We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said. ‘I miss him.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said.

  She wiped her nose on a tissue. ‘Oh, bless you . . . and you didn’t even know him.’

  ‘He was my brother.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I meant my Eric.’

  She took off her glasses, blew on them and wiped them on her dress. I looked down at my piece of paper; if I didn’t get started on my writing soon, Jack would have turned to worms. I felt a nudge in my ribs. Auntie Jean was smiling.

  ‘Silly us,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you, I did one for my Eric. You can copy it.’

  I told her I thought I should write my own, that I didn’t want to cheat. She said it would be OK as long as I changed the names. She looked down the side of the settee, said she was sure it was there somewhere.

  I picked up the paper on the table.

  ‘Is it in here?’ I asked.

  Auntie Jean turned round quick like I’d shot her with my spud-gun. ‘Oh no, not that one.’ She took the paper out of my hand and handed me another. ‘And take this,’ she said, handing me a red pen she used for crosswords.

  I went back upstairs and laid the paper on the floor. There was a picture of an aeroplane with a bent nose on the front and a headline – CONCORDE FLIES SUPERSONIC. I thought of Dad, and Jack, and one of our days at the airfield, when we watched the sky and Jack got sunburnt. Dad said Concorde was one of the fastest planes in the world, that it would make a noise when it broke the sound barrier. We’d stayed there all day, drinking orange juice, eating sandwiches until it got cloudy. We never did get to see Concorde, but at least we heard the bang.

  I opened the paper and flicked through to the Deaths: Henry Booker is going to be buried at St Mary’s Church at ten o’clock. All his friends are invited as long as they don’t take flowers. He’s only been gone two days but his wife Florrie is missing him already.

  I didn’t know what to write about Jack. It didn’t seem right to say he was only loved by his brother. I thought about giving him an extended family, a doting auntie or an upset uncle. But there were no others.

  I ran my finger down the page, through all the Alfs, Berts and Cyrils. They were all loving husbands and grandads who’d died after long illnesses. They all seemed so old and so dead, and in just thirty words their lives read exactly the same. Nobody young had died on that day.

  I picked up the pen and started to write.

  Jack—

  The pen pierced through to the carpet. I folded the page and tried again. I added Missing you, then immediately scratched it out.

  ‘Can I help?’

  My pen jerked across the paper. I looked around the room. A laugh like a machine gun popped off in my head.

  I heard the voice again. I looked up and saw Jack smiling, swinging his legs on the bed.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he said.

  I closed my eyes, felt my heart bump through my body. I knew this wasn’t right, I knew Jack was dead, but when I opened my eyes he was still there.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  I lifted up my pen.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m . . . aaaah . . . I’m writing,’ I said.

  ‘Our book?’

  ‘No. I’m writing . . . I’m writing a death.’

  ‘A death?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s what you write when people are dead.’

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  —

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  I looked at my writing and slowly slid my thumb over his name.

  ‘. . . A friend,’ I said.

  He pushed out his bottom lip and pretended to be sad for a dead friend I didn’t have. I smiled, he smiled back and asked if we could go out and play. I said I was busy. He swung his feet faster, seemed to be happy. I thought it was weird that after what had happened to him he didn’t seem to be scared.

  ‘What can I do then?’

  I picked our book up off my bed.

  ‘You could write a chapter,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to write about.’

  ‘Are you sure? You haven’t been floating . . . seen any bright lights?’

  He looked at me like I had gone nuts.

  ‘It was Dad that went to the moon, not me.’

  ‘Draw a picture then.’

  He took my pen, but the face that had looked so happy now looked like it was going to cry. He held up his hands up and showed me his fingers. They were black with purple tips like sticks of liquorice. He picked at the tops, held them under his nose and sniffed.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do I smell of burnt toast?’

  Chapter Three

  WE LIE ON our bed and look up at all the cracks in the ceiling, all the damp patches of plaster that have crumbled away. Mrs Unster is downstairs. All the doctors have got in their cars and left us behind. We shouldn’t be here. We should be the other side of the gates, running along the road. We didn’t think we would ever lie in this bed again.

  —

  —

  We try to speak. We try to breathe, but there is a lump in our throat that is so big that no matter how many times we try to swallow it, it won’t go away.

  But we’re not crying.

  No.

  Our mouth is dry and our stomach rumbles. We’ve missed tea and they won’t bring us supper. We think about the YMI. We don’t know what it’s like but we have heard stories about people being beaten.

  Do we have to think about that?

  Sorry, but we have to tell people what it’s like. We have to tell them that it’s a big house with black windows with big rooms that people go into but never come out of.

  Like in cartoons?

  ?

  Scooby-Doo.

  Yes, except the house is full of young men and not ghosts.

  We wrap our arms tight around our body and close our eyes. It has been a long time since we have been moved, it has been a long time since we packed our bags and went to live with strangers. We think of all the houses we have been taken to, all the hands we have held, all the paths we have walked up, all the doors we have knocked on and the more we think, the more we realise that all the places we have ever been to have all looked the same. Grey roofs, grey doors, grey walls. Black windows that we waved out of even though we knew it was too dark to see in. The only thing that ever changed were the names.

  Hill House.

  Huntingdon.

  Kilmersdon.

  Valley View. Mrs Foulks, Mrs Hunter, Mrs Drummond.

  —

  ‘Hello, my name is Mrs Drummond.’

  Do we have to do that now?

  . . . ‘Hello, my name is—’

  ‘Hello Mrs Drummond.’

  Ha!

  !

  ‘I’ve been expecting you. You must be Tom.’

  ‘Yes . . . and this is Jack.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, I can’t hear.’

  ‘This is Jack.’

  ‘Umm . . . of course . . . Hello Jack.’

  I think you can stop doing the voice now.

  Oh.

  We close our eyes. We smell damp mixed with soap, hear the snap of a towel and a scream. Our head is buried deep in the pillow but we can still hear the gargle of water trickling through the drains. We need to be quiet to give ourself space to think, because tomorrow will be different, tomorrow there won’t be a Mrs Hunter or a Mrs Foulks or a Mrs Drummond. Tomorrow we won’t be locked up with boys. Tomorrow we will be locked up with men.

  —

  —

  We roll over and face the wall. Three names and dates are scratched on the wall – Simon West, Steve Russett, Dan Parnell – all of them were here, all of them have gone, but we only know when, not where. We reach out and start to scratch our name on the wall. Little pieces of paint fall onto our bed. Our finger tickles and hurts at the same time.

  Like pebbles on our feet.

  Like chalk on a board.

>   We start to scratch the letter J. The straight line is easy but we get stuck on the curve.

  It’s a good job we’ve got sharp nails.

  It’s a good job we’ve got short names.

  Ha!

  Ha!

  When did we arrive?

  I think you should know.

  ?

  1973. After Skylab started orbiting the Earth, before Mars 5 left for Mars.

  After Mr Morrison, before Mrs Brimble.

  I think we should concentrate on what’s important.

  But Mrs Brimble said she was important.

  She said she specialised in difficult children.

  But we weren’t difficult.

  Well . . . we were . . . just a little bit.

  She said she had a bungalow with lots of rooms and a big garden.

  We asked her if it had a wire fence.

  We asked her if it had walls.

  She smiled. We liked her.

  She said we could go and live with her and her husband . . . and her dog . . . and her rabbit.

  We told her we didn’t like dogs.

  We told her that we did.

  She said she didn’t understand, then walked out the door backwards.

  She said she’d come back and collect us in a week.

  We waited forty-five days.

  We tried to escape in the laundry van.

  They caught us and put us in isolation.

  Then they let us back out.

  Then Mrs Brimble came back for us.

  But she took Billy Evans instead!

  —

  —

  We look at our writing on the wall.

  The door swings open and makes us jump. We look over our shoulder. Frost stands in the door with his pants on, his white skin still shiny from the showers. He walks over to his bed and looks under his pillow.

  ‘Have you touched it?’

  —

  —

  Frost nudges the picture straight with his finger and puts the pillow back on top.

  We look back at the wall.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  —

  —

  We feel him walk towards us.

  ‘I said, what are you doing?’

  Ignore him.

  OK.

  We put our hand over our names.

  Frost’s shadow grows big on the wall.

  ‘Let me see. Let me see what you’ve written.’

  Nothing.

  !

  He smacks his arm down on ours and knocks our hand away.

  ‘Two tossers were here for too fucking long . . . Ha! Missing you already.’

  He pokes us in the stomach.

  ‘So, was I right then? You’re leaving, you’re going to the YMI?’

  We stare at the wall. Frost bends down and starts to screw his finger into our ear.

  ‘Was I right, dumbfuck?’

  Yes.

  ‘Ha!’

  He jabs us in the back.

  Are we going to fight?

  No.

  I don’t want to fight.

  We won’t.

  ‘Ha! Still fucking mumbling . . . It won’t do you any good where you’re going.’

  Has he been there?

  No, he only knows the same stories as us.

  And they’re not true?

  No.

  ‘Yes they are.’ Frost sits on our bed, bounces up and down, then smiles like he wants to be our friend. ‘All the stories are true. My brother told me.’

  Have you got a brother too?

  ‘Yes.’

  Has he got a brother?

  No, just a dead sister.

  ‘What did you say about my sister?’

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  ‘What did you say?’ He leans in closer and knocks us on the head with his knuckles. ‘Hello . . . hello. Jesus, how many little fuckers have you got in there?’

  Just me.

  Just him.

  ‘You’re mad.’

  Dr Smith gave us a book about mad people.

  ‘Eh!’

  Not now.

  Dr Smith gave us a book about mad people.

  Dr Smith gave us a book about Van Gogh.

  He cut off his ear.

  He painted pictures of sunflowers.

  He couldn’t stick it back on.

  He sent letters to his brother, and his brother locked him away.

  Like me.

  Like you.

  Like us.

  ‘Who gives a fuck?’ Frost shakes his head like we are inside it.

  What was your sister’s name?

  ‘I said don’t talk about my sister!’ He jumps on top of us, pins our shoulders to the bed. We kick our legs and try to knock him off. He slides forward, clamps his knees either side of our head. His mouth moves, but all we can hear are mumbles.

  Like we are deaf.

  Like he is talking underwater.

  He grins and licks his fingers, then points them at us like he’s going to poke us in the eyes.

  Get lost.

  Fuck off!

  We wriggle again.

  Frost laughs then slides his fingers either side of our head and digs them deep into our temples.

  ‘Buzz. Buzz.’

  Why does he keep—

  It doesn’t—

  ‘Buzz. Buzz.’

  Our blood starts to thud. Frost presses his fingers like he’s drilling two holes that will meet in the middle. We kick our legs harder.

  Fuck off, Frost, he doesn’t know.

  What don’t I know?

  We knee Frost in the back. He grunts and falls off the bed onto the floor. We jump on top of him, try to grab his arms, try to make him submit, but his body is still slippery from the soap.

  What don’t I know?

  We put our hands round his neck. His laughter vibrates through our fingers.

  Don’t let go.

  What don’t I know?

  It doesn’t matter.

  ‘They’re going to—’

  We squeeze tighter. Frost’s eyes bulge out of his head, push tears out onto his cheeks. ‘Buzz . . . Buzz.’

  No!

  We press harder. Little spit bubbles blow out the corners of Frost’s mouth.

  ‘They’re going . . .’

  Don’t listen.

  ‘They’re going to take you away.’

  You bastard!

  —

  —

  Our head starts to hoot, we feel sick and dizzy. Everything is black. All we can hear is Frost gargling and the thud of his blood under our thumbs.

  —

  —

  Tom.

  —

  Tom!

  I told you not to listen.

  . . . I think we should let go.

  Why?

  Because he’s turning purple.

  We step away and Frost falls to the ground. Our head thuds. Sweat trickles down our back. We can’t stop our hands from shaking, we hold them together but all that does is make our body shake as well.

  What does he mean?

  I don’t know.

  We can’t breathe or think. The room spins around us. We walk over to our bed and hope it will slow down. We see our names and the date and think of all the bad things that have happened and how we don’t want them to happen any more.

  We need the escape plan.

  ‘Uh-oh! Houston, we have a problem. Houston, we have a problem.’

  We turn around, see Frost talking into his hand.

  Have we got a plan?

  Yes.

  ‘Let me guess . . . let me guess . . . no . . . it couldn’t be . . . not the beach, it couldn’t be the beach. Ha!’

  Is he right?

  —

  ‘Don’t forget your armbands.’

  Is he right?

  I can’t tell you. You’ll tell everyone.

  I won’t. I can keep a secret.

  You’re making our head ache.

  —


  —

  But I can keep a secret.

  OK. What was the combination to Mrs Drummond’s fridge?

  2011.

  Told you.

  !

  —

  Are we escaping now?

  We nod at Frost.

  Later.

  You won’t go without me?

  No.

  Can I draw something while we’re waiting?

  OK.

  We reach up and scratch the wall again. We imagine scraping through to the bricks, sliding them out one by one and stacking them like Lego under our bed. And we imagine James Lewis doing the same on the other side.

  —

  —

  Have we finished?

  Yes.

  We check across at Frost; his bald head is so shiny that we can’t tell if he’s looking at us or facing the wall. He starts to snore.

  We slide off our bed, take off the sheets and blankets and rip them into strips. Then we twist them and join them together to make ropes. We need them to hang out the window.

  We need them to tie up Frost.

  Shush, don’t tell everyone.

  You started it . . . How do you tie knots again?

  Like this.

  ?

  Over, under, around the loop.

  Over . . . under . . . through the loop.

  Around.

  Oh.

  Then pull.

  Like this?

  Yes.

  It’s easy . . . Are we ready now?

  No, but we’ve got all night.

  It’s cold without our sheets.

  —

  And it’s cold without our blankets.

  It won’t be for long.

  —

  Can we put another jumper on?

  No . . . but you can cut off one of our sleeves.

  Are we making a tank top?

  No, a balaclava.

  Oh, like robbers?

  Yes.

  But I haven’t got a knife.

  Me neither.

  I’ll ask Frost—

  Don’t.

  We pick up a jumper and rip at a hole where the arm joins the body. We bite more holes – two for our eyes, one for our mouth – and put it over our head.

  I can’t see. I can’t see.