The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  ‘No sugar either,’ he says.

  I place the mug on the floor. ‘What type of deal?’ I ask.

  He breaks away from my gaze and looks down at his mug. He continues staring into it as though the answer is sitting on the surface of his tea. After a while, the cup begins to shake. He brings his other hand around it to keep it steady. He’s nervous. Jonathan Dickerson is nervous of me.

  ‘It was the day he caught me with the marbles,’ he says. ‘He dragged me back to his flat and made me eat pâté sandwiches with him.’

  ‘Sardines,’ I interrupt. ‘You mean sardines.’

  ‘No,’ he says, his body retching with the memory, ‘definitely pâté.’

  He places his mug on the kitchen work surface as I sit questioning my memory. Jonathan tells me about his conversation with Reginald Blake. He tells me in such an elaborate yet detailed way that I realize he’s been planning this speech since we stopped speaking a few days ago. I let him tell me because I want to know, but as he speaks I can’t help but examine his gestures and mannerisms that not only belonged to his younger self but also belonged to you.

  That day in the flat, Reginald had told your brother about Mrs Dickerson and Bobby. How they’d started a relationship behind his back, how she’d come to Tewkesbury House to declare she was pregnant and how Reginald had paid her to go away. He’d never liked the woman and wasn’t going to let her ruin Bobby’s future. She didn’t need much persuading. Your mother took the money and even though she went back on her word and never left, the damage was done. Bobby didn’t want anything to do with her and Reginald was convinced he’d won.

  ‘But I think Bobby got depressed,’ Jonathan says. ‘Maybe there was something in him that made him spiral down.’

  He looks wistful as he says this. I roll my eyes.

  ‘You’re not the same as Bobby,’ I say.

  Jonathan looks at me and blinks. Then he smiles. After the initial shock it doesn’t take me long to get used to his smile. It’s more genuine than the sneers and pouting lips of his youth and far more pleasant to look at.

  ‘You could always read my mind, Ravine,’ he says.

  I don’t like him saying that. I don’t like him even saying my name. I fold my arms.

  ‘You said you made a deal.’

  Jonathan closes his eyes and nods.

  ‘Reginald said if I told him what Mum was up to he’d find a way of getting rid of her. Then me and Marianne could go and live with him in his flat.’

  It’s the first time he’s said your name but he’s gazing at his mug so doesn’t see me jump.

  Marianne. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it spoken.

  ‘I was angry with her for running away so I agreed,’ he says. ‘I never thought that Uncle Walter would leave. I never thought that I might have to go through with it.’

  Jonathan throws a hand up in the air and, along with it, the burden of his secrets. I watch them fly into the air like doves. But he doesn’t look any lighter afterwards; if anything, his shoulders are weighed down. He lowers his head, picking at the loose skin on his fingers.

  ‘It didn’t even happen,’ he says. ‘In the end they just took me away.’

  I remember the image of him standing in the hospital. How he’d stared at my hospital chart as the social worker pushed him towards the bed. The skin beneath his eyes was loose and baggy, the flesh around his nostrils sore and red. Despite everything, I’d been pleased to see him. In that world where the Soul-drinker was giving Amma shoulder rubs and the pain was shooting through every ligament of my body, he was something familiar, something I understood. But he wouldn’t look at me. Not once. I’ve replayed the scene over and over in my mind with the vague hope that if he’d looked up, connected his gaze with mine for just one second, things would have been different.

  ‘He wrote to me, though,’ Jonathan says. ‘When I was in care he’d send me letters, and it was in the letters he said Uncle Walter had been in touch. That he was living somewhere up north. That’s why I came back, Ravine. Not for Reginald—’ He stops, swallows deeply and clears his throat. ‘For Uncle Walter.’

  He looks at me. I pick up the mug from the floor, look down at the broken film floating on the surface of the liquid, then back at your brother.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t sardines?’

  Jonathan lifts his gaze and rolls his eyes.

  ‘Yes, Ravine, I’m sure.’

  When we got to the entrance of Bosworth House, the rain had turned to snow. Tiny white flecks spun in the lamplight, swirling down to the pavement and melting into the concrete. Making our way down the spine-steps of Westhill, I realized party dresses were not the most suitable outdoor wear. Even with wellington boots, my legs were so numb I could barely bend my knees, and you were shivering so badly it looked like you were performing an interpretive dance with each step.

  When I looked up, patches of the night sky revealed themselves amongst the clouds. I saw a cluster of stars and stuck my tongue out, imagining the snow was stardust, twinkling and crackling as it fell on my tongue. When I lowered my head your brother had his hood up. He’d pulled the toggles so the fabric scrunched around his face.

  ‘Rain … snow …’ I said, counting the words off my fingers. ‘What else did you say?’

  He narrowed his eyes, looked up at the sky. ‘Thunder.’

  You quickly put your umbrella up.

  We took turns dragging the bag to Bobby’s Hideout, asking Jonathan repeatedly what was inside. His final response came in the form of a growl so low and deep that we didn’t ask again.

  ‘Top secret,’ you said, tapping the side of your nose.

  When we reached the main road, my teeth were chattering, the feeling in my fingers lost. I looked back at the estate in search of an orange sari, the flash of white trainers, hoping that Amma had finished this so-called ‘date’ and was arriving home. She’d somehow figure out our plan (as adults always did), march us back home and save us from Jonathan’s bitter expedition. But no matter how I searched, I couldn’t see her and soon we were walking through the thin line of trees and into the darkness.

  ‘We’re here,’ your brother announced.

  He took the bin bag from your hands as we stood before the hideout, and immediately dumped the contents on the floor.

  Fireworks. Large boxes, sealed-up bags and loose rockets; the quantity of explosives your brother had gathered was staggering. He dropped down on his knees, ripping the boxes open and making a pile of their contents.

  ‘Errrrr,’ was all you could say.

  Jonathan carried on in a blind fury, his fingertips turning white as he tore at the cardboard. I placed my hands on my hips and tried to scowl.

  ‘You’re not supposed to play with fireworks.’

  He didn’t flinch.

  ‘Jonathan, you’re not supposed to play with fireworks!’

  He glanced up at me with an apathetic shrug. ‘I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.’

  I blinked, unsure how to respond. The more fireworks emerged, the more I panicked. Eventually I threw my hands in the air.

  ‘Stop being such a philistine!’ I cried.

  Jonathan paused, lifting his hands to wave from side to side.

  ‘Ravine Ravine Dictionary Queen,’ he sang, but distinctly less passionately than usual.

  ‘Shut up, Weatherboy.’

  ‘Now, fellas,’ you said, holding your hands up in Police Officer Mode. ‘Let’s calm down before someone gets hurt.’

  Jonathan’s face wrinkled with resentment. He flung his head back, shouting up to the trees. ‘For shit’s sake! I never even asked you to come! Why don’t you just fuck off back home?’

  You dropped your umbrella in the snow.

  ‘Jonathan Dickerson!’ you said. ‘Take that back now.’

  Jonathan’s cheeks turned tomato red. He clenched his fists and pounded one on the floor.

  ‘You’re not my mother!’ he cried. ‘You’re barely even my sister!’

>   We both stood baffled as Jonathan shook his head. He got to his feet and began marching in and out of the hideout, placing fireworks in whatever nooks and crannies he could find. You followed him, pulling out each one systematically while I stayed outside, attempting to put all the unopened boxes back in the bag.

  As I crawled across the thin layer of snow, a blinding light shone in my eyes. I looked up as the rumble of a car engine followed. As Jonathan shouted at you to stop touching his property, I looked through the black body of tree trunks to see a taxi pulling up on the road ahead. My eyes widened as the door opened and a flash of white trainers stepped into view.

  ‘Am—’ I began until I saw who was following behind.

  I know now that the figure with slicked-back hair and a bunch of red tulips in his hands was not only human but my father, but at the time I could only recognize him as the Soul-drinker. A monster, come to take possession of souls so as to feed his own; a vicious beast who now had my mother literally in his clasp, holding her hands by the roadside, looking straight into her eyes with the power of his yellow gaze. He’d tricked her soul from her. Next, he’d be coming for us.

  I took the whistle out of my bag and began to blow, a foolish move as the Soul-drinker’s eyes immediately darted over to the trees as he heard the trill.

  My eyes widened. I got to my feet and pushed past your brother as he lined the doorway of the hideout with explosives.

  ‘Hey!’ he cried, as I took refuge in the corner, sitting with arms wrapped around my bare legs, the whistle between my lips.

  He stepped inside and from behind him I saw your figure, rockets filling your arms, as you followed him. It was dark in the hideout but there was enough moonlight coming through the doorway to illuminate the fury on Jonathan’s face.

  ‘Stop being stupid and get out of here!’ he cried.

  I let the whistle drop from my lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere. He’ll find us,’ I said.

  Jonathan shook his head then looked at you. ‘What’s she talking about?’

  You, just as confused as your brother, looked down at the fireworks in your arms and quickly dropped them on the floor.

  ‘We need to get out pronto, Ravine.’

  I continued shaking my head, looking towards the entrance as I waited for the Soul-drinker’s eyes to appear. You didn’t understand my fear, nobody did, but a monster was coming to get us, a monster that already had hold of my mother.

  I buried my head in my knees as your brother began to curse. He only stopped when he realized I was crying.

  ‘What’s wrong with her, for shit’s sake?’ he asked.

  I didn’t hear your reply but the next time I looked up you were knelt down beside me. Your round tanned face was right up next to mine, the curls of your hair lit up in a halo around your head. I tried to gulp back the tears, wiping my face with the sleeve of my coat as you gently tapped the bag hanging loose over my body.

  ‘Look up the meaning of brave,’ you said.

  My breath was erratic, my knees shaking, yet still I pulled out the mini dictionary from my bag. It took me a while to find the right entry, and when I began to read I had to force the words out of my rubbery lips.

  ‘“Brave: able to face or endure danger or pain. Splendid. Spectacular.”’

  You smiled, prodding a finger into my chest. ‘That’s you it’s talking about.’

  I looked back at the book and reread the explanation. ‘No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘It’s you.’

  You looked at me confused, as I wiped the wetness from my cheeks.

  ‘C’est la vie,’ I said with a shrug.

  You began to chuckle. ‘Non preoccuparti, sii felice,’ you whispered.

  ‘Enough already!’ your brother screeched.

  He was standing in the same spot with his glasses steamed up. Behind him were the postcards Bobby had dotted along the wall: mountains, waterfalls and deserts. Jonathan balled up his fists.

  ‘Now get the bloody hell out of here or I’ll blow up this place with the two of you in it!’

  The roof of the hideout was barely higher than Jonathan’s head, the small stretch of floor covered with fireworks. He could do it if he wanted to; he could blow it all up.

  I put my dictionary back in its bag and wrapped my arms round my legs.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ I said.

  Jonathan’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, I bloody would!’

  I looked at him as he drew a box from his pocket. I recognized it because it was the same box of matches my mother had in her kitchen drawer.

  ‘I’m going to do it!’ he cried.

  Your eyes grew round but there was no reason to panic. The only danger I knew lay outside the hideout with a bunch of tulips in his hands. I shook my head.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  You looked at me with alarm and right then I knew I’d gone too far. Jonathan pulled the box open and withdrew a match, striking it against the side of the box and holding the lit match in the air.

  ‘Wanna bet?’ he said.

  You got to your feet and held out your hand. ‘Ravine, for Cod’s sake, get up.’

  I took hold of your hand and squeezed.

  ‘Shit.’

  When we looked over at Jonathan, the match was no longer in his hand. He was looking frantically around him but it wasn’t until we saw the glow of the fireworks piled up on the floor that we knew what had happened.

  The sizzle came first, then the bang. Sparks. A speeding body of light hit the roof with a clang and then fell straight back down. For a moment there was silence, but it only lasted a second.

  The explosions were quick and fast. The whistle of another rocket, the sudden spinning of a Catherine wheel. By the time we’d fallen to our knees, we didn’t even have time to shriek. The noise was so loud we held our hands over our ears, jumping at every new explosion, pushing our heads low as we tried to keep watching. Multi-coloured fire blazed so brightly it left streaks across my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember our survival strategies. When I looked up again, I saw Jonathan looking back, his mouth screaming as my ears rang. It was my job to protect you. I had to think quickly, before it was too late. You began to crawl forward.

  ‘Lie down and be still!’ I cried. ‘Lie down and be still!’

  It was as I reached out for your arm that the rocket hit me.

  At first it felt like nothing more than a kick to the calf. But then came the pain. It didn’t feel like I was on fire, or like knives stabbing into my leg. It didn’t feel like anything you’d expect, though in truth I was never told what to expect when a firework incinerates your leg. It was like melting, my whole leg curling in on itself as my body seized into shock.

  What happened next is a blur. I remember screaming. I remember you crying out to your brother (‘Get Ravine! Get Ravine!’). I remember my eyes drooping so heavily that I didn’t feel as if I would ever be able to open them again. It wasn’t until Jonathan dragged me out of the hideout and the cold fresh air hit me that I began to see clearly again. The blades of grass across the floor, the cloudiness of smoke. When I looked over at your brother I could see the criss-crossing fibres on the toggles hanging from his hood. He was holding me tightly, as if the world would crumble if he let me go. Then, after a few more steps, he laid me down gently on my back, raising my leg as he placed it on a rock.

  ‘I’ve got to get Marianne,’ he said.

  It was only when he ran away that I realized what he’d meant. You were still in there; you were still in the hideout.

  A faint ringing vibrated in my ears. I tried to lift my head, only to see the hazy image of the building, concrete bricks cracking, gaps illuminated in flashes of colour.

  ‘Non preoccuparti, sii felice. Non preoccuparti, sii felice,’ I repeated over and over, hoping the words would wind back time.

  The pain increased and soon I lost the energy to hold my head up. As I lay flat on the grass, I looked up at the patches of night sky: stars shining brightly again
st the indigo canvas, renegade fireworks exploding in fiery blooms, a rocket streaming across the sky like a shooting star. I began to choke on the smoke surrounding me and only dimly heard the crash of bricks and corrugated iron as the hideout collapsed.

  You disappeared that night, Marianne. Your body lost in the rubble of a makeshift home. My life changed for ever.

  Non preoccuparti, sii felice.

  In Italian it means don’t worry, be happy.

  As the hours tick towards midday, your brother guides me to the living room. He shows me a hacksaw he’s found in the abandoned wardrobe in the hall. The D-shaped body is rusty along the blade and looks more like a hazard than a treasure.

  ‘I’m thinking of chopping wood with it,’ he says.

  He begins to saw imaginary logs in front of him. The gesture reminds me of how he used to build animal traps in the woods, never managing to catch anything bigger than a frog.

  ‘What do you need to chop wood for?’ I ask.

  He sticks out his bottom lip, mumbling vaguely before placing his saw alongside a pile of similar goods lined up across the carpet. A ball of string, a 2004 telephone directory, a rolled-up prayer mat. He sits down on the autumnal-patterned sofa, his head lowered, his fingers scratching the back of his neck. The cushions are so soft that his body sinks down into their fatness, his legs angled out like fishing poles. He looks up at me.

  ‘I still haven’t seen him, you know?’ he says. ‘Reginald, I mean.’

  I blink.

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  Jonathan flops back in his seat, his chin resting on his chest the way it used to when he was sulking. Except he isn’t sulking this time, but deliberating as though my reply is a valid comment. Maybe he’d never been sulking. Maybe all that time after Uncle Walter left he’d simply been thinking. Planning, concocting.

  ‘Why did you go to Bobby’s Hideout that night?’

  I’m as surprised by the question as he is. We haven’t ever mentioned that night until now, simply skirting over the issue as though it never happened. I’m glad I’ve mentioned it. I’m glad because it makes it real. I’m tired of pretending.

  Jonathan lifts his eyes, yet his chin remains on his chest. He examines me for a few seconds then stares straight ahead.