by Julia Gray
When she saw me and Ben on the (admittedly white, probably expensive) rug, Mum let out a small scream not unlike the one she’d emitted when she found me in the act of tattooing myself.
‘Boys! You are covered in mud. Go and change. Now. No, Hobie, not after tea. Right now.’
Then she turned on Dad. ‘Didn’t you notice the state of them?’
‘Relax, Elsie,’ he said, not looking up from the enormous book he was reading about the life of some dead American president. ‘It’s Ben’s birthday and he’s a guest. Ben and Hobie, why don’t you just change into some other trousers?’
We went and changed. I kept really wanting Ben to see the wolf cakes now. Like it really couldn’t come quickly enough. I’d never managed to keep a secret for an entire day before.
When we got back Ben’s mother was curled up on the huge L-shaped sofa. She’s all spindly like a spider and she didn’t really take up a lot of space. You could tell she found the house intimidating because she’d lost all her money and stuff and was probably annoyed that she didn’t have a house remotely like it any more. I’ve seen that jealous look loads of times on grown-ups’ faces.
‘Hey, Mum,’ said Ben.
She reached out for him like he was a special pet that’d been trained to sit on her lap and he dutifully went and sat with her. It looked like every nerve in his body was on standby. She stroked his hair.
‘How are you, my darling? Did you boys manage to get any work done this afternoon?’ She cast an acid glance in the direction of the corner, where Jason was nursing a pile of textbooks and marking. He looked up and did an embarrassed cough.
‘I think they went on an adventure,’ said Dad mildly.
‘Sure, but since you have tutors here—’
‘Once in a while can’t hurt.’ Dad stretched his legs out and I suddenly felt really strongly that it was crazy that we didn’t have a dog, something wild and messy and waggy-tailed, to roll around at his feet. Why the hell didn’t we have a dog? And also, why couldn’t Dad be here more often? He’s in America and Europe and Japan so much that I sometimes forget he’s a real person.
And then the lights went out and the fizz of miniature sparklers could be heard advancing into the room.
Rebecca and Zara and Clothilde brought in the cakes on big silver trays and we all sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’ and even though you could tell Zara had been crying she was smiling at Ben as if she was genuinely excited that it was his birthday. I suppose Zara is quite wet and emotional and can be relied upon for that kind of thing. I couldn’t take my eyes off Ben. Would he like the wolf cakes? I didn’t think they would count as a bad surprise. I was really hoping that he’d be pleased.
He didn’t say much, but he really looked chuffed with all of them, the wolf cupcakes with their marshmallow snouts and the Black Forest one which I have to say really did look awesome. He was incredulous that I’d got up to bake them, with a bit of help from others, while he was still asleep. And Mum took loads of pictures and Dad led a round of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and Jason was looking almost as hungry as I was and surreptitiously edging a bit closer to the smoked salmon sandwiches with wedges of cucumber that someone – maybe Anna or Clothilde – had made with bread baked in our bread machine, and Rebecca hugged Ben and I wished it was my birthday too.
Ben blew out the candles on the Black Forest cake and Zara said, ‘Make a wish.’
He looked really old suddenly, with that dark look in his eyes. His Otherlife look. I wanted to know what he was wishing for. Maybe for his parents to get back together. Maybe to get a Scholarship. Maybe that he could live in the Otherlife instead of London. That would be just like Ben.
I really, really wanted to know.
And then I realised I had a wish too.
I wished that Ben could come and live with me. Not just for this week. All the time.
If it had been my birthday, I would have wished for that.
I’m starting to really hate that Ben’s mum is here. She has this really annoying way of coming into the kitchen while people are cooking and talking and generally milling about and she leans backwards against the rail of the Aga like she’s on a cruise ship and posing for a snapshot. Plus, she has taken to ‘sitting in’ on our sessions with Jason and Rebecca, and although they’re really good-natured about it I can tell that they feel like she’s checking up on them to make sure they’re as good as my parents think they are.
Or she comes bursting through the dining-room doors and pounces.
‘What was that word you just said?’
‘Um, heterochromatic.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘Well, it means that two things might be different coloured, such as irises.’
‘You mean people’s eyes?’
And Ben will be twitching silently and staring out of the window and I’ll be looking at Mrs Holloway like she’s an absolute retard and Rebecca will be like, ‘Yes, exactly, and I thought Ben and Hobie might be able to use it somewhere in their creative writing.’ And Ben’s mother will scrabble through our notebooks with her skinny white fingers, ablaze with the desire to find mistakes. All this time I thought I didn’t have any allergies (Zara has loads, such as sesame oil and oysters and penicillin, and even Jason’s allergic to something bizarre, he told me once, like grass seed or dandelions or something) but I think I was wrong. I think I might actually be allergic to Ben’s mother.
And now my mother, inspired by Ben’s, has also taken to barging in on our sessions. I think she feels like she’s losing Mummy Points by not taking a frenzied interest like Ben’s mother. It’s not enough to produce a fat cheque at the end of the week. No, now she has to be there too. It’s getting more and more like a police interview or something. Except neither of them wants to be the Good Cop.
Today, just as we were tidying up (well, I say we, but I mean Ben and Jason were tidying up while I fashioned darts out of scrap paper and chucked them at their heads), both mothers came in like Valkyries on the hunt for dying warriors. They opened our completed Maths papers and scanned them for the red biro marks that signalled Jason’s assistance or correction. They whispered. They traded looks of excitement/consternation. They were unbelievably annoying about the whole thing.
‘84% – is that good? That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Ben’s mother, pretending not to notice it was 13 more per cent than I’d got.
‘Oh, is 71% all right?’ my mother was saying. That’s one thing she hadn’t reckoned on with the joint tutoring: seeing someone do better than me.
Ben and I and Jason made for the door, leaving them to feast like vultures on the carcasses of our work. We were all three of us looking forward to supper, which was pheasant with red cabbage and parmesan mash and an autumn trifle for pudding.
Ben’s mother hovered, arms outstretched.
‘Well done, darling,’ she said, making an awkward grab at his neck for some kind of cuddle. He flinched. ‘You’re making such fantastic progress.’
We were halfway down the stone passage that leads from the dining room to the hall when I heard a voice that can only be described as wrought from steel and sheer ice summoning me back again.
‘HOBIE! HOBART DUVALLE!’
What? I thought irritably, trotting back again like a gundog. What was it this time? I couldn’t think of anything that I’d done recently. I let Zara help with the stupid cake. I hadn’t played Lose Zara in the Maze even once, and we’d been here nearly a whole week. The clown suit, although a bit tactless maybe, could totally be explained as a cross between a joke and a spontaneous gift. There were no cigarettes knocking about as far as I knew, and if there were I’d blame them on Jason. Oh. The clothes. Had she found out about the clothes that I sold? Did she have ELSIE DUVALLE nametapes on the things? I thought I’d checked, but …
My mother was standing like some sort of accusatory statue in the middle of the dining room. One hand rested on the back of a mahogany chair for support. The other held a piece of
paper. Uncrumpled, smoothed out. Jagged-edged.
Shit. Shit.
Why the hell did I hang on to it? Perhaps it was just forgetfulness. I don’t know. I hadn’t been expecting her to go through my rucksack. But then, this is the woman that keeps tabs on her children with state-of-the-art hidden cameras, so it was doubly stupid of me not to throw the thing away. Frantically I tried to string together a lie, a lie good enough to explain what it was doing in my bag.
But it wasn’t any use.
There, in her manicured hand, was the original ‘Cannibal Ate My Mum with Ketchup and Peas’, in all its lurid glory. The chocolate smears on the edges were further (unnecessary) proof that it was mine.
BEN
I’m an uncomfortable person, and I’ve felt uncomfortable many, many times in my life. But nothing – not dark days in Moorfields Eye Hospital, not Zara walking away from me in the street, not even the worst of my nightmares or headaches – comes close to how uncomfortable I feel at this moment. If I’m right, and Jason died for the reason that occurred to me, suddenly, just now … but I can’t be right. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I need to go somewhere; I just don’t know where.
Giving Solly a shallow hug, and telling him I’ll see him later, I wander away through the festival. I pass the medical tent, with bored gap-year students sitting outside with clipboards and pamphlets; I pass the emergency supplies stall with its overpriced batteries and shaving kits. The tattoo tent blares in neon: Argon Ark. Pairs of animals are lit up in gaudy silhouettes: lions, kangaroos, ducks. I slip my hand under my T-shirt, press against my ribs.
As I watch, the letters of the pink-lit sign swim and jumble and swap places.
R a g n a r o k
Slowly, I back away from it. I walk and walk, limbs uncoordinated, until I reach the outskirts of the Download site. Then I dive under a barrier, weave through skips and caravans, jump over a dry ditch. I turn and tramp up a narrow lane paved with corrugated iron and lined with blackberry bushes, lit with emergency lighting. I come to a car park, one of an interlocking system of car parks, spreading out like great lakes. Giant fluorescent lights smoulder on strings. There’s no one about. The cars look like slabs of stone.
A car alarm goes off, and then another and another and another. A chorus line of beeps and wails gets louder, and louder.
‘Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben!’
I start to run, heading to the top of the car park. I must get to some place higher, I think, higher up. Some place with a view. I climb over barbed wire, clamping my hands freely over the spikes, uncaring.
‘Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben!’
Now a hedge meets me and I slither through it, desperate to get away from the noise. I find myself alone in a giant field. It is curved, like the top of a huge dome. The only light now comes from a sullen three-quarter moon that lurks behind swollen clouds. Distant behind me, the angry cries of the cars. I make my way to the top of the field, my legs automated.
A bonfire at the far edge of the field. Dark shapes around it. Four – five. Berserks, I think. But there’s nowhere to run to. I know they’ve seen me; I hear whoops and high-rising catcalls. One of them stands up, waving. I look for my phone, but there’s nothing in my pockets. In any case, there’s nobody to call.
‘Ben! Get over here!’
Perhaps they are going to kill me, I think. I remember going to the headmaster’s office – it must have been six weeks ago, already feels like a different year, a different me – and standing outside, knowing that when I got in there’d be a long, sorrowing conversation about my lack of ambition, the poorness of my predicted grades. And I remember thinking, Just get rid of me now, if I’ve failed so badly. Just let me go.
Feet slow, I approach the group around the bonfire.
White-faced, black-clothed, they squat around the flames. Some of them hold guitars. Their hair is long and matted. As I get nearer they all look up, their smiles wide and welcoming.
‘It’s Ben! He finally made it!’
‘Take a seat, dude.’
Space is cleared for me on the ground. A warm beer is pressed into my hand. I look around the group. Berserks they cannot be, nor Gods. But … now I’m looking at them up close, I can see – just faintly – a flickerwork of changing light about their heads. Slowly I study their faces, all turned towards me with expectant expressions. The bonfire rustles and sizzles; sparks pop and chatter, springing away like shooting stars.
There’s Dimebag Darrell.
Layne Staley.
Randy Rhoads.
Gar Samuelson.
And Cliff. My beloved Cliff Burton.
My Late Greats of Metal, assembled here like old friends.
‘What are you doing here?’ I mumble.
‘Oh, we don’t like to miss Download,’ says Gar Samuelson, his curled hair rippling.
‘We don’t like to miss anything,’ adds Randy Rhoads. ‘But tonight there’s another show about to start. Just across those fields, there. Look.’
I follow his outstretched arm. He is pointing down, down across the valley. It’s so dark that there’s nothing to see at first; then the image sharpens, lightens, so that I can almost make out the individual shapes of the Monopoly houses, the tiny sheep and cows. I gaze over the knitted fields with their treeline hems, past outhouses and barns, past the snaky glint of river to a small village. It’s about a kilometre or two away, I’d say, though Ordnance Survey map work was never one of my strong points. For a moment I think I recognise the church spire, the curve of the footbridge as the river meets the edge of the village.
‘What is it?’ I say. The village is sleeping, so silent it could be uninhabited. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Just wait. It will,’ says Cliff, in his Californian accent.
‘What is that place?’
‘I think,’ says Cliff, his thin, intelligent face lit up by the flames, ‘you could call it Valhalla.’
Together around the bonfire, the Late Greats and I watch as the lightshow begins on the horizon.
Over the sleeping village the colours bloom: pink, bruise purple, silver and bronze. Otherlife colours. Silent lightning: tinsel spears the sky. Shadowy figures are stirring. I watch the roil and swell of the clouds: flamenco dancers gathering up their skirts. It begins to rain. Fat, angry drops burst on my skin like grenades. The lightshow seems to fade and brighten, brighten and fade, bursts of brilliant intensity alternating with dim flickers. It’s like watching an enormous underwater creature breathing in and out, its gills edged in iridescence.
I climb to my feet, walk to the edge of the field.
The church spire, that line of willow trees, those thick dark woods tucked away behind the lofty grey house … Something in my brain is still tick-tocking away, like Solo-mon’s does when he’s trying to figure out what school someone goes to, which university their siblings are at, which side of the square someone’s house is on. Even through my drug-heavy haze, I’m thinking, I know this place. I know this.
As the lightshow pulses and grows, the air swirling with purpose and menace over the village, I keep thinking, tracing the outlines of the buildings and mapping them against my memories. I swing back to the Late Greats, but – of course – they’re gone; not even a circle of stamped-down fire remains to suggest they were ever there. I turn again to look at the lightshow.
I have been here before.
I have been to that lofty grey house over whose turrets and shingles the lightshow is gathering.
Valhalla.
The steps appear in front of me, rainbow-edged and translucent, and then, gradually, the whole of the bridge assembles, unfolds, reaches over and across the valley towards the lofty grey house at the edge of the village.
It’s Duvalle Hall.
‘Ben!’
I look back. It’s Cliff, whiter and thinner than ever, barely there.
‘Good luck,’ he says.
It’s raining harder now; it’s difficult to hear him.
‘Are you …
in the Otherlife?’
‘Who knows where we are … or where we’re going, Ben … We just …’
‘What?’
‘We just came to show you the way.’
I never thought – never – that I’d be watching my grimy trainers take their first faltering steps upon Bifrost. I never thought anything like this would ever happen to me. The Otherlife was born out of books; it came to me in shadows and glow-worm gleams. It hummed quietly in corners. It told me stories. It was never this bright, or this loud, or this … present. At this moment, for some reason, it is the realest thing that I’ve ever felt in all my life.
I’m up above the valley now, still climbing. The rainbow bridge shimmers under my feet. It feels tremulous, like thick slime. The air sings with rain. I take off my sodden hoodie and throw it off the bridge, and watch it flap-flapping down into some fields far below, like a broken kite. I am alive, I think, but I might also be dead, because I don’t know how this can be happening.
I look for Heimdallr, the watchman, and find him at the apex of the bridge. In one hand he holds a heavy-looking horn. A blazing, burnt-orange glow outlines him as he raises the horn to his lips and tips his head back, and blows. A single note rises into the air, like a siren call.
Silhouetted against the rainclouds he stands, neck taut, waiting. He does not notice me as I pass.
The bridge begins to curve downwards now, towards the village. I see the green with its cricket pavilion, the handful of shops and cottages, the bigger houses on the fringes, rising up to meet me as I descend.
I get off by the footbridge over the river. There’s no need to look behind me: I know Bifrost will have already dispersed into the night. There’s no sign of the Otherlife now, as I walk through the sleeping village, past the putting green and the small playground, past the post office and the bed and breakfast. But I’m wrong: in the sky, two wolves hover in clouds of luminescence; one is white, the other dark. High up, they twist and writhe, straining to be unleashed.
