What I Did

by Christopher Wakling

  — There hasn’t, I say, — except it’s not actually normal. She looks confused, so I explain: — It’s half-term. Normally I go to school. I’m in Year One this year which is normal because I’m six. But today I’m not at school and that’s normal, too, because it’s a normal half-term day. Schools normally have half-terms in the middle and now is the middle. Everything is normal.

  — Everything is normal, she repeats, but her smile has faded. It sounds like she doesn’t believe me. This is annoying but maybe she is right. Is she right? Yes, I think she is! If you’re in the wrong, Son, it’s best to admit it.

  — Except that my hairs hurt, I admit.

  — Your hairs?

  — The hairs on my head.

  She’s sitting next to me on the sofa now, with one leg bent up under her bum so she can sit sideways and see me. Yoga has nothing to do with yoghurt. Sometimes Mum does pilots which is quite similar.

  — Your hair hurts? Why is that?

  — Because of Dad.

  She reaches across to the coffee table and picks up her folder.

  — Why do you have a cloth one? I ask. She looks confused again. — Jeans, I say. On your folder. Normally they go on legs.

  She opens the folder and says, — It was a present. Pretty silly, hey?

  — Why do you use it then?

  She smiles and shrugs. — Billy. Do you understand why I’ve come to visit you today?

  — Yes.

  — Why?

  — You’re delaying my predators.

  — Excuse me?

  She’s staring at me superhard now which is suddenly very tiring. And it’s Dad’s fault. She wouldn’t be asking me all these questions if he hadn’t told on me.

  — What do you mean, predators? she says.

  — There are two kinds of thing, I explain. — Prey or predator. If you’re prey you must run away or use other defenses like camouflage or armor. But predators don’t stop trying just because of that. They still want to tear you apart because of nature.

  — I see, she says, but from the stiffness around her mouth, very concentrating, I think she probably doesn’t see at all.

  — And I’m here to stop these predators, you think?

  — Well they’re pausing because of you, but don’t worry they’ll start up again after you’ve gone.

  When I was very little, vertically two or three probably, I used to like writing nonsense in small notebooks. I didn’t call it nonsense, though, I called it writing and I learned it by copying Mum and Dad, because they write with pens, too, but normally I had to write with pencils. Dad used to give me these small notebooks from work so they must once have belonged to the man, and when Dad didn’t have any of the man’s notebooks to give me I made my own by folding bits of paper and sort of sticking them together with sellotape or sometimes staples. Careful there, Son, that thing bites. Mostly those books came apart. But anyway, whenever I had a notebook I would sit down and do hundreds of squiggles in it because I didn’t know real letters yet because I was a very young idiot. Now when I write I do it using proper letters in words, but back then ages ago I just did little up-down-and-across marks with gaps. Everyone said well done keep going that’s great, until my friend George’s brother, Felix, who is in Year Four now but wasn’t then, said no, that’s not real writing at all, it’s just total rubbish.

  Butterfly writes some stuff very quickly in her jeans folder and smiles encouragements at me and what I think is this: So what? You’re a grown-up and grown-ups are supposed to be able to write quickly, and anyway what you’re writing is probably still total rubbish. It makes me cross to watch her, but hold on, that’s not fair, because it’s not her fault, it’s Dad’s. If he hadn’t told on me to her we wouldn’t have to wait here while she writes in her stupid book and I could be watching David Attenborough instead.

  — Your hair, she says. How did your father hurt it?

  — Viciously.

  — What do you mean, though? Describe what he did.

  I push my fingers through the front tangly bit of my hair but feel a bit silly so I tug on it to make the feeling feel worse.

  — I see. And has he done this to you before?

  — Oh yes, quite often, I say.

  The woman prods her cheek with her tongue and writes something else. Then she says, — Can you tell me about your morning, Billy? In the park. What happened?

  I have a think then and shall I tell you what the thought is? Okay, I will. It is this: I think Jesus was wrong. Not completely wrong, because he was excellently kind, and particularly impressive on humans, but he was wasn’t impressive the whole time. He was rubbish at animals. Apart from fish. He made thousands of them out of bread. And that’s fine. But I am not a fish. And I’m not an animal, either. I am a human and so are you, probably. Well done, Jesus. But what about our ancestors? Yes, yes, yes, they were animals, too. And that is why sometimes we still have to do what animals do when they are cornered. What’s that, then? I will tell you, but first I will tell you what animals don’t do, or do hardly ever, and it is this: you hardly ever see an animal showing you its other cheek. Silverback gorillas least of all because sometimes they’re too busy beating their chests. Which is a signal for what exactly? That’s right: it’s a signal to say, you there watch out, you’re annoying me and if you do it again I am going to rip your arms out of their plug sockets. That’s right, bugger off, or I’ll retaliate.

  Dad told on me, and he got to go upstairs to do his own thing, so I decide to tell on him, because maybe then this Butterfly woman will flap off and let me watch TV.

  — What happened in the park? Butterfly asks again.

  — Dad chased me.

  — Why?

  — Because I ran away.

  — And why did you run away?

  — Because he was chasing me.

  Butterfly woman does another smile, very reassuring, and says, — Okay.

  — He was the predator and I was the prey.

  — Predator?

  — Then he attacked me, I say.

  — He attacked you?

  — He caught me first. But once he’d caught me he swiftly attacked me, yes.

  — How do you mean?

  — He hit me.

  — Where did he hit you?

  She really is stupid, so I use a slow voice to help her: — Next to the park, I say.

  — No. Whereabouts on you did he hit you?

  — Everywhere!

  — And did that hurt?

  Is she a complete idiot? — Yes, I say slowly. It was agony.

  She writes some stuff in her boring pad again now, and then finally says, — I see.

  Well done, Butterfly, it wasn’t that hard was it? We got there in the end! She pauses and sticks her tongue into her cheek again and writes down something else, and I wonder will she ever, ever, ever go away?

  Not yet it seems because she’s got more questions.

  — Can I ask you to do something for me, Billy?

  — What is it?

  — Can you show me exactly where you were hurt?

  — Why?

  — So that I can help it not to happen again.

  I laugh at her then and she says, — Why are you laughing?

  — You think you can stop Dad? He is more powerful than you! Most males are.

  She smiles again. — There are ways of helping.

  — Okay.

  — But to be helpful I need to know where he hurt you.

  This is probably a test. I bet Dad has told her to ask me to undress because he knows I’m slow at clothes and probably thinks I won’t show her properly and will get into trouble instead. So I start getting undressed. I concentrate very hard and I do it like Mum says, super-efficiently, step-by-step.

  — You don’t need to take . . .

  But I do! She can’t fool me! I am already there, undressed. And now that I am naked I can show her my spectacular wounds!

  Butterfly looks at me. She sucks some air in over her tee
th when I point at the wall bite on the inside of my leg, and she’s also impressed by my other bruises, like the stairs one on my back, and some of the red bits, too, I think, because she looks hard at all of them, like you might if you saw an amazing painting of an otter perhaps. I don’t say anything. I just point. The wall scrape wins I think: it’s gone bright dark purple-red all around but there’s still some blood in it.

  — Is that from this morning? she asks.

  — I don’t want to tell you.

  — Why?

  — Because it wasn’t my fault.

  — Don’t worry, Billy. I know that.

  — No. It was Dad’s fault instead.

  — How exactly?

  — He got me by a wall.

  — He did what?

  — I was running away from him and he was chasing me, and then he was about to catch me by a wall, and because he was about to catch me and I was trying to escape, the wall bit me.

  — The wall bit you?

  — Yes, because of him.

  — Because of him?

  — They used the railings from the wall to kill people with in the war. He told me that ages ago. Did you know that there’s a banister on the stairs you can hit people with if you like?

  — Right. A banister. No. Has somebody hit you with a banister?

  — No, I say. — But if they did I’d run away.

  — Have you ever done that? Run away?

  — Oh yes but he caught up with me, like today. He always does.

  — I see. What are these marks here, on the backs of your legs?

  — I don’t know. It might be because of always getting hurt on the stairs.

  — You get hurt on the stairs. How?

  — There’s not enough friction in them. I could push you down them easily. Anybody could. And when you get pushed down them it hurts! Did you know a wolf’s jaw muscles are strong enough to bite your thighbone in half?

  — I . . . no. I didn’t. But Billy, how did you get these bruises here?

  — They don’t hurt. They’re just normal bruises.

  — And these ones on your back here?

  — Normal.

  — I see, she says, handing me my T-shirt. — Thank you. Good boy. Thank you.

  — I am a good boy, I say, getting dressed. — I hardly ever retaliate.

  There are three boys at school who do ganging-up. Mostly it’s against me but I don’t mind and only two of them are in my class. The other one isn’t but he is in my playground at break time. They are called Rufus and Joe and Eddy and they live in a close which is actually quite far away which they don’t realize is a joke. Eddy is not in my class. He is the ringmaster and he has curly hair. He sends the others in to hit me first. Sometimes they will say something first like, — Hey you idiot you are a wildlife freak, but mostly they won’t say anything at all. They just run up and push me over and that will be the first thing I know about it.

  Retaliation is very interesting because mostly it’s wrong, except when it’s right, and then it can actually be your duty to stand up for yourself and let them have it, Son: don’t let anyone push you around. Duty is called compulsory. But at other times it is very important that you don’t fight back at all and instead use Jesus’s weapon of choice which was his cheek, which he kept turning, which wasn’t at all pathetic. Luke Skywalker has a light saver.

  School is the place where the rules are very easy. Everyone knows them. You mustn’t hit anyone or do aggression. Absolutely not! Not even rough-and-tumbling. If you kids must fight why not join the judo club? The teachers are in charge at school so you do have to do what they say, although this can be extremely tricky because sometimes they aren’t looking and at the end of the day you have to stand up for yourself, Son, or bullies will keep doing it for ever.

  Did you know that there is an extra sense some animals have for checking whether prey is in fear? I think Eddy is one of those animals. There’s Billy sitting playing with his Tiddlos, just let me check whether he’s in fear. No. Well he should be. Attack!

  When it last happened I jumped up very fast and the nearest one was Joe so I grabbed him very noisily to show that I was up and he was down because he was. I tripped him over very easily using judo. But Eddy and Rufus got me from the back and I realized that they were working as a pack. I made a tremendous roaring racket to show I wasn’t afraid and it wasn’t camouflage, I really wasn’t. It was quite good fun actually. I spun around but one of them had a finger in my ear and that hurt so I sat down on him and there was a crunchy feeling of the gravel through him. Then something hit me on the cheek but I don’t know what it was. I didn’t see it. All I saw was the playground, very close, very miniature, but no worm-casts, just sandy concrete. Next my neck felt nasty and then I realized what was going on and tried to wriggle out of it but I couldn’t. The zip was done up. Of my coat. They were pulling me across the playground by my hood.

  Obi-Wan Kenobi has a hood but nobody would drag him anywhere by it because he would defeat them if they did. If you strike me down I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Feel the Force, Billy.

  Unfortunately I didn’t have time to use my Force because Miss Hart used hers first. She saw me being dragged across the playground by my hood and she retaliated at the predators. — Stop that! she said, and they did. Her weapon of choice is taking away your gold stars.

  Butterfly’s weapon would definitely be her folder, probably. Get back, get back, or I’ll jeans-folder you. She is filling it up with words now. If it was a rifle this would be called loading it with ammo. I want a catapult. — What about a dogapult, Son? Dad said when I told him, which was annoying and not funny because dogapults don’t really exist. One day I’ll be allowed a catapult but not yet because they are like sticks and the God they had before Jesus. He didn’t exist either but he did make some laws and the main one was that you had to poke out other people’s eyes if they poked yours out first. Careful there! If you wave that stick in my face I’ll take one of your eyes out with my catapult.

  — No, I normally don’t retaliate, I tell Butterfly again.

  She looks up from her jeans and tries another smile but it’s a weak one and suddenly I think she might either be confused or upset which is bad because it means she’s even less likely to go home.

  — It means poking somebody else’s eye out, I explain. — But don’t worry because I won’t do it unless I have to. How long are you staying?

  — Does that happen often, Billy? Do you try to fight back?

  — Sometimes retaliation is the only option, I say.

  — Really. Did you retaliate today?

  — No. I promise I didn’t. It’s half-term. Will you go away now, please?

  She closes her folder like Mr. Kneele closes the Bible when he finishes reading bits of it to us at school. Slowly. It’s a great book, the Bible, full of tremendous stories. Bedpost of Western civilization, Son. Just don’t take it as gospel. That’s a joke. I still don’t understand it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked Butterfly to go away.

  — Sorry, I add, looking at the dead TV. — But I’d like to be on my own now please.

  She straightens my trousers because I’ve sort of pulled them up half facing the wrong way, which is nice of her. Then she tells me some stuff about how sensible it would be if she arranged for somebody to check my bruises to make sure they weren’t still painful tomorrow or the next day and I do some nodding in time with her butterfly which flaps a bit as she stands up, because yes, it looks like my nodding is helping the butterfly to drag her away. Some eagles can lift up whole lambs but this butterfly isn’t really doing the lifting at all. Its an octopus allusion. Still, off you go butterfly. Take your woman. Open the kitchen door. Get Mum. Bye bye.

  Mum comes back into the front room straightaway and turns the television on again. Hooray. There’s the little cheetah cub, still at it, dipping its bloody head in and out. Mum immediately fast-forwards the DVD to the gray wolves and goes right back to the kitch
en again, shutting the door to say more things to Butterfly and leaving me to watch the whole of the pack hunting the caribou from the start of the chase to the exhaustion bit at the end in the deep snow, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!

  Actually the end bit is sad. Red snow.

  Another sad thing happened in Tesco with Mum a few days ago. Shall I tell you what it was? Okay. I had my Tiddlos with me. Do you know what they are? They are small plastic things that you can have which are very small, smaller than thumbs, and they are made out of the oil which comes from the middle of planet Earth which is where you get plastic. Each Tiddlo is very different actually. Some look like an animal and others look more like a robot and some of them look like people and some of them look like nothing but you can still tell they are Tiddlos. Father Christmas made me mine but Andrew told me most of them come in packets of three from a shop. Andrew has thirty-nine Tiddlos which I believe in. Louisa says she has a million, which is not true.

  I have three Tiddlos.

  If you count to a million you will die. Yes, before you reach a million, you will become extinct.

  The Triassic area was two hundred million years ago and this explains why the dinosaurs that roamed the earth then are all gone.

  One of my Tiddlos is green and has a face like a saber-tooth without its teeth, but not just an ordinary cat. He is Saber.

  Another of my Tiddlos is orange and hasn’t got a face at all. He looks a bit like a tiny spade. I call him Sandy.

  And the other one of my Tiddlos is pink which at first I didn’t like until Dad said he liked its robot armor shell because it probably made that Tiddlo more invincible than the others. He is called Vince because that is what Dad called him.

  Dad says Tiddlos are amazing. — No doubt some bloke’s got himself a kidney-shaped swimming pool by churning out these gobs of pointlessness, he said. — Amazing.

  Anyway, Tesco is very boring always, apart from the day I’m telling you about, because of the freezers which have very bright white lights to buzz above them a bit like the light in Star Wars. And I had an idea. I held Vince and Sandy up to one of these lights to check whether Vince was actually totally pink or perhaps a bit orangey like Sandy, and that is what I was doing when Mum saw me.