by Jane Brittan
I stare at him and he looks away. ‘It’s not a problem. Not a problem.’
But somehow I can’t believe him. And very slowly I feel my breath starting to thin and my rib cage squeeze.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Eh?’
‘What that man said … he said “tomorrow” like it was important.’
‘That’s when he’s going to help us. Yes. Tomorrow.’
‘So why were you and Mum arguing about it?’
He leans to one side and picks at a raised freckle of paint on the bathroom door.
‘Sanda … I, we … I want to…’
‘What? What is it?’
He sighs. I’m aware of Mum, now standing in the doorway of the front room below, clicking her tongue. Andrija is behind her.
‘Nothing,’ he says.
‘Dad?’ He turns. ‘Can I have that picture? The photograph?’
‘No.’
He goes back downstairs and closes the door.
3
I know life isn’t always going to be this way. I mean practically everyone leaves school and grows up and passes their driving test and meets someone and has babies and a job and stuff. School is just school. It’s just part of a long life and I bet when I’m forty-seven and I’ve got grey hair and bunions, I’ll have forgotten all about it and the walk up the corridor into double English where I know he’s sitting. But right here, right now, it’s the hardest thing in the world, and if it weren’t for Dad waking me at six o’clock in the morning to clear my room for painting, I don’t think I’d have come in at all.
But here I am. And I’m supposed to be going out with Joe tonight and the only remotely comforting thing on the horizon, as far as I can see, is that it’s half-term next week. So when the inevitable happens, when I learn it’s all been some twisted joke and when the humiliation Geiger Counter racks up to eleven, at least I can go to ground for a week.
He’s there and I walk past him to my table and because everyone’s looking at me and I’m sure everyone’s in on it, I don’t look at him. But the air around him is buzzing, and I walk through it and I breathe him in, and a little Hope Fairy dances in front of me for a moment, then disappears in a puff of smoke.
I sit down in my place at the back.
Minutes pass. The smell of text books and floor polish.
He turns once to look at me, catches me looking at him, and a rosy flush spreads itself across my cheeks. I look down at once and scratch at a mole of gum on the desk with my nail. Zoe’s answering a question in her fake husky rasp, David Moger, next to me, raises his hand and I get a choice whiff of sweat from his armpit.
I blank out.
The photograph I found comes into my head. Blurred and faded, washed out. It’s funny – when I think about my childhood – about me in it – it’s always like that: worn and bleached. It shifts and slips away from me when I try to reach it. A car journey; a doll with its hair cut off; picking blackberries on a railway line. The images are strung out in my brain like a bone necklace, joined by fraying threads. And the bones clatter and sing against each other but they never connect.
I’m breaking. Sometimes I think I’m breaking.
After a while, I’m aware of Miss O’Brien watching me.
‘Are you with us, Sanda?’
I look up at that and so does everyone else. Zoe laughs, then everyone starts. Joe turns in his seat and I can’t read him but at least he’s not laughing. Not yet anyway.
Miss says, ‘Get on with your work everybody.’
She comes over, puts a veiny hand on my paper, and I can see the rub of a wedding ring long gone on her left hand. She says gently, ‘Are you all right, Sanda?’
I will myself not to, but as usual I don’t do what I’m told, and my eyes start to prickle and fill.
‘Um … I just … Can I …? Sorry.’
I push my table forward, haul myself out of my seat and leave the room and all the gushing and the gasping and the looks, and I walk. Long strides and I’m breathing hard and swallowing air. The corridor’s empty and at every step I can hear the rise and fall of voices from the other sides of the doors.
The girls’ toilets are on the floor above, and I’m at the stairs when I hear the sound of running behind me, and a voice: ‘Hey! Sanda! Wait!’
I don’t wait. I run up the stairs into the toilets, slam the door and head straight for the mirror. I turn on the tap, scoop a run of cold water into cupped hands and hold it against my face. And when I stop and look up at my reflection, Joe’s standing right behind me.
‘What are you doing in here?’ I sniff.
He backs away to the door and stands against it.
‘What is it?’ he says, ‘what’s wrong? Is it me? If I’m anything to do with this … I’m …’
There’s a clatter and a sudden push at the door from the other side and he braces his weight against it. ‘Occupied! Sorry.’ He turns back, swallows, says: ‘I just wanted to … you know – if it was me, something I’ve done …’
I turn around. ‘I guess I thought … I don’t know. When you asked me out, I just couldn’t believe you really wanted … that it wasn’t a joke … I know that sounds … anyway, thanks for …’ I trail off.
‘A joke? You thought I was joking? Why would I do that?’
I look at him. Water’s dripping off my chin onto my collar. ‘I don’t know… I’m sorry.’
‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘No, God, no. I … I like you. I’ve always …’ I stop myself, ‘I was just so surprised you …’
A faint smile on his lips.
I think.
I fumble up my sleeve for a tissue and I smile back, ‘Sorry.’
‘Do you ever stop apologising?’
I shake my head. I’m aware that he’s a little closer. His feet scrape on the damp floor.
My face is blotchy and my hair is wet. I push it back away from my face and I breathe. And I see him watching me. I know him watching me.
But there’s that line again – that great big equator: clear as light and hard as coal and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to cross it.
‘So … you OK for tonight?’ he says and I nod.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yes. Please.’
‘Cool. Seven OK?’
‘Yes,’ I breathe.
He smiles. ‘I’ll text you. See you later.’
I’m left staring at the Joe-shaped hole in the room as the door whispers to a close. I wipe my face for the last time and I go. I walk out of the door and along the corridor and down two flights of stairs and out through the entrance and into the open. Past the science blocks, up the steps and out onto the field. It’s windy and the cold air storms into my lungs and stings my face. It wraps itself around me and carries me towards the edge of the field, to the shelter of a group of stunted trees, and leaves me sitting on the hard earth and wet grass where I can look back at the school. And I hold myself tight with my chin on my knees, and I don’t think. I just sit there.
The bell goes. And a thousand bodies are on the move again.
I stay there tucked in tight for a long time. I stay there through one bell after another. I stay there as the rain starts out of low oyster clouds. I watch people moving across walkways and corridors in the distance: dark shapes like crows.
And when I’m soaked to my skin, I get up and I cross the field to the gates and out onto the street where sodden leaves line the gutters, and water pools in cracks in the pavements.
I know it. I have to cross that line.
There’s still an hour of school to go when I reach home and push my key into the lock.
It doesn’t turn.
I try again. And again. Whatever I do, I can’t make it move. It’s weird. It’s like something’s been shoved in the lock. I go out onto the street and look up at the house. I go back up to the door and try again. I ring the bell. Nothing. Mum’s at work, but Dad should be home.
I bang on the door and shou
t through the letterbox: ‘Dad!’ He’s probably sleeping in his chair. I try again, louder this time, ‘Dad!’
Not a sound. And that would have woken him, should have woken him. I don’t understand it. I mean he won’t be anywhere. Apart from work, Dad never goes out. I move a grinning chimney-sweep gnome to get a look in at the front windows to see if I can see him in his chair. I peer through a little tear in the lacy nets and what I see there grips me with fear like I’ve never known. My throat closes and my body burns.
I smack my palms against the cold glass over and over until I can’t feel them any more.
The room is empty.
Everything – papers, cards, trinkets, bits of broken china – all gone. All that’s left is the sofa pushed against the wall. I look through to the kitchen and it’s the same: pictures, pots, notes on the fridge about term dates, doctor’s appointments, bank letters. One of the cupboard doors swings open on its hinge. The mantelpiece is bare, the floors are swept and all the surfaces are clean. It’s as though no one has ever lived here. I don’t know how long I stand there with my feet in the damp soil, beating a roll against the pane, listening to the sound ring out through empty rooms and bounce off bare walls.
4
My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at the screen. It’s Lauren. I can’t pick up. I can’t do it. Lauren’s too real and this isn’t real. It’s utterly unreal. But the phone buzzing in my hand sort of brings me back to life, and when it stops ringing, I dial Mum. ‘Unassigned Number’ comes up on the screen and there’s a long beep. I try Dad’s. The same. And again and again. I start to cry: panicky, choky gasps that fight for air.
I slide down against the wall of the house and put my head between my knees, trying to breathe. Someone shouts at a child across the street. The rain has stopped. A sweet wrapper drifts into view, works its way up the path, and the light catches it and shines gold in the cellophane. I reach for it and twist it into a knot. People pass, their footsteps slapping on the wet pavements, and the street is still again. I close my eyes and when I open them, I catch sight of something in the earth at my feet: something colourful dug into the dirt. A photograph – or part of a photograph. I pick it up and brush it clean.
I see at once it’s part of a picture of me.
I’ve never seen it before. I’m on the street outside the house, walking towards it. I’m wearing my old coat, carrying my bag, and I’m looking down, probably for my keys.
It’s slightly out of focus and it’s obviously been shot from above, from an upstairs window but without my knowing.
On the back, someone’s scribbled a date. Two years ago last summer.
I have to get inside. I take a couple of deep breaths and get to my feet. A cramping pain like a stitch bites into my side, and I have to bend and breathe deeply waiting for it to go. Minutes pass and I hear the excited chatter of schoolchildren on the street going home, their voices floating through the air at me; a car pulls out from a space nearby.
When the pain’s gone, I look around me for something to break the window. There’s no other way to get in.
I pick up a stone, grip it in my hand and start hammering at the window. It’s a lot more difficult than I thought it would be and after a few fruitless attempts, I lower my arm.
Something makes me look to my left across the fence. Our neighbour is coming up the path to her door.
‘Hiya,’ she calls, ‘you all right? You locked out?’
‘Um. um. Yes. Yes. I am locked out. Yeah.’
She blinks and looks me up and down. ‘What time’s your mum back? Do you want to come in and wait?’
Too much. Too many questions. I’m not in the right mind to think up excuses and unless someone’s going to do it for me, all I want is to be left alone.
‘No. No thanks. It’s OK thanks. I’m OK.’
She looks at the stone in my right hand and back at me. I drop the stone and it breaks in two. No wonder it didn’t do any damage.
‘Right. OK then. Well I’m in all evening if you need me. Just ring the top bell.’
I nod. ‘OK. Thanks.’
She smiles at me in a half-hearted way and goes inside. Her door closes with a bang and I hear her opening the inner door and going upstairs.
I need help. I go out on to the street and look around. To my right across the road is a skip. It’s full of timber, kitchen units and, on closer inspection, bits of plumbing tackle. With difficulty I pull out a tap and its pipes. I put it under my arm and I’m about to carry it back to the house when a woman from across the road comes out and stops me. I know her by sight but we’ve never spoken before. She’s about Mum’s age with dark circles under her eyes and she speaks with a northern accent.
‘You moving?’ she says.
‘Um. No.’
‘You’re not moving?’
‘Why do you ask?’
She shuffles around the skip, placing a proprietorial hand on the side. She’s wearing slippers.
She looks at the tap in my hand. ‘What are you doing with that?’
‘It’s … It’s for a … um … ’
‘You should ask before taking stuff, you know.’
‘Oh. OK. Sorry.’ I go to return it but she pushes it back at me.
‘I thought you were moving,’ she says. ‘Big van there this morning there was. Boxes coming out. You not moving then?’
‘Er … no …well … maybe. Were my parents there?’
She looks at me in an odd way. ‘They was in and out at first, then they went off in a fancy car with those blacked-out windows. Van finished up and went. That’s why I thought you were off.’
‘No.’ Speaking is impossible when all I want to do is cry myself stupid. I feel my fingers tighten around the cold brass of the tap.
‘OK, then,’ she says, having obviously decided I’m not worth the effort. I nod and walk across the road to the safety of the hedge.
I bring the tap down on the window which cracks and breaks, scattering glass onto the sitting room floor. I reach in to open the window using the catches. They don’t move. I try again and then remember they’re locked. Crap. I hurriedly pick at the jagged edges and heave myself over the ledge. My palms are torn and bleeding, and when I get in, I have to spend a minute pinching out glass splinters and chips.
Once in the house, the strangeness overwhelms me. I almost collapse. I sit down on the steps into the kitchen and try to take stock. A van coming, my parents leaving in a fancy car: what’s that all about? My dad’s got an old Datsun he uses for his cab. That’s it. They have no money, no savings. Mum works in a supermarket. What could they have been doing? Unless of course they’ve been arrested? For what though? I mean they never do anything, let alone anything that would be remotely criminal in nature. They go to work and they come home. End of. And anyway, what police cars have blacked-out windows? And a van? Boxes of stuff? All their belongings, anything that ties them to this house.
Except for me of course.
The house seems to press in on me. The emptiness is suffocating. In its stillness I hear echoes of Mum’s voice shouting at Dad to pick up his coat, the rap of her heels, her fingernails tapping on the counter; Dad’s low growl, the rattle of his cab keys on the stand in the hall; his heavy tread on the stairs when he comes home in the morning. And then what about me? What is there here about me? You could listen all day for it: only my quietness, my obedience. I think again about the photograph and I feel sick.
The house even smells different. The cloying mix of Dad’s aftershave, glue and garlic are gone – and the place smells like old mushrooms. Mum’s always been a hoarder – she keeps everything: bus tickets, old keys, labels, jam jars. But now there’s nothing. It’s as if all traces of the people who lived here this morning have been deliberately rubbed out. I force myself to go on into the back room: the same. Clean floors, blank surfaces, nothing in the drawers or cupboards but the odd pencil or crusted coin. The furniture they’ve left is stacked neatly to one side.
<
br /> After standing in the middle of the front room for what feels like forever, I go upstairs. Apart from the bed now standing against the wall, my room is empty. He’d lied to me about the painting. Obvious now.
There are oily marks on the walls where posters and pictures have been. In places, there are little corners of glossy paper still sticking to the walls. All my things are gone – my books, my music, pictures, notes from Lauren. There are deep indents in the carpet where the bed and chest of drawers stood. A bluebottle slaps against the windowpane, trying to get out. I turn, and as I do, I notice something pinned up high on the back of the door: the photograph of the little girl, the hands around her waist.
I unpin it and put it in my back pocket. Then I take out my phone. I punch in 999 but something stops me from pressing Call. I remember what Dad had said when Andrija was here. No police. I can’t do that to them.
There’s something on the outside of the window: a black smudge. When I look more closely, I see it’s a piece of charred paper. Down in the garden, there’s the bin: a spire of dying smoke rising from it.
The back door is jammed in the same way as the front: a wedge of wood forced into the lock. I break the glass with a kick and climb through. The bin is full of blackened, burned paper: it’s still warm but just cool enough to touch. I pull out a handful and it crumples to dust and disappears. A little way off, twitching in the wind, there’s a thin crust of green card with my handwriting on it: part of my geography exercise book. I feel the bile rising in my throat.
I climb back in and go upstairs again.
On the landing, the picture of a small dog looking wistful hangs askew on the wall next to their bedroom. They must have forgotten to pack it. Or perhaps they don’t want him either. Their room is the same: empty.
And then I see something: the loft ladder has been used again and not put back properly. I cross to it, reach up, drag it down and clamber up.
I switch on the light and pull the ladder up behind me. In the dim glow across the beams, there’s a shipwreck of stuff: an old bed frame at the far end, a threadbare teddy bear grinning at me from a corner, a few pots and pans, a broken deckchair and half-empty cans of paint.
