by Julia Gray
It didn’t feel right to attempt to emboss myself with one of the Gods. I considered some Norse, but felt anxious about getting it wrong. I loved wolves. When Ragnarok, the day of judgement, came, Skǫll raced across the sky and devoured the sun, plunging the world into darkness. Similarly, when my parents argued in the kitchen, I used to long for the lights to go out. In our house, in all the houses on our street, in the whole of London.
So: Skǫll it was.
I made my plans carefully, borrowing a needle from the sewing box and taking some plastic gloves from the nurse’s station when Dad took me to the GP to have my ears syringed. I toured the house in search of clingfilm, Sudocrem, kitchen roll. I drew my design, keeping it outline-only, not worrying about shading. I waited for a full moon, for the stroke of midnight. With the wardrobe mirror to guide me, I traced Skǫll onto my ribs and poked Winsor and Newton Indian ink into the lines with a sterilised needle. Over, and over, and over. I listened to ‘Orion’, by Metallica as I did it, as loud as my headphones would allow.
One by one, the Gods came out to watch me. They hung in the air like fireflies while I worked, drifting in and out of sight. When I was done, and the tattoo was a bloodied mess under a neat patch of clingfilm and healing cream, they’d gone.
It felt as if they approved.
It’s funny. I’ve become so used to Skǫll being on my ribs that I’ve forgotten what I needed him for. Not just, as I remember fiercely intoning to Hobie – standing, furious, on his roof, struggling to explain – for meaning. But because the Otherlife appears on the edges of things. And when I blurred my own edges, forcing ink beneath the layers of my living skin, I was looking in exactly the right way. The way you need to look if you want to really see the Otherlife.
My tattoo was the one thing I had that Hobie didn’t have, couldn’t buy, couldn’t ask for as a present. It must have made me strangely cooler in his eyes – which makes me smile now, because I was definitely not cool. I was not cool then, and I am not cool now.
Before I leave for school, I send Mum a text. Have changed mind re tutor. Cld you pls get hold of Jason? Think he cld help with chem and phys.
The more I think about it, the better I like the idea. Seeing Jason again. Letting him help me. He made me feel calm, when everything around me was anything but. When my head was hurting, when my vision was wobbling, when I felt like I couldn’t write anything more. Jason always knew the answer.
She doesn’t reply until about eight fifteen, just as I’m walking from the tube station to school, entrenched in the sublime riffage of Metallica’s And Justice For All album, which I decided to listen to from start to finish on the way in.
Sorry, darling. Jason’s not available.
Shame. He must’ve become fed up with tutoring spoilt rich kids. Even not-so-rich, not-so-spoilt ones like me. As I pound up the stone stairwell to the last strains of ‘Dyers Eve’, kick-starting my brain to cope with another day of revision notes and shouting teachers, I wonder what Jason’s doing now.
HOBIE’S DIARY
Monday 29th September 2008
Yesterday afternoon we went to Whole Foods Market on Kensington High Street. It is what we do as a family, when Dad isn’t away. Mum likes to buy weird wilting leaves and sprouting seeds and unbleached toilet paper. Dad likes to peruse organic Californian wines. Whole Foods is huge, like an airport. Once I shut Zara in the cheese room because they sometimes leave it unattended and she screamed and screamed until someone let her out.
When you walk into Whole Foods the first thing you see is these enormous mounds of bread loaves and meringues and scones, like leaves waiting to be set on fire. For a shop that’s so obsessed with being healthy, they have a lot of sugar-loaded stuff in the entrance hall. But maybe it’s like a trailer for a tacky action movie before some turgid foreign subtitled arthouse bollocks. It draws you in. I wondered if Ben had ever been to Whole Foods and what he’d make of it.
Zara and I made straight for one of their artistically positioned tasting trays, full of bits of chocolate brownies and things. I picked up three or four and shoved them into my mouth. Just as Za was doing the same, I said:
‘Mum thinks you’re going to be too fat to pass the 11+. Did you know that?’
She shot a look at me, quite a wavery one because you could tell she just hadn’t been expecting that.
I looked her up and down. She was wearing pink leggings and ballet shoes and a grey cashmere hoodie with diamanté crystals stuck onto it in the shape of a unicorn. I smiled sort of knowingly.
‘I’m not fat,’ she said. She made it sound a bit too much like a question.
I shrugged. ‘Sure, sure.’
Now she was tearing up. Easy. Too easy.
‘What do you mean, Hobie? What do you—’
I put my head on one side. ‘You need to be hungry, Za.’
Mum and Dad were wafting over with their big blank trolleys.
‘Hey, hey,’ said Dad, reaching his arms around Zara. ‘It’s all right, little monkey.’ She turned around and hid her face in his jacket, letting the mini brownie squares tumble from her fingers.
Then they both looked at me.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ I said.
Mum glanced at the sacrificial heap of baked goods. ‘I don’t think we should get any of these this week. You children are having far too much sugar.’
When Mum and Dad had set off again I caught Zara’s eye and winked. I told you so.
Wednesday 1st October
I messaged Ben again, asking about the tattoo. One thing I’ve realised about asking for things is, if you just keep on and on at it, and the other person is significantly more weak-willed than you are, eventually you’ll get your way.
He replied, ‘You have to understand what the Otherlife is about. Otherwise there’s no point.’
I said that was fine, and he said he’d try and explain it a bit, although he probably wouldn’t be much good at it. He’d also give me some books and things to read.
I forgot to discuss it properly with him earlier this week because there was so much going on. We had this massive Science test on acids and bases which I think I failed and I’m worried I’m going to have to have extra sessions with Mr Keynes who I don’t like because he is weird. Then there were auditions for Lord of the Flies, which we’re going to be putting on in early December. I love plays. Miss Atkins and Mrs McRae held auditions on Monday after school in the hall for Years 6 to 8.
Lord of the Flies was on our reading list last year. It was quite good but had too much description. I wanted to be Ralph because that’s the biggest part and because I have fair hair, but Miss Atkins thinks I should be Roger.
‘But Roger hardly says anything!’ I said to her. ‘I have a really loud voice. You said that last time, when we did The Pirates of Penzance.’
‘We’ll see, Hobie,’ she said.
‘We’ll see’ is almost as ridiculous and see-through as pas devant l’enfant.
In the end she said she’d cast me as Jack, who is almost as big a part as Ralph, so that was all right, and the Nicholson Twins as Sam and Eric (of course) and Norville as Piggy although he’ll have to put on about four stone in order to play him. Are the teachers really stupid or something? Frodo would be perfect for Piggy. He even has moobs. And they cast Matteo as Roger and Archie as Ralph and they asked Ben to play Simon but he said he’d prefer to paint scenery and build props out of bits of wood, so they’ve cast Simon as Simon which at least makes some kind of sense. I hope they film it all and put it on YouTube.
Miss Atkins said they’d need a few days to finalise their decisions. She asked Ben to compose some special music on the harp to play offstage and he went dark red and said that he didn’t have his harp any more.
‘His mother sold it,’ said Frodo importantly. ‘It was worth, like, ten grand.’
I think that was what it cost per day to charter the yacht we went on over the summer. Or maybe that was euros.
As Miss Atkins was gather
ing up all the scripts I noticed that her stomach was poking out a bit more than usual under her wrap-type dress. I mean, all women’s stomachs do, and Miss Atkins doesn’t always wear the most flattering outfits, but as I was on my way out I asked her anyway.
‘Miss Atkins, are you … pregnant?’
She reacted like I’d hit her in the face and then stood up a lot straighter, furiously shaking her head. Most of the scripts slithered out of her arms and fell to the floor.
‘Hobie, you can’t ask those kinds of questions. I mean – honestly—’
She and Mrs McRae scrabbled around, picking up the scripts, while Norville and Ben and Simon helped.
‘I told you,’ I could hear Miss Atkins muttering to Mrs McRae as I departed. ‘I told you he should play Roger. God knows where that child will end up. Juvenile detention, I’m telling you.’
Thursday 2nd October
I failed the Science test. I told Mum it was Mr Keynes’s fault for forgetting to give me some extra sheets like he said he would, and she was all fired up to have a massive go at the school, but then Mr White emailed her with some ‘concerns’ because apparently I’m behind in French and Geog and Greek and also my last two English homeworks have ‘fallen short of the standard expected from Scholarship candidates’ or something stupid like that. So, faced with this pile-up of evidence, Mum did the only thing she could do under the circumstances, which was to blame Jason.
Today he arrived five minutes early as always, on his falling-apart bicycle that would’ve looked dated 100 years ago, and Mum was waiting to collar him in the hall. I could already tell from the shade of her lipstick that she was getting ready to fire him and shop around for a better tutor. One with royal connections maybe, or a double-barrelled surname.
Crouching on the other side of the sitting-room door, I knew that it wouldn’t really be fair to hold Jason responsible. And he probably wasn’t going to be much good at standing up for himself. He’s so weedy and gay-looking, with his silly Adam’s apple and his awful stripy shirts.
I was wrong.
Jason made it totally clear that he’s kept a meticulous note of every single piece of work he’s ever done with me AND date-stamped it on his crappy laptop. I reckon he knows my syllabuses better than the teachers do. He even tailors all our work to my Learning Style (kinaesthetic, which means that I like to throw things while I learn).
Even Mum couldn’t really argue with that.
I could hear their voices bobbing up and down behind the sitting-room door. It was like some awful play on Radio 4.
‘Really need to make sure Hobes is properly focusing …’
‘Mrs Duvalle, these Scholarship exams are very demanding. There’s bound to be a steep learning curve at this point.’
‘But even so, surely he should be performing …’
‘Have you considered redoing his Ed Psych?’
‘Why, do you think he …’
‘Perhaps it might be …’
Then the key turned in the front door and Dad came in, depositing his briefcase and coat with military exactness and rubbing his hands together from the cold of the evening.
‘Hey, Hobie, what’s up?’ Dad always looks so pleased to see us when he comes home from the office. ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘Mum and Jason are talking.’
Dad decided that the best thing to do would be for me and him to go and join them, so we sat around together for another FIFTEEN MINUTES while I poked all Mum’s coffee-table books (called things like La Terre Vue du Ciel and full of pictures of lagoons) so that the edges didn’t line up with each other any more. And it was agreed that Jason and I should continue working together on Mondays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, but for an extra half an hour so we can go over more basics. And Mum asked Jason if he would come to our country house for the second week of half term and his eyes lit up and he said he would have to miss a tutorial but, yes, he’d like that very much, and I fervently hoped he’d consider buying some new jumpers or something with what Mum was proposing to pay him. He looks like he shops at Oxfam.
And then Rebecca arrived, in her little green jacket and purple hat, to work with Zara, and Mum decided on the spot that Rebecca should come to the country too so that Zara could have some intensive sessions and I could get a bit of help with Latin and Greek. I quite like Rebecca. Sometimes I think I make Jason nervous, though I don’t know why. Rebecca always just smiles and looks sort of amused by everything.
This evening I ate the whole of Zara’s veal escalope. She didn’t seem to want it, even without breadcrumbs.
Friday 3rd October
‘You could have just copied me,’ Ben said. I was in the squash court, slicing my racket with precisely the same amount of vigour each time, sending the ball ricocheting crazily back and forth like a rabbit trying to dodge a pack of hounds.
Ben doesn’t understand that I only enjoyed copying his work before, when I didn’t really like him. It isn’t any fun copying off someone you think is actually OK.
‘Nah,’ I said, hoping that the racket would snap from the force of my strokes. Willing it to. ‘What would be the point? I’ve got to take the same stupid exams as everyone else.’
‘So maybe you need to study a bit harder.’
I disagreed. What I needed to do was find a way of getting a Scholarship anyway. I needed to give it some more thought. Maybe I could bribe some kid at Eton to get hold of the papers and fax them over? Could I blackmail Miss Atkins into giving me a heads-up on the content of the Latin and Greek papers? Of all the teachers, she’s probably the easiest to manipulate. I thwacked the ball in an alternating forehand, backhand pattern, thinking furiously. Then I noticed what Ben was doing. He was standing completely still and staring at the back wall, just above the line.
I caught the ball in my hand and said, ‘What? What is it?’
He shook his head abruptly. ‘Nothing.’
‘Bollocks. You’re looking at the Otherlife, aren’t you? What can you see?’
Without shifting his gaze he said, ‘It’s Mjllnir. Thor’s hammer. Just the edge of it.’
‘Where?’
‘Sort of emerging from the paint. Like it’s coming up from underneath. Look for the way the colour changes. Thor’s always a dark blue, a kind of indigo.’
I stared at the wall so hard I could’ve burst a blood vessel. But I just couldn’t see it.
Then Ben asked if I would spend the first week of half term revising at his house, and I said yes immediately, not because I wanted to do any more sodding work, but because (a) Ben doesn’t have a nanny or anything, so we could do whatever we wanted, and (b) I liked the idea of getting out of my own house. Even though I hear Ben’s is really small.
‘So, were you pissed off about your mum selling your harp like that?’
‘No.’ He looked surprised. ‘I mean, it was never properly mine, was it? It was hers to sell. My parents bought it.’
Ridiculous. As soon as anyone buys anything for me it becomes 100% my property.
‘But you liked it.’
He sighed. ‘Yeah.’
‘What’s happened to your dad?’
‘I dunno. He’s gone off to finish his book.’
Ben’s dad never made as much money as Ben’s mum did. I really can’t imagine what that would be like. My mum worked in an art gallery for about three days once and then she met my dad in a club called Annabel’s. I did, however, once tell the whole of my class that she used to be an air hostess because I knew it would really infuriate her when she found out.
‘I never really see my mum either,’ said Ben.
‘Who makes your breakfast and packed lunch and stuff?’
‘I do.’
‘Jesus, Ben, that’s like slave labour. You should ring Childline.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Hobie.’
He walked out of the squash court, slamming the door. An unusually forceful gesture, for Ben.
Today we were studying Purpose Clauses in Latin. Su
ch as, ad forum ivi ut panem emerem – I went to the forum to buy bread. To express intent, or purpose, use ut + subjunctive. Follow the rule for sequence of tenses. It came to me, as I subtly rocked my desk back and forth so that a series of tectonic vibrations undermined the studious note-taking of the Nicholson Twins, Hobbitboy and Jean-Jacques, that the lesson summed up quite a lot of stuff really. We study Purpose Clauses so that we can do well in Latin. We do well in Latin so that we can get Scholarships. We get Scholarships to bring Prestige and Fortune upon ourselves and our families and our schools, and do well at our next schools. We do well at our next schools so we can go to the best Universities. We go to the best Universities to get the best jobs. It’s all one big, ludicrous Purpose Clause.
But where does it end? We’re all going to die eventually, aren’t we?
‘Hobie!’ said Miss Atkins. ‘What are you doing?’
I looked down. With the nib of my Pelikan I had dug a massive rip in the pristine cover of my new Latin for Scholars, Part Three by R. J. Thoroughgood.
I don’t think Miss Atkins has forgiven me for the pregnancy comment. She swept my textbook off my desk and replaced it with her tatty old copy, which is covered in Post-it notes. ‘If you do anything like that again, I’ll have to bill your parents.’
It sounded a bit like ‘kill your parents’. For a moment I had a hilarious vision of Miss Atkins in a safari park, aiming at Mum and Dad with a rifle.
‘And you can stop smirking,’ she snapped.
She gave out another ream of past papers to start going over for homework, and added, as she was on her way out:
‘The cast list is up, by the way, boys. Outside the gym.’
We already knew who was playing all the big roles, but most of us ran over there anyway to see which of the Year 6s and 7s would be littluns and the minor characters like Robert and Bill and I forget who all the other ones are. Those officers that rescue them at the end, maybe. And someone should be the pig’s head on the stick, because that would be quite fun to do, with flies buzzing around and blood leaking from the neck and stuff.
