The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  It takes a moment for him to reply. When he does, it sounds like ‘Thanks.’

  I look at the wall. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Which must be the most civil we’ve ever been to each other.

  The day of the 1999 solar eclipse was the day of Jonathan’s transformation.

  For the majority of the country the eclipse was a pretty understated affair, as the narrow track of total coverage was limited to the lower stretches of Cornwall. Even then, it was only a partial eclipse, but this didn’t stop the BBC streaming the message ‘WARNING: STARING AT THE SUN CAN DAMAGE YOUR EYES’. In response, Amma searched through her drawer of cereal-packet gifts and fished out two pairs of 3D glasses, claiming that by putting the two shades together, green plastic against red, red against green, my young eyes would be protected.

  Much like the assembly of the Dome in London, the solar eclipse was a signpost on the road to the Millennium. The Y2K bug had made us all edgy (we expected planes to fall from the sky on the first stroke of midnight). We were entering a new era and anything seemed possible, a fact reinforced by the disappearance of the sun.

  Jonathan didn’t even try to hide his excitement. As the overseer of weather, the sun was the closest thing he had to a friend. He even used all his pocket money to buy three pairs of solar shades from Laser’s car boot for you, him and Uncle Walter. I, on the other hand, was left stuck with Amma’s cereal-packet invention.

  On the day of the eclipse everyone gathered along the balcony of the top floor of Bosworth House. When you have little to no money, the best things in life are indeed free, and nothing proved this more than the mounting excitement brewing that day on the fourth floor. People brought folding chairs with them, cartons of juice and sandwiches in tubs. They left the doors of their flats open so they could be regularly updated with live news coverage from Cornwall, giving us the countdown to the great event. The whole occasion would go down in Westhill history as the unifying moment that demonstrated the power of small inner-city communities. Or at least it would have, if it hadn’t been for Bradley Patterson.

  He was standing with his goons against the doors behind us. Minus their bikes they were so small and insignificant that we barely noticed them. It was only when they began chanting that we turned to see their scowling faces.

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

  They sang this low and quietly to begin with, repeating the same lines over and over, even though they knew that Bradley’s mother was sitting on a deckchair two feet away. Not that this made any difference. Mrs Patterson had become desensitized to the callous nature of her son and, though vocal on larger issues such as theft and arson, allowed smaller offences to pass unnoticed. When Bradley pushed his way to the front of the balcony to mock Uncle Walter at close range, she barely raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What’s that stink?’ Bradley bellowed. ‘Can you smell that fucking stink, lads?’

  ‘Chicken and mushroom?’ one duck-faced boy suggested.

  ‘Liver and onions?’ another threw in.

  They all began to chortle as they doled out pie filling after pie filling. We, unsure of how to react, looked up at Uncle Walter’s sweating body as each insult was flung. His face sat propped on the fat beneath his chin. We could see him wince with each butt in his belly from the straggly-haired boy’s elbow.

  After a while, Bradley seemed to get bored of his pie joke. He glanced up at your uncle as he stuffed a ribbon of chewing gum into his mouth.

  ‘Oi, Walt,’ he said, jaw grinding. ‘Mum tells me you’re a nutter. Is that true?’

  Uncle Walter’s eyes dropped down for a second. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable. Bradley grinned as his gang began to chuckle.

  ‘She says you went mental after your friend got shanked,’ he said. ‘Got locked away cos you had a breakdown. Did they feed you too much? Is that why you’re so fat?’

  Bradley’s laugh was so loud that no one could even pretend not to hear him any more. The crowd didn’t join in, but then they didn’t stop him either. This was the power Bradley held over the estate. Just looking at him made you yellow.

  I looked up at your uncle as I waited for him to use a survival strategy: squealing loudly to make Bradley’s ears bleed, pulling out a stun gun to jab him in the ribs. Instead he stood rock-still as Bradley began pushing into his round belly, harder and harder. Eventually he pushed him so hard that Uncle Walter stumbled, holding on to the railings to steady his footing. He kept facing forward as he clung on.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ he said.

  Bradley scowled. ‘What you gonna do? Eat me?’

  As the goons released a peal of laughter, Mrs Patterson looked over from her chair and smirked. It’s true. I saw the little dimples in her cheek. Next to Mrs Patterson, Sandy Burke sat with her lips sucked in tight. Ever since she had failed to seduce your uncle, she’d refused to speak to him. As she sat by Mrs Patterson, Sandy smirked too but it was half-hearted and twitchy. She kept her gaze averted, unable to look any of us in the eye.

  As the boys continued laughing, Uncle Walter whispered discreetly into Amma’s ear. She nodded, touching him gently on the arm before he shuffled away to the staircase. His eyes were glossy and round, like those of a child watching a horror movie.

  Bradley Patterson strode back to his wall as though he’d just defeated Goliath. He clasped hands with the other boys in a manner I assume he thought was impressive, then leant back on the wall with the stance of a gangster.

  Jonathan was furious. He hissed and muttered, his face turning devil red. Having bought the solar shades from his own pocket money, he was clearly sore at the prospect of a pair going unused.

  ‘I don’t see why Uncle Walter had to go,’ he mumbled as he looked back at the wall. ‘He wasn’t even doing anything.’

  It was the first time Jonathan had referred to Uncle Walter as ‘uncle’. If it hadn’t been for his furrowed eyebrows and snarling mouth it would have been sweet. He carried on glaring at the boys before crossing his arms.

  ‘They’re not even watching.’

  You tried to reason with your brother. Uncle Walter wanted to go back to the flat. He was creating some form of snare to catch Bradley Patterson so he could torture him and find out his secrets (we never shook off the notion that he was a spy). Yet the more you spoke the more your brother’s eyes narrowed in that way they did when he was planning something rotten.

  The sun was almost hidden behind the thick grey cloud above us. We donned our glasses and looked at the small white globe through our lenses, standing on tiptoes and squinting as we edged closer to the brink of the balcony. Even Sandy Burke and Mrs Patterson rose from their chairs as the black rim of the moon began to skim the sun’s edge.

  Just as we thought we could see the dark circle biting into the cake of the sun, we heard the scream. We turned around, each one of us whipping off our frames, to see Jonathan huddled on the floor with his own solar shades smashed beside him. Blood covered his small squat nose as he lay at Bradley Patterson’s feet.

  Mrs Patterson threw her cigarette to the ground.

  ‘What have you done, you little shit?’

  Bradley put his hands in the air. ‘I didn’t touch him.’

  Jonathan wailed, large tears rolling down his cheeks as he clutched his dented nose. Mrs Patterson ran over to his heaped body.

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ she said, helping him up as he sobbed. She looked back at Bradley. ‘For God’s sake, boy! He’s half your size!’

  ‘He did it to himself,’ Bradley said.

  ‘They could press charges, you idiot! You’re already in enough trouble with the filth.’

  Bradley Patterson drew a deep breath. He looked back at his goons, now mute, then back at his mother’s bloated face. When he spoke it was with the slow consideration of a person giving evidence on trial.

  ‘He came up to me out of nowhere. I didn’t say a word to him, he just came. Then he threw his glasses on the floor, smashed them
with his shoe and began beating the shit out of himself. It’s the God’s-honest truth, Mum.’

  He held his palms up to the sky to show his hands were clean of the crime. Mrs Patterson laughed.

  ‘Pull the other one,’ she said, dragging him by the collar back into her flat.

  The rest of the goons stood agog as their leader was manhandled by a five-foot-two woman with large breasts.

  Half an hour later, Mrs Patterson hauled her son down to your flat and made him apologize to Uncle Walter for the crime he insisted he hadn’t committed. His body was hunched over, his eyes red raw as he sniffled his way through an apology. Your uncle listened calmly as Mrs Patterson pleaded a bargain. She swore to personally make sure Bradley stayed away from the whole family if he promised not to press charges.

  ‘He hasn’t got many chances left, Walt,’ she said. ‘If you can’t do it for his sake, do it for mine. There’s only so much grief a woman can take.’

  Amma was still giving first aid to Jonathan’s bloody nose as Uncle Walter negotiated with the Pattersons. We both watched in fascination as the crimson liquid continued to flow down your brother’s face. As he winced with each prod and poke, I wondered if it was really possible that he’d done what Bradley Patterson had accused him of. The same Jonathan who cried like a baby when he got his school jabs. The same Jonathan who had his head bandaged with metres of dressing after a minor fall. Could this same Jonathan have caused the damage to his face with his own fist? It seemed impossible.

  It was only when Uncle Walter came into the dining room that I knew for sure. He looked exhausted, as though he’d scaled the steps of Bosworth House a hundred times over. He poured himself a glass of apple juice and sat down at the table to recover. As Amma continued to mop up blood, Jonathan looked over at the bundle of red cotton wool beside him. He caught your uncle’s eye and nodded in the manner of a mafia don.

  ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Walter,’ he said. ‘Those boys aren’t ever going to bother you again.’

  I spoke to your brother again last night. The smell of Amma’s cooking had leaked through the kitchen window to his flat and he was curious to find out what I was eating.

  ‘Vegetable dhansak,’ I told him.

  He asked what vegetables were in my dhansak. I looked down at the mixture on my plate. Colourful cubes poked out from the sauce as I jabbed at the meal with my fingers.

  ‘Potatoes, carrots, peas, sweetcorn. Chillies, if you count that as vegetable …’

  ‘Fruit,’ he said. ‘Because of the seeds.’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘What does it taste like?’ he asked.

  I frowned before scooping the mixture into my mouth. ‘Hot.’

  I carried on eating as he fell into silence, realizing with each mouthful that there was more to this meal than mere heat. I moved the pieces around my mouth, detecting a delicate blend of spices: cumin, turmeric, cardamom and chilli. My tongue felt the softness of each vegetable chunk as it collapsed against the roof of my mouth, blending into the richness of the coriander-laced sauce.

  ‘Your mother (mumble mumble) good (mumble),’ he said.

  ‘Good what?’ I said loudly.

  ‘Hook,’ he said.

  ‘Hook?’

  ‘COOK.’

  I frowned, remembering how Jonathan screwed up his face whenever Amma put a plate of curry in front of him. He’d ask for a pint of water and gulp it down with each mouthful, beads of sweat dotting the lines of his crinkled forehead. I stared down at the food before me, steam rising like smoke from a chimney pot. I can’t imagine the Ahmeds left much food in the flat and I haven’t heard Jonathan leave for provisions since he arrived.

  I washed my hand in the bowl of water Amma had left and wiped it on the tea towel beside it. When I heard Jonathan mumbling again I drained my glass and held it up against the wall.

  ‘Does it hurt very much?’ he asked.

  I didn’t know how he knew about my condition. Amma hasn’t heard from him in years and Sandy has never mentioned him.

  ‘Yes, it hurts a lot,’ I said.

  Another lie. Another wrench to the gut. But I couldn’t blurt out my secret to him. If I owe anyone the truth it’s the woman who’s nursed me for the past ten years, not your prodigal brother who should be pleased I’m even talking to him.

  ‘It sounded bad when the doctor came round.’

  I tried to think of what doctor, then realized he meant the physiotherapist.

  ‘You shouldn’t listen in to other people’s conversations,’ I said.

  ‘It’s hard not to when someone’s screaming their head off.’

  I huffed through my nose; an action I realized was lost on him as soon as I performed it.

  ‘Hey, Ravine,’ he said, slower now, tentative. ‘I keep meaning to ask you something …’

  I waited, breath held tight.

  ‘Can you play something else on your CD player? You know, other than Stevie Wonder? It was all right at first but now it’s driving me mental.’

  If he’d been in front of me, I would have punched him in the face.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ I asked.

  I’d meant to stun him and, as desired, he remained quiet for a few seconds. When he did respond, Jonathan’s voice was so faint I had to ask him to repeat himself.

  ‘Not sure!’ he yelled.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Typical.’

  I could have asked why he’d come back, what he was after or who he was hiding from, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know. I’m not ready to be involved in Jonathan’s life again. Not yet.

  I knew that Amma would come to fetch my tray any minute. I leant my body over the bed and from the darkness below I pulled out a biscuit tin, the same that had housed Sangerine I, II and III. I’ve washed it out since, in case you were wondering, and have been using it to store the throngs of vitamin supplements, painkillers and other medication Amma gives me each day. I want to know if I actually need them any more. It’s been three weeks now, the tin’s half full, and even though there have been moments of pain, it’s nothing like what I used to feel.

  ‘Ravine …?’ your brother said through the wall.

  I sat up. ‘Want to know what I’m having for pudding now?’ I said.

  I heard him snort. Then Amma’s feet came shuffling to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Are you saying something to me?’ she called up.

  ‘No,’ I called back.

  I cupped my mouth as I leant into the wall. ‘I think she’s coming up.’

  I put my ear back on the glass.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But Ravine ...’

  He paused. I leant into the wall, one ear cocked in the air waiting for the sound of Amma’s feet on the stairs.

  ‘Yes?’ I said as the silence continued.

  He remained quiet and for a moment I thought he was trying to provoke me like he did when we were children. Prodding me, teasing me. I heard the thump of feet on the staircase.

  ‘I’m sorry I never came to visit,’ he said just as Amma reached the top.

  I put the glass on the table and shuffled down under the sheets.

  ‘I swear those steps get higher each year!’ she cried, holding on to her back as she waddled into the room.

  I glanced back at the wall.

  ‘They must be growing,’ I said as she collected my tray. ‘Either that, or you’re shrinking.’

  Amma made a tsk noise. I watched the folds of her sari swish from side to side as she left the room, hoping she hadn’t seen the smile plastered across my face.

  Later that night, when Amma is tucked up in bed, I creep down the stairs and into the kitchen. When I open the fridge I see the stacks of Tupperware she keeps in case of a crisis. Judging by the quantity, Amma clearly imagines biryanis and fish curry will be enough to guarantee our survival in the apocalypse. I pull out the top tub and shut the fridge door carefully so it only makes a squeak. With the tub and a fork in hand, I creep to the front door, creak
ing it open before placing the food on the WEL of the WELCOME mat outside your flat. I rap my knuckles hard against the panels of the door and slip back into my flat with the speed of a ninja. When I sneak back up the stairs, each step slow and steady, I try my best not to breathe as I enter my room. As soon as I’m under the sheets, the springs of the mattress creaking as I slide in, I hear a voice through the wall.

  ‘Cheers, Ravine,’ it says.

  The Constellation of Marbles

  Seeing the Soul-drinker twice had made me vigilant. His yellow eyes and dark face haunted my daydreams and nightmares. To protect not just you but Amma too, I squeezed a whistle into my shoulder bag and wore a bracelet made of jagged beads upon my wrist. On shopping trips to the cash-and-carry I would stand on guard beside Amma’s hip, ready to blow the whistle if I spotted any sign of him. If he grabbed hold of me I planned to use the jagged bracelet to gouge out the yellow of his eyes and drain him of all his power. These were my survival strategies and I was certain they’d keep me safe.

  When we went to the woods I made sure we were never left alone and that we stopped playing hide-and-seek. Jonathan grumbled about it at first but eventually shrugged his shoulders. He was tamer during that time. Since the incident with Bradley Patterson and the solar shades he didn’t have anything to prove. He no longer spoilt Uncle Walter’s recipe books or fed him chilli sandwiches. He no longer fussed about the food in front of him but instead assisted your uncle in the kitchen: peeling onions, cooking pasta, washing up dishes, all acts which had been considered ‘not for real men’ in the days of Mrs Dickerson. He ate his meals without complaint and joined in with our Italian lessons, albeit from a distance.

  On a few occasions he went so far as to play football with Uncle Walter on the patch of grass at the bottom of the flats. He was nifty with the ball, always ready for a tackle, while your uncle was surprisingly speedy, considering his size and the fact he could barely move his head. Bradley Patterson and his goons stood by, pretending not to watch, but whenever Jonathan gave them one of his googly-eyed stares they would quickly saunter off, muttering ‘nutter’ as they left.