The beach.
The park.
Our hill. We remember sitting on top.
We remember playing our favourite game.
Oh no!
Can we play it now?
We can’t.
Why not?
We’ve been drinking.
Can we try?
—
We pick up our book.
Oh good. You can drive.
Thanks.
We imagine we are on our hill. We imagine we are driving the bus to town. Our book is our steering wheel. Our pen is our indicator. We put our foot on the accelerator and pull away.
Wait!
What?
I’ve not got on yet.
!
—
Go on then.
There’s a queue.
I’ve had enough.
It’s OK, it’s just a man with a hearing aid.
—
. . . And a lady with a baby.
—
. . . And a pushchair.
—
—
Are they on yet?
Yes.
We check our mirrors and drive through the park, under the trees, past the swings and along by the river.
I feel sick.
Because I’m driving too fast?
Because of the cider.
We put our book back on the ground and our pen in our bag. The drone of an aeroplane sounds overhead.
A DC-10?
A DC-10 McDougal Douglas.
McDonnell!
Is it?
I don’t . . . I don’t know.
The plane flies in a circle, gets quicker and quicker, until it turns over and over like a silver leaf tumbling from the sun.
Our mouth is dry, our head is dizzy and a cold sweat starts to trickle down our neck. We shake our head and hope the feeling will go away.
Why do you do that?
Because sometimes it works.
But I might fall out.
You’ll never fall out.
Because the holes are too small?
Because I won’t let you.
But they might take me.
They won’t.
But they might.
I said they won’t.
But—
I think you should stop worrying.
I wish we hadn’t eaten the crisps.
I wish we hadn’t drunk the cider.
We take deep breaths. In one second all our worries go away but in the next they come rushing back again:
Dad.
Mum.
Frost.
The chicken.
!
They run through our head and chase each other inside. Our stomach cramps, we clutch our hands against it. We kneel up. Our head starts to thud. Our throat starts to burn. We wrap our arms around our stomach and retch.
It tastes horrible.
I know.
We wipe cider and crisps from our mouth and lie back down. The world starts to spin.
You should go to sleep.
I’ll try.
—
—
—
Our eyes flicker and grow heavy. The sound of a bird singing grows loud and disappears.
We yawn.
—
—
Jack?
—
Jack?
—
We look at the sky; the noise of the engine has disappeared and now the plane is just a little speck against the sun. Our head starts to ache. We screw up our eyes tight, try to make it go away. We want to go to sleep, but one of has to keep guard. The noise gets louder, we see flashing colours, red, green and purple, they spin around and turn into pictures of people that we want to forget. People in white coats. Dr Greenaway and Dr Anderson. They walk around and click their pens in a room with white walls and no windows.
—
Jack!
—
Jack, wake up.
—
There’s a big grey machine beside us with dials on the front and wires trailing out. We look for a way out—
White wall. White wall. No windows. One door. Two doctors, three nurses, one porter and two security guards.
Jack, wake up!
—
I look at the ceiling, see slits of white light and shadows leaning over us.
Hands press on our head.
Fingers crawl over our skull.
I try to shout. We try to scream.
The fingers creep down to our jaw. We close our mouth. They prise it open and force a piece of rubber inside.
The rubber squeaks on our teeth and jams on our tongue. I spit it out, they put it back in. We shake our head from side to side.
‘Hold still. Hold him still.’
Hands on my body, hands on our arms. They put a metal cage—
No—
They put a metal cage around our head that burns us hot and cold.
Dr Anderson leans over us and blocks out the light. He wears rubber gloves and has two wires in his hands.
‘Steady. Steady.’
The wires come towards us.
We shake our head. We wriggle like worms.
Blue sparks flash—
We try to scream—
‘It’s for your own good. We’re trying to make you better.’
We try to shout but our voice is smothered like we are trapped under a pillow.
A pair of scissors. A roll of tape. They cut two pieces and stick them down over our eyes.
‘Stand clear.’
All the hands let go and we are left all alone.
—
—
A click.
A tickle.
An ant on the side of our head running in circles.
Jack, wake up now. Jack, wake up!
Our jaw clamps tight, our teeth sink into the rubber.
We hear a hum.
It gets louder and louder.
The tickle turns to an itch and then a buzz.
Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.
We close our eyes and smell the electricity burn.
—
—
Tom?
—
Tom?
—
We open our eyes. Our body is shaking, our skin is wet with sweat and our temples are burning like the electricity is running through them now.
We sit up and take deep breaths.
Jack?
—
Jack?
—
We are glad only one of us remembers what happened, we are glad one of us is still sleeping.
We wish we could both sleep because our feet are aching like we have been walking barefoot all summer.
—
But we have to take it in turns, like . . .
—
Like we are soldiers.
Summer 1971
I didn’t see Dad very much during the next week. Since he’d said he was going to the moon he seemed to be getting up earlier and earlier and coming home later and later, and as every day went past the summer seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. I had lots of questions to ask him – why was he training with the Russians? Why was he going to the moon? And what did T minus mean? But every night he came home wet with sweat and said he was tired. He’d only sit on the settee for five minutes before he went upstairs to bed.
I thought about it while I was at school every day. I thought about asking the teachers, but I wasn’t sure I should say anything because Dad had said it was a secret.
On the last day of the week I couldn’t wait any longer. I went to my first lesson. Mr Thomas wrote the date on the board and drew a Viking underneath. He told us to copy it, but no matter how long I stared or how many times I blinked, the only thing I could see were numbers ticking away in my head.
T minus twenty-eight days, six hours, twenty-three minutes, twelve seconds . . . and counting.
I put my hand up in the air.
‘Mr Thomas,’ I said. ‘W
hat does “T minus” mean?’
He narrowed his brow, looked at me, at the chalk in his hand and then at the Viking.
‘This is Art, Tom,’ he said. ‘Not Maths, not Physics.’
I put my hand down, looked out the window. The first years were playing touch rugby in the playground. I wanted to run outside and join them, score a try and keep running out of the gate and all the way home.
I went to Geography. I went to History. I heard Mr Simms talking about riverbeds and valleys, abrasion and erosion. I heard Miss Bright talk about Hitler, how he built an army and invaded Poland. I heard all those things, but nothing went inside my head. When your dad says he’s going to the moon you can’t think of anything else. I just sat there staring at the clock, watching the minute hand jump, watching the hour hand crawl, thinking about getting back to Dad before the hours ran out at the end of another day.
There was a blue car parked outside our house when me and Jack got home. Two men in army uniform were standing on the front grass talking to Mum. Jack thought one of them was Dad. I told him that neither of them were, just that all soldiers looked the same when you saw them from a distance. Mum waved. The soldiers took off their hats. One had grey hair, the other had black. It was Tony and Geoff. They smiled as me and Jack got closer.
‘Is this Jack?’ said Geoff.
‘It can’t be,’ said Tony.
‘He’s catching you up, Tom.’
Jack smiled, went on tiptoe, tried to make himself taller.
‘He’ll be able to beat you up soon.’
I felt myself go red.
Tony jabbed me in the ribs.
‘Just kidding,’ he said.
Me and Jack stood between them and they looked at Mum. Mum looked at me. We stood in silence. It was like I had done something wrong. I waited for Mum to say something to get me out of trouble, like she used to when Dad told me off for wearing his boots and getting them muddy in the middle of winter. She used to tell him I was only playing, that I’d help her clean the mud off, and we’d sit together on the back step to polish them back to new. This time Mum didn’t say anything, she just smiled. But it wasn’t her usual smile, it was a smile into space, like I wasn’t even there.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
‘Here.’ Tony gave me his hat and Geoff gave his to Jack. We put them on and ran off across the grass, grenades in our hands, bayonets and rifles strapped to our backs. We ran between parked cars, searched for camouflage cover, but I couldn’t find anything black to match my school uniform. A man on a bike came along the road. I set up my sights on a wall. We waited for the man to get closer. Jack threw a grenade. I let fire with the bullets. The man wobbled on his bike.
‘Got me,’ he said.
Me and Jack laughed and waited for another enemy to come.
I looked back through my sights towards our house, tried to trace Tony, Geoff and Mum, but they had gone.
Me and Jack ran across the road, crept down our path, crouched as we went around the side of our house. Tony and Geoff were standing by the coal-shed door. We crept closer, slid our backs along the wall. Tony made a gun with his fingers.
‘Too noisy,’ he said. ‘But give me my hat back and I’ll let you surrender.’
Geoff shouted into the shed.
‘We’re off now, Steve.’
Dad didn’t reply.
Tony took my hat, tapped me and Jack on the head.
‘Be good soldiers,’ he said.
I watched them walk around the corner. Jack tugged my arm.
‘What’s that noise?’ he asked.
The noise stopped, then started again. Dad was sawing in the shed. We put our backs against the wall and crept to the shed door. Dad was in a dark corner with his head bent over. All I could see were his back and his shoulders, and his arm jabbing up and down as he cut the edges off a piece of wood. I put my bag outside and walked in. It was cool and dark inside. My foot kicked a piece of coal; it rolled across the floor towards him. He stopped, held up his arm and wiped sweat off his forehead.
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’
He jumped.
‘Tom,’ he said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ His face was red and sweaty. The saw was shaking in his hand.
Jack stepped out behind me.
‘Ha! I didn’t see you either.’ Dad smiled and laid the saw on the ground.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked again.
He picked up two circles of wood the size of dustbin lids.
‘Making clocks,’ he said.
I looked at the circles. They had strange letters around the edges and the word ‘Mockba’ was written in the middle.
Dad laughed. ‘It’ll help you keep time,’ he said. He took two batteries from his pocket, put them in a little box that he’d screwed to the backs of the clocks. I looked at Jack and smiled. All our friends had watchesbut none of them had their own clocks. Dad reached over to the bench.
‘Carry these up to your bedroom,’ he said.
He handed me a hammer and threw Jack a bag of nails. We ran out of the shed into the light. The air was hot and it was hard to breathe. It was getting hotter every day, like we were all locked in an oven. I felt one of the clocks nudge me in the back.
‘Go on,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll follow behind.’
Me and Jack walked along the path at the back of house and went inside.
Mum was washing up in the kitchen. She asked us where we were going.
‘Dad’s made us clocks,’ I said.
‘This big.’ Jack held his hands out wide.
Mum smiled, but I don’t think she believed us. I turned to run away. She wiped a plate, put it in the rack and then followed us upstairs.
I sat down next to Jack on his bed. Mum came in and sat in the middle between us. She put her arms around our shoulders and smiled. I thought that she looked as excited as us. We listened to Dad’s footsteps on the stairs, then a thump, then a knock. Mum squeezed me tight as his shadow crept along the landing, the circles of the clocks in the middle of his body. Jack bounced up and down on the bed. Dad stood in the doorway and took a step towards us. The clocks knocked against the frame of the door.
‘Sporry,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve made them too big.’
Jack laughed. Dad tried again, but he couldn’t get in, he was like a cartoon cat trying to chase a mouse through a hole. Mum got up and walked towards him. He turned the clocks and came through the door sideways. His head bashed against our planes that hung by fishing wire from the ceiling. Dad grinned and I think he winked, but he’d started to blink so much that I couldn’t be sure. Mum held the clocks while he climbed onto Jack’s bed. I gave him the hammer, Jack gave him a nail. He banged it into the wall next to Jack’s Chelsea poster and hung the clock on top. Then I pulled down my Arsenal poster and he hung the other clock on mine.
I sat on my bed and watched my clock, but something was wrong – the second hand was going backwards. I looked at Jack’s – his was going backwards as well. I thought about telling Dad, but it had taken him all afternoon to make them, I didn’t want him to know they were broken. He walked over to the window, looked up at the sky and then at his wrist.
‘We’re synchronised,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jack.
Dad looked at me like he was expecting me to say something, but since the clocks were going backwards I wasn’t sure of the answer. He held out his arm. Me and Jack got off our beds and stood beside him. I pulled his arm towards me. His watch hung loose on his wrist, the gold strap had scratches that glistened in the sun and there was a crack across the glass that joined the number 2 to the number 9. Dad pointed his finger at the second hand as it swept over the number 6 towards the 5.
‘But Dad,’ I said, ‘it’s going backwards. And our clocks are going backwards.’
He looked at our clocks, then back at his watch.
‘I know . . . I know.’ He scratched his head. ‘That’s what T minus . . . That’s
what T minus . . .’ He repeated it again but still didn’t answer. He was like one of my robots when it had run out of battery. Mum took him by the arm. He smiled and they walked towards the door. Me and Jack looked at each other, then back at him.
‘But Dad,’ I said, ‘I still don’t know what T minus—’
Dad’s head was pointed towards the ground. Mum stopped and looked over her shoulder.
‘Later, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Dad will tell you later.’
I listened to the creaks on the floorboards as they went along the landing and then down the stairs. I looked at Jack; he was staring at my wall, swinging his feet over the side of his bed. There was no echo of the radio in the kitchen, there was no rumble of the TV through the floor, there was just the occasional whisper of Mum’s voice, the rumble of Dad’s, and the tick-tick-tick as the hands of our clocks crawled like insects up the wall.
In the evening, after we’d eaten, Dad took us outside. We followed him past the shed around the side of the house and out onto the front path. The air was warm and insects were buzzing over the sound of our footsteps and the distant boom of Mr Green’s TV.
Dad sat down on the ground and tapped the grass with his hand. Me and Jack lay down beside him and used his chest as a pillow. My head went up and down when he breathed and when he spoke his words rumbled through his body.
‘Look at the sky,’ he said.
I looked up and watched the sky turn orange as the sun went down behind the hill and the moon came over the top of our house. It was bigger and brighter than I’d ever seen it before. I wanted to ask Dad why but every time I went to open my mouth I felt a sigh build in his chest.
I heard a police siren in the distance.
Streets of San Francisco?
No.
Kojak?
—
It faded away when Mr Green closed his window.
We lay on the grass in silence. I looked across at Jack, his eyes were closed. A line of dribble trailed from his mouth, down his cheek and made a dark patch on Dad’s shirt.
I heard footsteps. Dad pulled me tighter to him as Mum walked along the path and stood in front of the moon. I couldn’t see her face but I could hear her voice. It was really quiet, like she was in church. She bent down towards Jack.
‘Do you want me to take him?’
Dad shook his head, and his head shook his body, and I felt a single word rumble through his chest.
‘No.’
We Used to Be Kings Page 10
