What I Did

by Christopher Wakling

  Back in the waiting bit there’s Dad sitting opposite Butterfly but they’re not chatting, no, because it looks like he’s trying to work out what his fingerprints mean instead. Superman can blow things up with his eyes. Watch out, fingers! Butterfly is pretending to read something boring, just blinking at it, and moles can barely see but don’t worry, they feel their way very effectively. She leaps up and steps toward me saying, — Great, well done, Billy, I’m sure you were a good boy for Dr. Adebayo. But Dad is already up with a hand on my shoulder.

  — Okay? he says.

  — I’m fine.

  Dad glances at Butterfly and growls as he walks us past her, — You’ve finished with us. We can go now, yes?

  — I’ll be in touch, she says.

  We catch a bus back through town. It’s raining. I watch the drops on the window for a while. Hardly any of them are going anywhere. I put my thumb on one, hold my breath, count to ten, let it out, and look: the drop hasn’t moved.

  — Dad, I say.

  — Yes.

  — Can I ask you something?

  — Of course.

  — Because I need to ask you something.

  He turns me round to face him and nods: — Fire away.

  — Is it mongooses or mongeese? I say.

  And then it’s absolutely brilliant because shall I tell you what happens next? Okay, I will. It’s this. We don’t go home. No. That’s what he said we were doing but he changed his mind instead and . . . instead we go . . . we go . . . we go . . . to the cinema . . . instead! The cinema! Dad just sees it rolling backward out of the bus window and hits the bell button on the yellow plastic rail thing. The bus slows. We get off at the next stop. The puddles are jumping like someone’s throwing handfuls of gravel into them. Take that, puddle, all full of spitting holes, take that!

  And it’s not a birthday or even a weekend!

  But in we go all the same, into the lovely glowing front part and there’s the ticket machine and a man behind his glass thing and that woman who weighs the sweets which, pound for pound, must be more expensive than truffles, Son. But look, he’s buying us some anyway. Great scoopfuls! In they go and I don’t even know what film we’re going to see, and neither does he really, I think, because when I ask he checks the ticket before telling me.

  — It’s supposed to be good, he says. — Tall alien people. Econonsense. And a fellow in a wheelchair. Look at this; we even get these uncomfortable glasses. It’s 3-D.

  3-D means not 2-D. 2-D is 1-D less. 1-D doesn’t actually exist because it’s only a dot. Imagine if a picture in a book got up and walked off the page into the room saying hello there, have a look at the other side of me, all round me in fact, I’ve got no thin edges, because I’m a right round thing: that’s 3-D.

  Dad and I sit down the front in the middle, hunched in the dark in our seats, which Dad sort of turns into a sofa by lifting up the rest thing between us so that his arm goes round my shoulder and my head goes just there under his chin.

  It’s brilliantly under-the-duvet-dark, and in among the sweets there’s even some cola bottles, and it just keeps getting better and better because look, look, look: he’s pulled it out of his pocket, his phone, and he’s switching it . . .

  Off.

  And it’s adverts.

  And then for a second it’s quiet.

  Before . . .

  The screen is quickly there, enormous and incredibly loud and that’s it, we’re going, it’s started, and we’re right inside it, with things flying past us and a soldier guy in a wheelchair in a box on a planet with gigantic trees that twist for miles above the ground that lights up when you tread on it or run off a waterfall because he’s lost his gun to find the girl one to help you escape the dog things with six legs that leap into the sharpened stick which jabs straight out of the screen as they’re bark-biting and making me duck because they’re really quite frightening me this bit with the moving ears and amazing snarling scaring him and Dad’s chest is warm in the quiet bit that comes afterward lub-dub-lub-dub until they run up a tree and slash what’s that bullets horrible man armored suit thing noise and big doing hitting again too with the man in the box coming back out for his wheelchair as the tall blue one flops asleep before it wakes up again and runs off into the mountains with the others in search of the dragons which will kill you unless you plug your tail in quickly and fly them down to attack the vicious helicopter planes and the massive wedge ship thing which throws bombs at the huge brilliant tree because apart from her and him they’re horrible humans who want it to fall over while they drink coffee watching with a scar on his head until the man in the wheelchair goes back in his glass box to do something about it but really it’s the brilliant blue things that fire the best arrows which sometimes can go through the cockpit glass but mostly can’t depending upon whether your dragon is red massive or blue medium size before the mating bit which leads up to the biggest fight which makes the funny pipe music turn off for the crashing wallops to make the seats vibrate but it’s okay because Dad’s arm is still there even when the totally evil scarred guy jumps out of the thing using his armor suit to whack and wallop and have oxygen so he can try to grab the wheelchair guy who is still asleep wake up for God’s sake until the blue one plugs his tail into the roots and makes the okay music swell up swell up swell up so they can live there for as long as they want after the film ends.

  Writing comes then and the lights round the edges glow orange.

  I sit up. Dad stretches.

  — Verdict? he asks.

  — Brilliant.

  We walk the rest of the way home because it has stopped raining and exercise is good for you. Some people have dogs. If you’re one of them you have to take your dog for a walk every day because if you forget it will chew the furniture and make you fat. But we only have a cat, Richard, who does his own thing, Son. Miss Hart at school gives us gold stars for being like Richard. Doing independent work it’s called: in deep end dent. My reading age is impressive but Finn is a month younger than me and his is truly spectacular.

  Dad doesn’t say much while we walk and neither do I. I hold his hand and when we go past shops with cat-flap signs outside I don’t even have to try not to duck through them, I just don’t. When things are fine it’s called harmonious and that’s funny because it is vertically the opposite of harmful.

  I like the beach. Do you? Probably, because normal people do, and the best beaches are near America in Cornwall with waves on them, because a beach without waves is like one of those daft hairless cats, Son. Try stroking one! Pointless. But watch out, you have to be careful at a beach with waves on it because waves do what they want to do, and sometimes all they really want to do is slide on in up the sand and steal a child or two. So don’t go too far without me, Son, do you hear? It’s the treacheries’ fault. There are in fact hundreds of treacheries near the beach, like cliffs you can fall off into sharks’ mouths with teeth that all point backward. Don’t even bother trying to pull them out because they’ll just grow back again sharply. Other things to beware of include currents, killer whales, and jellyfish, particularly the box jellyfish from Australia, or ones with huge ten tickles from Portugal. Yes, look out for anything tickly at the beach, and anything in a small Australian box. Some killer whales play tennis with seals and our cat Richard does the same only he uses mice. Very bloodthirsty: you might not like it, but it is in fact a fact of nature. And keep out of the wind, too, because as well as blowing you off cliffs and creating huge waves that steal children the wind will spoil your lunch which is normally a picnic. Sandwiches with sand wedged in them are horrible. Thanks for that, wind. Did you know that Cornish people used to live underground? Well they did, and it’s cold down there, so they kept their lunch warm by wearing it under their hats in pasties which don’t have seams like sandwiches and are therefore much more sensible for the beach. Here come the Cornish people out of their tunnels with their excellently designed lunch under their hats for a brilliant picnic. And if they
want they can shout, too, because that’s the thing about a wavy beach, Son: it has a restful sound track. Shout all you like, the sea hush will soak it up. Stamp, too, if you want. The sand won’t mind. That’s it. Run around, jump up and down, shout and scream to your heart’s contents, and when you’re finished we’ll go for a swim.

  And here’s Mum sitting at the table very still with the kitchen door open, which means she can see us taking our coats off in the hall, and me putting my shoes away, but instead of jumping up to come and say hello and perhaps rubbing my head like she does after school on a normal day she just keeps on sitting there watching us and waiting until we are finished. The house is very quiet. We go into the kitchen where the quiet makes sense because there’s no radio on and yet it still feels bad. Dad doesn’t say anything either. But this silence is an incredible tactic which Mum is the best at because it doesn’t matter how long you just wait wait wait she’ll still be waiting longer for you to speak first and eventually Dad does.

  — Hello, he says.

  — Hello.

  — You okay?

  Mum drums her finger on the table. — Where have you been?

  — Film! I say.

  Mum bites her lip and looks at Dad. He nods and shrugs.

  — There were cola bottles and blue things and a tree blew over with huge bullets, I say.

  Mum gives me a little nodding smile but quickly looks back to Dad, and I’m hungry anyway so I sort of sneak sideways to the cupboard to look for a snack.

  — You went to the cinema? she says.

  — What’s the problem?

  — You had a nice time?

  — What is it?

  — You didn’t think to call me after the medical?

  — Well, I . . . thought you’d be sleeping.

  — What did you see?

  — Avatar. They were reshowing it.

  I find the biscuits and check: they’re not even looking, so it’s incredibly easy to take one. Two, in fact.

  — I hope it was good, she says, and Darth Vader has a funny voice, too, so that even when he says fairly nice things like Obi-Wan has taught you well he still sounds pretty unfriendly, and that’s the same as Mum, because it’s obvious that she’s not really interested in the blue aliens or the guy in the wheelchair or the big fallen-over tree. In fact she means almost the opposite. I don’t care if it was good or not would have been more truthful.

  But Dad doesn’t seem to get it.

  — It was fine. Distracting.

  — Wasn’t it violent?

  — I suppose so, in parts. Vicious use of panpipes, that’s for sure.

  — And now is the time to take Billy to a violent film. Today. In the middle of this . . .

  — Tell you the truth, I wasn’t really thinking. I wanted not to think.

  — No, you didn’t want to think, or return my calls.

  Dad reaches for his phone now and the two of them are totally absorbing, like chess, so I actually decide to eat a third gingernut because nobody is going to notice and there are no nuts in gingernuts anyway and even if there were I am not like Connie in the other class who is allergic. Dad pulls his phone from his pocket, holds it out to Mum, and his thumb presses some buttons.

  — Sorry, he says. — I switched it off.

  — Yes, she says. You would, wouldn’t you. Today. It makes sense.

  — Look, the medical was fine, wasn’t it, Billy. Billy? Come out of there! This’ll blow over, Tessa. He was only with the doctor fifteen minutes.

  — So that’s all right then, says Darth Mum.

  Dad’s voice goes warning-loud then but it’s okay, I’m nowhere near the biscuits now. — Look, he says. It’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong.

  — No. I’m sure not.

  — What’s that supposed to mean?

  — It’ll all be fine, I’m sure you’re right.

  — It will be.

  — Yes.

  Dad’s phone starts beeping.

  — And those messages won’t alter anything.

  Dad’s thumb starts doing more buttons.

  — Not even the one from me . . . telling you they’ve already rung us. That woman, the one who was here yesterday. She says the doctor has some concerns. And because of that, because of that . . . they’ve decided they have a duty to investigate us, this family, further.

  Dad’s thumb stops what it’s doing and he drops his phone onto the tabletop. Clonk. He sits down, plants his elbows on the table, drops his head into his hands. His fingers prod wrinkles into his forehead as his face dips lower, lower, and lower, until his fingers are digging into his hair. He has nice hair, Dad. It’s the color of straw. But oh no, it looks as if he’s going to pull some out.

  — Stop! I say.

  It works. His hands drop down as he glances up at me. —Come here, he whispers.

  I’ve eaten too many biscuits so I do as I’m told. He lifts me up onto his knee and sticks his nose in my ear first, then my hair, then my ear again. He grips the back of my neck and holds me reasonably hard.

  — Whatever happens, he says quietly. — Whatever happens, you must remember none of this is your fault. You hear me? You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, Billy. Promise me you’ll remember that. It’s not your fault.

  — What’s not? I say. It rhymes.

  — That’s it, says, Dad in a small voice. — Precisely.

  After that I go upstairs to fetch my stretchy lizards. I’ve got three. Two are the same blue-gray color but one is gray-green different although they are all quite similar. Stretchy. Pull them like that and they will stretch to more than twice as long and shrink in the middle to half as thin, but watch out you don’t yank them about too hard, Son, or snap, you’ll have a leg off.

  How hard is hard? Not that . . . because that’s fine . . . and so is that, even though the bit by its shoulder has almost gone see-through . . . but it’s still fine . . . even probably when I pull it harder still, like . . .

  Snap.

  No, no, no. I can’t believe it! But it has happened. It’s terrible and I did it and now I’ve got two bits of one lizard, a leg and the rest, in two totally different hands. And my stomach feels very small and hard, like a Brazil nut. Perhaps if I put the pieces under my bed and push them like that toward the wall . . . But no, no, no, I can’t, I mustn’t. Instead I have to drag them out again and make myself take them downstairs to show everybody because if I don’t I’ll have done something worse called a lie. And although my stomach nut is horrible and both my hands know and tingle that they shouldn’t have done what they did, and I really, really don’t want to tell Dad or Mum, a strange tiny part of me is actually okay. Shall I tell you why? Because at least it happened to the gray-green one which was different anyway, and not the blue-gray other ones which are an amazing pair.

  Down I go.

  But I stop on the broken banister stair.

  Because they’re still talking and it is rude to interrupt anyway, which isn’t the real reason.

  — You told your mother?

  — I had to speak to somebody. You weren’t answering.

  — Your mother?

  — This isn’t just going to go away. She knows people.

  — I can’t believe it.

  I squash my lizard’s leg-stumps together hard. You can barely see the join. I could just keep squashing it together like this forever and nobody would notice but it would be difficult at night when I go to sleep. Some batteries are rechargeable.

  Dad’s still talking. — What did you say to her exactly?

  — All I know. That somebody saw you belting Billy in the park. That he’s covered in bruises. That they’re saying somebody — meaning you or me, presumably — may have hit him with an implement of some sort.

  — Implement?

  — That’s what she said.

  — What fucking implement?

  — I don’t know.

  — This is insane.

  — I know.

  — Insane!
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  — So you haven’t hit him with anything?

  — Jesus, Tessa.

  — Well?

  — You’re actually asking me this. I don’t believe . . .

  — You don’t believe me?

  Superglue! It’s amazing, and Mum has some, because she mended my cup with it, the one Grandma Lynne gave me when I was born. Peter Rabbit. Mum actually cried when I told her I’d broken the handle off. Anyway it’s mended now but I’m not allowed to drink out of it anymore so in a way it isn’t mended which is confusing. But nobody drinks out of lizards so the glue will mend it, probably, and then my stomach Brazil nut can forget all about it. I jump down the last two steps, thump, and rush into the kitchen.

  — But it’s okay! I say.

  Mum and Dad are standing at opposite ends of the kitchen table. If they had a little net and some bats and the right kind of really light ball they could play table tennis standing there like that, but sadly they don’t look like they want a game.