by Rachel Ward
I leave the sleeping bag in a heap on my mattress. Where the curtains are parted I can see condensation fogging up the window, blotting out the world outside. I stagger into the bathroom, trying not to put too much weight on my painful left leg. The cold tap is still dripping; it’s even worse now.
Catching my reflection in the mirror, my heart jumps into the back of my throat. The shape of my face, the angle of the gray-blue eyes, the set of my mouth and the lines of dirt. All these things say Rob. The face they zipped away — eyes open, skin pale and streaked with mud.
But I’m not Rob. I’ve got to remember that. I look like him, but that’s all. We were at the lake together, we were there, struggling in the water … but I got out alive.
The dirt on my face must be from when I fell over by the bungalows. I feel a shudder of revulsion, but I can wash it away. I can clean myself up. I reach for the hot tap and wince: My palm is sore. There are little raw points, bright red oozy pinpricks, where the skin’s been taken off. I put the plug in and start to turn the tap, but then I stop, remembering what happened last night when I splashed my face.
The memories. The voice.
But it was the middle of the night. I was tired. Confused.
Even so, I check behind me. There’s no one there, of course.
I watch the water dripping from the cold tap, forming a clear pool in the bottom of the sink, and anxiety stabs me in the guts.
For Chrissake, just wash your face. Look at you. You’re a mess. A voice in my head is urging me on.
I turn the hot tap full on, so it’s gushing and spluttering, and dip one hand into the water, swooshing it around to feel the temperature. I’m looking down but my eye catches something flashing in the mirror behind me, a movement. It’s gone before I’m even sure if I saw it, but my chest starts heaving, and I can feel sweat prickling on my upper lip. I spin around and face the room.
It’s empty.
I turn back to the sink. Come on, you can do this. The water is nearly up to the outlet. I turn the hot tap off and tighten up the cold one so that it stops dripping, too. I plunge both hands into the water, lean forward, and splash my face.
She’s screaming. Her hands are tearing at his, trying to wrench them away from her throat. I take another deep breath and swim toward them. I look up again. Rain splashes on the surface, making it seem alive, obscuring my view. But I can still hear her. Hear her screaming for her life.
There’s sweat between my shoulder blades, my stomach’s contracting, my heart’s pounding. It’s not real; it’s a memory, that’s all. I force myself to pick up the soap and work my hands together. I lean forward again and scrub my cheeks and forehead, along my jawline and around my eyes.
Get clean, wash all this away.
I slop water onto my face again to rinse it. When I open my eyes the soapy drips have merged with the rest, clouding the water in the bowl below. I can still see the dark circle of the plug at the bottom, but there’s something else. A face looking up at me.
His face. Deathly pale. Marked skin.
“No!”
I rear back, fumbling for the towel. I dry my face and inch forward, peering over the rim of the sink. There’s a pale shadow there now, the outline of a face and neck. Trembling, I lean closer. The shape gets larger. Closer still. Larger again.
It’s me, of course. My reflection on the surface of the water.
I pull the plug and watch the water disappear. Then I look at myself in the mirror.
How can you tell if you’re going mad? Do you look different? Can you see it in your own eyes?
Downstairs, the living room is a mess, cans lying where Mum left them last night. The coat I put on top of her is on the floor. But she’s not there. I check in the kitchen, then go back through to the bottom of the stairs and shout up.
“Mum?”
I run up and knock on the other bedroom door.
“Mum?”
No reply. I look in quickly. The bed’s empty, the duvet’s half on the floor. There are old tissues and cans littering the carpet. But no Mum. Where the hell is she? I’ve just got out of the hospital and she isn’t even here.
I’m really thirsty; hungry, too. But there’s no food in the place and nothing to drink except lager, water, and some spoiled milk. I want something to get me going, get my senses working properly — something with some fizz, some caffeine.
I grab last night’s jacket from the floor and have a quick look for some money. Surely there’s some cash lying around somewhere, for God’s sake, some emergency bills stashed in a biscuit tin or under a can in the cupboard. I do a quick trawl of the kitchen and living room, stick my hand down the back of the sofa. I find fifteen pence between the cushions, and that’s it. I drop the coins in my jeans pocket.
On my way out I put the jacket on and explore the pockets. My fingers close around the phone, and last night’s guilty heat surges through me again. Don’t look now. Concentrate. As well as the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, there’s something smooth, heavy when I close my fingers around it. Without looking, I know it’s a jackknife. I can see it in his hand as he flicks the blade in and out, in and out. I let it go and keep searching, digging into the corners of both pockets. No coins. Shit.
I pull the door shut behind me. I need some food, but I’ve no idea how I’m going to get it. I jog tentatively along the walkway and down the stairs — no vaulting over the edge today. There are some little kids playing football by the garages. They stop when they see me, just stop and stare silently. One of them picks up the ball and holds it close to his chest.
I trot around the corner and swing into the shop on the end of the block. It’s the sort of place that sells everything — newspapers, toilet paper, candy bars, bread, booze — if you’ve got any money, which I haven’t. Well, hardly any. I’m just hoping I’ll think of something.
The guy behind the counter clocks me as soon as I walk in. He holds his hand up to the customer at the register. “One moment,” he says, then he leans over the counter and calls across the shop to me.
“You’re banned. Don’t you remember? I don’t want any more of my stuff going missing.”
I start to color up. The people in the queue are looking now. He’s as good as called me a thief in front of them.
“I just want to get a few things,” I say, trying to stay calm. I’m thinking that maybe I can ask to owe him or say that my mum will pay him back.
He shakes his head.
“Not in here.”
“Please, I’m hungry and thirsty. We’ve got nothing in the house. Mum hasn’t had a chance to get anything since … since, you know.”
The guy’s expression softens. Two of the people in the queue look away, the woman nearest the register makes a sympathetic face. They all know.
“Just a can of Coke and some bread or something,” I say.
The guy nods reluctantly. “Okay. Quickly,” he says.
I open the fridge and pretend to take my time choosing, running my hand across the tops of the cans. When the shop guy goes back to serving the woman, I slip a can into the inside pocket of my jacket, and then take another. It’s instinctive, my hand does it so quickly. And it was easy, so easy — I must have done it before. I feel bad, but I haven’t got any money, have I? If he doesn’t let me have the one he can see, at least I’ll have the one in my pocket.
I follow the aisle around and pick up some sliced white bread and a can of beans, then I walk up to the queue.
“You go in front, love,” the woman close to the register says. “That’s all right, isn’t it?” she says to the people behind. They both mutter something that could be “Yeah,” too embarrassed to do anything else. I shuffle past them and stand next to her. I still don’t know how I’m going to play this.
“Can I owe you?” I say to the guy, nervously.
He looks at me in disbelief.
“What?” he says.
“Can I owe you? Mum’s gone out and taken all the cash.”
His hand shoots out and he’s gripping the top of the baked bean can. I was an idiot to even try this, but what else was I supposed to do?
“What are you doing, coming into my shop with no money? What are you doing?” His voice is much too loud and a little bit of spit lands on the top of the hand holding the can.
I can hear tutting behind me, but the woman’s scrabbling in her purse. She hands me a two-pound coin.
“It’s all right, Ashraf,” she says. “Here, Carl, pay with this.”
Ashraf looks at her like she’s completely lost her marbles.
I smile at her gratefully, put the coin on the counter, and slide it toward Ashraf.
He blows air out slowly through pursed lips, takes the coin like it’s infected, and puts my change on the counter. I look at the money and then at the woman.
“You have it,” she says. “Go on, take it. How’s your mum doing?”
Violent. Tearful. Drunk. Missing. Tears start welling up. She’s being too nice and I’m just not used to it.
“She’s okay,” I say. “She’s doing okay.”
“Give her my best,” she says. “Tell her Sue from the launderette sends her love.”
I nod my head, then pocket the coins and make a swift exit carrying my stuff in a thin plastic bag. I open the Coke outside the shop. It’s cold and sweet and fizzy, with that prickly edge to it that you get from the first sip. I neck it thirstily as I walk across to the rec and the bubbles go up my nose, and another memory comes out of the fog in my mind.
I pass her the can and she takes a hearty swig, then hands the can back quickly, laughing and flapping her hand in front of her face.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, went up my nose. That’ll teach me to drink so fast.”
I put the can to my lips, slurping at the liquid that’s collected just inside the top rim, aware of my lips touching the lip gloss she’s left behind.
She stretches her legs out in front of her, leans back into the park bench, and puts her hands behind her head. The sun is bright in our faces and she closes her eyes.
“This is nice,” she says.
I don’t close my eyes. I sip at the Coke and look at Neisha’s face, her beautiful face, in the sunshine.
The rec is filling up with kids — little ones in the play park, bigger ones in uniforms hanging around the monkey bars or swinging on a tire someone’s rigged up in a tree. They stream onto the square of grass and mud from one corner and it takes a minute until I get it: They’re all coming out of school.
School. Mum hasn’t mentioned it and I simply forgot all about it. It doesn’t seem, I dunno, important. No one can expect me to sit in class and take it all in when my brother’s died, can they? I’m fifteen. I can’t even remember who my schoolmates are. If I’ve got any. Perhaps I’ll never have to go to school again.
I lean against a tree and finish my Coke. There’s a heavy feeling behind my eyes, a sort of pressure, and I realize I’m not far from crying again.
I look at the ground in front of me and scuff the toe of my sneakers in the dirt, then throw my empty Coke can toward the bin. It misses. I leave it lying on the ground, turn away, and start walking back to the flat, eyes on the ground.
“Aren’t you going to pick that up?”
I look up. Coming toward me is a woman in a different uniform. She’s young — younger than Mum, anyway — sturdy-looking, with gingerish curly hair that’s trying to escape from under her hat.
“I’ll get it,” she says. “This time.” She stoops down, picks up the can, and drops it in the bin, then walks over to stand next to me. “How are you doing, Carl? I’m surprised to see you out. Only got home yesterday, didn’t you?”
She seems to know all about me, but I don’t know her. At least I don’t think I do. I’m suddenly aware of the can in my inside pocket, the cigarettes, the knife, the phone, the photos. Oh God. I fold my arms across my front.
“I’m okay,” I say, avoiding her look.
“I stopped by earlier but no one answered,” she says. “We need to talk to you about Tuesday. I know you talked about it to someone in the hospital, but this is important. We need to go over it again. You on your way home now?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure …” If the house is still empty. Where Mum’s gone. If she’s ever coming back.
“It’s okay, I’ll give your mum a ring. See if I can come around. It needs to be today, really. Sooner rather than later.”
She’s saying it kindly, but I’ve got alarm bells going off. What does she want? I’ve got nothing to tell her. All the stuff I can remember isn’t the sort of stuff you’d tell a copper.
“Yeah, okay …” I say vaguely and start to wander away.
“I’m sorry about Rob,” she says. I stop and stare at the ground. “We had our ups and downs, but I was very sorry to hear what happened. It’s a terrible shame.”
I kind of nod, and start walking again. Got to get out of here.
“I’ll see you later, right?”
“Right, okay,” I say.
I start running toward the flat but have to stop. I feel almost sick, unpleasantly full. Running and Coke don’t mix.
The flat’s still empty. I take a few deep breaths like they showed me at the hospital, try to put everything out of my mind — Mum, Rob, the police, Neisha. God, Neisha. I’m itching to get the phone out, look at the photos again, but my stomach starts rumbling and I realize I can’t remember the last time I ate something. I think about that rather than the growing panic inside me, and set about cooking up a storm. I put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and press the lever down, but nothing happens. It just pops up again. There’s no heat or anything. Okay, I’ll do it under the grill. It’s all electric, so all I have to do is find the right knob and turn it on. How frickin’ hard can it be? I get the grill going — four slices lined up now, nice and neat — and turn my attention to the beans. I fetch a pan out of the cupboard, slam it onto the stovetop, turn on the coiled burner, and empty the can into it.
I wander into the living room and flick on the TV to keep my mind off the policewoman. It’s some sort of cooking program. I watch as the guy on screen chops up a load of vegetables and then starts to fry it. He’s already got some meat sizzling in the pan. He’s stirring it around, adding more stuff, squirting some sort of sauce on it — to be honest, it looks pretty tasty. I can’t take my eyes away. I can almost smell it, and the pain in my stomach is really going for it now, stabbing me from the inside. He tips the food onto a big square white plate and bends over to smell his creation.
I breathe in with him, expecting meat and onion and I don’t know what else. I get smoke, bitter and choking in the back of my throat. Shit! I jump back into the kitchen. Gray smoke is streaming up and out of the grill. I grab the pan. It burns my fingers as I yank it clear and let it drop onto the floor, onto the heap of wilting flowers. Their plastic wrappings hiss and shrivel in the heat. The toast is black and the beans in the saucepan have almost disappeared. What’s wrong with me? I just wanted some food. I’m so bloody hungry. The tears that were threatening to burst out earlier are back.
Why isn’t Mum here to do this? Why didn’t she teach me what to do? Where the hell is she?
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, hands hanging by my sides, crying like a baby.
“Carl?”
She’s there, in the doorway, looking at the mayhem.
“What’s going on here? Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
I was hungry, Mum. There was no food and you weren’t here. What am I supposed to do?” My voice goes higher as I rant on. “Where were you? Where were you, Mum?”
She says nothing, does nothing. She’s just standing there and now I notice that she’s got a shopping bag in each hand, blue-and-white Tesco bags bulging full of stuff. Her face looks thinner than ever, the creases deeper. Her hair’s lank and greasy. She’s tied it back, but some of it has escaped. She’s in her thirties but she l
ooks about fifty.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask again. My throat is sore from shouting.
“I went to see about the funeral,” she says.
The funeral. I’d forgotten there’d have to be a funeral.
I step over the grill pan, avoiding the plastic flower wrappers, take her shopping bags, and put them on the table. On the stovetop the saucepan’s still making a horrible noise. I switch off the burner and the grill, and open a window.
Mum just stands there, looking lost in her own kitchen.
“Do you want to sit down?” I say. She stumbles to the kitchen table and lowers herself slowly onto a chair. “Do you want a drink?”
She nods and I grab the kettle. I turn toward the sink and stop, suddenly nervous about turning on the tap. It’s stupid, but I can’t help it.
“No,” Mum says, “a real drink.” She flips her fingers toward the fridge. Breathing out, I set the kettle back on the stovetop, reach into the fridge for a can, and put it on the table in front of her. She cradles it with both hands, but she doesn’t do anything else. I lean across and crack it open.
“Ta,” she says, and takes a sip. “I got lots of leaflets and stuff,” she says. “Have a look.” She digs in her handbag and hands me a heap of papers. “When a Child Dies.” “Bereavement Benefits.” “Guide to Hayfield Cemetery.” “Children and Funerals.”
I start reading one, but it just makes me feel sick. I push it away, across the table.
“Have you decided what’s gonna happen, then?”
She knows what I’m asking, but she doesn’t answer straightaway. She purses her lips and sucks on the inside of her mouth. I think she’s going to cry, but she doesn’t. After a while she says, “He’ll be cremated and then we’ll have the ashes here. It doesn’t seem right to have them buried or anything. We’ll bring him home.”
“Cremated?” Burned up. That can’t be right. It’s so … so final.
“Yeah. Is that all right with you? I didn’t know what to do, Carl. I had to make a decision. But we could change it, if you’re not happy.”
“Happy.” The word sits like ash in my mouth.
