There is no beginning and no ending. I know that now. For others, perhaps, there are stories that lead somewhere, but not for me. It’s like they go round in circles, and sometimes not even that: they just stand still in one place. And I wonder: what are you supposed to do with a story that repeats itself?
In another world, in the stories I told my little brother, there was always a beginning to everything and an ending, and the ending was the most important thing. I used to tell my brother that the beginning might not always be very nice, but the main thing is that it leads up to a point where things get better.
‘Once upon a time there was a boy called Robert. He grew up in Skogstorp, a little place outside Falkenberg, in a street that was named after a flower, just like all the other streets in Skogstorp. Together with his mum and dad and his big sister Nella, he lived in a maisonette that was actually an apartment with a garage and a patch of garden. No one had ever bothered to plant anything or sow grass seed in that garden. His mum wasn’t the type to take an interest in that sort of thing, and neither was his dad. Robert and Nella’s parents were not like other parents. They didn’t work, they didn’t have a car, they didn’t go on holiday with their children in the summer, although there might have been one time they did, but it was so long ago that nobody could remember any more. But that’s how things were: their parents were there in the beginning, but they would not be there at the end... ’
So I could tell him the story, and he would listen, wide-eyed, as he scratched at the rash between his fingers and waited for the story to take him to a place where everything was far better. But that was difficult. He had to get past some obstacles first. It’s not easy to get from the darkness into the light. That’s the point of stories.
‘Robert wasn’t like the other children in the neighbourhood where they lived. He was shy and clumsy and not that bright in school. He had poor eyesight, and probably had done ever since he was born, because he was forever injuring himself when he was little, walking into walls and sharp corners, stumbling on rocks and kerbs, or on the stone jetty down by the sea in the summer-time. But because his mum and dad were the way they were, they never took him to the optician’s. It wasn’t until he was in Year Two that the school nurse began to suspect something and made an appointment for him with the optician. Then he got glasses that just kept getting stronger every year. The glasses were a whole story in and of themselves. They were almost always held together with tape because the lads at school would snatch them from Robert and break them, and because he was still so clumsy and would walk into things or trip over so they would break, and because his parents didn’t care the slightest bit about it, just as they didn’t care what their children were up to, what time they came home, how they were doing at school, if they were hungry or thirsty, what they looked like, if their clothes were dirty or torn, if they were happy or sad, healthy or ill. It was Nella who had to look after all that. She was the one who cleaned and tidied the house where they lived. She was the one who did the shopping if there was any money. She was the one who helped Robert with his homework, athough it wasn’t particularly hard because he was in the remedial group and had only basic maths and basic English. Nella was the one who looked after him because nobody else did, and because in a way he didn’t care what kind of person he was, as if his life were something that had been thrust upon him in passing, with a set of instructions written in a foreign language that he didn’t really know how to follow. She was the one who made breakfast and made sure they went off to school. She was the one who washed their clothes. Nella was the one who cooked their meals, although she didn’t know how to make that many things, but Robert never complained, he said her food was the best he’d ever eaten, that her boiled sausages were the tastiest, her black pudding was the most delicious, her fish fingers were the best, but he had nothing to compare them with: all he knew was the food from the school dining room.
‘Nella was the one who forged the signatures for the sicknotes on the days Robert couldn’t make it in to school; she was the one who concerned herself with all the little things that make life bearable, at least for a while. And she was the one who mended his glasses with ordinary tape, and she put a bit of a plaster on one of the lenses because her friend the Professor had told her it could fix his squint. Nella wanted to do more for him, but there wasn’t enough time, or resources, or attention. There just wasn’t enough of some things, no matter how they rationed them out.’
That’s about how I might tell him the story – a story he could recognise himself in, even though it was not pleasant at all. And without his noticing, with little, little words, I continued: ‘Nella’s name was actually Petronella. She had given herself that nickname because that was what the kids in Skogstorp called a stinging nettle, and she thought it was a fitting name for someone like her. When she was little, she actually believed that her skin could sting like a jellyfish or a nettle, and that was why people avoided her. She was two years older than Robert and in Year Nine. Besides her classmate Tommy and a guy she called the Professor, she had only her little brother. Maybe, if she thought about it, she really only had him. If she really searched deep in her heart, she would actually choose him ahead of the others. It was as if she’d been born for that reason, she used to think, born to protect him from the ones who called him retarded or idiot. To protect him from the ones who called him a freak. To protect him from the ones who picked on him more and more with every passing year. Because of his glasses, because of his squint, because he was poor at reading and writing but was really as clever as anybody else, because of the eczema on his hands, and because he couldn’t hold in his pee when they ganged up on him. Because of all these things. But everything just got worse. More and more joined in, more and more persecuted him. And Nella didn’t always manage to come to his defence. There are always places in a school that are out of sight. And she couldn’t do anything from her classroom, not when they had a free period at different times, not when they dragged him off into the woods behind the gym.
There is a beginning and there is an ending. And everything has to get worse before it gets better. That’s how it always is in stories. It’s as if they invite it, as if nature itself invites the pain to intensify before it can ebb away. But one day the pain would disappear. One day, something would happen to change history, to transform it into a new, better story. Something would whisk them away from that time and that place; namely, autumn 1983 in Skogstorp, a small community outside Falkenberg in Sweden; something would put a stop to the story, bring it to a conclusion, and transport them away from there so a new story could begin.’
‘Who?’ asked my little brother. ‘Who’s going to come and save us?’
And I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Someone, I said.
‘Did you really mean what you said about me being just as smart as anybody else?’
‘Sure. If only they had discovered your vision problems sooner, you wouldn’t have fallen behind.’
‘When I was little, I thought I was stupid when I didn’t get what the teacher was talking about. But it was just that I couldn’t see the letters... Who do you think is going to come and save us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe a policeman? Somebody who’s really strong. A real hero. Or maybe a big animal. Nella, imagine we had a tame lion. Then nobody would dare do anything to us, would they? Imagine we had one, and we went to school every morning with a lion or a monster, or else it could be a wolf, you know, like the Phantom has, and then we’d tie its lead to the bike racks. Do you think they’d dare do anything then?’
And I could hardly bring myself to look at him out of shame.
‘Robert, I promise, one day they’ll stop, one day everything will be different, we�
��ll get through it! There’s always a beginning, and there’s always an ending.’
‘Or is it Dad who’ll come and save us? When he comes home, I mean. Maybe he’s changed. He said he would, he said he’d change everything.’
I shook my head. It was so childish of him to place his hope in Dad.
‘No, we can’t count on Dad. He’s never going to change. But something else will happen that changes everything – I just know it.’
That was what I kept telling him. And he believed me, for a little while at least, because I was the only person in the world he trusted, because I was his big sister and two years older, and there was nothing else that could help him.
FALKENBERG,
OCTOBER 1983
It’s strange, the things you manage to notice even when you’re running for all you’re worth: the reddish-brown berries that had rotted on a bush next to the climbing frame; the shadow in front of me; my own shadow, which was dashing ahead like a leviathan with its underside in a shallow inlet. Puddles in the long-jump pit with autumn leaves floating in them. A red cap somebody had lost on the running track – the same colour as the gravel, just a shade deeper, not dissimilar to blood. Gerard was standing in the smoking area, trying to light a fag. He was fifty metres away. I still knew it was him, though: I could see his hands cupped round the lighter. He had gloves on, leather gloves. At any rate, he wasn’t with the others down in the woods.
I managed to think that: at any rate, Gerard wasn’t with the others down in the woods. The boy had something seriously wrong in his mind. It was as if the parts of his brain were connected up the wrong way. And all of this was connected with Gerard: the reason I was running like a madman was down to him and what had happened eight months before.
It had been in February, behind the newsagent’s kiosk by the main E6 road, maybe around eight in the evening. I was there to buy some fags for Mum. Gerard and his gang were standing a little way off, over by the crazy golf course that was boarded up for the winter.
‘My fingers are bloody freezing in this cold,’ he said. ‘We can warm ourselves up on the damned cat.’
And then he laughed that Gerard laugh that sounds almost kind-hearted, even though you know it’s exactly the opposite.
I couldn’t understand anything. Warm yourself on a cat? The others laughed as well, Peder and Ola, and a few younger lads that people usually call the trailers, because they follow Gerard around wherever he goes and carry out his orders without batting an eyelid: clearing up after him in the school dining room, carrying his stuff around, running errands, nicking fags and sweets, stealing booze from their parents’ drinks cabinets, getting petrol for his scooter – anything their leader might require.
It was a kitten. He had it in a plastic carrier bag hanging from the handlebar of his scooter. As I stood in the queue at the kiosk I watched him pick it up and cuddle it, stroking it against his cheek like a living cuddly toy and scratching it behind the ears as he gave meaningful glances to the others. It was no bigger than a small rabbit, black with a white patch on its chest. I heard him say that it was purring like an engine, and it did not protest when he held it up by the scruff of the neck. Maybe it belonged to one of the trailer lads, or maybe one of their younger siblings. It wouldn’t surprise me: Gerard could very well have asked one of them to bring it along from home. Or perhaps it had just been unlucky enough to turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘I’m freezing,’ said Gerard. ‘Is there somebody who can give us a bit of juice?’
The lads in the scooter gang would often siphon off petrol for him when he ran out. Peder, Gerard’s right-hand man, took out a length of plastic hose, stuck one end into the tank on his Dakota and started siphoning petrol into an empty soft drink bottle.
‘Can you hold the bag?’ said Gerard, handing over the carrier bag the kitten was in. ‘Open it,’ he said.
Peder opened it.
‘And now the petrol, please.’
Gerard was handed the bottle, took a sniff, wrinkled up his nose and then poured its contents into the carrier bag. The kitten let out a little shriek inside. ‘Now give it a bloody good shake, Peder. I want that damn cat to be completely fucking marinated in petrol. Otherwise it’ll go out in five seconds.’
Peder gave a little giggle, uncertain of what was going to happen.
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’ he asked. ‘Gerard, for fuck’s sake, you can’t set fire to a kitten in a carrier bag. There’ll be an explosion.’ Gerard giggled back. The trailers giggled. That was what they were expected to do.
‘Of course I’m going to fucking do it. I said I was freezing, didn’t I?’
‘Okay, then let’s move,’ said Ola to the others. ‘Move further away, lads. A definite risk of explosion here... ’
There was not a person in sight. The woman in the kiosk couldn’t see anything from her angle. It was a Saturday night in February, and a couple of inches of snow had fallen that afternoon. Then the rain had come and transformed everything into slush. People were staying indoors, watching light entertainment programmes or the feature film on TV. Robert was with Mum. Dad had recently disappeared again and would be away for nearly a year.
I went over to the cycle rack to fetch my bike. I did not want to become a witness to something I would be sorry for. I saw Gerard tie up the carrier bag and I remember thinking, he’s not going to do it. Not even Gerard is that sick.
He placed the bag down on the asphalt, took the soft drink bottle that was still a quarter full of petrol, and carefully poured out a thin fuse line over towards the fence. The trailers were worried now; you could see it in their movements, as if they were itching.
‘So you’re gonna do it?’ asked Peder. He had pulled up his top lip to expose his teeth in a wolf’s grin. He was enjoying this almost as much as Gerard, but he would never dare to do it himself.
‘I fucking said so already. I’m freezing, innit.’
The kitten was stirring around in the bag. Perhaps it was starting to get low on air, perhaps it was starting to panic. A slender paw was sticking out of the plastic. She was trying to claw her way out.
‘And just what the hell are you staring at, you fucking bitch?’ asked Ola.
It took a few seconds before I realised he was referring to me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the bag on the ground, the way it was writhing and pulsating, like something being born from a soft egg.
‘Nothing,’ I said as I inserted my key into the lock and started to walk towards the road.
‘That fucking slimy cunt,’ I heard Peder continue. ‘Her and her fucking retard brother in the class for mongs. You can’t even tell whether she’s a boy or a girl. No tits, not even any hair on her cunt. And she bloody stinks. I don’t think they’ve got a washing machine at home. Maybe not even a shower.’
‘Will you shut up?’ said Gerard. ‘Give me the lighter.’
He didn’t care about me. As far as he was concerned, I could have been made out of thin air. He had hardly ever seen me, even though we had been in the same class together since primary school.
I carried on towards the pedestrian crossing. The smell of petrol stung my nose. They were going to kill it, I thought, and there was nothing I could do.
They’re going to kill him and there’s nothing I can do. They’re going to kill him and there’s nothing I can do. That was a new earworm now, going round and round as if a radio had got stuck in my head. My lungs were about to explode. The shouting from the woods rose and fell, sometimes louder, sometimes softer. I didn’t see any teachers. Not even the caretaker, who went round with his rake and wheelbarrow with a grouchy expression. Where were all the adults? L.G., the playground supervisor, the security guy? Then I remembered: it was a teacher’s birthday. They were having cake in the staff room.
Faces looked up at me in surprise as I ran like a madman, as if I was fleeing from a murderer or a wild animal that had escaped from a circus. Pupils on their way back to their classrooms,
mostly Year Sevens and Year Eights in their jackets and down-filled body-warmers. Had they come from the woods, had they seen what they did to him, and sneaked off because they didn’t want to be witnesses?
I could taste blood in my mouth now. Someone was laughing at me: a girl from Morup, who was also called Ironing Board, just like me. Everywhere fallen leaves on the asphalt. The colours were almost soaking up into my eyes. A week ago there had been a storm and the trees had dropped the remains of their autumn apparel. Red leaves. Yellow. Like blood and tattered entrails. More faces ran past like water, some from my brother’s year, the ones who usually were nasty to him, calling him a mong and a retard, or ‘pissypants’ because he could not control his bladder out of pure fear, but now doing something else, on their way up to the common rooms to hang up their coats and head off to the next lesson. Further away, by the car park, a teacher stood talking to a parent. But I didn’t even have time to call over to them, and anyway the distance was too great, they wouldn’t have heard.
Past the gym and the plants. Two Year Nines came along, each with a lolly in their mouth, avoiding eye contact with me. I could hear my brother’s voice now, very clearly, he was really screaming, like an animal being slaughtered. I had never heard him so terrified before. I wondered where Tommy was keeping himself. Why wasn’t he running up to me? Then I remembered: he hadn’t been at school since last Wednesday. Presumably he was ill or maybe he was helping his brothers with their boat. I had rung him every day, but no one answered...
They were going to kill it, and there was nothing I could do. I don’t know why the cat was on my mind again. It had been last winter, shortly after Dad had disappeared again. Yes, I did know why. I didn’t want to deceive myself; didn’t want to be like Mum and just stick my head in the sand. I knew why I was running. I knew why they had singled out my brother. Gerard had figured out that I had blabbed. That morning there was a note in my locker. It said that L.G. had found out what had happened last winter, that Gerard had to go up to the headmaster’s office, that it must have been me who had blabbed and that they would take it out on Robert.
The Merman Page 1
