Freedom! Surely I had at least a few hours to myself. A whole morning to do exactly what I wanted to! I could watch telly – except it was only naff daytime TV giving tips on choosing a new home or how to train your dog. A DVD, perhaps, except I didn’t really feel like sitting still for a couple of hours. I could do anything I liked. Anything.
Why did all my options seem so lame? Now I finally had spare time I couldn’t actually think of anything to do. The only thing that sounded vaguely interesting was to go into town for a while. At least I could look at computer games. I’d have to walk into town. It took about twenty minutes, but I had no other choice, apart from stealing money from Dad’s cash pot. Bad idea. Even I’m not that stupid!
Town was pretty dull; full of old people walking painfully slowly on the narrow pavements. What I needed was a giant, armoured tank to sweep them out of my way and put them all out of their misery. Looking at stuff you want to buy isn’t very exciting when you know you can’t buy it – in fact, it’s particularly frustrating. I must have spent a little too long in the shop picking things off the shelf because I eventually became aware of a man in a suit standing nearby, clearly watching me and even whispering into what I thought must be a lapel microphone. Maybe I was getting paranoid, or maybe the store detectives had tagged me as ‘one to watch’. I carefully replaced all the goods I’d been holding and made a big display of showing my empty hands. I even pulled a tissue out of my pocket so they could see nothing had been secreted there, and then ambled outside. I guessed it would be best to walk out slowly as it’s less likely to cause suspicion. By the time I stood outside the shop I felt hot, panicky, and guilty about nothing at all.
It would have been double Maths if I’d been at school. This cheered me up slightly. I could really get used to this type of punishment. I’d have to think of some more things to get me excluded again.
I got seriously bored alone in the house. I filled the kettle, switched it on, and while it boiled I opened the back door and stepped outside onto the patio. It was slightly windy now the sun was beginning to disappear, and more than half the garden lay in the shadow of the high fence. Near where the lawn met the paving stones of the patio, I found what I was looking for and smiled. Hearing the kettle switch off I returned to the kitchen, picking up the jug of boiling water to carry it carefully outside. Tiptoeing towards my intended target I tightened my grip on the kettle and aimed it at arm’s length so as to miss my toes.
The cascading water turned the paving stone a dark brown, but more to the point, it washed away the line of ants parading on it. But it didn’t just wash them away; I could swear I saw them curl up in pain as the hot liquid fried them alive. Spurred by such success I knelt down and took a closer aim at some other ants scuttling nearby. This time I could really enjoy their molten destruction.
‘Die, you gimpoids!’ I attempted a villainous guffaw. ‘This is my garden. Die. Die. Die!’
Once I’d used up the whole kettle, most of the patio had had a good clean. It was difficult to make an accurate body count, but I’d certainly massacred a huge number of them. I knew the real trick, though, was to find where they were coming from. Seek out the lair and destroy the enemy in its own territory. My parents were always complaining about ants in the house.
Back in the kitchen I refilled the kettle then returned to the garden to hunt down the ants’ nest. Careful observation – that was the key. Scanning the pathway and patio I quickly spotted the zigzag frantic movement of an ant; then another; and another. It soon became apparent that they all eventually made their way to one particular hole between two flagstones.
‘Echo three six to Bravo two nine. Enemy headquarters located,’ I spoke aloud into an imaginary walkie-talkie. ‘Request for back up. Over.’ Having grasped the newly-boiled kettle I crept stealthily back outside.
‘Roger, Echo three six. Eagle squadron is ready to swoop. Here come the flood bombs.’
With precision-accuracy I poured the entire lot slowly down the small hole between the stones.
‘Bravo two nine. Target destroyed. Repeat, target destroyed.’
‘Roger that, Echo three six. Mission complete. Over and out.’
As I dawdled back to return the kettle I couldn’t help wondering if this mission had been completely successful. Were they all dead? Had I completely destroyed the whole nest, or had some ants survived to fight back and seek revenge? It was then that a new plan occurred. Just to make sure. Under the kitchen sink I found a big blue bottle of bleach. That was supposed to kill all known germs. Wasn’t it made of acid or something? I knew it was a dangerous substance anyway, so that was perfect. Deciding not to don Mum’s rubber gloves I took the bottle outside. After working out how to remove the top, which isn’t as easy as you might think, I found the ant-hole and crouched down over the wet paving stones. The bleach was gloopy and came out quickly. I managed to pour half the bottle into the hole. That should do it. They surely can’t survive that; or at least, then the garden would be full of bleached, albino ants.
I was buzzing now. A thrilling sense of power gripped me. In this garden I am God, choosing whether these insignificant creatures should live or die. They remained at my complete and utter mercy; except that I wasn’t feeling very merciful. Further up the garden there grew a buddleia bush with violet flowers, long and tapering, where butterflies dangled and danced over the shrub, vying for the blooms’ nectar. I had an idea.
In the kitchen I found the recycling box and took out a small jam jar that had been washed and dried. Over the sink, like a mad professor, I emptied half the remaining content of the bleach bottle into the clear jar. With the jar held out before me in two hands I strode towards the buddleia and put it down on the floor. Unlike most insects, butterflies are relatively easy to catch with your bare hands. They might look pretty resting on a leaf, but butterflies are a bit gawky in flight, especially when taking off. It was a simple matter of waiting for one to land, before closing cupped hands above the butterfly then entrapping the fluttering wings in a loose fist. The flapping tickled a little but I didn’t want to crush the stupid thing.
I pinched one of the wings between thumb and index finger, sending it into a frenzy. I grabbed the jam jar, lifting it up to eye level, then half-dropped, half-threw the frantically struggling butterfly into the thick liquid, cautious not to touch the bleach with my fingers.
Death was immediate. I swear I heard a fizzing sound as the body and wings disintegrated. Its carcass shrivelled as if compelled to take up the least space possible. Drowned in acid. What a way to go. I couldn’t help sniggering.
Exploring the garden further I discovered new victims: spiders, earwigs, wood lice, ladybirds, and even a worm. I enjoyed hours of fun and amusement until there was no more room in the jar.
The only thing to spoil my amusement was when I noticed a magpie sitting on the fence. I swear it was observing me. Could it be the same one I saw the other day? Had it come to get revenge on me for shooting the other one? Then I remembered how the dead magpie had gone missing. Had it survived after all? Nah – that’s stupid. Magpies are common enough birds. In my state of guilt I was probably just noticing them more than usual.
Then the sun set and the cold wind drew me back indoors after hiding all the evidence of my accomplishments in the dustbin.
It was as though the darkness of my bedroom affected my thoughts and emotions. As soon as I pulled my duvet up and reached out to switch off the bedside lamp, the darkness became a force of its own. An air of menace overcame me as if I’d witnessed my own death in a dream. Sometimes I woke feeling depressed after a terrible nightmare and that same feeling of doom gripped me at that moment.
A montage of images played in my mind’s eye: Frisky rotting behind the shed; dead insects swarming and swelling in size, preparing poisoned mandibles and stings to pierce my soft flesh; orchids and flowers rising like armies – their roots extending and stretching towards me, strangling and constricting me until every breath had been choked
out of my lifeless body. I saw my muscles and bones sizzling and melting in a giant vat of acid, desperate to scream but my jaw began to collapse and dissolve into a mulch, covering my useless, flapping tongue.
Reaching out with a frantic hand I managed to switch the light back on and all the crazy visions vanished. After a welcomed gulp of water, I slid my pillow behind my back and sat upright, stretching until both shoulders clicked.
Something buzzed in my ear, perhaps a mosquito. Then a large shadow moved in my peripheral vision to the left. I felt my eyes widen as all my limbs turned to lead. A spider crept a slow diagonal on the wall adjacent to the bed. Not just a spider, but one larger than my head, with legs like jump leads – except I didn’t think spiders got that big in this country. How could this be? I watched as it lifted one leg and then another.
As I slowly shifted back from the approaching creature I knocked the lamp’s beam away and the giant spider disappeared. Wondering if it had jumped, I patted my head, arms, and then the soft bed around my legs. The idea of that beast on my skin made me squirm and shiver. Yanking the light back into place, I jumped when the spider reappeared on the wall.
At first I couldn’t work it out, but then I turned to look at the lamp. There, just inside the lamp shade, a spider was busily spinning its web. The lamp’s beam had projected the outline of the tiny creature onto the wall as a giant silhouette. My laughter sounded weird and weedy.
Wide awake now, I lay back down and snuggled into my duvet. Before long the annoying buzz returned. It made a loud popping sound when I slapped my ear. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my nose, but when I rubbed a finger over that part of my face I didn’t find a wet smear. Instead, I touched something small and hard between thumb and forefinger. Pulling back I looked at it closely and saw that it was another spider. I squeezed it until it was crushed to a pulp, then I flicked the squidgy remains beyond the foot of my bed.
Chapter Eleven
‘Luke?’
I heard Mum run upstairs and stand outside my bedroom. I waited. She knocked.
‘Luke?’
‘Yeah. Come in.’ I continued tapping out my text to Simon, using both thumbs speedily.
Mum gingerly opened the door, waiting for me to look up and acknowledge her before shuffling a few feet into the room. I sent my text and looked at her expectantly.
‘I’ve invited Celia and Ernest round again for dinner tomorrow.’
‘Who?’
‘Their foster son just started at your school. You remember? You were extremely rude last time they came. I’ve promised them you’ll be more civil this time.’
So Guy was coming here once more. We’d be reunited even sooner than expected.
‘You will be, won’t you?’
‘What?’
‘More polite to them this time?’ Her voice sounded irritated.
‘Yes. I promise to be on my best behaviour.’
‘Good. And you’ll be friendly to Guy?’
‘Of course.’ I managed to make my voice sound slightly hurt. As if Mum had no reason to doubt me. I saw her bite her tongue and smile with a twisted mouth.
‘Please don’t let us, or yourself, down this time.’ She closed my door and descended the stairs. I wondered how Guy would respond to me after my unpleasant behaviour towards him at school. Had he dobbed me in?
My phone beeped to alert me of Simon’s reply.
That night I slept in fits and starts. It felt as though I’d lain awake all night, but in truth I probably dozed off for much longer than I imagined. It got to 4.15 a.m. when I realised my mind had become far too active, so I gave up closing my eyes and sat up. I hoicked my pillow up horizontally behind me and leaned back into its softness. Just as I wondered if I might be able to sleep after all in that position I heard a tapping sound. It was a deliberate rhythm as opposed to, say, a regular dripping sound. The taps got louder and more urgent. They were clear and crisp. The window. The noise definitely came from that direction and it sounded like something hard on a pane of glass. Someone was knocking on my window. My window ledge seemed too narrow for anyone to be sitting there – unless someone had shimmied up the drain-pipe – or used the fence dividing us from our neighbours. Someone could conceivably stand on that and reach my window with a stick.
The thought of looking out the window and seeing someone there spooked me out – a lot. I couldn’t imagine Simon doing it; not his style. Guy? Doing so would make him a weird stalker, but I couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t. My fear was that if I pulled back the curtain and saw a face grinning back at me, I would go mental. My stupid imagination conjured up a swinging corpse, hanging upside down and swaying in the breeze.
Hazy light gave the curtains a kind of halo effect, so I knew it wasn’t dark outside, and a pale face against a dark background would be much worse. A face in the daylight would be shocking, but somehow less sinister. I recalled my close encounter with Guy’s face in the roundabout wilderness.
Steeling myself for a fright I whipped back the near corner of the curtain and glanced at the window pane. No face. No person stood or hung outside. Something stood there leering at me, but not a human face. On the window ledge stood a magpie. I was being haunted by a black and white bird. I dramatically pulled back both curtains hoping to scare it off with larger movements, but it stood its ground and continued pecking at the glass. Did it hope to be let in?
I put my face directly opposite the bird so my nose touched the cold window. Its beak tapped a few centimetres away, making me glad about the double glazing separating us. I made a few faces, leaving fogged imprints and condensation on my side. The bird watched me with definite curiosity – its sideways stare like a camera trying to autofocus on me. I got the impression of it processing still-images in its tiny brain – as if it possessed a photographic memory.
Then I tried to scare it by making sudden movements and pulling faces. It hopped around impatiently, trying to get its beak in the tiny gaps of the frame, as if it was strong enough to prize the hinge open. I smiled, shook my head, and stuck two fingers up at it. The magpie flicked its tail with great agitation, and looked at me, first with its right eye and then with its left. With a harsh ‘chack-chack-chack’ it returned to its tapping on the window, and this time it did so with surprising vigour until I feared the glass might crack.
I lunged towards the latch and in one swift movement of the wrist I unhooked it and swung the casement outwards, knocking the stupid bird from the ledge. It flapped off angrily chattering, its wings long and white-tipped, its tail with iridescent greens and blues stuck out like a rudder steering its flight. To my amazement it wheeled around, beating its wings a few times before gliding around until it faced the house once more. I hastily pulled the window closed and twisted the latch.
And yet the damn bird was still shaping to dive bomb my window. Surely it couldn’t smash through double-glazing? I watched aghast as it propelled itself at speed in my direction. I ducked away at the last second and heard a terrific thump.
Was it dead? I’d never heard of birds committing suicide before – lemmings did odd things like that, didn’t they? But not birds. Not that I knew of. I surprised myself by caring what had happened to it. The stupid thing had been trying to come in, and now it might be injured or worse. What was it with bloody magpies? I wanted to know if it was the same one following me around.
I looked up, wondering what I’d see. When I saw a messy splat on the glass, I initially thought it to be the exploded innards of the bird. But closer inspection revealed the goo to be merely bird poo, a palette of white, black, and green. Just above the guano I could discern the outline of the magpie, where its head and wings had impacted on the glass. I even found a tiny imprint of the eye socket. I felt like it was still watching me, so I closed the curtains. Had my parents been woken up by the terrific thump? I waited for someone to investigate but no more sounds interrupted the quiet of the rest of that early morning.
I lay awake puzzled until my alarm cloc
k buzzed at 6.30. I got dressed before daring to open the curtains. Maybe I’d imagined it all or dreamed of waking up.
Finally drawing the curtains slowly, I smiled wryly on seeing the bird poo and then looked closer at the ghost-image of the magpie, still clearly there. Wingtips held out questioningly; head turned sideways to show the beak in profile; and that eye boring through me and seeing inside me – delving into my very soul.
As usual, I decided not to say anything. I just hoped Mum would see it and clean it off as soon as possible.
Chapter Twelve
Our polite little dinner party turned out fine in the end. I had decided to be good and act all civil. In fact, I may even have overdone it slightly, going by some of Dad’s expressions and looks directed at me; all of which I ignored.
I shook hands with Guy and his foster parents, and felt incredibly relieved when he chose not to sniff me this time. How awkward would that be? Seeing Guy in this different context felt odd and at first it proved hard to keep any kind of conversation going with him. He came across as painfully shy, often allowing his foster parents to speak for him. He also still looked a bit of a skank. I almost felt sorry for him.
‘Poor thing has been a little ill and missed a few days of school,’ Celia informed us over starters.
A few days? I thought. He’d been off for more than a few days. If he really felt ill then why would they let him wander off to roundabouts in the middle of dual carriageways? There was more to this boy than met the eye. He’d clearly been skiving school and not telling them. At first I considered grassing him up. I could innocently make some comment about him missing lots of school and not seeing him around much, or I could even open up about his crying at school, or catching him at Coney Island. I looked in his direction but he wouldn’t meet my eye. I took this as him giving me the freedom to do as I felt best. His lack of challenge either meant he trusted me not to, or had already accepted his fate. But which? I couldn’t be sure after my previous unkindness to him.
Pica Page 6
