“What are you doing playing out in your school clothes anyway?”
It was an on-going battle to keep the tears at bay when it came to Dad and me. If he saw them, he could call me a sissy, or a baby, and that meant he definitely won. If I could make it to the house without crying it still meant that he won, but the defeat wasn’t quite as humiliating. When protected from The Fiend by some kind of magical force I thought it might be because I was destined to be the hero, but what kind of hero has to struggle so hard not to be a cry baby? Younger brothers are never the heroes anyway. Look at The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Peter was no cry baby. I was more like Edmund, likely to betray my family and screw everything up for everyone.
After dinner, during which Dad kept going on about me ruining my school trousers, Will and I went to our room to watch Argentina play the Soviet Union. We’d all laughed at school when Argentina were beaten by Cameroon, because they were the world champions, and they were supposed to be amazing. They had one player, called Maradona who even thought he was God.
Because Argentina had beaten England in the last World Cup (which I was too young to remember) people didn’t really like them, but they were playing the Soviet Union who were even worse. They were always the baddies in films, like Rocky IV, which we’d watched at John’s before it was even released here, so I was cheering for Argentina. Then, with about ten minutes gone in the game, the USSR had an attack and the Argentina goalkeeper, Pumpido, ran out to get the ball and crashed into this Soviet Union player who was built like Ivan Drago, and then he just lay on the floor waving when all of the rest of the players kept playing.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Dunno. Must be injured.”
They stopped play for a long time and on the replay, I could see that his leg was curved like a banana when he tried to stand up. Watching it made my dinner come back in my mouth and all I could taste was a mix of bile and gravy for a long time. This wasn’t right. Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen at the World Cup. Goalie’s legs weren’t supposed to snap. Beasts weren’t supposed to chase kids across fields either.
Best friends weren’t supposed to disappear.
NOW
Of course it’s raining. We don’t have those long hot summers like we used to. It’s another one of those factors which makes the childhoods of my summer, and particularly what I consider to be the last childhood of my summer, seem so unreal. I remember summers so hot that there was a constant haze, but now it’s all broken promises of barbeque summers and regional flooding. I look down at my reflection in a puddle. Charlie’s boot catches the edge of it, and it sends a ripple, distorting the image, and I have to wonder if my own memories of what happened back then are also distorted in some way.
It all still feels so real. Despite gaining a great deal knowledge over all the years since, I can’t understand the logic of it all. I know that it felt as if I was being chased along the drove. To me, the sound of footsteps behind me was real, and the feel of a presence behind me was real, but it could have been the product of a vivid imagination spurred by the fiction I was feeding on and fuelled by a lack of facts from our parents. I can still see the pictures on those cards. Give me a name of any of those beasts from either series one or two, and I could draw it for you. I could probably make a pretty good guess at its stats too.
That’s why Charlie isn’t exposed to anything like that.
I leave Charlie at the school gate. He doesn’t mind that he’s one of only a handful of pupils in year five that are dropped off at school by a parent, and the reason for that is simple. I’ve told him of the dangers that await those that walk home alone, and he doesn’t want to be the sexual plaything of a paedophile. Of course, I’ve explained how small that risk is as I don’t want him cowering in fear every time that he leaves the house, but I’d be a terrible parent if I didn’t make him aware of the genuine risks.
On the way back home, I drop my reply to Mum’s letter in the mail, letter her know that we’ll be there at the weekend.
These days, I communicate with Mum solely by letter. I’d email, but, unbelievably, they don’t have a computer. For her communications with me, I have three very strict rules:
Don’t talk about Dad.
Don’t talk about the past.
Don’t tell me anything about Little Mosswick.
Mum sticks to these, so her letters can be rather short. They consist mostly of questions about how we are, and comments in response to the pictures I send her of Charlie.
When we meet, which I allow once a year near Christmas, and nowhere near my house, which she will never visit, I go over the rules again so that she is certain not to cross the line. When we speak, it is embedded firmly in the present. Victoria’s death made this somewhat easier, as she can ask me how I’m coping, and tell me what a wonderful job I’m doing with Charlie. Am I? I know that she’s only saying that to keep me on-side, still unaware that all I ever desired from her, back then and every moment since, was a little bit of honesty.
Could I have used her support when a reckless driver made me a widower and a single father before I was 40? Definitely. Did I take it? Not a chance. Showing emotional weakness may have opened a window to let him back in, and I wasn’t going to allow that for all of the world.
Of course, when I go back there, I cannot expect her to live by those rules. There will be others too, people from that time who know what happened.
When I go back there, it means that it’s time to deal with the baggage I left behind. But if he’s really dying, then I guess it must be safe.
Now that he’s dying, I can go back.
Thursday 14th June 1990
Imade it to school early and I was hoping that the last couple of days would prove to be a waste of time when John turned up. He wasn’t in the first wave of pupils that I expected to find him in, so I decided to slip into the school.
John’s PE bag was still on his peg. I crept up to it, looking both ways to check that the corridor was clear. I didn’t know what to expect to find in there but was hoping for a hint that he was in some way unhappy, or something that would tell me that he had a reason to run away. I lifted out his boot-bag and peered in at the football boots which still had clumps of mud and bits of grass on from last week’s game. His World Cup Football Top Trumps were in there, with the case already scuffed up despite him only having had them for a week. There was nothing else in there, no note, no ancient artefacts, no clues, not even his P.E. shorts or top.
“That’s not your bag, Master Tillbrook.”
I looked up and saw Mr Jenkins coming towards me, holding a spray bottle.
“No, it’s John’s,” I said.
“I know it’s John’s, and that’s why you shouldn’t be snooping in it.”
“I’m sorry; I was looking for clues.”
“Ah!” said Mr Jenkins. He stopped moving and gave me a smile. “Friends of yours, is he?”
I nodded.
“You know you shouldn’t be in here before the first bell.”
“I know.”
“And if the wrong person caught you doing what I did, they might think you were thieving.”
“I wasn’t!”
“I know that, but not everybody is such a good judge of character as me. So why don’t you go back out onto the playground and we’ll pretend none of this happened, hey?”
Mr Jenkins followed me out, and then sprayed the window beside the door. He took a rag from his pocket and started to wipe. From the way his cheeks puffed out I could tell he was whistling. I was so focussed on Mr Jenkins’ wiping action that I didn’t notice Liam sneaking up on me, and he had his wet finger in my earhole before I had a chance to stop him.
I was still trying to wipe dry my ear when the bell went. Mrs Palmer stood by her classroom door and said hello to me as I entered. She greeted us all rather than shuffling papers at her desk or writing stuff on the blackboard as she usually did.
Liam jabbed me in the ribs as I sto
pped by my desk and whispered, “Alien creature.” I didn’t think it was funny, even though she was wearing one of those mustard-coloured cardigans again, but I smiled anyway and made a sort of fake-laugh noise which I think Liam thought was real.
Mrs Palmer didn’t read out the register either, almost as if saying John’s name would draw attention to the fact that he wasn’t there again. Normally, a two-day absence would escalate the rumours from the previous day, leading to a diagnosis of the hyper-squirts, or in severe cases, the dynamite-shits. I turned to look at Liam, who always sat behind me. He was looking down at his hands. I made eye-contact with Daniel; he turned his head towards John’s seat then shrugged his shoulders.
There was a knock, and Mrs Palmer went to the door.
“Pssst.”
I turned around.
“What does transition mean?” Liam said in a loud whisper.
I looked down at the worksheet that Mrs Palmer had left on our desks, which was odd, because we normally started with PE on a Thursday, but couldn’t see the word Liam had mentioned. Mrs Palmer was now standing at the door, talking to someone who was standing in the corridor - probably Mr Inglehart.
“What does what mean?” I said.
Mrs Palmer turned and glared, before turning back to her conversation.
“Transition.”
“Don’t know. Why?”
“Something I heard the teachers talking about. Might be a clue.”
Mrs Palmer closed the door and turned her attention to us, meaning it was time to be quiet if we wanted to avoid sharpening pencils during break-time.
“Today,” said Mrs Palmer, “we have a visitor. P.C. Wade will be coming in after break to speak to you.”
From behind me, I could tell that Liam had put up his hand. He always made an “ooh” noise as he raised it, as if a question or answer had hit him with force. Without waiting for an invitation Liam said, “Is it about John, Miss?”
Mrs Palmer put a hand to her temple. “Liam, please don’t speak until asked to do so.”
I turned to see Liam shrink in his chair.
“But yes,” continued Mrs Palmer, “some of you may already know, but John has not been seen since school on Tuesday. P.C. Wade would like to speak to each of you about John.”
We all knew P.C. Wade. He was a regular visitor to the school. It was only a fortnight since his last visit in which he spoke to us about road safety. With the new bypass about to open the traffic flow through the village was likely to be reduced, but he assured us that our lollipop lady, Mrs Barnes, would still be there at the start and end of the school day to help us cross the road. Before that he’d spoken in an assembly about the danger of construction sites. I remember sharing sheepish looks with Will and my cousins, as well as John who’d come with us a time or two to mess about on the huge piles of sand and stone that were to be used for the bypass. We’d wander around the machinery while it was left unoccupied for the night, sit in the bucket of a JCB or try to throw stones over the top of the sand heap. One weekend we found a load of empty beer-cans pushed into the mound of sand, so we hadn’t gone back. We didn’t want to get caught messing around at the older kids’ hangout.
We worked through the sheet until break. There was a pretty dull story to read, with questions to answer, and then you had to write the next chapter yourself. Normally I liked creative writing, but I could get into it at all.
When the bell went, Liam was quickly out of his chair, and he stood in front of my desk. “Let’s ask if we can borrow the dictionary,” he said.
It was always down to me to ask. If Liam asked it would probably be a no, but she seemed to like me. “Miss,” I called out as I stood up.
“Yes Thomas?”
“Can I have a look in the dictionary?”
“Okay, but I have to go to a meeting in the staff room. I want you out of here before I get back.”
I picked the big dictionary from the shelf by her desk and turned to the ‘T’ section. “Transition” I muttered as I flicked through the pages.
“Ooh!” Liam said and smudged his finger onto the word.
“Transition. The process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another.”
“Oh,” Liam said, and scratched his head. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, and looked at the mustard cardigan hanging on the back of Mrs Palmer’s chair.
When we got in from break, Mrs Palmer didn’t want us talking either before or after our interview, so we had to sit quietly and read. I know I stared at the same page for the whole morning, the words not sinking in, and from the lack of the sound of pages turning I guessed everyone else was doing the same. Every time the door opened, we’d all look up and try to read something on the face of whoever came back in. Whispers were hushed by Mrs Palmer’s glare. We were going in by surname order. Liam went in before me because his surname is Carter. When he came back in his face was red. He embarrassed easily and didn’t like to be questioned because he had this habit of always looking guilty, whether he’d done anything or not.
I had to wait until near the end. When Daniel Richardson went in, I knew I’d be next. John’s mum would have spoken to Daniel on Tuesday night, and I guess he hadn’t seen John either. A few minutes later Daniel returned. He walked back to his seat, sat down and sniffed loudly.
“Thomas Tilbrook,” called P.C. Wade.
Liam’s cheeks were still pink when he arrived at Moon Base One. Once embarrassed, he stayed that way until the next morning. He plonked himself down on the log we used as a bench. Will nodded at him.
“What did Wade ask you?” Liam said, looking first at Will, then at me.
Will shrugged and continued to scrape the bark from a stick with his penknife.
“When was the last time I saw him. If we were friends. Stuff like that,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“I said that we were best friends, and I told them he didn’t like being left home alone after school.”
“Yeah, I said that too.”
“I told them we’d had an argument that day.”
“Tom!” Liam’s cheeks reddened further than I thought possible.
“What?”
“They’ll think you’re a suspect.”
“No, they won’t.”
“They will. Haven’t you seen The Bill?”
“Shut up, Liam.” I hadn’t seen The Bill. Dad would never let us watch that, and I don’t reckon Liam had seen it either, but I knew what he was talking about.
“They’ll say you’ve got a motive.”
“Liam,” Will said, pointing with the tip of his penknife. “Leave it. Did they ask either of you if you’d seen any weirdos hanging about the village?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that. Asked if I’d seen anyone strange in the village.”
“Me too,” Liam said.
“What did you say?”
“No.” Liam and I said it at the exact same moment, so I quickly blurted out, “Jinx,” stopping Liam from speaking until released from the curse.
As Liam waved around his arms, hoping that Will or I would say his full name, Andy jumped into the hideout. As usual he was in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle gear. He had a dustbin lid strapped to his back as a shell, and a bit of orange fabric with eyeholes cut out of it tied around his head.
“Hey, I got nun-chucks,” Andy said. He pulled out his weapon. It was a couple of cardboard kitchen-roll tubes tied together with a bit of blue string. He held one tube in each hand and left them far enough apart for the string to be slack, and grimaced.
“Radical” Will said, rolling his eyes before going back to sharpening his stick.
Liam was peering out of one of Moon Base One’s viewing windows by pulling the branches of the elderberry bush back. “Shush!” he said, ducking down lower.
Will punched him on the arm for breaking the conditions of the jinx.
“Stop,” he said,
with panic in his eyes as he pushed Will away.
“What’s up?” asked Will.
“Someone’s coming.”
“Who?”
“Shaky Jake.”
We were silent. Cautiously we crept into the corners of the base where we could peer out secretly.
Jake was striding along the drove, quickly moving from one side to the other and peering down into the ditches. I could see his mouth moving, and I could tell that he was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out. It sounded like a bunch of nonsense noises, over and over, like some kind of chant. Maybe it was a spell of some kind, or a curse.
We watched him pass and walk off into the distance, and it wasn’t until we couldn’t hear him anymore that anyone dared to move or speak.
Eventually, I broke the silence. “Did the policeman come into your class, Andy?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He tucked his nun-chucks into the side of his shorts. “He said if we had any information about John, we should tell a grown up.”
“No one said anything?” I said.
Andy shook his head.
“What are we going to do?” Liam said.
“We’re the turtles!” Andy said, “We’ll find him then go for pizza.”
Will closed his penknife. “We’re not turtles. We’re the Crusaders”.
Andy looked at the ground. “But if we were the Turtles, we could be heroes and save the day.”
“We can still save the day,” Will said. He picked up the sticks he’d prepared and handed us one each. “Come on,” he said. “We know this village better than anyone. We’ll find him.”
“How?” I said. I could feel the excitement building in us all. This was our moment. We were going to be heroes.
“We’re going to take a walk back down to the school and follow the road along, take a look to see if maybe he fell into a ditch or something.”
He was the one cut out to be the hero. For all my good intentions when it came to the crunch I’d probably hide away in terror and, if I was very lucky, I might be able to avoid turning into a cry-baby. I was like The Incredible Hulk in reverse, shrinking to the size of an infant when wound up. I suppose there’s a chance I could drown my enemy in tears? I looked at Liam. He bent his stick with both hands then it slipped out of one and thwacked him in the side of the face. He was good to have around and would never let you down, but he wasn’t the hero. Andy was laughing and swinging his nun-chucks. He was the comedy sidekick.
Dead Branches Page 4
