— To escape.
— Who from? he asks. But before I can answer he goes on himself. — Hunters, I imagine. Yes. There was once a leopard who wanted to escape from a pack of hunters. And the thing was, this leopard wasn’t alone. He had a cub with him. His only cub. In fact, it was the cub the hunters wanted. That’s right, they wanted to take the cub out of the jungle and put it in a zoo. A nice zoo, where the cub would be well looked after, very safe, but a zoo all the same. Do you understand?
Of course I understand, so I nod quite hard and ask, — But what happened next?
— The leopard didn’t want the hunters to capture his cub. He decided he’d do anything to stop them. Anything at all.
— And?
— Well, the hunters wouldn’t give up. They kept chasing. They chased the leopard out of the forest and right up a mountain. They cornered him and his cub there. And . . .
— And what?
— What do you think should happen?
— Maybe the leopard should fight the hunters.
— He can’t. There are too many of them.
— Then he should run further away!
— Impossible. They’ve got the leopard and his cub surrounded. They’re watching him, high up on the mountaintop. The hunters have nets. They want the leopard’s cub. They advance up the mountain. The leopard climbs further, right to the edge of a precipice. They keep calling up to him, the hunters, saying he’s endangering his cub, that they’re going to take it away for its own sake, and telling him there’s nothing he can do to stop them.
— But there must be! Otherwise . . .
— Otherwise what?
— Otherwise it’s not a good story.
— You’re right.
— So?
— Well . . . there is one thing the leopard could do.
— Great! What is it?
Dad’s pupils are not lizard-straight but roundly black and as big as chocolate coins. He blinks, then his gaze jerks up as two plates swoop down over my shoulder onto the table.
— There you go, Rudyard. The man chuckles to himself. — Two full English. He pats me on the head and says, — Good luck.
I desperately want Dad to tell me the end of the story, but my stomach is giddy all of a sudden. The plate of food in front of me is the biggest I’ve ever seen, a sea of baked beans with oily toast islands, two egg suns and three fat sausages and a mushroom hill here, some glistening potato slices there, and a bleeding tomato lake in the middle, all crisscrossed with wetly pink bacon strips and . . . I grab up my fork and start jabbering hot mouthfuls in.
It’s tasty.
I eat faster.
Watchmakers have to be careful, otherwise they lose whole cogs of time off the ends of their tweezers. It’s called being precise, and we saw a thing on TV at school where they did it magnified. When I next look up I notice that Dad is eating like he’s making a watch. It’s a sausage, Dad, just stab it up and bite the end off it! But no: he’s slicing as if he thinks something might ping out the end if he does it wrong. I do some bean scoops and carve a bit out of the mushroom hill and I’m actually beating Dad here; I’ve eaten more than him.
Excellent!
I keep going.
The radio is playing a song about a man who doesn’t know how many roads he has to walk down to get there. A grown-up version of “Are We Nearly There Yet”? I don’t know, and even if I did I couldn’t tell him because it’s a radio, not a phone, like Dad’s, which is in the bin. The man should sing in a service station or perhaps look up the answer himself in an atlas. It’s called researching and you can do it on the computer or in a library. Come to think of it, there’s another man who sometimes plays his guitar outside the library at home. It has a big yawning to combat rain. You’re occasionally allowed to throw coins at the man’s hat once he’s taken it off, to stop him playing and make him go and buy something to eat instead. It’s very unusual to have two drinks at one meal: I have to work hard to drink some orange juice after my hot chocolate.
I’m stuffed.
I tell Dad, using politeness: — Thank you but I’m finished.
He says nothing: he’s still listening to the radio. It’s the news, and the woman telling it is very importantly saying that the Prime Minister will shortly announce something. We have to stand up to the new clear threat now, says a man, before it’s too late. Evidence is never conclusive. Resolution or not, we must act with our allies. Surgical strikes at this stage will avert a possible catastrophe down the line.
Dad’s good fingers are jabbing into the rim of his cast. Anteaters can prize open termite mounds as hard as concrete with their claws if they feel like it, but termites aren’t ants. He is staring at his plate, which looks like it has more on it now than when he started. Suddenly he shoves it to one side and says, — What’s the point? embarrassingly loudly.
— It’s breakfast.
— It’s a total stitch-up, Son. March? You’d have thought we’d learned! Whatever we say or do, it makes no difference. They’ll just . . .
The man who gave us breakfast is looking across his counter thing. — Dad, I say, but once he’s gulped and wiped his face he goes on just as loudly.
— No need for evidence. ’Course not. If it suits them, they’ll drop bombs. Never mind the consequences. Surgical. Jesus. You think they’ve got it in for us? There’ll be whole families . . .
His face goes into his hands and he takes deeper and deeper breaths and I’m worried he’s going to shout whatever he has to say next. But when his head comes back up he sees something through the window with the funny half-curtain and goes very still. It’s . . . the back of two policemen’s heads. They’re coming nearer the door. Inching, it’s called, but at school we use centimeters. A bell tinkles as the first policeman comes into the café, still talking to the other one about something being impossible without a change of heart.
— Manager, you mean.
— He inherited the problem. He didn’t create it.
— Morning, the first policeman says to the man with bristly eyebrows, who smiles over the big teapot he’s already aiming at two clinkety mugs. The policemen sit down. They have excellently black jackets with amazing belt stuff, plus clips. You could speak to the Are-We-Nearly-There man on that walkie-talkie, I bet. George and James at school have a pair with a three-mile range, easily bigger than the Infants’ playground, though they were only allowed to demonstrate in the classroom during show-and-tell, which was stupid, because we could all hear what they were saying anyway, and so could they.
I look back at Dad. Even the bobbling apple in his throat is stuck still. Through the food steam I catch the itched-out smell of his plaster cast.
Without looking at me he whispers, — We must go, Billy. Finish up.
— I am finished. I already told you.
— Good boy.
He slips some notes from his wallet under the rim of his mug, the slowest magician ever, totally obvious! Then he takes hold of my hand. Together we leave, me trying not to spark electricity, him walking like a deep-sea diver with incredibly heavy air in his tanks.
Why is it called on foot when you’re walking: surely it should be on feet? You use both of them, after all. Still, I could probably hop faster than we walk through town this morning. We’re like a real safari team stalking through the jungle, creep, stalk, creep, except there isn’t much foil age to hide behind, just a bus shelter here and this shopping arcade and that row of recycling banks. If I shut one eye I can make those things into a rock face and a cave tunnel and some boulders. Round the next corner there are two workmen admiring a lamppost in wet cement and again if I think about it another way they look like they’re pleased to see it’s sprouted. Dad nearly walks into the orangey barrier thing but he is holding my hand so I’m holding his, and for a change I do the steering, pulling him sideways at the last minute.
What he’s being is called unnerving.
So I say, — Come on, Dad, can you finish telling me that
story?
And he blinks at me and says, — What story?
— The leopard one.
He shakes his head.
But the question works, sort of, because we start walking more quickly with Dad leading the way like on a normal hike, the sort where there are warmish drinks in little bottles and the occasional treat to keep us going, Son, because an army marches on its stomach. I don’t ask for any treats today. I just concentrate on keeping up as we cross some bigger roads full of growling top predators and go out to where the town is windier with the buildings farther apart.
We climb a gray hill.
We cross a wooden style.
We follow a grassy path.
It starts to spit, which is rude, but footballers do it and so does nature. Dad doesn’t pull my hood up. I can manage anyway. There’s a raggedy hedge next to this path, tassels of dirty green grass, with the sky like a brownish lid above. Then, through a gap, I see the sea. Right there! Right down there, chewing on the far-below stones. I only glimpse it, but I’m right, because we cut through a gate and zag across a fieldy bit and there it is again, with extra wind and rain, a strip of whitey gray hushing at the shore.
Shhhh.
Shhhh.
Shhhh.
I can’t help saying it: — I can see the sea.
— Yes.
— Are there any mints?
— No.
I don’t ask again. There’s a huge boat over there, and another one off to its side, both leaving slow silvery trails behind them, like snails. And we’re going to have a closer look, because we’re leaving the path, which is really just a narrow bit of more nibbled grass, and heading nearer to the edge.
Quite a lot nearer.
This is two things. First, it’s excellent, because I’m never normally allowed near steep edges, including the far end of the garden wall. But second, it’s actually worrying, because this cliff is higher than the highest wall, and we’re only a few steps away from its edge.
Dad’s silence suddenly turns worrying, too. I look up at him. The worried feeling worms over on itself horribly in my stomach.
He is crying again.
Not proper crying with sounds, but tears all the same, wet tracks down gray cheeks, and red eyes.
I can’t feel where his hand ends and mine begins.
I know you, Son, I can see your soul.
But he doesn’t know what I’m thinking and I don’t know what he’s thinking either because mind reading is impossible. I’m suddenly annoyed by his statue tears. I pull my fingers out of his.
And I wish I had a hammer, because if I did I could hit his thumb with it, and he could say fucking, and that would make sense because of the blood which you would see coming out the split nail. Everybody liked seeing the wall cut inside my leg, too: the doctor, Butterfly, everyone, because it also had dried-up blood. It was a sure sign. Just crying about nothing isn’t helpful because it makes everyone cross with you without giving them a real reason to be angry. Like running across a road. Or standing too close to the . . .
I take some large steps forward, right up to the very edge. Do you know what serrated is? Like a holly leaf or bat’s wing. Well, the very edge of this cliff is a bit serrated. Over there I can see a dagger of white dropping down into the beach. And the sprouts of grass beneath my feet spike out over the lip, with the last needles jabbering at the waves way below. Sometimes in the kitchen I rock back on my chair. It’s a stupid thing to do because when you go beyond the counterbalance of a cheetah’s tail the chair tips up entirely, whap, and if I take another step here that’s it, good-bye, I’m gone. The wind is streaking up at me. It smells of Tesco: the bit where you buy the fish. And that big boat’s horn comes with its own echo. I went to Wookey Hole once. The spears of cliff dropping down either side of me look a little like stalactites. But before you dive into the pool you have to put your toes over the edge. I put one foot half over the lip and turn sideways and see that Dad’s face is now white-gray plus a line of snot. His mouth is working but there’s nothing coming out. It’s called speechless. Good. He’s got something proper to say nothing about now.
— We’re not really on safari, are we, Dad?
He shakes his head.
— We’re the prey instead.
A bigger wave hits the pebbly beach below us, and the sound of it, whump, drifts up.
— We’re the prey, and Butterfly and Giraffe, the orang-utan, all of the cow sill people, they’re the hunters, aren’t they?
He drops to one knee and reaches out toward me. I won’t let him have my hand yet, though, because I won’t.
— Why are they hunting us?
— Billy, he says, and shakes his head. — Just come—
— Why?
Maybe it’s the wind, but his voice sounds small and scratchy, like a mouse in an egg box. — Please. Come here. They think I hurt you, Son. That’s what this is about.
— Why?
— They want to keep me away from you, to prevent it happening again.
He’s on his hands and knees now, reaching out, his hand an inch from my arm. That’s about two centimeters. My bad leg throbs. He won’t grab for me, though. Because if I jerk back . . .
— Pretend what’s happening?
— Not pretend. Prevent. Stop. They want to stop me hurting you.
— You’re not hurting me.
— No, and I’m not going to. I promise . . . I wasn’t about . . . I won’t. But they think I did. They think I hit you with something. They think I—
I drift my arm into his grip, which shuts ever so gently. Puppies again. It’s fine. He’s talking. It worked.
— I just can’t bear it, Son.
— But you did hit me.
— No I didn’t.
— Yes you did.
— I smacked you.
— It’s the same.
— No. It’s not. At least . . . not like they think. Christ, they think I hurt you with something.
— You did.
— What?
— With a brick. A wall brick. You were chasing me so I jumped over a wall to get away and the brick bit me. It was your fault. And mine, too, slightly. Then there was a road and you smacked me incredibly hard for that as well.
— Is that what you said to them?
— I was cross that you told on me. You said it was behind us, but you lied. So I said it all to them.
— That I hurt you with a brick?
— Hurt. Bit. Maybe. I can’t remember. But anyway. What did you tell them?
Dad’s face is the same flat gray as the sky, which has no edges. It’s just one big lump of cloud rushing along behind him, or maybe we’re moving and the cloud is staying still. The world is like a basketball on God’s finger, Son, if only he existed.
— Nothing, Dad says.
— What?
— I told them . . . nothing.
— Why?
— Because . . . it’s not their business, Son.
— I don’t understand.
He gentles me closer to him. It’s called drawing but not the kind that has to do with sketches, more like a string in the neck of a bag. One arm-loop tightens round me, pulls me down onto the grass tufts, the wetness of his face pressing into my forehead. Normally my snot tears do it to him, in reverse.
— We are nothing to do with them, he says.
— But you told me something different. You said just tell the truth.
— I know.
— So why don’t you just tell the truth, too?
— I—
— Tell them the truth.
— I—
— Tell them the truth. All of it. Explain about the crack and the light and everything being all right because it has some wrong. When they know it they’ll say thank you. They’ll go away and leave us alone. It’s incredibly obvious. Just do what you told me to do! Tell them the truth.
— It’s not always so simple. The truth doesn’t always work.
I pull away
from him. Not far, not back toward the edge drop, just so that I can see his face. — Not always doesn’t mean never.
This is the last bit and shall I tell you why? Because it comes at the end. But don’t worry, it’s not like most last bits. In most last bits everything finishes, and normally it finishes happily, and if it’s a book for children it normally finishes with everybody going to bed. Stock trick, Son. End of story, lights-out, bed.
But I’m not finished.
Neither are the fish in Lizzie’s topical tank. They’re still swimming round and round and round and round. Well done, fish. They must have been at it ever since I was last here, but does a tree fall over in the forest if you’re not there to see it crash down? Yes, of course, obviously! Look, there it is, on its barky side, all smashed up. That fish just did two back-and-forths in different directions, which equals a figure of eight.
Through the tank a bendy version of Lizzie is lying on her belly making a garage for her cars out of wooden bricks. It’s never going to work because the bottom bit is wobbly and it’s not just the glassy water’s fault. I decide to help her. Together we put some bigger bricks down first which is called laying foundations. We build a pretty good wall, but small children are incredibly clumsy. It doesn’t matter: I explain how all houses have roots in the ground except for the ones which fall over because of hurricanes in Africa. Hurricanes have names. Watch out, here comes Lizzie. End of garage. She stares at the ruins.
— Not to worry, I tell her. — We can build a new one.
Sometimes, Son, there’s nothing for it but to start again.
The adults are talking in the kitchen. Cicely is there, and that’s normal: it’s her house. Mum, too: not so normal; even though they’re sisters I hardly ever used to come here with just Mum. And there’s also the new horse man. He’s a new man because he’s new, so he’s not yet normal, not at all. He is definitely a horse, though, very long-faced with a stringy mane and polished wet eyes. Even his talking is horselike: he sort of whinnies in between whatever Cicely or Mum says.
Everything changes, Son, apart from that fact.
And to prove it’s true I’ll give you an example: my shoes, the ones which flash, don’t fit me anymore. My feet grew because everything changes. The little heel lights still go wink, wink, wink when I whack the shoes on the bottom step, though, and my feet are still here, so it’s more complicated than that, Dad: everything changes, yes, but nothing goes totally away.
What I Did Page 25
