by Claire Davis
There was nothing to prove. From here on, forwards into a new world with no time for looking back. But… He weakened and sank onto the bed. What had he been thinking, coming here? “Urgh,” he told Simon bleakly. “Gag me with a spoon.” The phrase was the last of a dwindling pile of straws. Headfirst, he hit the pillow and fell into a deep well of sobbing.
“Get the hell up and stop moping!” Simon responded, at least, in Oskar’s head. Sometimes he heard an actual voice, alternating between an American and a British accent. “Nobody ever made an omelette without cracking eggs,” Simon reasoned.
Eyes wiped, Oskar leapt up and went back at the posters like a maniac, certain the sadness could be erased by keeping on the go. What he needed was a room plastered with 80s pop stars, absolutely covered from floor to ceiling. Completely nothing bad had happened in the 80s, except the awful perms and dungarees. Such blissful innocence was what he wanted to emulate. “Doing, doing,” he told Simon. “Most triumphant.”
“Good boy,” Simon said warmly.
“Um, hi. Come to say hello.” A girl stuck her head in the doorway, speaking with a strong northern accent. Obviously, it would’ve been better had she been a Prince look-a-like, but beggars could not be choosers.
“Hello!” Oskar waved at the door, relieved. He was better with an audience. “I’m just doing some vital DIY and then I’ll tell you all about myself. If you like, you can make us a coffee? Black, please.”
“Don’t think you’re allowed to stick things up. There’s a sign on the door, d’ja know.”
“Not on mine there isn’t. Kettle’s in the kitchen.”
“OK. Be back in a sec. My name’s Paula.”
Oskar watched the back of Paula’s pink and white jumper disappearing. He’d seen her arrive, with two parents who fussed and complained to the bloke in charge about lack of facilities. When they left, all three cried, actual crying with tears. Disgusting. A shameful show no-one on the estate back at home would be seen dead doing. Watching from the window, like he had, wasn’t really spying, not for say, a bird watcher. Her dad had handed over a wad of notes as they left, then Mumsy called Paula a princess. Oskar had experienced a stab as if from a sword, but it wasn’t jealousy.
“D’ja know,” he said witheringly, and then began re-arranging all his lipsticks and make-up in front of the mirror, in case the girl wanted to see. His make-up had been banned by Mum years ago, but surrounded by 80s posters and the occasional familiar 80s phrase, he felt bold. And anyway, it wouldn’t matter because no doubt he’d be home within the week. He stroked a purple lipstick lovingly.
“Here you go.” Paula Pink-and-White appeared carrying a whole tray. “I hope you like biscuits?”
“Oh, I do, Paula, I do. Love your jumper!” Pink and white marshmallows, probably knitted by her adoring granny.
“Thanks. My mum bought it for me. She says it can get very cold in North Wales.” Paula sipped her coffee and looked around. “It looks great in here. Much better than mine.”
“It’s nothing. You like it?”
“Is that your real hair?”
People asked that more often than they should. Oskar pulled at the pony tail to let it loose. It flowed over his shoulders. “I do not do fake,” he said seriously, because it was one of the things he felt very strongly about. This world lacked genuine, and real. Sometimes he considered himself an advocate, others more of an example.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” It really was. He’d been blessed with black glossy hair, blessed, which currently had red highlights and pale pink lowlights.
“Does it take a lot of work? I just get up in the morning and run my hands through mine.” Paula laughed. Oskar was able to just about conceal his horror.
“It does, Paula. But when you’re in a position like mine…” He left the sentence hanging, and shrugged. “Appearances shouldn’t matter, but unfortunately the circles I move in demand a certain standard. I don’t like it, but what can you do?” He sighed.
“Circles?” Paula’s eyes went wide. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, I can tell you as a friend but you must promise not to tell anyone, Paula.”
“I swear,” she said vehemently. “On my life. D’ja know.”
Oskar stretched out his fingers. Unfortunately, he hadn’t got much of a range of nail colours, but would do what he could under such limited circumstances. Paula watched, mesmerised. “My father is Simon Le Bon.”
****
He hadn’t meant to go so far. Hadn’t. Not at the start. Not before the vodka.
But one little thing led to another. The girls’ gawping did something to a normally highly sensible personality. Words slipped and tripped, and instead of standing back and watching, he fell into the lies too. As the lies formed, he believed every word that sprang from the well deep inside.
The five girls sat in a circle in various states of inebriation. Oskar could sense acceptance and warmth, trust and nausea amidst the gentle tones of Erasure. “Only you can prevent forest fires,” he slurred. “Has anyone got money for more booze? I’m broke.”
“Hitman?”
“That’s terrible!”
“Tried to kill you? Oh my god.”
One of them even sobbed a little. “Sorry.” She fanned her face. “It’s so tragic. People wanting to shoot you just because you were born at the wrong time? That is profound.”
“Yesh. Indeed it is Pink and— Paula. My whole life has been a catalogue of errors and chases by the paparazzi. Sometimes I think it would have been better for Dad if I’d never been born. Crucial.” He stopped as an involuntary sob/burp escaped. Where had all that vodka gone? It was hard to hold the bottle due to the walls moving in and then out. He giggled. “Have we got any more drinky? Thank you all for listening. A weight has been lifted from my solitary soldiers.” It was very comforting to fall against Pink-and-White. “We will all be great friends.”
“I already love you.”
“Me too.”
“I feel like, yeah, this is going to be real.”
It grew increasingly difficult to tell one from the other, or say words not variations of sloshsloshslosh. Pink-and-White had the same hair as Carol Headscarf, and Moira Ears spoke posh like Elsie-Elsa. They were all normal and nice, and nothing like him. Sloshsloshslosh.
“You don’t look like the victim kid of an icon.” Stella from Newcastle crossed her arms accusingly. Bitter tones cut him like ice. “How come you’re skint? And why do you keep saying stupid things? No-one says bodacious. Or crucial. You some kind of 80s throwback?”
He oozed sarcasm. “What do you think I should look like then? I am sorry if I don’t live up to your expectations.” He knew her sort. Brinsted Gardens was full of disbelieving hard nuts, the throng, those who couldn’t recognise talent or beauty. “Don’t have to prove myself to you.” For years, leaving the school gates was jumping out of a helicopter parachute-free. A wave of indignation rose up through vodka and years of bullying. Never mind that Stella-Artois was right, because when did being right ever help? Oskar was wronged! “Bag your face.”
“Stella!” Carol Headscarf threw a crisp. It bounced off Stella’s head. Pity it hadn’t been a football. “Where’s the respect?”
“I’m just saying.” She glared, seemingly oblivious to Oskar’s charms. “I think you’ve all had enough to drink.”
And that was it. Oskar drew breath and gathered knowledge built over years of dealing with bullies and doing homework in secret in case he got labelled teacher’s pet. “Sloshsloshslosh! How dare you?” he shouted, only it came out as a drunken squeak, followed by an uprising of bright hot vomit. He heard voices and sounds and then strong arms hauled him up. It could have been anyone, but seemed like a man. “Wha?” he gripped the arms. A face swarmed above. “Simon?” Oskar tightened his grip round the shoulders. “Is that you?”
“You’ll be OK. You want help out of your top where you threw up?” Hands tried to prise him off but Oskar was go
ing nowhere, not away from that back and muscles. A laugh breathed against his ear, but it was nice and warm not like that bitch Stella-Artois.
“Bear, is that you?” Suddenly he was sobbing. “I hate that. I really, really hate that.” Something cool smoothed his forehead. “People putting me down is the pitchts.”
“It’s OK. You had a bit much to drink. My name’s not Bear, by the way.”
“But she hates me,” he sobbed. “People always hate me.” The unfairness of this statement was overwhelming. All Oskar could do was pull Bear closer and closer until he fell right on top, his weight pushing Oskar into the bed. Bear was shaking slightly, laughing.
“Bloody hell, dude, you’re shitfaced. And you stink of vomit.”
“I’m disgusting. Stella-Artois first and now you.”
“Stop that. Never put yourself down, you hear me?” Bear managed to wriggle free of Oskar’s iron grip. “I’m going to help you into bed and clean you up. Everything looks shit because of the vodka on an empty stomach.” He began moving Oskar’s body this way and that to unpeel his top. Inebriated as he was, Oskar held in his stomach and arched his back. Having hands on his skin felt exciting. He leaned back on his hands and watched the guy’s eyes roam his body.
“Fank you.”
“Threw up on your lovely hair.” Bear touched it, and then drew back quickly. “It’s really striking. No-one hates you. Don’t think that.”
“I always talk to Simon before I nod off. My dad,” he corrected. “I know he can’t hear but it gets things off my chest. Course, I can’t text or call not in case of the—death threats.” Death threats or kidnapping? Oskar couldn’t remember what he’d said, but it was all true. In some parallel universe, he was the son of Simon Le Bon. Uncontrollable hiccups gained control over his body.
“Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just sit awhile in case you throw up again. If that’s OK? I don’t wanna leave you on your own.”
Oskar slithered round to face Simon’s picture. Sympathetic eyes stared back sorrowfully. “Night, Dad. Been a long day coming here and moving all the mattresses about. It’s a bit of a dump, Dad, but I’m doing what you said, standing on my own two feet. Not relying on you, and getting away from the craziness of the mansion. I miss you.” He drifted off with a hand on his shoulder and soothing words in his ear…
****
Head pounding, throat dry and crispy, Oskar opened the doors at the end of the corridor, looking for the toilets. If he didn’t find them soon, he’d be peeing up a wall. “Fuck sake. ’S the kitchen this one?” Someone had thoughtfully left out cheesecake, so he shovelled in a mouthful. It churned all the way down until reaching puke central. “Oh my god.” After a blast of bright-hot pain, vomit hit the sink and surrounding area. He was dying, miles away from home in a nurses’ hostel filled with strangers. “Help me,” he whispered. “I have terminal alcohol.”
The walls gradually stopped moving. Things shifted into focus—the kitchen, drunk. As far as he knew, bed was several doors away, and if the bogs didn’t materialise in three seconds flat, he couldn’t be held accountable…
The only remaining door opened. He fell in, onto a tiled floor and smell of dust. Dragging himself on hands and knees, Oskar reached what could be a toilet—would be if there was any justice in the world. He clutched the seat. Relief was far better than almost anything, probably even winning the lottery. “Madonna and Whitney! Thank god.”
He switched on the light and blinked furiously against the cruelty of consciousness. It looked like an old disabled bathroom, filled with decrepit furniture and some kind of music system from another age. “Oh my god of footless tights!” Oskar staggered across to investigate. It was a music system with speakers attached to an ancient box labelled ‘Hospital Radio’. Once upon a time, Oskar had known all about hospital radio. He stroked the buttons and switches carefully, unable to stop the tear that slid down his face. “Wait right here. I’m coming back.”
With unsteady legs, he found his room and tablet. Throwing on a jumper to fend off the Arctic cold, he crept back to the disabled toilet and locked the door against the world.
Clearly the hospital radio had once been a working, successful station. For ages, Oskar dusted the surfaces and plugs, working through the system to see which parts were functioning. It was unlikely the hospital beds had headphones—health and safety—but on the board a few lights still blinked. He knew some of the oldest hospitals had expanded the radios to surrounding offices and lodges. Somewhere, the headphones would be lying unused and unloved.
“It’s not right.” He cried a few more tears of injustice and nostalgia, knowing both to be useless. Eventually, he slumped against the chair, and began to nod off, dreaming of Saturday afternoons as a kid, happy and ignorant of the years to come.
“Madonna, I am coming!” Half awake, he slipped on the master headset and turned on his tablet. There would be no-one listening, not anymore. He began hesitantly, but the more words spoken into the microphone, the easier it became.
“Good evening. Morris and Oskar Braithwaite mobile DJs here at Hospital Radio to take your requests! Let us know you’re out there and we can help you get through this difficult time—” Oskar stopped to hiccup “—with some songs we all love.” He closed his eyes, listened to the strong beat and became lost in memories.
“Songs are funny things, aren’t they? You hear one, it takes you back and you remember what your hair looked like and how exciting it was. You know? They lock in all the things you never said. A song is a bottle filled with hundreds and hundreds of memories. Do you remember, Morris? Do you? Every time I hear an 80s song, it’s like you’re still out there.” Tears dripped onto the desk.
“Well, enough of that bollocks. Let’s have a song in praise of Saturday afternoons. And next week, I’ll come back and we can have a chat. Don’t forget to leave your requests and any special stories in the black box at the end of the ward. Morris and Oskar, over and out.” He sang the little jingle they had used to start and end a broadcast. “Hospital Radio. Night, Morris.”
Chapter 3: Keep on Truckin’
Gareth
Dear Dad,
Not much to say. A room with other boys. My stuff keeps disappearing at night and then it turns up covered in toothpaste or mud. I sleep with that compass you bought me years ago under my pillow. I wish it would lead me home.
Lessons begin at eight thirty and end at four thirty. We eat three times a day. I hate it. Everywhere I go, noise, noise, noise. Why do boys have to shout all the time? Sometimes I shut myself in the bathroom just for the peace and quiet. It’s not that I want you to feel guilty. How’s the movie going? You have another new girlfriend yet?
Remember me?
Gareth
P.S. If you’re already abroad, I am now way old enough to fly by myself. Just send the ticket reference and I can get to the airport. You won’t even need to meet me there.
****
Oskar
Clearly something terrible had happened during the night. Every time he moved, a whiff of sick permeated. Altogether the best thing to do was not wake up. Cocooned in warm sleep, Oskar drifted until becoming aware of sensations not normally associated with skin, like a scene in that zombie show where a man’s skin hangs in strips from his cheek.
He awoke with a start and sat bang upright. “Urgh.” Everything hurt. A beast in his head was throwing things; solid cement stuck across his forehead. Cautious explorations revealed hair glued into the shape of a pyramid. “Eeeeee,” he whined. Survival depended entirely on the consumption of painkiller meds. To fool his brain into thinking he was alive, he stared directly ahead and gradually moved a fraction at a time.
“Aww.” It was terrible. Abomination and rotting Morrissey on a fire. He began panting in and out, loud enough to prove he wasn’t dead. “No, no. I can’t.” For a while, he lost heart and closed his eyes, trying to regain that cosy bubble of sleep. “I simply cannot endure.”
But he was a pioneer, a space
man. Eventually, one red fingernailed hand crept towards the elixir of life. He grabbed the tablet and hugged it to his chest. “Baby, come to Daddy.” His head lurched between nausea and misery known only to those such as himself—the survivors. Out of the corner of one pained eye, he noticed someone had kindly left a bucket next to the bed. He grabbed it quick and thrust his head inside, just in time. Vomit poured out, acid scouring his throat. It seemed certain he would not survive. A door opened…footsteps, but it would be too late.
“Hey, it’s me. You OK? I heard you throwing up.” The bucket was taken and a cool cloth placed on Oskar’s forehead. “Just lie back for a few minutes.”
Oskar peeled open one eyelid. It was Bear, smiling sympathetically as he dealt with the horror of the bucket. “I’m dying,” he managed. “Don’t look at me.” No time to check his hair.
Bear chuckled. “Nah, it’s just a hangover. Drink some water and you’ll be fine.” By way of answer, Oskar whined. “Aw, you poor thing. Can I get you anything?”
“Yes, one thing,” Oskar whispered. “Turn on my tablet. Songs. I need something to die to.”
Bear laughed. “OK. You’re not gonna die, though you look very white. Even your hair looks hungover.”
The heady notes of A-Ha filled the room, better than any drug could ever be. Oskar glared at Bear. “My hair? What’s up with it?”
Bear’s giggling faded in the face of wrath. “Nothing. It’s just great. You want a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Paracetamols?”
“Yeah. Four packs of.”
“Oskar? I hope you don’t mind my saying, but…” Bear began.
“I will mind so don’t bother.” Oskar growled. For certain, he would never be drinking again so no need for a shitty lecture.
“I’m not going to offend you, honest!” Bear held up hands in surrender. It hurt to have to watch fast motion. Oskar closed his eyes. Hopefully Bear would get the message and disappear in a puff of smoke. “It’s just. You shouldn’t let your dad ruin your life like this. You don’t have to abuse your body.” He parked his irritating self on the bed. “You have nothing to prove.”
