Her bare foot landed on my carpet as she stepped across my doorway.
“What are you doing, Mum?”
She flinched but didn’t move. I stared down at her painted, pink toenails wriggling on my beige carpet.
“Can you get your foot out of my room, please?”
Her leg twisted at an awkward angle, but she stayed exactly where she was.
“Mum? Please!”
“Why, Matthew? It’s just a foot. It’s not going to hurt you, is it?”
She giggled nervously, her naked toes snuggling into the pile.
I began to shake.
“I’ll tell you what, let’s make a deal. I’ll move if you promise to come and see Dr. Kerr tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”
She’d have been in the conservatory this morning, her bare feet padding around the cold tiles where Nigel chucks up fur balls and mouse guts. She must be riddled with germs—germs that were now escaping in their millions into my room. I gripped the edge of the door and thought about slamming it against her toes, but if I did that I might end up with blood on my carpet, and that made me feel dizzy. I didn’t look up.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go. Now can you move? Please?”
Her foot froze.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I had absolutely no intention of going through with it.
“You really, really promise? On Callum’s angel?”
That’s my baby brother. He didn’t come home from the hospital and he never got to gurgle over his elephant mobile, but he had a grave with a white marble angel. I couldn’t break a promise on something like that—especially considering what I’d done.
I closed my eyes, weighing the options. I felt the door being pushed slightly as she tried to edge her way in.
“I promise! I promise on Callum’s angel,” I said.
She waited a couple of seconds and then her foot retreated into the hallway, her face beaming.
“Wonderful! I’ll be home in a few hours. Why don’t you sit in the garden today? Try and get a bit of color in those cheeks? I’ll put a chair out for you, shall I?”
“Whatever, Mum.”
I shut the door and dived under my bed to grab my box of gloves (ten pairs remaining), the bottle of antibacterial spray, and a cloth, and I did my best to try and clean the carpet. I felt my insides squirming, the way they always did whenever Mum or Dad mentioned Callum. The guilt of what I’d done lived inside me like a vicious black beetle, scuttling around in my stomach.
Some days I almost felt like I could just plunge my hand in my tummy and pull that beetle out. I’d throw it on the floor, its little legs frantically kicking at the air, and all my fears would miraculously vanish. I’d finally be free of the guilt. But the beetle didn’t go away. It lay there, snoozing, waiting for me to relax, and then it started up all over again: scuttle, scuttle, scuttle.
I scrubbed the carpet and sprayed and wiped and then I went to the bathroom to throw the gloves away and wash my hands until it felt right. It took eleven washes. When I got back to my room I inspected my lunch closely. Everything looked unopened, so I quickly ate it up before it became infected. I put the trash outside my door and then went into the office to see if anything was going on outside. I took some notes.
Tuesday, July 22nd. 4:11 p.m. Hot and sunny.
Cars on the street = 4
People on the street = 1
4:12 p.m.—Melody Bird comes out of number three. She has changed out of her school uniform and is hurrying across the road to the alleyway beside the Rectory, which leads to the graveyard. What does she do there?
As Melody disappeared into the overgrown tunnel, her arms were folded and her head down, as though bracing herself against an arctic wind.
Mr. Charles appeared on his front path wearing a red checked shirt and beige trousers. He looked like he was getting ready for a rodeo. He jabbed at his concrete path with a stiff brown broom, and clouds of dust flew up around his ankles. There was no sign of Casey or Teddy. He stopped for a moment, wiping sweat from his forehead, and then he opened his iron garden gate and began to brush the pavement outside his house, each sweep directed toward the gutter. My heart started beating faster. My hands were beginning to feel unclean again. I went to the bathroom, but on the seventh wash our doorbell rang. I froze. I wasn’t feeling clean enough yet. I rubbed the soap into my cracked skin again and ignored the door. There was another ring on the doorbell, and then someone knocked on the glass. I quickly rinsed my skin in scalding water and ran downstairs, opening the door using my sleeve.
“Ah, Matthew! You’re in. Is your mum there?”
I shook my head at Mr. Charles, who was now standing on my front door step. His arms were folded awkwardly on top of the broom handle, and he looked like he was about to burst into song. I could hear the devil cat, Nigel, meowing behind me.
“How about your dad?”
“He’s at work,” I said and closed the door slightly. I looked behind me to see where the cat was. He was safely in the kitchen, brushing himself against the cupboard where his food was kept, moving this way and that, showing off.
“Okay, okay, no problem,” he said, laughing much too quickly. “It was you I wanted to speak to, actually. How do you fancy earning yourself some spare change?”
He rubbed the top of his head where the sunburn was. Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen him close up for so long, but his head looked huge, like a tanned walnut. I could hear a steady thump, thump, thump coming from his house through the downstairs wall.
“I think they’re playing football in your living room, Mr. Charles,” I said.
His eye twitched as he listened.
“Oh that’s just … just a game …” He pinched the top of his nose for a moment, shutting his eyes, and then he was back.
“So, how do you fancy doing some babysitting for me? It’ll just be the odd afternoon here and there when you’re off of school so I can get on with a few jobs, do my shopping and all that. How does that sound?”
I folded my arms.
“I don’t know …”
“It’ll be good money! They’re such easy kids—so easy!” he said, blinking rapidly.
Thump, thump, thump.
“I’m quite busy, to be honest …”
He nodded as if he understood how hectic my life must be, spending most days indoors doing nothing. I really needed to finish washing my hands. The germs were definitely beginning to spread, and Nigel’s meowing was getting louder. He had made his way into the hall and was sitting right behind me.
Thump, thump, thump.
I could hear Casey screaming now. Mr. Charles raised his voice in an attempt to drown them out.
“I guess a whole afternoon could be too much … How about a couple of hours? One, even? I’ll pay double!”
I shook my head.
“You just tell me how much you’d like, eh, Matthew?”
If he could have got his hands around the door, I think he would have tried to shake a yes out of me.
Thump, thump, thump.
“I’m only twelve, Mr. Charles. I don’t think I’m old enough.”
Nigel was by the bottom of the stairs now, brushing his face against the step. A tiny, dark spot appeared on the cream carpet where he’d dribbled. He saw me looking and came straight toward me, the germs dropping from his fur and running in all directions into the carpet. I quickly took a step back and opened the door wide. The cat blinked at the bright sunshine and then trotted outside, darting around Mr. Charles’s legs and down our driveway. I pulled the door closed again. My hand was sweating through my sleeve.
“I’m sure you can babysit at your age.” He laughed. “Why, I was looking after my brother when I was only seven!”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Charles,” I said as he continued to laugh.
Thump, thump, CRASH!
“GRANNNNDAAAAAAD!!!”
Mr. Charles’s laugh stopped instantly, his shoulders slumped forward
, and without saying another word he turned slowly back home, dragging the brown broom behind him. I slammed the door and ran up to the bathroom to wash my hands again.
When I got back to the office, the noises from next door had stopped and I could hear a TV blaring. Out on the street everything was quiet, the road steaming in the heat. Nigel was in Mr. Charles’s front garden, carefully tiptoeing onto the lawn, his nose dabbing at the grass as he sniffed. He didn’t hear the old man approaching him from behind carrying a washing-up bowl full of water. Mr. Charles let out a roar and threw the water into the air; it splashed over Nigel in one big wave.
The cat froze in shock, and so did I. I wasn’t a fan of the old vomiting fleabag, but I wouldn’t ever do something like that to him. His fluffy, ginger-and-white fur was now dark brown and stuck to his skin. He looked utterly petrified. Mr. Charles dropped the bowl on the grass and swung his foot at the cat, his body nearly twisting around from the force, but fortunately Nigel had come to his senses and swerved out of the way. He squeezed through the gate, turned right, and scurried up our path. Sitting on our step he meowed feebly, then began to lick at his fur.
I watched Mr. Charles as he picked up the washing-up bowl and took two steps toward the house. He stopped for a moment as if he’d forgotten something. Taking a step back, he tucked the bowl under his arm, looked up at me, and glared.
When I was younger I thought a mirage was something you’d only see if you got lost in the desert. Delirious, you’d drag yourself along the scorching sand, inch by inch, as you desperately search for water. Suddenly you spot something shimmering on the horizon. It’s a pastel-colored ice-cream van! You can almost hear the tinkling music. It beckons you closer and closer with its promise of deliciously cold Popsicles waiting in the deep, dark freezer. Your mouth floods with precious saliva as you try to reach it, but when you’re just inches away it vanishes! All that’s there, in the exact spot where the ice-cream van just stood, is a shriveled-up cactus.
I saw lots of mirages on the road on the way to the doctor. Not ghostly ice-cream vans but dark pools of water puddled along the tarmac. They looked so real I could almost hear the splash as we drove through them. Dad told me once that they were called highway mirages, which sounded about right. He knew a lot of stuff, my dad. Brian’s Brains was always one of the top three teams in the monthly pub quiz. You could ask him anything and he’d immediately have an answer.
“Dad, who was on the throne during the Black Death?”
“Edward III.”
“What is the capital of Latvia?”
“Riga.”
“What is the chemical symbol for copper?”
“Cu.”
“What is wrong with your eldest and only son?”
“He’s crazy.”
Not that he would have said that out loud, but I was pretty sure he thought it. I figured they both did.
Mum had the air-conditioning on. It was directed downward so my feet felt like blocks of ice. I would have twisted the dial around but I didn’t want to touch it.
“Mr. Charles’s grandchildren seem to be settling in okay, don’t they? That must be nice for him, to have a bit of company for a change,” Mum said as we crawled along High Street.
She was trying that conversation thing again.
“I don’t know how he’ll manage for a whole month though, do you? He’s no spring chicken.”
I kept my mouth shut. I certainly wasn’t going to talk to her after the way she’d embarrassed me in front of the whole neighborhood.
She’d sat in the car with the engine running while I remained paralyzed on the doormat. Mr. Jenkins had come back from a run as I stood there, spotting me as he turned into his driveway. He stood there for a moment with his hands on his hips, sweat running down his face as he looked me up and down.
To minimize any possible health risks, I was wearing: a long-sleeved shirt, which I’d buttoned up to the neck; jeans; socks; rubber boots; and two pairs of latex gloves (six pairs remaining). It was about ninety degrees outside. I was pretty hot.
“What are you doing, Corbin?” he said, but he didn’t wait for an answer, just shook his head in disgust and went inside.
I don’t think Mum heard him. She rolled down her window and hollered at me.
“Two words for you, Matthew Corbin. Callum’s angel!”
Her voice bounced off the houses like a pinball. Old Nina’s curtain twitched and her dark shadow peered through the thick nets, trying to see what all the noise was about. Penny and Gordon Sullivan appeared in the front yard of number one and began to walk over. They always pop up if it looks like something interesting is going on.
“Everything all right, Sheila?” Penny called.
They arrived at our driveway each holding a Harrington’s Household Solutions catalog, which I’m sure they’d just grabbed to use as a cover. Penny and Gordon went everywhere together. It was as if they were tied at the waist with a piece of invisible string, and if one ventured too far from the other they’d just ping back together again. In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever, ever seen them apart.
Mum waved at them from the car.
“Yes, all fine here, Penny. Hello, Gordon. Thank you! Just a preteen pushing the boundaries … You know how it is …”
She forced a laugh and the retired couple laughed along with her, but they soon stopped when they got a good look at me.
“We’ll leave you to it then, Sheila,” Penny said, raising her eyebrows at me. She muttered something to her husband and the invisible string twanged as she turned back to the house with Gordon following.
“Come on, Matthew! We’re going to be late!”
“But Mum, you don’t realize what this will do to me … please.”
A loud meow came from behind me in the hallway. Nigel.
“Matthew. You swore on Callum’s angel. Nothing is more sacred than that. Now. Get. In. The. Car.”
The meowing was getting closer. I looked around and saw Nigel sauntering along, looking for something to brush against. He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on me.
“Matthew. NOW!”
I flinched as Mum shouted, jumped off the step, slammed the front door behind me, and got in the car.
So there we were: at a standstill in a traffic jam on High Street.
“Oh look, that’s your friend Tom, isn’t it? Shall I give him a beep? He’d be so glad to see you out and about!”
Mum waved madly through the windshield at a group of kids in white shirts and blue ties. Fortunately they didn’t notice.
“Mum! Stop it!”
I slid down in my seat as Mum sat back and huffed.
Standing a few meters from my window and sipping from a can of Coke was my best friend, Tom. My old best friend. He was with a boy from school called Simon, and they were both laughing and swaying as though they’d lost the ability to stand upright.
“Simon Duke?” I said under my breath. “What’s he hanging around with him for?”
Simon Duke was a bit of an idiot who made stuff up. For example, he once said that his dad was a top agent with the FBI. Apparently they were only living in England temporarily and at any moment they could get a call telling them to jump on a plane to wherever the next assignment took them.
“If I don’t come to school one day, you’ll know we’ve gotten the call and I’m outta here,” he announced to our math class last year, slipping into a dreadful American accent as he tapped the side of his nose.
Simon’s downfall came about when someone spotted Mr. Duke in a hardware store wearing an orange apron and helping a customer lift a new toilet into a shopping cart. He got a lot of grief after that.
“Simon, we thought your dad worked for the FBI, not in DIY!”
“What happens when he needs to arrest someone? Does he ask them to ‘stick ’em up’ and shoot them with a glue gun?”
Amazingly, Simon managed to shrug the comments off:
“Dad’s got to keep up an appearance of normality, doesn�
�t he?”
And now, even more amazingly, Tom had decided to hang around with him.
We edged along the line of traffic and I watched them in the side mirror.
“You can ask your friends over any time, you know, Matthew,” said Mum. “You don’t want to lose contact with them.”
I ignored her and watched Tom and Simon shrink in the mirror as we moved onward.
The urge to wash my hands was intensifying, and I was so hot that my eyelids were sweating. I closed them and tried to calm my breathing as Mum continued with a running commentary about her clients at work, the neighbors, anything she could think of to fill the silence.
“… the girl, Casey, is only six and little Teddy is fifteen months, so he’ll have diapers to deal with! Can you imagine an old man coping with that? He’ll be exhausted.”
I listened to her chattering, trying to swallow the sick feeling I had in my stomach, and then finally the car engine slowed as we pulled into the doctor’s parking lot. I opened my eyes and blinked at the bright sunlight.
“I’m very proud of you, Matthew. I’m sorry I shouted earlier about you getting in the car, but I just want you to … be … to have a normal life. That’s all. I’m just thinking of you.”
I nodded, unable to speak. After a deep breath, I opened the door.
The waiting room was quiet and I sat in the front row of seats, which were all empty. Mum stood at the reception desk waiting to check us in. An aqua-blue fish tank bubbled away in the corner, a toy shark on the other side of the glass, its mouth opening and closing with a three-second delay. I spotted a thumbtack in the crease between the carpet and the baseboard, the sharp end pointing upward. Directly above it, on the wall, was a laminated sign stating that in the month of June there had been 24 missed appointments. June and the number 24 were written in black felt pen, which the reception staff must rub out and change each month. The bottom left-hand corner of the poster was not pinned down and gaped away from the wall slightly. I very much wanted to pick the pin up and put it back where it belonged. If the pin was back in its place, then everything would be all right. I would be all right. I looked over at Mum, who was heading toward me, but she changed direction when she spotted someone she knew at the back of the room.
The Goldfish Boy Page 3
