

  It was only when we heard Bradley Patterson’s voice singing up at Uncle Walter that we realized the pack had found their latest prey.

  ‘Who ate all the pies? Who ate all the pies?’

  Being fourteen years old, Bradley’s voice was on the verge of breaking. It jittered up the building in half-squeaks and baritones. We saw him nudging his bicycle goons for support. Their chests inflated.

  ‘You fat bastard! You fat bastard! You ate all the pies!’

  The goons fell into a chorus of mock-manly laughter. We waited for your uncle to pull out a shotgun and pick them all off.

  ‘What the shit are you doing?’

  We both banged our heads on the railings in surprise before scurrying to your brother as he stood behind us with his standard frown.

  ‘For cod’s sake, Jonathan!’ you hissed as we scrambled to our feet. ‘Do you want us to get killed?’

  The laughter from the bicycle goons meant both Jonathan’s question and our banging heads had gone undetected. As we stood on the third floor, you explained to your brother that there was a spy downstairs and if we made any more noise he was likely to run up and shoot us all in the head with a pistol. Jonathan shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t give a hoot but kept his lips shut anyway. It was then that we heard the Ph-lud! Ph-lud! footsteps coming up the staircase behind us. You grabbed both of us by the arms and dragged us to the entrance of old Mrs Simmons’ flat. This was a particularly brave move as Mrs Simmons was a recluse who despised all children. If she caught us playing on the steps outside her flat she’d throw buckets of dishwater, dark and murky, out of her door so that it would swim across the concrete with a menacing speed that made us run away screaming.

  Mrs Simmons is long dead now. She was found three weeks after her death when Amma called the council about the rancid stench that greeted her whenever she left the flat. They found her stiff body lying across her living-room floor, covered in bird droppings. From our Bosworth House research, we’d deduced that Mrs Simmons owned two budgies and a parakeet but in truth she’d been housing a whole menagerie. Four budgies, two canaries, a cockatoo; there were even rumours that she was housing a peregrine falcon. When I think of all the faeces she must have cleaned up in her life I’m glad we ran away from that water.

  Still, your fear of the spy outweighed any fears of old Mrs Simmons’ dirty water. You dragged us to her step, making us squat on the floor with our backs pressed against her door.

  ‘If you don’t breathe he won’t see you,’ you whispered.

  Like a fool I didn’t question this but held my breath as we waited to have our brains blown out. As I’d given myself the duty of being your protector, I considered whether I could actually, if necessary, leap in front of you as a human shield. When I looked across at Jonathan I could see his eyes swimming wildly behind the lenses of his glasses, as he bit down hard on his bottom lip. I’d been right, he couldn’t be trusted. It would all be down to me.

  You tightened your grip on my arm as the round figure of your uncle-cum-spy emerged. His forehead was dripping, his shirt circled at the armpits with puddle-sized sweat patches. His face was flushed crab-pink and dappled with white patches that made him look as if he’d caught a rash. He was so distracted by his own physical battle against heat and stairs that he didn’t see the blue-faced children crouched down on the other side of the corridor. He paused, preparing himself for the next climb, before glancing over at your door and freezing. He turned to face it with his back towards us, the round mounds of his bottom at our eye level, the flop of his back flesh contained by the thin fabric of his shirt.

  He had a lovely body, your Uncle Walter. I remember thinking so at the time. Later, beauty adverts and TV weight-loss programmes would try to convince me otherwise but we found his humongous bulk not only fascinating but spectacular to watch. Even the roll of under-chin fat that caused him so much discomfort was something we marvelled at. So smooth, so glossy; the skin rippling every time he laughed.

  Your uncle pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and raised a balled fist as he prepared to strike your door. It was at this point that we lost the battle against holding our breaths to the far worthier competitor of needing air to live. Our collective bodies released a loud splutter that echoed around the corridors and made your uncle spin fast on the spot. He looked down at the three of us on the floor and examined us with a quick scan of his eyes. The sweat was still streaming down his face, his skin was flushed an even deeper red than before, but instead of looking like the fierce monster he should have, his eyes widened with excitement. When he inhaled, his chest expanded like the chests of grizzly bears we’d watched in nature documentaries.

  ‘You’re Marianne and John!’ he said, as though you were Oscar-winning movie stars. ‘Look at you! You’re so big!’

  Upon releasing his booming voice on the landing, the sound of Mrs Simmons filling up a bucket leaked through the door. He looked at us with a stretched grin.

  ‘Is Elaine in?’ he asked.

  Something is missing. As I lie in the bath I wait for the pain but there is nothing there. No aches or stings, no spasms in my muscles or stabbing in my nerves. For the first time in years my body relaxes. It’s as though barbed wire had been wrapped taut around each of my muscles and suddenly, it’s been snipped free.

  I start crying after that, from surprise mainly but also from the feeling of liberation. I wiggle my toes in the water as I continue to sob, stroke the scar across my lower calf and still the pain is gone. I splash so loudly that Amma calls up the stairs to check if I’m drowning.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I call back, wiping away the tears.

  And I am.

  When I get back to my room I begin testing myself. As Amma fries curried fish in the kitchen I lift my arms for ten seconds, then repeat with my knees curled to my chest, then with my legs straightened out. I pinch myself along my body (the shoulder, the elbow, the wrist, the thigh) and feel only momentary pangs of discomfort which vanish as quickly as they come. I swing my body over the side of the bed, jump up, sit down, stand on one foot and nearly topple to the floor. Although my balance is off, my sense of feeling is back to normal.

  When I lie back down I try to remember the moment the pain stopped. Was it before my birthday or after I started writing to you? During one of Amma’s exercises, or today, at the exact moment I got in the bath? No matter how hard I try I can’t grab hold of that moment. It’s like finding a lump somewhere it shouldn’t be but ignoring it. It begins to itch but you continue thinking it’s nothing. This goes on for weeks until eventually you visit the doctor for a minor illness – a sore throat, a cold that won’t budge – and find the strange lump you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist has quadrupled in size and now needs a biopsy. It’s happened like that for me, except instead of my health getting worse it’s got better.

  When Amma comes in with her usual tray of flammable foods I get ready to give her the news. I sit up tall, let a smile creep to the corner of my lips, but as she sits down, wobbling her head with her ‘I know everything’ smile, I stop myself.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask instead.

  Which is all she needs. Amma leans forward in her seat, holding out a little white card with black type. I take it then turn it over in my hand.

  ‘It is for the general election,’ she says. ‘You are old enough to vote.’

  I look at the card, my name printed in neat letters followed by a row of digits, which apparently is my voter registration number. I feel my smile plunging down into my stomach. It bubb
les and hisses into nothing.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I say, tossing the card on the bedside table.

  Amma sits up tall. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’

  I carry on eating.

  ‘I liked it when you put yogurt in that time,’ I say, pointing to the plate.

  ‘I ran out of tomatoes,’ she replies. ‘But really, darling, don’t you see—’

  ‘You should do it again,’ I say. ‘The yogurt thing, I mean.’

  Amma stretches her neck as if doing an impression of a giraffe.

  ‘Ravine,’ she says. Her eyes are wide now, hands placed neatly on top of each other on her lap.

  ‘OK, what does it mean?’ I concede.

  She grins, shuffling forward in her seat. ‘We have over a month until the general election. We can use that time to get you ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘For getting out of the flat. By the time we are done, you will be able to walk down to the school where the polling station is and make your first vote.’

  My eyes twitch as I try to compute what she’s saying. I imagine all the paths I’d have to walk, all the eyes watching me, all the memories waiting for me. There’s a cramping feeling in my stomach. I place a hand over it as though this will make it stop.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  Amma frowns. She hasn’t heard the panic in my voice so I look down at the curried fish and shrug.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to vote,’ I say.

  The frown becomes stern. ‘People have died for the right to vote, Ravine.’

  I shrug again. ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Ravine …’

  I keep on shrugging as if I have springs in my shoulders.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to vote. Or leave the flat. Maybe I’m happy as I am and don’t want to do all the things you keep making me do!’

  I must have shouted the last words because they echo off the walls. We sit in silence, Amma with her arms crossed, chest heaving up and down. I squash rice into fish with my fingers but don’t lift it to my lips. My throat is tight. I can’t eat.