Ketchup Clouds

by Annabel Pitcher

  ‘He just seemed so . . . Oh, I don’t know. Old, I suppose.’

  I stared down at my feet trying to imagine them from someone else’s perspective. ‘He is old, Dad.’

  ‘He used to run marathons.’

  I looked up, surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He was fit. He did it in just over three hours once.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  Dad smiled, but it was sad. ‘It’s more than good, pet. And he could dance. Gran, too. They were quite something.’

  The music in the house got louder. People surged towards it – a couple holding hands, two boys in checked shirts and a girl from the year above in a spotty dress. My legs twitched. Dad was far away in his thoughts but the party was right there in front of me and I didn’t want to be rude but time was ticking ticking ticking. When enough seconds had passed, I leaned into the car and pecked him on the cheek before setting off, wondering what music Grandpa had liked and how he had looked, dancing with a body as young as mine.

  Just because I could, just because I wasn’t stiff or frail or stuck in hospital after a stroke, I sped up, grateful for my working limbs and moving joints and the fact I wasn’t old. By the time I reached the end terrace, my pulse was racing. The front door was open, people making their way inside. I paused by the gate, batting the balloons to one side, taking it all in. Honest truth it looked like a whole new world and not just a hall with an old blue carpet. My stomach fluttered and my adrenalin tingled and I felt young, Mr Harris, really young in this precious sort of way. I savoured the moment then hurried up the path, avoiding the cracks between the slabs.

  ‘Stepping stones over a fast river? Or hurdles in the Olympics?’ A boy I didn’t recognise was sitting on a bench in the front garden, staring straight at me. Brown eyes. Messy blond hair that looked as if it had never been brushed. Tall enough. Lean. Sinewy arms crossed over his chest. ‘What were you imagining?’ he called over the music, pointing at the cracks.

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing. I’m superstitious. If you tread on the cracks it’s bad luck, isn’t it?’

  The boy looked away. ‘Disappointing.’

  ‘Disappointing?’

  ‘I thought you were playing a game.’

  ‘I can play a game if you want me to play a game,’ I replied. My voice surprised me. Confident. Flirtatious, even. A brand new sound.

  The boy looked back, interested now. ‘Okay . . . here’s a question. If the cracks were something dangerous, what would they be?’

  I thought for a moment as three girls tottered into the party, smirking at my outfit. ‘Mouse traps,’ I replied, trying to ignore them.

  ‘Mouse traps? You can have any fantasy in the whole world, and you choose mouse traps?’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’

  ‘Not alligators or deep black holes with snakes at the bottom. Tiny little mouse traps with bits of cheddar stuck on the snappy thing.’

  I took a step closer, then another, enjoying myself. ‘Who said they’re tiny mouse traps?’ I prodded the cracks with the end of my shoe. ‘Maybe they’re huge ones with poisonous cheese and spikes that can rip my toes to shreds.’

  ‘Are they?’

  I hesitated. Then smiled. ‘No. They’re tiny little mouse traps with bits of cheddar stuck on the snappy thing.’

  Above our heads, something flew into a tree and hooted.

  ‘Owl!’ I exclaimed.

  The boy shook his head. ‘There you go again.’

  ‘There I go what?’

  Sighing, he stood up. His shoulders were wide as if they could carry the weight of the whole world or at least give me a good piggy back. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt that bagged in all the wrong places. He’d made even less effort than me. All of a sudden my flat shoes seemed to float four inches off the ground.

  ‘Can you see the bird?’ he asked, putting his hand over his eyes and gazing into the leaves.

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘So how do you know it’s an owl? It could have been a ghost.’

  ‘It’s not a ghost.’

  The boy walked towards me and my breath caught in my throat. ‘But how do you know? It could have been a spirit that—’

  ‘I know it’s an owl because of the hoot,’ I interrupted. The bird did it again, right on cue. I held up my finger. ‘Hear that? That’s the cry of the little owl. The mating cry, actually.’

  The boy raised an eyebrow. I’d surprised him. ‘The mating cry, huh?’ His eyes twinkled and I felt triumphant. ‘Tell me more about this amorous little owl.’

  ‘Well, it’s one of the most common species in Britain. And it has feathers. Obviously. But they’re beautiful, sort of speckled, brown and white. Its got a big head, long legs, yellowish eyes,’ I went on, warming to my theme, ‘and a bounding, undulating sort of fly, similar to a woodpecker, and . . .’ The boy started to laugh. Then I started to laugh. And then the owl hooted as if it was starting to laugh.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, and I was just about to reply when the gate creaked and heels tapped up the path.

  ‘Bloody hell, you actually came!’ Lauren shrieked. ‘Let’s get a drink!’ Before I could protest, she grabbed my hand and tugged me towards the house, stumbling on a crack.

  ‘Mind the alligators,’ I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy grin. Lauren stopped, looking confused.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I muttered, and then I grinned too.

  The lounge was small with a faded red carpet and a beige sofa pushed to one side to make room for dancing. Lauren threw off her coat and joined in, all wooooo and waving her arms in the air. She twirled in the middle of the room as I grabbed a glass off the drinks table and poured myself some lemonade. And then after a pause some vodka. I mixed it with my finger, music pounding in my ears and my blood and every single one of my organs. La la la la la my heart sang just like that. I downed my drink in one as people gyrated between the sofa and the mantelpiece as if they were in a nightclub rather than a lounge, and honest truth they looked ridiculous, grinding against each other on the rug.

  And then all of a sudden there he was, leaning against the door frame, amused by the scene. He caught my eye or maybe I caught his, or possibly they caught each other at the exact same moment. As everyone danced, he shook his head and I rolled my eyes and we both knew exactly what the other was thinking, like Mr Harris imagine our heads connected by a telephone wire. The boy didn’t move towards me and I didn’t move towards him but that cable between our brains buzzzzzzed.

  Someone with ginger hair got in the way, but the boy kept glancing at me and glancing at me as if I was worth a second and a third and a one hundredth look. My body felt different under his gaze. Not just arms and legs and organs. Skin and lips and curves. I poured myself another drink as the boy chatted to his friend. My hands were unsteady, trembling against the cold glass. Lots of vodka went in my glass and lots splashed on the table. Cursing, I grabbed a napkin, and by the time I’d cleaned it up, the boy had disappeared. Just like that. One second he was by the door, and the next he wasn’t, and my heart stopped dead with a big fat Oh.

  I told Lauren I was going to the loo and took off at once, squeezing past bodies and ducking under arms into the hall. He wasn’t outside or in the kitchen or in the cupboard full of coats. Pushing past people on the narrow stairs, I necked my drink, opening door after door to find nothing but empty rooms. I tried the upstairs bathroom. The downstairs too, filling my glass on the way there, just neat vodka this time, and I swallowed it in one go as I tried the handle.

  It turned easily to reveal a dripping tap and a toilet and I gazed at my frowning face in the mirror, my reflection swimming in and out of my vision as I gripped the edges of the sink. I stumbled into a tiny conservatory. It was big and cool and dark, just the moon shining through the glass ceiling. In the far corner there was a comfy-looking chair and I fell into it as the room started to spin. As my bum touched the cushio
n, a voice said ‘Hey.’

  My head jerked up, but it wasn’t the boy, Mr Harris. It was Max Morgan. The Max Morgan. And he was grinning at me, a bottle of whisky in his hand. Drink was splashed down his smart shirt and his forehead was shiny with sweat but his eyes were brown, really brown, and his short hair was dark and styled and his grin was crooked in a way that sent me all off kilter.

  ‘Hey,’ Max said again. ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Zoe,’ I replied. Except of course I didn’t. I used my real name, the one I can’t tell you.

  ‘Zoe,’ Max repeated. ‘Zoe Zoe Zoe.’ He burped behind closed lips then let it out slowly. He pointed at my chest suddenly. ‘You’re in my French class!’

  ‘No.’

  Max held up his hands and almost fell over. ‘Sorry. Sorry sorry. You just look like someone I know.’

  ‘We’ve been at the same school for three years.’

  Max completely missed my tone. ‘Is it me or is it really hot in here?’ He stumbled towards the conservatory door and tried to open it. ‘This is broken. Hannah, it’s broken.’

  I climbed to my feet, turned the key and opened the door. ‘It’s Zoe and it’s fixed.’

  Max hiccupped. ‘My hero. Heroine. Like the drug.’ He pretended to put a syringe in his arm then laughed at his own joke, holding out the bottle. ‘Drink?’ I made to grab it, but Max jerked the bottle out of my reach then stepped outside. ‘You coming?’

  The night was warm, perfect for sitting in. A breeze lifted my hair as Max took my hand. My stomach flipped over as our fingers interlinked and I wondered what Lauren would say if she could see Max Morgan’s thumb rubbing one of my knuckles. I thought about telling the story on Monday morning. And then Max led me to a stone fountain at the bottom of the back garden and a moth was floating in the water. Max touched it gently with the very tip of his finger before lowering himself onto the grass. Swigging the whisky, he looked up at me and I looked down at him and we both knew that something incredible was about to—

  Max belched.

  ‘You just going to stand there?’

  I sat down as he handed me the bottle. One more sip couldn’t hurt. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I told myself every single time Max held out the bottle, the rim shining in the moonlight, wet with spit. He put his hand on my leg and I didn’t stop it, not even when it crept up my thigh. At some point I started talking about Grandpa, and how he was ill, and how he’d been fit when he was young.

  ‘I’m fit,’ Max said, and then he hiccupped.

  ‘They were quite something, my grandparents,’ I added and I remember having to work really hard to stop my words from slurring.

  ‘My parents were too. Before. Not now. They don’t even speak any more.’

  ‘They were also really good at dancing,’ I went on, weaving my hands together to show what I meant.

  ‘I’m good at dancing,’ Max said, nodding too hard, his head going up and down in the darkness. ‘Really good.’

  ‘Yeah, you are,’ I replied solemnly. ‘And my grandparents were young once. Young. Don’t you think that’s weird?’

  Max hiccupped again and tried to focus on my face. ‘We’re young. We’re young right now.’

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘Very true.’ It was the wisest conversation anyone had ever had and I smiled wisely because of my great wisdom and also possibly because of the whisky. Max leaned in close, his nose brushing against my cheek.

  ‘You’re nice, Zoe,’ he said, and because he got my name right, I kissed him on the lips.

  Now Mr Harris you’re probably shifting about on your bed feeling awkward about what’s going to happen next and I bet you anything it squeaks because a criminal’s comfort is not going to be high on the list of priorities for jail funding when there are inmates trying to escape. Not you, though. I reckon you’re just sitting in your cell, accepting your fate, because you think you deserve to die. You sort of remind me of Jesus to be honest. You have to bear sins and he had to bear sins, only his were heavier, I mean imagine the weight of all the sins of the world.

  If you could actually measure it, pouring out sins on the scales like self-raising flour, I have no idea what the heaviest crime would be, but I don’t think it would be yours. I reckon a lot of men would have done the same after what your wife told you. Think about that when you feel guilty. A couple of months ago, I printed off this list of all the men responsible for genocide, and at night when I can’t sleep, instead of counting sheep, I count dictators. I send them leaping over a wall, Hitler and Stalin and Saddam Hussein jumping through the air in their uniforms with their dark moustaches blowing in the breeze. Maybe you should try it.

  I tell myself I couldn’t have known what was going to happen a year ago when Max put his arm around me in the garden. I try to remember how I was swept along in the moment, barely able to walk straight as Max ushered me inside, through the house and upstairs to his bedroom. It smelt of dust and feet and aftershave. Max flicked on the light and closed the door as I stepped over a pair of boxer shorts crumpled up on the carpet. A hand on my back pushed me towards the wall. I glanced over my shoulder to see Max smile. He pushed harder. My hands touched the wall then my body then my head, all pressed up against a poster of a naked woman. The poster was cool so I rested my forehead against the model’s belly as Max kissed my neck. It was tingly, like if electricity had a mouth then that is exactly how it would have felt.

  That was the spark and we exploded into action, hands grabbing and lips hungry and breath quick and fast in our throats. Max turned me round and pushed his tongue into my mouth. His arms wrapped around my back lifting me off the carpet. My hands gripped his shoulders as my head spun and the room whirled, blue curtains and white walls and a bare desk and a messy bed lurching towards us as we fell onto it in a heap.

  Max was above me, his eyes fierce and focused as he dived in for the kiss. His lips found my cheek and my ear and my collar bone, travelling down my skin as he pulled up my top. I wasn’t wearing a bra and there were my breasts in the middle of a boy’s bedroom, pale and pointy, and Max was gawping. And then he was touching. Soft at first then harder and harder, and he knew what he was doing all right and it felt good so I groaned. I closed my eyes as Max’s lips found my nipple and Mr Harris that’s probably where I should leave it tonight because I’ve got school in the morning and besides I’m blushing like anything.

  Believe it or not the spider’s still here, staring out of the shed window at all the black and silver, and if you ask me she must be sleeping because, amazing as the universe is, I don’t think anyone can look at it for that long without getting bored unless they’re Stephen Hawking. I wonder if you can see the sky from your cell and if you ever think about the galaxy and how we’re just a tiny speck in all this infinity. Sometimes I try to picture my house in the suburbs on the edge of the city, and then I zoom out to see the country, and then I zoom out to see the whole world, and then I zoom out to see the entire universe. There are fiery suns and deep black holes and shooting stars, and I fade into nothing and the trouble that I caused is just a microscopic blip among the mighty cosmic explosions.

  There was a mighty cosmic explosion in Mum’s car after Max’s party. Somehow I made it outside for eleven. I was sobering up fast, but there was no disguising the smell. Of course it all kicked off as soon as Mum caught a whiff of alcohol. I can’t remember what she said, but there was loud stuff about disappointment and angry stuff about trust, and she yelled all the way home as my head started to bang. Dad joined in when I got back in the house, but when I was sent to bed, I shoved my head under the pillow and grinned.

  The Boy with the Brown Eyes. Who on earth was he and where had he gone and would I ever see him again? And Max. What would happen when we saw each other at school and would he kiss me, most probably behind the recycle bin where no teachers could see? Turning onto my back, I marvelled at having two boys who might be interested when a few hours before I’d had none, and as I drifted off to sleep, I found myself tha
nking Grandpa. I only went to the party because of his stroke, and Mr Harris even though I was in trouble and most probably grounded for the rest of my life, I couldn’t help but think of it as a stroke of good luck.

  From,

  Zoe

  1 Fiction Road

  Bath

  September 17th

  Dear Mr Harris,

  For once my legs aren’t digging into the tiles because I picked up my pillow before I tiptoed out of the house. I put it on top of the box and it’s quite comfy even though it’s a bit damp. I must have been sweating in my dream and it was so real with the rain and the trees and the disappearing hand. I bet you’re no stranger to this so I don’t need to bang on about how terrifying it was. Probably you have nightmares all the time, like when the guard turns off the light I bet you zoom right back to the moment your wife told you the truth.

  Funny to think it wasn’t your wife who got you the death penalty. I didn’t understand that at first. No offence or anything, but stabbing a woman you’ve been married to for ten years sounds a whole lot worse than shooting a random neighbour who’d popped round with a mincemeat tart because it was Christmas. But then the article, which fyi I found on Google, said something about a crime of passion. When you attacked your wife, you weren’t thinking straight. You were blinded by rage and seeing so much red I bet your wife was practically scarlet, which would have been appropriate. That’s what you call a woman who’s had an affair. A scarlet woman.

  In a court of American law, acting out of anger is not as bad as killing in cold blood. When you didn’t answer the door next morning, your neighbour opened it up and strolled into your house. If you ask me, that’s bad manners, but I guess your neighbour learned her lesson when the bullet blew her brain out. Shooting a potential witness was calculating. According to the jury, you knew exactly what you were doing when you pulled the trigger and fed her tart to your dog. You went on the run for three days but the guilt got too much so you turned yourself in.