Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  ‘When did you last see her?’ I ask.

  ‘At the party.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘Worried about you mostly. When she found out about what happened at your house, all she wanted to do was get hold of you and make sure you were OK.’

  ‘But before that? Were you getting on OK then?’

  Emerson blushes. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘You didn’t try anything weird, did you?’ I ask, my body seized with a fierce and unexpected protectiveness over Tanvi.

  ‘No!’ Emerson yelps. ‘Of course not! We were messaging back and forth loads on Saturday morning and then she went totally quiet.’

  ‘When on Saturday?’ I ask sharply.

  ‘Hang on, I can tell you.’ He takes out his phone. ‘I last heard from her at one forty-four.’

  What time did Tanvi turn up at Arcadia Avenue? Two p.m.-ish?

  My stomach turns over. What if Tanvi never got home? But if that were the case, her parents would have contacted me by now. Unless she didn’t tell them where she was going …

  ‘Do you think something’s wrong?’ Emerson asks.

  His question makes my heart beat faster. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit.

  ‘I’m worried,’ Emerson says. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  I nod.

  ‘Will you take me there?’ he asks.

  I hesitate.

  ‘Please, Ro.’

  ‘Hang on a second. I’ll just get my coat.’

  The lights are on at Tanvi’s house. Emerson and I arrange ourselves neatly on the front doorstep and ring the bell.

  It’s Bonfire Night in two days’ time and, as we wait for what seems like for ever, fireworks glitter in the sky. The explosions remind me of standing in the Shahs’ back garden on Diwali, Tanvi’s arm linked with mine. And for a few seconds, I’m catapulted back there – a beautiful purple sari swishing around my legs, my tummy full of food, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. Was that really only a week and a half ago? It feels like another life.

  Footsteps. Then the sound of a key in the lock. In unison, Emerson and I stand up that little bit straighter. The door swings inwards to reveal Devin. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and his hair, perfectly styled when I last saw him, is flat on one side, sticking up on end on the other.

  ‘Ro,’ he says, rubbing his right eye with his fist. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hey,’ I mumble. ‘Um, this is Emerson. He’s in mine and Tanvi’s form at school. This is Tanvi’s big brother, Devin. Can we see her?’

  Devin’s face crumples like a crisp packet. ‘Shit, you don’t know. Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Know what?’ I ask, suddenly very afraid.

  Devin hesitates. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Emerson and I step into the hallway. The house is uncharacteristically quiet. No radio, no conversation, no cooking noises coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Tanvi’s in hospital,’ Devin says as the door falls shut behind us.

  ‘What? Why? Is she OK? Has the cancer come back?’ The words tumble out of my mouth in a clumsy stream, tripping over one another to be heard. They’re overlapped with a similar set of questions from Emerson.

  ‘She has pneumonia,’ Devin says.

  ‘But I didn’t think pneumonia was that serious,’ Emerson says. ‘My dad had it once and he just took some tablets for a bit and he was fine.’

  ‘Tanvi’s immunity is still pretty weak from the cancer,’ Devin explains gently. ‘The pneumonia came out of nowhere and kind of knocked her sideways.’

  I remember Tanvi’s appearance at my back door on Saturday – her puffy eyes, her runny nose, the croaky voice. I assumed it was just a cold.

  ‘How long has she been in hospital?’ I ask.

  ‘Since Saturday afternoon. She kept saying she was OK, then she collapsed in the bathroom.’

  It’s all my fault. How long had Tanvi been forced to sit outside in the cold while I sulked inside? Half an hour? An hour?

  ‘Will she be OK?’ I whisper.

  ‘They think so,’ Devin says. ‘She’s still pretty weak though. They need to make sure her lungs are strong enough before they can discharge her.’

  ‘Can we visit her?’ Emerson asks.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s family only at the moment,’ Devin says. ‘But as soon as she’s feeling a bit more with it, I bet she’d love to see you. Here, why don’t you write down your numbers so I can give you a ring when she’s up and about?’

  Emerson and I write our numbers on the pad of paper next to the phone.

  Devin checks his watch. ‘I’d better get going. I’m due at the hospital with a change of clothes for Mum.’

  ‘OK,’ we mumble, shuffling towards the door.

  Emerson and I are at the bottom of the driveway when I stop abruptly.

  ‘Just one second,’ I say.

  I sprint back and knock on the door.

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ I ask breathlessly when Devin answers.

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  ‘Can you tell Tanvi I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask what for?’

  ‘She’ll know,’ I say.

  I say goodbye to Emerson and walk home alone. With every step, I can’t stop picturing Tanvi in the hospital, lying in a stark white room, her black hair fanned out on a crisp white pillow, her tiny body wired up to a load of machines that flash and beep, a nurse with a clipboard standing at the end of her bed frowning and taking notes.

  Number 46 Arcadia Avenue is in darkness. Noah must be back at school by now. Despite several text messages, I still haven’t heard from him. It shouldn’t hurt so much. After all, it was just a few games of chess. It does though. I thought there was something between us – an understanding. I hate the fact I was wrong.

  Bonnie’s home. All the lights are on and the usual racket of music versus television is blaring from the living room.

  I’m making my way up the stairs, dragging one exhausted foot after another when she appears in the doorway, a cigarette between her fingers.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her face to face since our row on Friday night.

  ‘Your dad just called me,’ she says.

  Bonnie and Dad rarely communicate. If they have anything to say to each other, they use me as the messenger.

  ‘What about?’ I ask.

  ‘He wouldn’t say, only that he’s been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I take out my phone. Eleven missed calls and three (no doubt furious) voicemails – all from Dad.

  ‘What’s going on, Ro?’

  ‘They’re on to us,’ I say.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘I was hauled into the head’s office today. They were asking questions. It’s only a matter of time before they speak to Social Services. In fact, they probably already have.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  I fill her in.

  ‘And what did you say?’ she asks, panic finally registering on her face.

  ‘I denied it all.’

  She has the nerve to look relieved. ‘Well, that’s OK then,’ she says.

  Does she really think it’s that simple? That easy?

  ‘It’s not OK, Bonnie,’ I say. ‘Nothing is OK.’

  She covers her ears like a little kid. ‘Oh, please, Ro, not another lecture.’

  I’m speechless. Has nothing I’ve said to her over the past week gone in? What more of a wake-up call does she need?

  ‘What?’ she says, lowering her hands. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Collyer Brothers?’ I ask.

  She frowns and shakes her head.

  ‘They’re this pair of brothers who lived in this massive mansion in New York in the nineteen thirties and forties. Homer and Langley.’

  And just like that, I’m back on the lumpy sofa bed at Dad’s old fla
t, the one he lived in for a few months after he left Arcadia Avenue, before he moved in with Melanie, flicking through the TV channels because I couldn’t sleep.

  ‘When I was little, I watched a documentary about them,’ I continue. ‘They lived in this big old house together and filled it with junk.’

  Something small but unmistakeable flickers across Bonnie’s face.

  ‘Anyway, one day, the police got a tip-off from a neighbour that they hadn’t seen either of the brothers in a while. They broke in and found Homer’s body.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at here, Ro,’ Bonnie says. ‘I really don’t.’

  I ignore her and keep going.

  ‘It took them another two whole weeks to find Langley. He’d been literally suffocated by his own stuff. And the thing is, Homer was blind and relied on Langley to bring him his food, so with Langley rotting under a load of old crap, poor Homer starved to death.’

  ‘Ro, stop this.’

  ‘I made the mistake of typing their names into Google images,’ I say. ‘Not a good idea.’

  The grainy image of Langley’s decomposing, rat-nibbled body, haunted my dreams for weeks.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Bonnie asks, visibly flustered.

  ‘I couldn’t get the story out of my head,’ I say. ‘Even though their house was a load worse than ours, I knew something like that could happen to us if things got out of control. So I made a promise to myself – that I would look after you, no matter what.’

  I remember getting Dad to drop me back at Arcadia Avenue the next day and my distress when I couldn’t find Bonnie straightaway, convinced she’d befallen the same fate as Homer and Langley. When I finally did find her, dozing on a narrow strip of mattress in her bedroom, piles of black plastic bags looming over her, I had frantic, hot panicky tears running down my cheeks. That was when I knew. It was going to be my job to prevent what happened to the Collyer brothers from happening to my mum.

  ‘How old were you?’ Bonnie whispers.

  ‘Eight,’ I reply.

  Her mouth falls open. ‘Ro, I—’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘I … I didn’t realize,’ she says eventually.

  I sigh. ‘Do you think I don’t know that, Bonnie?’

  I continue up the stairs, locking my door behind me.

  I’m so shattered I don’t even brush my teeth or wash my face. I just pull on my pyjamas and crawl under the duvet.

  37

  Smoke.

  Heat.

  A bonfire?

  No. Closer than that.

  Light. Turn on the light.

  Smoke everywhere.

  Fire.

  Need to get out.

  Stumble out of bed.

  Ro! Ro! Ro!

  Someone is shouting my name.

  Bonnie?

  Head pounding.

  Throat burning.

  Can’t stop coughing.

  Legs all floppy.

  Door won’t open.

  Locked.

  Reach for key.

  It falls.

  Drop to my knees.

  Can’t get up again.

  Sirens.

  Ro! Ro! Ro!

  Fire.

  Need to get out.

  Can’t get out.

  Ro! Ro! Ro!

  38

  The first thing I see when I wake up is a Winnie the Pooh mural. The colours are overly bright – Piglet too pink, Tigger too orange, Pooh himself as yellow as tinned custard.

  My eyes are gluey and sore, my eyelids feel tender. Every blink hurts. My gaze drifts to the bedside table, which holds a jug of water and two plastic beakers. The sight makes me realize just how thirsty I am.

  I try to sit up, but my body won’t let me. I manage to lift my head a couple of centimetres before my strength fails me and I sink back onto the pillows.

  The lighting is bright and I’m aware of people moving about and the hum of voices, which suggests it’s daytime, but there’s no window within view so I can’t know for sure.

  As my eyes adjust to the brightness, every blink an effort, the events of the night before begin to come back to me in a series of hazy fragments, the pictures and sounds overlapping, like a film and its soundtrack being played out of sync. I try to put them in order, moving them around like Post-it notes in my head. I remember very little about the fire itself. The first concrete thing I’m able to cling onto is being in the back of the ambulance – with Bonnie’s scared eyes peeking out at me over the top of her oxygen mask as we rode to the hospital, the siren wailing, blue lights flashing, the paramedics speaking in loud, steady voices.

  The next few hours were a blur of machines and tubes and doctors and nurses and bright lights and efficiency. A nurse with kind brown eyes stayed with me the entire time, explaining exactly what was happening and why in a low, melodic voice, her thumb massaging my palm during all the uncomfortable bits. Once my breathing had been stabilized, a doctor inserted a short thin tube with a camera in its tip into my mouth in order to examine my airways. I remained awake throughout but I was groggy, my brain fuzzy and slow, the voices of the doctors and nurses loud one second, faraway the next, like someone was fiddling with the volume button inside my head, sliding it up and down on a whim.

  I don’t remember arriving on the ward or falling asleep. Or changing into the pale pink standard issue hospital nightie I’m now wearing. I wonder where my pyjamas are.

  Perhaps Bonnie will know.

  Bonnie.

  I haven’t seen her since arriving at the hospital.

  I try to call out but the only sound I produce is a filthy wheeze that burns the back of my throat.

  I groan inwardly and slowly turn my head. It takes more effort than I was anticipating, every muscle in my neck throbbing.

  Bonnie is slumped in the leather-backed chair to the right of my bed, her head lolling forward on her chest, her face streaked with what looks like soot or ash.

  Flooded with relief, I summon up the strength to extend one arm out of the bed, my fingertips just managing to graze Bonnie’s knee.

  She wakes with a start. ‘Ro,’ she rasps. ‘You’re awake.’ She throws her arms around my neck, covering my face and neck with kisses, her dry lips dragging against my skin. Her breath smells stale – of cigarettes and no sleep.

  ‘Water,’ I croak. ‘I need water.’

  Every word stings.

  Bonnie leaps up, splashing water on the floor as she fills a plastic beaker to the brim, holding it to my lips.

  I’m on my second when a tall nurse wearing pale blue scrubs, her hair braided in immaculate cornrows, appears at the end of the bed. ‘Well, look who’s up,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’m Nurse Karen. OK if I check you over?’

  After Karen’s checks and several more beakers of water, I drift back off to sleep.

  When I wake up, Bonnie is sitting on the edge of her seat, her hands sandwiching my left one. She must have washed her face because the smudge on her cheek has gone.

  ‘How did it start?’ I ask.

  Bonnie blinks, as if surprised by the question.

  ‘Th-they’re not entirely sure yet,’ she stammers.

  It gives her away.

  ‘It was a cigarette, wasn’t it?’ I say.

  Bonnie opens her mouth and closes it again.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ I repeat.

  Bonnie hesitates before nodding. ‘I tried to put it out,’ she says. ‘But there was nothing I could do. It spread so quickly.’

  Of course it did.

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Go on then,’ Bonnie says, her lower lip trembling. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘You know.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I told you so,’ Bonnie says, her eyes glistening. ‘Go on, I deserve it.’

  That may be true, but I still can’t quite bring myself to say it out loud.

  ‘Please, Ro, just say
it.’

  ‘Why? Would it help? Would it fix things?’

  ‘No,’ she admits. ‘I’m sorry,’ she adds. ‘I’m so sorry, Ro.’

  I don’t respond. I can’t.

  We’re interrupted by Karen. ‘Mrs Snow?’ she says. ‘There are some people at Reception who’d like to talk to you.’

  Bonnie’s face pales. ‘Who?’ she asks, her eyes darting over Karen’s shoulder. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

  ‘If you’d like to come with me, I can introduce you,’ Karen says, neatly sidestepping Bonnie’s answer.

  Bonnie looks both ways as if assessing her possible escape routes before standing up, resigned to what lies beyond the double doors at the end of the ward.

  ‘This way,’ Karen says.

  Bonnie gives me a tight smile and follows Karen. Next to her, she looks tiny. Tiny and scared.

  I manage to push myself up onto my elbows. As the double doors swing open, I glimpse two people standing at the nurses’ station – a man and a woman. They’re both dressed reasonably smartly with lanyards around their necks.

  I know where they’re from immediately.

  After all these years, Social Services have finally caught up with us.

  I’ve feared this moment all my life. And now that it’s here, it’s nothing like I imagined.

  Instead of terror, all I feel is exhausted relief.

  39

  ‘Ro, Ro! Wake up!’

  If it wasn’t for the fact my throat is still incredibly sore and incapable of volume unless warmed up and well lubricated, I would have screamed. As it is, the best I’m able to manage is a sort of squeak, a bit like a mouse in distress.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry!’ Tanvi says, her face centimetres away from mine. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Her breath is warm and sweet and smells of Lucozade.

  ‘What time is it?’ I rasp, struggling to prop myself up on my pillows. The rest of the ward is still.

  ‘I dunno,’ Tanvi replies. ‘Two? Three?’

  I reach for a glass of water, gulping it down. ‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask, setting down my empty beaker. I’m still not entirely convinced I’m actually awake and Tanvi Shah is actually sitting in a wheelchair next to my bed wearing a furry dressing gown with teddy bear ears stitched onto the hood.