I looked through the eyepiece.
There – so close I felt I might touch it! – was the surface of the moon. Craters. Rocks. Crevices.
‘Wow!’ I said.
‘It was formed four and a half billion years ago,’ Shilling whispered in my ear. ‘Its atmosphere is practically a vacuum and would kill you in seconds. During the night it gets so cold you’d freeze to death and during the day it gets hot enough to roast you. Yet every astronaut who’s been there has fallen in love with the place. Neil Armstrong. Buzz Aldrin. Pete Conrad. They’d all go back there if they could. You see, there’s always new places we can call home. Even if, from a distance, they don’t seem welcoming at all.’
I looked at Shilling.
There was a vein pulsing in his neck.
‘Let’s get some sleep,’ he said.
Shilling got into his bed and turned away from me, pulling the covers up, nearly covering his head.
Within seconds he was breathing deeply, fast asleep.
I sat up, watching him. All I could see above the blankets was a tuft of black hair, and his hand holding the covers in place. The hand was clenched tight, like a fist.
The next day Shilling (prompted by Aunt Florin) took me to the cliff tops. He showed me an upturned rowing boat that he used as shelter. Sometimes, he told me, he would spend all night in the boat so he could watch the skies and listen to the sea.
I asked, ‘Doesn’t it get a bit . . . scary?’
‘Why should it get scary?’
‘Well . . . out here . . . alone.’
‘Being alone’s not scary. It’s people who’re scary.’
We crawled through a hole and into the upturned boat. It was like being in a cave. Shilling lit a candle. There was a sleeping bag, books, cans of food and a map of the stars. He pointed at the map, naming constellations.
‘Ursa Major . . . Andromeda . . . Centaurus . . . and this is Pegasus . . . and – oh! – this is one I really like. Delphinus. Its brightest star is Rotanev.’
I moved closer to him, felt his breath against my cheek. Instinctively, I reached out to touch his hand. He flinched away and named the moons of Jupiter.
That evening, as we ate dinner in the kitchen, I asked Shilling if we could spend the night in his boat.
My aunt rattled some plates and said, ‘Oh, no, no. I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. Why not?’ Shilling said.
‘It can get very cold. And it’s damp.’ She looked at Shilling. ‘You might be used to it, but your cousin isn’t. And he might not find all this stargazing as interesting as you. He might be bored to death.’
‘I won’t!’ I said. ‘I want to see Delphinus.’
‘Delphinus?’ Aunt Florin said.
‘A star constellation,’ I told her. ‘Its brightest star is Rotanev.’
Shilling looked at me and grinned.
The phone rang.
‘That’s probably your dad,’ Aunt Florin said to me.
She went to the living room to answer it.
I heard her mumble something, sigh, then say, ‘No! Oh, don’t say that. Please don’t say that.’
Uncle Bradon shot me a look, then looked away.
I heard Shilling murmur, ‘Delphinus!’
I looked at him and said, ‘Delphinus!’
Aunt Florin called my name.
I went to the living room.
She held out the phone.
I mouthed, ‘Dad?’
She shook her head. ‘Your mum.’
She handed me the phone.
I waited for Aunt Florin to go back to the kitchen.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I said.
‘Hello, my love,’ she said. I could tell she had been crying. ‘I’m so sorry about . . . what’s happened . . . is happening . . . It’s all so vast, you see. It’s vaster than I thought.’
‘What is, Mum?’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t explain . . . Words can’t describe it. It’s endless. I tried to . . . to make my way across it. But . . . but I can’t even see the other side now. I don’t even know if there is another side now . . . You know I love you, don’t you? You know that?’
‘Yes, Mum, yes.’
‘Don’t forget that. Please don’t forget that. Not ever!’ She put the phone down.
I stood there for a while, listening to the crackle on the line.
Then I put the phone down. She’ll ring back, I thought. She’ll be trying to ring me back right now.
I waited.
The phone didn’t ring.
I picked up the receiver and started to dial.
‘She wasn’t at home,’ Aunt Florin said. She was watching from the kitchen doorway.
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me.’
‘Then she’s . . . she’s with this . . . other person. The person she’s seeing. Do you know their number?’
‘No. And I . . . I don’t think she’s with them anyway.’
‘Where else would she be?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure where – ’
‘She’s got to be somewhere!’
‘She was in a call box. That’s all I know.’
I picked up the phone again. ‘I’m calling Dad.’
‘He’s not at home either.’
I stared at her.
‘He’s staying in a hotel somewhere,’ my aunt said. ‘No one knows where.’
I dialled the number anyway. I could hear the phone at the other end ringing. The answerphone clicked in.
‘Well, hello, hello!’ Dad’s voice said brightly. ‘None of us seem to be here at the moment. But one of us is sure to be here soon. So leave a message and – ’
I put the phone down.
‘It’s a difficult time,’ Aunt Florin said. ‘For everyone.’
Something had changed, something vital, but I didn’t know what. My whole life had been thrown out of orbit and I didn’t know why.
I could tell that Aunt Florin was worried too, but trying to conceal it. ‘Come back and finish your dinner,’ she said.
I went back to the kitchen table.
It was silent for a moment.
Then –
Aunt Florin looked at Uncle Bradon. ‘Perhaps you can do something!’
‘Yes, yes.’ Uncle Bradon got to his feet. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’ He squeezed my shoulder as he went into the living room. ‘Let’s see if I can track down this dad of yours.’
Aunt Florin closed the kitchen door behind him. Then she started dishing out the dessert. It was rice pudding.
‘Shilling likes rice pudding,’ she said. ‘Don’t you Shilling?’
‘I like it a lot,’ he said.
‘Do you want same jam in it?’
‘Yes, please, Mum.’
‘Raspberry or strawberry?’
‘Strawberry, please.’
‘And what about you?’ Aunt Florin looked at me.
I didn’t reply. I was going over and over what Mum had said on the phone. The way she sounded. Why was she in a call box?
Shilling touched my arm. ‘What jam do you want?’
‘Eh?’ I looked at him.
‘With your rice pudding,’ he said. ‘Strawberry or raspberry? I’m having strawberry. I always have strawberry, don’t I, Mum?’
‘You do, yes,’ she said.
‘It’s sweeter. And it turns the rice all pink. Right, Mum?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
I said to Shilling, ‘I’ll have the same as you.’
Aunt Florin gave us our desserts. ‘Why don’t you put some warmer clothes on when you’ve finished,’ she said to me. ‘You’re going to need them if you’re spending the night in Shilling’s boat.’
We packed a flask of tea, sandwiches, blankets, and a battery-powered lantern.
Shilling gave me a torch, then turned on the torch he was holding. ‘Keep close! Okay? It’s tricky out there in the dark.’
‘Okay.’
We left the f
arm and started to walk towards the coast. I could only see what the torchlight illuminated. The sky was overcast so there was no moon or stars.
I’d never seen dark like this before. So complete. So solid.
All I could hear was the sound of distant surf and the crunch, crunch, crunch of our footsteps.
‘What school do you go to?’ I asked Shilling.
‘I don’t want to talk about school.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s boring.’
‘Have you got many friends there?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘I just haven’t. And . . . well, if I do speak to any of them it’s not long before we start arguing.’
‘Arguing about what?’
‘Oh, they’re always saying something stupid. And I tell them it’s stupid. And people don’t like that.’ He shone his torch at me. ‘I bet you’ve got lots of friends.’
‘One or two.’
‘And what do you talk about?’
‘Oh . . . you know. Music and films and – ’
‘I’m bored already!’
We carried on walking.
Crunch . . . crunch . . .
I said, ‘Your mum said you don’t talk to her or your dad much.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘You were talking to your mum tonight.’
‘About what?’
‘Jam in rice pudding.’
‘Yeah, well . . . I thought I’d help brighten the mood round the bloody table. For your sake. Believe me, jam in rice pudding is not high on my list of interests.’
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
When we got to the cliff tops the sky had cleared and there was a full moon. Its light glistened on the waves.
‘Look at all those stars!’ I gasped.
‘Yeah. Some extra ones have come out just for you.’
We crawled into the boat and switched on the lantern.
Then we poured some tea from the flask and drank it with slices of fruit cake. Despite the chill in the air and the damp I didn’t feel cold. The excitement of being with Shilling – all the things I wanted to tell him about me – was keeping me warm.
After our tea and cake we sat outside the boat.
We looked through the telescope.
Shilling named some of the stars.
I tried to find some of the constellations he had named. I didn’t spot one.
‘It takes a while,’ he said. ‘But once you’re familiar with them you can recognize them as easily as you’d recognize your best friend’s face.’
‘You said you haven’t got a best friend.’
‘Then I should say . . . when I eventually meet my best friend I will recognize him as a constellation of stars.’ He smiled. ‘Here! I’ll show you my favourite lunar craters . . . That’s Stadius . . . That’s Albategnius . . . That’s Thebit . . .’
I said, ‘I remember . . . me and Mum went to the park once. Victoria Park. We used to go there a lot. On this particular day – I was only young, about five or six – Mum packed a picnic and we . . . we sat by this huge tree. An oak tree. The oldest tree in the park. It was such a hot day. The sky was clear blue. And Mum . . . she was wearing this new dress. It had flowers printed on it. We started to eat the picnic. And then . . . a butterfly landed on Mum’s dress. Mum said, “Oh, look! Isn’t it beautiful?” I said, “Yes, Mum.” And it was. And then another butterfly landed on her. Then another. Mum tried to brush them away, but they kept on coming so she gave up. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “They won’t hurt me.” And we carried on with the picnic . . . and Mum had all these butterflies on her and fluttering round her. They stayed on her and round her as we packed up the picnic things and made our way to the park gate. It was only when we’d left the park that, one by one, the butterflies started to fly away. By the time we got home all the butterflies had gone. I said, “I can’t wait to tell dad.” Mum said, “Oh, he won’t believe you.” ’
‘And did he believe you?’
‘I never bothered to tell him.’
Shilling sat closer to me.
We both looked at the ocean.
After a while, Shilling said, ‘Perhaps we should try to get some sleep.’
We crawled back into the boat and snuggled into our respective sleeping bags.
Shilling turned the lantern off.
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Goodnight,’ I said.
I listened to him breathing. I knew he wasn’t asleep, although he kept very still.
I said, ‘People beat me up at school.’
There was a silence before he asked, ‘Why?’
‘They don’t like me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. They just don’t.’
I rolled closer to him. He had his back to me.
‘Do kids beat you up at school?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m a good fighter.’
He turned round to face me.
‘Will you teach me how to fight?’ I asked.
‘If you want me to.’
‘I don’t want to get beat up anymore – ’
I heard something.
All at once it was everywhere.
A sound so vast and lonely I felt the earth spinning beneath me.
‘What’s that?’ I whispered.
‘Come on!’ cried Shilling. ‘Whales!’
We scarpered out of the boat. The haunting lament grew louder and louder. It was as if the sea itself was crying.
‘I’ve heard them once before! Years ago!’ Shilling grabbed my hand. ‘Listen to that!’ He grabbed tighter. ‘Listen!’
Shilling looked out to sea, as if the whales were calling to him.
His eyes were filled with wonder and yearning.
The sound echoed around us.
‘I’m going to run away from home!’ Shilling said. ‘I’m going to run away and never come back!’
‘When?’ I asked.
‘Soon.’ He looked at me. ‘Very soon!’
And then . . . he was crying. Gentle, silent tears.
I put my arm around him.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ I said.
He put his arm round me. ‘Yeah.’
He rested his head on my shoulder.
It was like comforting something wild and dangerous.
After a while, the whale song faded.
We went back into the boat.
We snuggled close.
‘Goodnight . . . again,’ he said.
‘Goodnight . . . again,’ I said.
That night I dreamed I was a whale. I rose to the surface of the ocean and swam towards two boys on top of a cliff. I sang them my song of joy and hope, my song of the sea and the stars.
It was a song as old as the universe.
I sang it to end loneliness.
ANOTHER STORY
My son’s looking for monsters. As soon as he comes home from school he rushes into the garden and starts digging. Karen says he can do what he likes so long as it keeps him quiet. Karen doesn’t like noise. It makes her emotional. Last night I dropped a saucepan and it made her cry. I ignored her. You think I’m being heartless? Well, you don’t have to live with her. Believe me, giving sympathy to Karen is a waste of time. Karen soaks up sympathy like a black hole soaks up light. She soaks it up and soaks it up, and you don’t get anything back. Not even a glimmer of a ‘thank you’.
She never used to be like this. She used to be the proverbial ray of sunshine. She was pretty and sexy and dressed like a supermodel. All my mates were jealous. They wouldn’t be now. Karen’s fat. She forgets to wash. She sleeps most of the day. Sometimes I find bits of chocolate gateaux in her hair. I found a grey hair in her pubes last week. She’s not even thirty yet, for fuck’s sake. How come she’s got a grey hair in her pubes? Come to think of it, how come she’s got pubes. She used to shave them. She used to be smooth all over. And suntanned. She
used to dye her hair blond. Every inch of her was golden. All I wanted to do was touch and kiss her. We used to fuck all the time. But that, as they say, is another story— What was I telling you about? . . .
My son! Monsters! It’s all Boyd’s fault. Boyd is Todd’s best friend. Todd’s my son. He’s named after Karen’s favourite uncle who died in a car crash when she was fourteen. There’s a sort of ‘shrine’ to him in Karen’s parents’ living room. Uncle Todd was a plasterer with a passion for judo. I never liked the fucking name. It reminded me of Sweeney Todd. You know? That barber in Fleet Street who slit his clients’ throats, then put their bodies into meat pies (or, rather, his accomplice – who owned a pie shop next door – did that). Their crimes were only discovered when someone found themselves chewing on a human fingernail. Every time I thought of ‘Todd’, I thought of chewing on that fucking fingernail. I told Karen and her family how I felt about the name. But when Karen and her family want something, Karen and her family usually get it. Now, of course, the name reminds me of something completely different. It reminds me how much it fucking costs to raise a kid— What was I saying? . . .
Boyd! He’s eleven years old, same as Todd. I’m best mates with Boyd’s dad, Melv. Me and Melv used to go to the same school. Not at the same time though. Melv’s four years older than me. But when we’re out together people think I’m the oldest. I’ve started to lose my hair. It doesn’t really bother me. I shave it pretty close so it looks sort of military.
I was actually thinking of joining the military once. Someone from the army came to my school when I was sixteen and talked about it as a ‘career option’. He was wearing a uniform and he looked dead smart. He’d just come back from some country or other and he showed us these photos of tanks in the desert and men holding fuck-off machine guns. He said the army had taught him how to speak a foreign language, and how to take a truck apart and put it back together again. I couldn’t give a toss about a foreign language, or playing silly buggers with a truck, but I did give a toss about firing fuck-off machine guns. The army captain – or whatever rank he was – left some brochures. I flicked through them. I thought, ‘This is the life for me!’
My best friend Dwayne – he was in my class at school – thought the same. We both went to this army office place (near St Paul’s Cathedral) so we could take a thing called an ‘aptitude test’. At least, I think that’s what it was called. This ‘aptitude test’ wasn’t a test to see if we could get into the army. It was a test to see if we could take the test to get into the army. Dwayne passed. I didn’t. They don’t take people with ‘below average reading skills’ or some such bullshit. Dwayne said he would never join the army if they didn’t want me, but that didn’t make me feel any better. In fact it made me hate Dwayne a little bit. Every time I saw him I wanted to punch his teeth down his fucking throat. In the end I thought it best not to see Dwayne anymore. I stopped going round to see him. I stopped phoning him. School was over by now – or it was over for those losers not taking any exams (like me) – so unless I went down Pritchard Row (where Dwayne lived) or the arcade (where we used to play Space Invaders) then there was no real chance of seeing his fucking face again. And I didn’t. Until I saw it in a video years later. But that’s another story.
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