by Chloe Daykin
We’re at the end of the track.
I hope he won’t get squashed. A car buzzes by on the road.
I think he will get squashed.
Tik, Tik, Tik. The indicator pushes us on.
I look out the back window. Tiny stops by the woods and howls.
This is the edge of his territory. He won’t go any further. He knows where he belongs.
By this afternoon, so will I.
Don’t Look Back
There is no sign of Floyd. Or anyone else. Lloyd keeps rubbing his knuckles and saying, ‘He’s got there, he’s got there first.’
If he was, she would have said on the phone, wouldn’t she?
Unless he held a gun to her head?
Unless going there’s what he wants us to do?
We stop opposite a car-hire shop.
Dad opens the door. ‘There are no cars allowed on the island,’ he says. I get out and stare at the big pool of blue with mini islands and boathouses and cormorants and rocks like turtle backs and whale skin rising out of the sea.
The man comes out the shop. ‘Any problems with the car, sir?’
‘No,’ Dad says and hands the keys back. The man checks it over for bumps. We rub off specks of mud with our sleeves. I put my head next to Dad’s. ‘Tiny scratched the bonnet,’ I whisper.
‘I know,’ he whispers back.
The man answers his phone and doesn’t look properly.
He ticks the form and we walk off. Fast.
Down the hill to the white and red ferry that’s waiting on the quay.
A woman with blond hair and wolf tattoos pulls the ropes and lowers the walkway down.
CLANG.
We walk over and on to the ship and strap the cases into the case place next to the motorbikes and climb up the stairs. Clank clank clank. We come out on the lounge deck and walk past maps of sea currents and people spreading out over seats with blankets and books.
Floyd and the shadow man are nowhere.
It feels wrong.
We go all the way to the back and I look out the window and see the flag fluttering off the end of the boat.
I look at everyone’s faces.
Everyone might be them. They could be here and I wouldn’t know.
I look for pieces of me. The colour of my hair. My nose. My freckles. My eyes.
She could have come early to check me out.
The air smells of coffee and heaters. I feel sick, like I can’t breathe.
Dad looks at me. ‘Do you wanna go outside?’ he says.
I nod.
We push open the heavy metal doors and go out on to the back deck. Dad gets some cushions for the wet seats but me and Lloyd hold on to the rail and lean over.
Other families come out and pull the drawstrings on their hoods so their face is a tiny bumhole in the middle of their coats.
‘It’s too late,’ Lloyd says and walks off to the end of the boat.
Two people come by with a chihuahua and walk round the corner. The chihuahua nearly blows over the edge with the wind blast. It’s handy it’s on a lead.
Dad leans over the edge and puts an arm round my shoulder. ‘Not long now,’ he says. We pull away from the land.
Away
Away
Away.
We pull closer into the unknown.
Closer
Closer
Closer.
We move forwards. We don’t go back.
Her
Clonk.
Everyone jerks.
The boat bangs into the harbour tyres. Our heads bounce back.
‘We’re here,’ Dad says.
The guard lowers the walkway. It clanks on the harbour and we untie the cases and rumble them over and on to the dock. It’s concrete, sticking out from a bay. White sand, white sky, white light. Dad clutches his trumpet. We’re the only people who get off.
The guard nods and hauls the walkway up again and the boat pulls away to the next island.
We are alone.
I look out at the emptiness. Hills and tracks lead off from the quay. There’re no hotels or shops or anything. The mountains rise around us in layers with haze in between. We are in the Norway brochure. In the middle of nowhere. I look up at the sky. Dark clouds are squeezing in.
We look at each other.
Dad puts his hands on his hips. ‘What now?’
‘Someone’s coming to meet us,’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Them.’ I point. Over the hill comes a buzz and a man on a moped in a leather jacket. Dust clouds up behind him. He skids round us, flicks down the kickstand and gets off. When the dust drops, for a minute I think it might be him. I see he has hands the size of dinner plates, and earrings. It isn’t.
He pulls his eye goggles on to his head. ‘Which one of you is Elvis?’ he says.
‘He is.’ They point at me.
The man sings ‘Love Me Tender’.
Love me tender
Love me true
All my dreams fulfilled …
He stops.
‘Kirsten sent me,’ he says.
‘Who?’
‘You will see.’ He slaps the wooden crate, stuck to the front of the moped. ‘Put your cases on here.’
We put the cases on. ‘See you,’ he says and drives off.
He looks back over his shoulder. ‘Too slow,’ he yells. ‘If you want to see where we are going you will need to be faster.’
We look at each other. The moped buzzes away. ‘I think we should run,’ I say.
And we run.
Lloyd runs like a spider on its back legs, arms waving free.
Dad runs like he’s trying to look like someone that runs, knees up, arms pumping.
I run. I don’t know how I run. Because I am me. And insides look different to outsides.
My arms and legs are moving disconnected from my brain. Everything is blurry and bouncy. Gravel gets in my shoes.
Two magpies stare at us from a tree with its branches chopped off.
I think,
This is weird.
This is weird.
And we run into the weirdness. Over the white gravel, kicking up dust, under the sky with dark clouds and into stumpy trees.
The bike stops at a white wooden house. We stop too. My lungs go up and down. I think my face is purple. Dad’s is.
The man gets off the moped and takes our cases out of the box. BANG. They hit the ground. Lloyd goes to check his apples for bruising.
‘Where are you from?’ the man says.
‘The north of England,’ I say.
‘You mean Scotland,’ he says.
‘No.’
He shrugs and his earrings jingle. He gets on the bike.
‘Who are you?’ I say.
‘You don’t need to know,’ he says and zooms off. He waves backwards and his ponytail bounces over the bumps.
I look at the house. It’s got red window frames and balconies that pop out like ideas from a brain, and chains in the corners that hold the sides to the ground. Out the front there’re two smaller cabins and animal sheds dotted about in a field. A white goat stands on the grass house roof staring at us and goes back to eating it. Three chickens walk by.
Five chairs sit under an awning.
Empty.
Out of the door comes a woman with long straight hair in a white shirt.
Her eyes are green. Her hair blows in the wind.
I don’t know what to say. I feel hot and strange.
I think of all my visions. A mother, my mother?
I can’t speak. No one else does either.
I don’t hug her.
I don’t move.
I just stand.
I thought I’d be angry.
I thought I’d be happy.
Actually, I just feel really weird.
‘Elvis.’ She looks at me. ‘So you are Elvis.’
I nod.
And I think it’s odd that she hasn’t touched me
at
all
or even stroked my hair.
And I think of all the ways I thought this would go and I didn’t expect to be this close.
And feel this much
d i s t a n c e.
Going Backwards
We freeze-frame.
Both gripping our elbows.
Her eyes looking all over my face.
Her hair dancing. She tucks it behind an ear.
We’ve got the same colour hair. The same colour eyes. But I take a step back.
I think of Jean and Steinar: Your body tells you things. The world is stronger than we know.
Something in my stomach pulls.
I shake my head. The clouds block out the sun.
I don’t know how I know it but I do. I know it from my guts to my lungs.
‘It’s not you.’ I look her in the eyes. ‘You aren’t her.’
It isn’t. She isn’t. I know it.
She shakes her head.
I don’t think her eyes even blink.
‘No.’ She nods. ‘I am sorry.’ She tilts her head. It’s hard to know if she means it. Her face is blank. ‘The truth finds everyone.’ She looks at me.
She turns and looks at Lloyd. ‘The truth finds everyone in the end.’
Falling
My knees go weak. Dad puts an arm round my shoulders and pulls me in. His soft sweatshirt smells of home.
He sticks a hand out. ‘I’m George,’ he says.
The woman stares at him. ‘You are Elvis’s father.’
‘Well yes,’ Dad says, ‘and no.’ He rubs the back of his neck.
‘You’re his father,’ she says. Her voice is sure and strong. She walks over to the table.
A blast of wind whips us all. The woman grabs her hair over one shoulder and looks behind.
Someone else comes out of the house. A girl. Brown hair, curly. Jeans and a big grey sweatshirt. She carries a tray of drinks and glasses.
‘This is Lene,’ Kirsten says and Lloyd falls over into a chair. ‘Won’t you please sit down.’
Waiting
Lene puts the glasses out on the table. Lloyd hunches. The chair holds him in tight like a pencil. He looks trapped.
And scared.
Of what?
Kirsten stares at him.
Lloyd puts his hands over his face like he doesn’t want to be seen.
Me and Dad share a bench at the far end.
Lene pours out the drinks that nobody touches.
‘Your parents were here. But not any more. I am sorry.’ Kirsten looks at me. ‘This is the way we speak on the islands. Truth is more important than evasion.’
It’s good to just hear the truth.
‘Is he here?’ Lloyd says. ‘Did he get here first?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she says and looks at me.
I look at her face. Her eyes are strong and green. ‘Who are you?’
She takes a bottle out of a cupboard built into the grass and pours out three glasses.
The strength of it blows over and hits me like a slap.
‘I am Kirsten,’ she says. ‘Welcome to your birthplace, Elvis. I’ve been waiting a very long time to see you.’
In
Lene picks up a black cat and swings it over her shoulder. Its paws hang down her back.
Two kittens run out of the doorway and into the hill cupboard.
Lloyd stares at Lene.
Kirsten stares at Lloyd.
I’m full of questions but nothing comes out.
‘Come.’ Kirsten drinks her drink and rubs her hands on her sides. ‘You must be hungry …’
I’m not.
The idea of eating makes me feel sick.
She turns round, goes into the house.
Lene looks at the drinks and back at Kirsten and goes in too.
The door’s like a mouth sucking up everyone.
‘You OK?’ Dad squeezes my shoulder. Rain starts to drip on our heads.
‘I dunno.’ I don’t. But I stand up. ‘I wanna go in.’
Dad picks up his drink and downs it in one. He slaps his chest and coughs.
Lloyd doesn’t say anything and starts biting his fingers. He looks like a dog that just opened the bin all over the kitchen floor.
His head hangs, his eyes are low.
Why?
‘Floyd isn’t here,’ I say. ‘He didn’t get here first, Lloyd.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’
I take his hand. I take Dad’s. And we walk into the house.
The three of us.
The new meeting the past.
I walk back in to where I left off.
Hurry
We go through a red doorframe into the dark.
I shut my eyes and blink to get used to it. The room is wide with wooden floors and a set of stairs at the back. It’s full of big windows with no curtains and chairs with bright cushions and cats.
They raise their heads and blink at us and go back to sleep.
Lene sits on the sofa doing something on an iPad. It looks weird seeing one out here.
The table’s laid out with planks of wood.
With cheese.
And bread.
And jam on.
‘You have a lot to think about right now,’ Kirsten says. ‘It’s not a good time for talking. We will only say unimportant things that we don’t really mean.’ She puts a record on the deck on the shelf. The needle hisses on the vinyl and she cranks the volume up.
Music blasts out. The sounds push against our skin and try to come into us.
I walk over to the record and take the needle off.
‘I want to know the truth.’
‘What is your hurry?’ Kirsten rubs her elbow.
‘There is danger.’ Lloyd looks at the floor. ‘For everyone.’
She flips her head to Lloyd. ‘Really, why?’ Her voice is like ice.
‘Lloyd’s brother,’ I say. ‘Floyd.’
Kirsten prickles. She looks at Lloyd. ‘Floyd?’ Lloyd looks at the floor.
‘This isn’t about him. It’s about me.’ I grip the empty compass space in my pocket. ‘I want to know ’cos it’s my life and I’ve been waiting twelve years to know it. That isn’t a hurry. It’s just how it is.’
I look out the window. The sky is grey and coming fast like shadows. Everything is closing in like an argument. The front door blows open and three cats run in with their ears down and two kittens hide in some shoes. The wind is pushing its arms through the door hole and grabbing things and moving them around. Paper, packets, our hair.
‘It is time,’ Kirsten says. Rains starts throwing itself against the windows like a car wash. I didn’t know storms hit this fast, this hard. ‘To the awning!’ she yells.
‘What?’
‘RUN!’
We all run outside.
White froth from the sea spits over the grass and the rocks. The island shrinks and is more blue than green. We cling on to the poles and try to unhook the awning. We take a corner each and Lloyd hops about in the middle. The rain slaps our faces and the canvas jolts up and my arm nearly snaps off. I hold on and wrap myself around the post.
We cling on to the poles.
We cling on to each other.
The awning is unhooked and blasts away into a tree like a ghost on the run. Lloyd shouts, ‘Whooo,’ and we chase after it, grab it and run back to the house with it stuffed under our arms.
Kirsten shoulders the door shut. It’s a weird quiet. Our ears are full of whistling, like seashells. The wind sulks and kicks the door in again and throws a stick at the window.
We push it back and Kirsten slides the bolt over. ‘Everyone deserves truth.’ She nods and walks back over to the table. ‘Please sit.’
She looks at Lloyd. Then Dad. Then me.
We sit round the table and wipe the water off our faces.
Lene goes back to the iPad.
Dad rubs his moustache.
Lloyd scrapes his cha
ir back. ‘I can’t take this. I can’t take it,’ he says and runs upstairs like there’s something she’s gonna say he’s terrified of.
Kirsten doesn’t even blink. She picks up a white cat snaking round her ankles. ‘This is what you want?’
I nod.
Why wouldn’t I?
I’ve been waiting all my life.
‘OK.’ She nods and brings the cat up by her chin. ‘Let’s begin.’
The Truth and Not the Truth
The house does its best to hold us while the walls take on the storm outside. Tins and pans rattle in the kitchen. I think the wind might smash in through the windows but it doesn’t. ‘This house used to be a farm.’ Kirsten puts the cat down and spreads out her arms. ‘A long time ago. Twelve years ago.’
‘Exactly?’
‘Exactly.’
Like me. I swallow. A mug falls off the shelf. No one moves.
‘I took on woofers. Workers on organic farms. People came from all over the world. We had animals, vegetables, everything …’
‘My parents worked here?’
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘We were great friends. But they had some problems.’
‘Like what?’
‘Money, and drugs.’ She sighs. ‘They were unpredictable.’
‘Oh.’ I scratch my fingernail under the table.
‘Your mother became pregnant.’
‘On drugs?’
‘No. She came off everything for that. I helped her through.’ She opens her hands. ‘Life is complicated.’ She looks out. ‘You were born under this table. You were very pink. And loud.’ She smiles. ‘Your mother was very tired so I held you in a towel and sang until you fell asleep. Then after two weeks you were gone.’
I think how I record sounds to fill the silence.
So I’ve always got something to block it out with.
Maybe that’s why I started.
‘Your mother is …’ She looks down at her fingers … ‘Your parents stole money from me and left for England.’ She stands up, wraps her arms round her waist. ‘That’s all I know,’ she says and walks out.
