Flamingoes in Orbit

by Philip Ridley

  Dad phoned the police. They said they couldn’t do anything yet. She hadn’t been gone long enough. Dad explained that she’d been acting strange since the night of the fire. The police asked if she had been injured by the incident.

  ‘No,’ Dad said.

  That evening Mum came home.

  ‘We were worried sick,’ Dad said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mum replied.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Just . . . walking’

  ‘I phoned the police.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought something had happened to you!’ He grabbed Mum by the shoulders and held her tight. ‘You’ve got to snap out of it,’ he said. ‘Nothing happened to you!’

  Kyle says, ‘You’re a hypocrite because you’re still fucking here! You keep telling me I’m a cheat and a liar – ’

  ‘You are!’

  ‘And I show you no respect – ’

  ‘You don’t!’

  ‘Then go! If you’re not happy . . . fuck off! But . . . oh, no. You won’t “fuck off”. And it’s not because you have any love for me. Oh, no. What you love is the money I stuff in your wallet. What you love is all the . . . the art world connections. The holidays abroad and the tickets to big movie premieres. So don’t fucking give me all this, “I am the wounded party” and “you treat me so badly” act. Because I don’t buy it! I’ll buy your art! But not that!’

  I hid behind a pillar on the top floor of Keeling House. It was very windy and, as I crouched behind the concrete pillar, I was sure I felt the building sway.

  I could see Mrs Heller’s front door.

  I came here with the intention of doing some damage. I wasn’t sure what damage exactly. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Perhaps smash one of Mrs Heller’s windows. But what with? I should’ve brought a brick. Perhaps I’ll scrawl something on Mrs Heller’s door. I could scratch it with my street door key. Or perhaps it’d be simpler to just shout something through Mrs Heller’s letterbox. Something about gas, and ovens, and –

  The front door opened.

  Mrs Heller stood in the doorway. The cat slipped between her legs. Mrs Heller went inside and closed the door. For a while the cat just stood there, licking its lips, looking around.

  I made clucking noises with my tongue. The cat looked in my direction. Its eyes were gleaming. Its ears twitched.

  The cat started to approach me. I could hear it purring. It nuzzled against my legs. I knelt down and stroked it. The purring got louder. I picked it up and walked over to the edge of the balcony. I looked down. It was getting dark now. I could barely see the pavement sixteen floors below. The wind blasted around me and the cat became alarmed. It tensed, stopped purring.

  I clutched it tighter. I tried to hold it out, over the ledge. The cat’s claws caught my shirt. It started to struggle and spit. I grabbed the loose flesh behind its neck with one hand and punched its face with the other. I tugged it free of my clothing. Its claws latched onto my hands. They tore through my skin. I grabbed it by the back legs and pulled. I heard joints crack and pop. One of its paws had reached my cheek. Claws cut me. The cat was spitting and hissing. I yanked its tail as hard as I could.

  I threw it over the edge.

  I waited, longing to hear a thud below. But ‘below’ was too far away. And, besides, the wind was too loud.

  I went home. I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face and hands were covered with scratches. I took my clothes off and got in the bath. The water stung. Afterwards I dabbed antiseptic on my wounds.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Dad asked when he saw me.

  ‘I fell over,’ I said. ‘On the gravel.’

  ‘You should be more careful.’

  Nine months after the fire I woke up to the sound of Dad on the phone. It was about six in the morning.

  I went downstairs. Dad was in his pajamas.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s your mum,’ he said.

  I ran to Mum and Dad’s bedroom.

  Mum was lying in bed. Her eyes were closed. Saliva trickled from her mouth. She wasn’t moving.

  ‘I can’t wake her,’ Dad said, behind me. ‘I think it’s those sleeping tablets. I’ve phoned for an ambulance.’

  ‘Is she dying?’ I asked.

  A few days after killing the cat, just before lunch break at school, I was told to go to the headmaster’s office. Mrs Heller was there.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ the headmaster said, ‘and I want you to give me – both me and Mrs Heller – a truthful answer.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Heller’s cat was found dead,’ the headmaster said. ‘It had fallen from the top landing where Mrs Heller lives.’

  ‘My cat was pregnant,’ Mrs Heller said. ‘It was going to have babies!’

  The headmaster said, ‘Mrs Heller believes there is no way the cat could accidentally fall from the top of a tower block. Mrs Heller believes her cat must have been thrown. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Now, I have noticed that your hands and face are covered in scratches. Scratches very similar to those a cat might make. Can you explain how you got them?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘If you can’t give me a satisfactory explanation,’ the head­master said, ‘I’ll have no choice but to conclude it was you who killed Mrs Heller’s cat and I will have to take the appropriate action.’ He stared me in the eyes. ‘I will ask you once more. Did you or did you not kill Mrs Heller’s cat?’

  ‘I . . . I got scratched because of my mum,’ I said. ‘Mum killed herself a few months ago. Mum loved roses. Our garden is full of them. Mum always kept the garden beautiful. Now is the time to prune the bushes. So I tried to do it. Because it’s what Mum would have wanted.’ And the tears came. ‘So . . . I tried to cut them. But they were too much for me. The thorns kept cutting my hands. They lashed back into my face. They scratched me and scratched me.’ Tears, so many tears. I couldn’t stop them. ‘But I had to do keep doing it. For Mum.’

  I wiped my tears with the cuff of my shirt.

  Mrs Heller was nodding, slowly, thoughtfully.

  The headmaster said, ‘Mrs Heller?’

  ‘I believe him,’ she said.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Kyle sits opposite me. He’s just made a pot of coffee. He pours me a cup, then himself.

  We drink in silence for a while. Then –

  ‘How’s . . . how’s your foot feeling?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh . . . it’s okay.’ He sips his coffee.

  There are some breadcrumbs on the table. Kyle wouldn’t leave a mess like this. It must have been last night’s ‘fling’, hastily slicing bread to make some toast. I run my fingers through the breadcrumbs.

  I say, ‘I’m not interested in your money. I never have been. It’s you I want. I love you!’

  Kyle says, ‘I know you do.’ He starts playing with the breadcrumbs too. ‘And I’m sorry for what I said as well. I didn’t mean it. And I will change. No more one-night stands. I promise. It’s you I love.’

  And we sit like that, playing with breadcrumbs, until – almost by accident – our fingers touch.

  LEVIATHAN

  I was fourteen when I saw my mother cry for the first time. She was sitting at the kitchen table and, as I put my school books in front of her, she clutched at my blazer and burst into tears. I cried with her.

  Afterwards, she wiped her eyes on a tea towel and told me to wash my face. She made a great fuss of peeling some potatoes, complaining of the time, how it flew, how Dad would be home in an hour and there was nothing in the oven. When the vege­tables were simmering she looked at me and, seeing I was still upset, held me in her arms. She smelt of salt and greens, like some sea creature.

  ‘Sometimes loneliness is like an ocean,’ she whispered. ‘A vast nothing. That’s what it’s like for me. You’re too young to understand.’

  Later that night,
as I lay in bed, Mum and Dad spoke in their room. I strained to hear their conversation. Mum was crying again. Dad tried to comfort her. His voice sounded low and rumbling, subterranean almost.

  In the morning both their eyes were red and swollen and, as soon as Dad left for work, Mum started to cry again. I held her hand and asked her if she was dying. Or Dad. It seemed the only explanation.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re not dying. Not in the way you mean anyway.’

  I went to school grudgingly. All day I was haunted by the sound of her weeping. I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

  After school, to my surprise, Dad was waiting for me outside. He was in the car. He waved at me, smiling.

  I got in the car and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Put your safety belt on.’

  The car pulled away from the curb.

  ‘How was school today?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’

  ‘How’s the maths going?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’

  ‘How’s the – ?’

  ‘Just tell me what’s wrong, Dad.’

  The car pulled up at some traffic lights.

  Dad said, ‘Your Mum and me are having a few . . . difficulties. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s important you know that. Nothing to do with you at all.’

  ‘But it is something to do with me! It affects me! I’m being affected by it now.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to feel – ’

  ‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Is it that new secretary you’ve got?’

  ‘It’s not me, son. It’s your mum.’

  ‘Mum?’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘Mum’s got . . . someone else?’

  Another nod.

  ‘But . . . who?’ I asked.

  ‘She won’t tell me!’

  ‘Is it someone we know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But . . . I’ve never seen her with anyone.’

  ‘She’s been seeing them for months apparently.’

  ‘When? When has she seen . . . whoever it is?’

  ‘When we’re not around obviously.’

  ‘But we’re always around.’

  ‘Not always, son. You have school, I have work.’

  ‘I would’ve known if she was seeing someone else.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve always thought too.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You’re lying. I want to talk to Mum.’

  ‘Not now, son.’

  The lights changed to green and we turned left. Left? He wasn’t taking me home! A kind of panic filled me.

  ‘Wh-where’re we going?’

  ‘To the station,’ he said. ‘I want you to spend a few days with your Aunt Florin. It’s all been arranged.’

  ‘Arranged?’

  ‘I phoned her this afternoon.’

  ‘Does Mum know?’

  ‘Of course she bloody knows! What d’you think I’m doing? Kidnapping my own son?’

  Dad hardly ever raised his voice. We had always been so gentle with each other, nervous almost.

  I thought I was going to cry, but I didn’t.

  I thought Dad was going to cry, but he didn’t either.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is a difficult time for . . . all of us.’

  ‘I don’t understand why I have to stay with – ’

  ‘Your mum wants some . . . space. Time to think.’

  ‘Away from me?’

  ‘Away from both of us.’

  ‘Are you coming with me to Aunt Florin’s, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I don’t want to – ’

  ‘Your mum has a decision to make! Does she want to stay with you and me? Or . . . go off with . . . whoever it is. She needs time to think. So do I. You understand?’

  ‘ . . . Okay.’

  There was a traffic jam on the road approaching the station, so it was a rush to catch the train once we got there. Dad stood on the platform as the train pulled away. I could tell he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  I yelled, ‘Tell Mum to stay!’

  But I wasn’t sure if he heard me.

  The journey took three hours and I slept through most of it. The sound of the train became the roar of surf, a strange, hypnotic sound, a womblike vibration that beguiled me into dreaming.

  I was a large creature in a crystal clear ocean. Around me swam small fish, multicoloured and gleaming, like a million tiny jewels in the cerulean water. This was my home, my universe. Sharks and dolphins swam by, coral breathed and bubbled, the entire ocean revolved around me, and I was its comfort and it was mine. I was safe in this water. I was invincible. I was marvellous.

  The jolt of the train stopping woke me.

  I looked through the window and saw Aunt Florin. Her hair had got greyer since I last saw her. She smiled and waved. I got off the train and we hugged.

  ‘You’re all grown up!’ she said, kissing me on the forehead. ‘Come on. Let’s get into the car. We’ve still got a good hour’s drive.’

  As we drove, I opened the window and felt the fresh, salty wind sting my face. My aunt lived near the coast. She was my father’s­ sister. Her real name was Florence but everyone called her ‘Florin’. She had one child, a son named Shilling. I hadn’t seen him (or my Aunt) since Dad’s fortieth birthday five years ago. All I knew about Shilling was that he was the same age as me and wanted to be an astronomer.

  ‘Now you mustn’t worry about a thing,’ my aunt said. ‘Your mum and dad will sort things out. You’ll see.’ She glanced at me. ‘You just have a good time while you’re here. A week off school can’t be all bad, can it? Shilling’s got a new telescope. You can see all the craters of the moon through it. And something he calls a supernova. Don’t ask me what that is because I don’t know. Shilling knows though. He can tell you all about it.’

  I could see the ocean by now. A flat, vast greyness bleeding into the sky. It was like being on the edge of the world.

  Aunt Florin said, ‘You mustn’t blame your mother.’

  I shrugged.

  She said, ‘Sometimes . . . sometimes we feel safe and happy for years. But it’s not . . . it’s not real. We’re happy because we don’t know anything else. Your mum married your dad when she was so young. And your dad . . . he’s always been so “in control” of every­thing. You know what he’s like.’

  I shrugged again.

  ‘And perhaps your mum liked that about him. It’s what she wanted. But what we want at nineteen is not what we want when we’re thirty-nine. You understand?’

  I said, ‘Yes.’ But I didn’t. I didn’t understand at all.

  It was getting dark by the time we got to my aunt’s cottage. As I got out of the car the air made me gasp. The sky was full of stars. In the distance, through the dusk, I could hear the surf.

  Aunt Florin led me into the cottage.

  Uncle Bradon was preparing dinner in the kitchen. A tall, thin man, he looked like a stretched version of his wife. He gave me a hug and told me to sit down. I was given all my favourite foods: chicken, mashed potatoes, pineapple and cream. They treated me gently, sympathetically, as if I were ill. It wasn’t until the meal was over that I asked where Shilling was.

  ‘He’s down at the cliffs,’ my uncle said.

  ‘He’s taken his telescope down there,’ my aunt said. ‘Says he can see the stars better.’

  My uncle looked at me. ‘Are you interested in astronomy?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Don’t think so.’

  We had some tea and biscuits.

  Afterwards, I started yawning.

  ‘Time for bed, I think,’ said Aunt Florin.

  She showed me where I was going to sleep. A guest bed had been set up in Shilling’s room.

  ‘You don’t mind sharing, do you?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that there’s nowhere else really. Downstairs can
get bloody cold during the night.’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ I said. Though I wasn’t sure it was.

  My aunt went on, ‘And it might do you and Shilling some good. To get to know each other.’ She started unpacking my bag. ‘Shilling hasn’t got many friends. He’s what you call ‘a bit of a loner’. He doesn’t really talk to us at all.’ She gave me a little smile. Then, ‘The bathroom’s down the hall. Just shout if you need anything. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I stood alone in the room for a few minutes, then undressed and crawled beneath the sheets. They were chill and smooth. It felt so different from my own bed that, despite my weariness, it took me ages to get to sleep.

  I dreamed I was a magnificent sea creature, large and grey, barnacled and scarred by time, skin like a map of the heavens, protecting fish beneath my gigantic fins. Slowly, I rose to the surface of my ocean, spitting a fountain of water through my body. Above me the night sky revolved and I felt poised between two worlds. Then, in the distance, I saw a dark mass. Land. With one flick of my gigantic tail I started to swim towards it.

  A voice woke me. ‘You asleep?’

  My eyes clicked open. ‘No.’

  Shilling sat on the edge of the mattress. He looked so different from the nine year old I (vaguely) remembered. He was muscular and his voice was deep (deeper than mine) and his eyebrows were very thick.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he said.

  ‘So have you.’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah. Time, eh?’

  He was wiping his short black hair with a towel. The moonlight shone through the window and shimmered on his sleek, damp body.

  ‘So your mum and dad are splitting up, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Parents always argue. Mine don’t stop. Let them. It never bothers me. You know the only thing I’m interested in?’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Get up! I’ll show you.’

  He led me over to a telescope in front of the window. It hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. He must have brought it back with him from the cliffs. How long had he been in the room before he woke me? Did he watch me? Watch me as I slept?

  Carefully, he looked through the telescope and brought it into focus. Then he said, ‘Come and see!’