Killing God

by Kevin Brooks

  And that's when I remember.

  Taylor's voice.

  It's just talking. That's all. We're just talking.

  And I remember the rain beating down outside, and the music playing (the beat of your heart, your cold empty heart) and Taylor asking me questions.

  Was he up to something?

  Who?

  Your dad – was he up to something?

  And now my eyes are closed and my spine is cold and I'm remembering shimmers of memories – vague thoughts about Dad, a cold December night…

  I don't think God made him do it.

  It was another dad, another Dawn…

  Another time…

  Everything's fine…

  And I feel that I'm dying.

  Because I can't remember if these memories are memories from inside my head, memories of thoughts, memories of dreams… or if they're memories of something I said. Did I tell Taylor and Mel about Dad? Did I tell them about that hymn-haunted night, that one time, that black hell, that cave-inducing shame…? I don't know. I can't think. It's all in shimmering pieces… I'm not here I'm not listening… Who?… I'm not saying anything… God help me… I'm out of my mind… Your dad… I'm out of his body and soul and I'm not listening… Your dad – was he up to something?… No no no no no…

  I can't remember.

  But I think I might have said something.

  Something about Dad.

  Was he up to something?

  Up to something?

  Yeah, you know… up to something.

  Like what?

  You tell me.

  ‘Shit,’ I hear myself whisper now. ‘The money.’

  I jump off the bed too quickly, resulting in:

  (1) a sudden lurching pain in my head

  (2) a dizzying whirl that rocks the floor up and down and makes me stagger to one side

  and (3) a cold sticky feeling on the bare sole of my left foot as I step into the forgotten pool of vomit.

  ‘Shit,’ I mutter again, hopping around on one foot now, vainly trying to shake the sick off the other one.

  And my head is still throbbing and everything around me is still spinning and whirling and blurring, and now Jesus and Mary have jumped out of their baskets and are scurrying around at my hopping feet like a couple of demented otters, yipping and yapping in delight at this unexpected (but very welcome) dead-of-night game.

  ‘No,’ I tell them, whispering loudly. ‘No, that's enough. I'm not playing…’

  It's useless though. They won't stop playing until I stop playing, and there's no point trying to keep my foot off the floor now anyway, because Jesus and Mary have both been trampling in and out of the sick, so now there's eight little doggy feet spreading it around all over the carpet…

  I stop hopping and stand still.

  And I wait for a second or two.

  Until Jesus and Mary realize that the game is over, and they stop running around and just stand there, panting quietly, looking up at me.

  And I tell them firmly, ‘No more. OK? That's enough.’

  They look at me.

  really?

  And I say, ‘Yeah, really.’

  well, OK… if you say so

  I glance down at my foot. It's not too sicky, just a little bit gooey and yellowy at the side. I wipe it (guiltily) on the carpet, promising myself to clean it up later, then I cross my room, put on my dressing gown, open the door, and tiptoe hurriedly along the landing to Mum's bedroom.

  something's wrong (2)

  Mum's bedroom door is open, the room inside dark, but not fully dark. The curtains are open, letting in a rain-mottled orangey glow from the street lights outside. I can see that Mum's bed is empty. Unslept in. But that's not unusual. She quite often falls asleep in the armchair downstairs.

  The house is quiet.

  And cold.

  My heart is dead.

  The bare floorboards creak slightly as I cross over to the bed and crouch down beside the worn red rug on the floor. The rug doesn't look as if it's been disturbed. I carefully fold it back. The floorboard underneath doesn't look as if it's been moved. I hook my finger into the knothole and slowly ease the floorboard up.

  The dark-green holdall is still there.

  I breathe out quietly.

  Then I lean down and unzip it.

  It's all still there. The stacks and stacks of £20 and £50 notes, the loose £230, the matt-black automatic pistol… it's all still there. Which means I can't have told Taylor and Mel about it, because if I had, I'm pretty sure that either some of it or all of it wouldn't be there any more.

  Which is a relief…

  But not much of one.

  Because if I didn't tell Taylor and Mel about Dad's money… what did I tell them about?

  Maybe, I'm thinking (as I put the floorboard back and cover it up with the rug), maybe I didn't tell them anything. Not about Dad, anyway. Maybe I'm just misremembering it all, getting it all mixed up… confusing my thoughts and my dreams and my other-Dawn memories with the things that happened when I wasn't myself…

  And why wasn't I myself?

  And I think I know… but I don't want to think about it.

  Downstairs, in the front room, the air is thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, the sweet stink of cannabis and the sour fruitiness of drunken breath. Mum is snoring quietly in the armchair with a burned-out cigarette dangling from her fingers. The TV is flickering mutely in front of her, its too-bright light strobing on and off in the darkness, lighting up her passed-out figure with flashes of unreal colour. I stand there for a moment, gazing at the TV screen (it's tuned to Paramount Comedy, an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, the one where Robert and Raymond have a fight in their car), and then I reach down and take the dead cigarette out of Mum's fingers, drop it in the (overflowing) ashtray, and give her shoulder a gentle shake.

  ‘Mum?’ I say softly. ‘Come on, Mum, wake up…’

  She shudders a bit and makes a wet snorting sound, but she doesn't wake up.

  I shake her again, a bit more firmly. ‘Come on, Mum. You can't stay here all night…’

  And this time she half opens her eyes, blinks in confusion, shakes her head, and noisily clears her throat. ‘Whuh…?’ she mutters.

  ‘It's all right,’ I tell her. ‘It's only me.’

  ‘Dawn?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Time is it?’ she mumbles.

  ‘I don't know… it's late.’

  She's trying to sit up straight now, sleepily looking around as if she doesn't know where she is.

  ‘You fell asleep in your chair,’ I tell her.

  ‘Sleep…?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’ I hold out my hand to her. ‘Come on, let's get you upstairs.’

  She reaches out for my hand but misses it, grabbing hold of the sleeve of my dressing gown instead. And then, for a moment or two, she freezes, sitting perfectly still, her drunken eyes staring intently at the fold of white cloth gripped in her fingers.

  ‘Clean…’ she murmurs, her voice almost inaudible.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clean…’

  ‘I don't know what you mean, Mum. What's clean?’

  She doesn't answer me. She just carries on staring at my sleeve for a second or two, then she loosens her grip, delicately brushes my wrist with her fingertips, and slowly looks up at me.

  ‘Are you sure everything's OK?’ she says distantly. ‘I mean, if there's anything, anything, you want to talk to me about…’

  I look back at her, not knowing what to say.

  She smiles sadly at me.

  I don't think she knows what she's talking about.

  ‘I'm tired,’ she says emptily. ‘What time is it?’

  I help her out of the chair and take her upstairs to bed.

  these days (2)

  Sleep.

  I don't write anything in my notebook tonight, this morning… there are no words to write.

  I'm incapable.

  Sick and s
cared.

  Out of my mind, out of my body and soul… I lie on my bed and stare at a dim square of nightlight in the window, trying to stem the sickening swirl of blackness in my head.

  Sleep.

  about you (2)

  When I finally wake up after a long and restless sleep, I still feel sicker than hell. My mouth is bone dry, my throat feels shitty, my head is thick and throbbing. My nose is blocked up, my eyes are glued shut. My room stinks. Worst of all, though, my heart is weighed down with an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. And I don't know why. And my childish head keeps telling me that it's not fair to feel so guilty and ashamed when I don't even know what I've done to deserve it.

  But I'm not a child.

  I know that fair doesn't come into it.

  I put my hands over my eyes.

  Open my eyes.

  And slowly take my hands away.

  (i can see)

  The curtains are open, and I can see that the only good thing about this dull January day is that it's not the middle of the night any more. The cold's not so cold, the darkness has gone (replaced by a rainy grey dimness), and the loneliness of last night's dead-of-night silence has been broken by the dreary little sounds of the day: cars, a distant siren, a front door slamming somewhere up the street. I can hear Mum too. Downstairs, clinking around in the kitchen. Making coffee, probably.

  I look at my alarm clock.

  It's 12.30 p.m.

  Time to get up, I suppose.

  About an hour or so later, after I've finally got out of bed and gone to the bathroom and scrubbed all the make-up off my face and taken a shower and washed my hair (with a shampoo that's got guarana in it, which doesn't give me an instant energy surge or transform the way I feel), and after I've brushed my teeth and retched into the sink a couple of times… I still feel terrible. And if I could be bothered to hate Taylor and Mel for doing whatever they did to me last night to make me feel like this, I would. But I can't. I can't be bothered. I really can't be bothered with anything any more. Nothing seems worth it.

  Like brushing my hair.

  Drying it.

  Looking in the mirror.

  Getting dressed.

  Or killing God.

  I mean, what's the point?

  I can't kill God, can I? I was never going to be able to. It was an utterly pointless and futile exercise. A complete waste of time, just like everything else – painting letters on snails, wearing Invisible Coats, trying to pretend that everything's OK when nothing is ever OK…

  Who am I trying to kid?

  No, I can't be bothered with anything any more. I can't be bothered with God or games or stupid little lies. And I can't be bothered with brushing my hair or drying it or getting dressed either, so right now (after I've showered and brushed my teeth and everything, which I'm already wishing I hadn't bothered with), I just flop back into my dressing gown and slump out of the bathroom with a head full of damp knotty hair.

  Who cares?

  Mum, surprisingly, is sitting in the kitchen for a change. Drinking coffee (without any whisky?) and nibbling a biscuit.

  ‘All right, love?’ she says to me as I come in.

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘I've fed the dogs for you.’

  ‘Thanks… did you give them their Bonios?’

  She nods, sipping coffee. ‘Are you sure you're OK? You look a bit sickly.’

  I sit down at the kitchen table. ‘I'm fine,’ I tell her. ‘I just didn't get much sleep, that's all.’

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  We both look down then as Jesus and Mary come trotting in through the dog flap in the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to them.

  They come over and snuggle down at my feet. I scratch their heads. Mary farts quietly. Jesus gives her a puzzled look.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Very ladylike.’

  Mum smiles and lights a cigarette. She looks tired and worn-out – her skin kind of greying and pale, her eyes a bit hollow-looking… but it's no worse than usual. She never looks that great any more. And I wish…

  I wish I could stop wishing for things that aren't going to happen.

  ‘What time are you going?’ I ask her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your doctor's appointment – what time are you leaving?’

  She shrugs. ‘About four thirty, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe it'd be best if you don't have a drink before you go,’ I suggest.

  She smiles. ‘OK.’

  But I know she will.

  ‘Mum,’ I say tentatively. ‘Do you remember what you said last night?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I woke you up… you were asleep in the armchair and I woke you up. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘And you said something about something being clean.’

  ‘Clean?’

  ‘Yeah… I think you might have meant my dressing gown.’

  She hesitates for a moment, her eyes suddenly anxious. ‘Your dressing gown?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She puffs nervously on her cigarette and glances at my dressing gown. ‘What… that one, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The one you're wearing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She takes another drag on her cigarette and shakes her head. ‘I don't know… did you ask me to wash it for you or something?’

  ‘No.’

  She's avoiding my eyes now, trying to appear casually puzzled. But I don't think there's anything casual about her. She's tense, nervy… and I could be wrong, but she seems almost fearful about something.

  ‘Mum?’ I say softly. ‘What did you mean… about the dressing gown?’

  She tries to smile at me. ‘I'm sorry, love. I really can't remember –’

  ‘Please, Mum,’ I beg her. ‘Please just tell me…’

  The doorbell rings.

  The dogs jump up and start yapping.

  And I can tell from the thank-God-it's-over look in Mum's eyes that there's no point in trying to ignore the doorbell.

  The moment has gone.

  I've lost it again.

  I get up and answer the door.

  It's Mel, and she's on her own. No Taylor this time. Just Mel. Which makes me feel kind of weird. Firstly, because I wasn't really expecting to see either of them for a while. I don't know why. I just sort of assumed, for no particular reason, that they'd finished with me. They'd had their fun, they'd played with their pet fat girl for a while, and now they'd want to play with something else. The second reason I feel kind of weird is that while Mel's all dressed up and made up as usual, I'm standing here in the doorway wearing nothing but a ratty old dressing gown. And all at once I'm a bit re-bothered that my hair probably looks like an incontinent crow's nest. And thirdly, I've got so used to seeing Mel with Taylor that it's just kind of unsettling to see her on her own. You know, it's like seeing Ant without Dec or something. It just doesn't feel right.

  ‘Hey, Mel,’ I say, tightening the belt on my dressing gown. ‘Where's Taylor?’

  Mel just nods at me. ‘Could I come in for a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.’

  So here we are again – me and Mel, alone in my room (apart from the ever-present Jesus and Mary, of course, who are both settled down nicely in their baskets… and the other ever-present Jesus and Mary (Chain) too, who right now are singing the sad sweet melody of ‘About You’, the song I've had in my head since I woke up)

  (there's something warm

  there's something warm

  there's something warm

  in everything)

  and I'm sitting at my desk (hoping that Mel can't smell the faint whiff of sick from the (almost) dried-up mess on the floor behind her (which I've forgotten to clean up)) and Mel is perched, kind of rigidly, on the edge of the bed, looking kind of… I don't know. Worried, maybe? Uncertain about something?

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask her.
r />   She crosses her legs, fiddles with her hair. ‘Yeah…’

  ‘Where's Taylor?’

  She shrugs dismissively. ‘How should I know? We don't go everywhere together, you know. I mean, it's not like she's my…’ She pauses, looking a bit agitated.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn't mean anything. I was just…’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she sighs. ‘It's all right…’ She sighs again, then she uncrosses her legs, cocks her head to one side, and looks over at me with a smile. ‘This is really nice… this music.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  (i know there's something good

  about you

  about you)

  ‘Is it that band you were talking about the other night?’ Mel asks.

  ‘Yeah, The Jesus and Mary Chain. Do you really like it?’

  ‘Yeah, it's good.’ She smiles. ‘Maybe I'll get some.’

  ‘I can lend you some CDs if you want.’

  She nods, still smiling, and I think she's being genuine, she really does like the music, but I can already see her smile beginning to fade, and she's nervously licking her lips, and I've got the feeling that I'm about to find out what she's doing here.

  ‘Listen, Dawn,’ she says.

  Listen.

  ‘About last night…’

  happy when it rains (3)

  I can hear Mel's words echoing around in my head

  about last night…

  about last night…

  about last night…

  and I don't say anything.

  I can't say anything.

  I just look at her.

  ‘Do you remember much about it?’ she says eventually.

  ‘Enough,’ I tell her, my voice instinctively cold.

  She lowers her eyes. ‘Look, I'm not proud of what we did, OK? And I feel kind of shitty about it now. But I'm not going to pretend that I was forced into it or anything. It was just as much my idea as Taylor's.’

  ‘You mean getting me drunk?’

  She looks at me, slightly surprised.

  ‘I'm not stupid,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, I didn't know at the time what you were doing… not at first anyway. And by the time you'd got me drunk… well, I was too drunk by then to know what was happening. But when I woke up in the middle of the night feeling sicker than I've ever felt before, it wasn't that hard to guess what had happened.’