Furious Thing

by Jenny Downham

  ‘In the first instance,’ John said, ‘the doctor suggested some small changes – some behaviour modification, if you like. So I’ve made a new list and once again you’re going to sign it, and once again it’s going on the fridge where everyone can see it. But this time it’s a proper contract. You’re going to start studying, stick to your grounding and be polite, focused and well-behaved. If you prove you can do all that, then we’ll re-assess. But if you break the contract by even a hair’s breadth, you go straight to Doctor Leaman.’ There was something excited in the way he licked his lips, in the way he smiled at me now. ‘You’re dangerously close to the edge, Alexandra.’

  Another Tale of Love and Death

  Once there was a woman who lived alone with her young daughter. They were very poor and often hungry, but they were happy because they loved each other. One winter, snow fell for weeks and although the mother did her best – begging for scraps from neighbours and searching the streets for firewood – the pair were soon starving. They lay huddled together under a thin blanket, telling each other stories of summer days, in the hope it would keep death away.

  One night, there was a knock at the door and in walked a handsome prince. He had food with him and warm clothes and fuel for the fire and he told the mother he’d seen her wandering about and thought she looked frail and beautiful and he’d fallen in love and was here to look after her.

  ‘What about my daughter?’ she asked, pointing to the child shivering on the bed. ‘Will you love her too?’

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you had a kid.’ He made his apologies and went away.

  ‘That was my fault,’ said the child.

  ‘No,’ the mother said. ‘The prince has a child and wife of his own. It’s better not to get involved.’ But she took to crying. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could have saved us?’ she said. ‘And he was very handsome, did you notice? And did you hear him say I was beautiful?’

  ‘I’ll save us,’ the daughter said. ‘I’ll go out hunting.’

  But the mother said she was too young. She said it was her job to look after the child, not the other way round. But she didn’t get out of bed to do anything about it. She seemed to have lost her energy. She said she couldn’t breathe properly. She got thinner and frailer.

  A few days later, the prince came back. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. He suggested he pay for the daughter to go and stay with relatives. ‘It’ll give me and your mother a chance to get to know one another,’ he said, smiling at the girl.

  ‘And what about your wife?’ the mother said.

  ‘Oh, it’s over between us,’ the prince assured her. ‘It’s you I love.’

  And so the child went to stay with her grandfather every other weekend.

  For a while, everything went well. The mother blossomed in love, growing healthy and happy and more beautiful. The prince adored her. He’d never met anyone like her. He loved her more than anyone else ever would.

  The girl blossomed too. She hadn’t been able to visit her grandfather much before because he lived so far away, and the fare was expensive, so it was wonderful spending time with him. He was kind and gentle to the girl and taught her many useful skills, such as how to climb trees and the names of all the birds.

  The only bad thing was that when the child returned home, all the rooms smelled different – either cold and stale because her mother and the prince had been out partying, or smoky and strange because they hadn’t gone out at all. The prince’s smell was on her mother’s skin and between the covers of the bed.

  Oh, and one other bad thing was that the child’s mother spent hours looking in mirrors and trying on clothes and practising her dancing and had very little time for snuggling in blankets or telling stories. ‘Why would we want to do that?’ the mother said. ‘We were starving and freezing when we did that! I want to forget about those days.’

  So the child let her memories grow fuzzy, like a drawing being slowly rubbed out.

  She told herself her mother was happy and that they were lucky not to be hungry any more. And, of course, the child was glad to spend time with her granddad.

  But one night a terrible thing happened.

  The child was at her grandfather’s house and was just getting ready for bed when the old man collapsed on to the floor.

  ‘I’ll call for a doctor,’ the child said.

  The old man begged her not to. He hated a fuss. He said doctors killed people and he just needed to rest, and he’d be fine in the morning. So the girl fetched him a blanket and pillow and settled him where he’d fallen. She got him water and lay next to him all night holding his hand.

  But when she woke in the morning her grandfather’s skin was grey, and when he tried to speak only nonsense came out of his mouth.

  When the mother arrived, she said, ‘Why on earth didn’t you fetch the doctor?’

  ‘Grandfather told me not to.’

  When the doctor arrived, he said, ‘There’s nothing I can do. It’s too late for anything.’

  When the prince found out, he said, ‘The child’s clearly an idiot.’ Then he said, ‘Well, that’s ruined our fun.’

  And he went back to his wife.

  For weeks after her grandfather died, the girl tried not to imagine him below the ground. She didn’t like thinking he might be leaking into the soil or that worms might be living in his eyes. It was horrible to think his fingers might have their bones poking through. Her comfort was a necklace her grandfather had left for her and her mother to share. It seemed to bind the child to the dead – making them feel close, as if perhaps they were looking out for her.

  ‘Can I wear it sometimes?’ the girl asked her mother. ‘I think it has magical powers.’

  ‘Then ask it for a miracle,’ the mother said from her sick bed (she’d lost her appetite and was finding it hard to breathe again after so many weeks without seeing the prince).

  ‘All right,’ said the girl, and she touched the red stones and asked for her mother to be happy again.

  Less than a week later, her mother discovered she was expecting the prince’s baby. She was full of smiles. She got up and got dressed and looked in a mirror.

  ‘He’ll come back now,’ she told the girl.

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘What about you? We’re going to be a proper family.’

  The child liked her saying that. But the way her mother said it made it sound like a wish, rather than something she was sure of. So the child ran the stones through her fingers and asked for one more miracle.

  ‘Don’t let him kill me,’ she whispered.

  15

  Meryam looked surprised when she opened the door and saw me standing on her step.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing. I was passing, and it started to rain, so I thought I’d come and say hi.’

  Meryam looked doubtful. But she was Mum’s oldest friend and she’d have to offer me shelter from the storm.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Come and have a cuppa.’

  I’d been in her house hundreds of times as a kid, but not in the last few years. I wondered if Ben was in, but I wasn’t going to ask. I didn’t want Meryam thinking I’d come round to see her son. It was her I wanted.

  ‘I’ve got some doughnuts, if you fancy one?’ she said.

  I followed her past the shoes and bikes in the hallway and through to the kitchen. An enormous tabby lay sleeping on the sofa by the window. He was new.

  ‘Shove him along,’ Meryam said. ‘He won’t mind.’

  I stroked the cat, who purred like an engine while Meryam filled the kettle.

  ‘You won’t tell Mum I’m here, will you?’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to be in the library making a revision plan.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Meryam said. ‘Revision’s a bugger, isn’t it? You want to talk about it?’

  I didn’t. It was the last thing I wanted. I’d come for something else, but I wasn’t ready to say it yet. I looked around th
e room for something safe to fill the time. There was a corkboard by the fridge with photos and postcards stuck on it, so I stared at that – all the stages of Ben and Meryam’s lives laid out.

  ‘You do a lot of stuff together,’ I said.

  Meryam didn’t reply, just glanced fondly at the board. Perhaps it was a strange thing to say? She scurried about getting doughnuts and cups of tea together and I stared at all the beaches and picnics and birthday parties in the photos and I couldn’t think of a single normal thing to say about any of it.

  ‘You want me to ask Ben about revision timetables?’ Meryam said as she finally plonked on the chair opposite me. ‘He’s out and about with his camera, but I could call him.’

  ‘Is he still filming the school play?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you?’ She leaned close, as if it was a spectacular secret. ‘He’s making a movie called Terrified.’

  ‘A horror movie?’

  She laughed. ‘That’s what I thought. No, it’s about the top ten things people find scary. He wants to examine human frailty, he says. That’s why he filmed the auditions. And did he tell you about the trip his uncle sorted?’

  I shook my head. She didn’t seem to mind that the conversation was one-way.

  She said, ‘My brother, Hasan, has got a mate who designs plane engines. Fear of flying is on Ben’s list, so he thought he’d get some interesting footage. You know what he came back with? A video of his uncle’s mate firing a chicken gun.’

  I must’ve looked confused, because she laughed, ‘I had exactly that face when he told me! “What on earth’s a chicken gun?” I said. “Well, Mum,” he said. “It allows you to fire a dead chicken at great speed into a jet engine and at the cockpit windows to see if the plane can sustain a bird strike.”’ She shook her head, chuckling, as if it was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. ‘All that learning, all that money spent on education and the bloke’s firing dead chickens from a gun!’ She took a sip of tea, still smiling. ‘Dead, standard-sized chickens like you’d serve for Sunday lunch. Barmy, isn’t it?’

  I had no idea that people took such care about things. Next time I went on a plane, I’d like knowing someone had tested the windows in case a flock of geese slammed into them or that the engines wouldn’t burst into flames if a swan got sucked inside.

  Ben’s movie was about what people found scary, but that story made me feel safe. There were good people in the world – plane engineers, Meryam, Ben and his uncle … It felt easier then to get to the point of why I’d come round.

  I said, ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

  I saw something land in Meryam’s eyes – maybe some understanding of why I’d knocked on her door. ‘Wrong in what way?’

  I got my mobile out and pulled up the screen grab: Impulsivity is a hallmark symptom of ADHD. Mix it with anger, and you often get an explosion. Where other kids might quietly fume, your child might slam a door or kick the furniture. She’s just not able to contain her intense feelings.

  ‘Sound like me?’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Diagnosing yourself from the internet isn’t the best idea, Lex.’

  ‘John thinks I’ve got it. He wants to send me to a doctor. And the doctor’s his friend, so he’ll just agree.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s how it works, Lexi.’

  ‘I’ve had to sign a contract.’ I glanced at the clock on her wall. ‘I’m supposed to show him a revision plan tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll get Ben to help.’

  I looked away and out of her window. Her tiny garden was dripping with rain.

  ‘It’s like the garden’s crying,’ I said.

  She bent forward and patted my knee. ‘He might not mean any of this. It might be a tactic to get you to study. No doctor’s going to diagnose you just because John says so.’

  ‘John’s got money to bribe him.’

  ‘That would be against the law, Lex. What’s your mum say about it? Does she think John’s got your best interests at heart?’

  ‘She just sits there in silence.’

  Meryam slumped back in her chair. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Do you remember that I used to go and stay with my granddad when Mum started seeing John?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘I was with him that night when he fell, and all I did was put a blanket over him.’

  Meryam leaned forward again. ‘You were eight.’

  ‘You know this story?’

  ‘Your mum told me.’

  I stared at her. ‘You think I did the wrong thing because I have a condition?’

  ‘Of course not. You did what your granddad asked, and he told you not to call an ambulance.’

  I thought of him there on the floor, so peaceful through the night. I’d put a cushion under his head. It was orange and black and was made from the same material as the curtains. The blanket was bright primary squares. We’d had a picnic on it in the garden once. He’d slept so deeply. It had been so quiet. When Mum turned up in the morning, she’d been scared. I knew I’d got it wrong from the look on her face.

  Meryam said, ‘It wasn’t your fault, Lexi.’

  I drank my tea and stared out at the garden, and Meryam breathed and so did I and so did the cat and nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened.

  And that was when I dared.

  ‘Do you like John?’ I said.

  She blinked in surprise. ‘I don’t really know him that well, Lex. I didn’t see your mum so often after she met him.’

  ‘But when you do see him – what do you think?’

  ‘I’ve never had reason not to like him.’

  ‘Do you think he’s good for Mum?’

  ‘Good in what way?’

  ‘Do you think he makes her happy?’

  She looked at me steadily and said nothing.

  ‘You don’t like me talking about him,’ I said. ‘Nobody does.’

  ‘Who else have you talked to?’

  ‘Kass. Cerys, a bit – she’s Kass’s girlfriend.’ I didn’t mention Sophie. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want Meryam to be jealous that she wasn’t the only older woman in my life.

  She said, ‘You can talk about whatever you want, Lex.’

  But that wasn’t the same as her talking to me. Adults had their codes, just like kids. Mum was her friend. I was secondary. Meryam’s loyalty was to Mum.

  ‘Will you help?’ I said.

  ‘Help how?’

  ‘Would you tell him I don’t need to see a doctor? You’ve known me all my life. Do I seem like I’ve got a condition to you?’

  I crossed my fingers and stared at her. She was looking at her hands folded on her lap. Her hands were old. It must be strange for Ben having a mum who was nearly sixty. My mum was thirty-four. Meryam was old enough to be my grandmother. I’d never had one of those.

  ‘I’m happy to talk to your mum,’ she said eventually. ‘But I don’t think it’s going to help if I go storming in telling John what to do. He’s not the sort of person who’d take kindly to that. I think a softly-softly approach is best.’

  ‘Softly-softly?’

  ‘Why don’t we call your mum and ask her to pop round? We can discuss it together?’

  I’d just started school when Meryam suggested Mum join a dating site. Mum was lonely and Meryam said she needed to get out more. She offered to babysit while Mum met different men. When Mum met John, it was Meryam she talked to. Adults never think kids are listening if they whisper. But whispering sounds exciting and that’s when kids listen especially hard.

  Mum didn’t tell John I existed for weeks because she didn’t want him to think she was looking for someone to provide for her child. She also wanted to avoid paedophiles. It wasn’t until he confessed he had a son that Mum told him about me.

  ‘I share responsibility for my boy,’ he said. ‘Your kid has no one but you. I never signed up for this.’

  He told her it was over – that she’d lied and led hi
m on. Meryam told Mum she was well rid of him. But Mum couldn’t breathe without him. So, when John finally texted and asked if she was willing to compromise, of course she said yes. And I started spending weekends at Granddad’s.

  ‘Maybe it’s not me,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe it’s John. Maybe he’s the one with the condition.’

  ‘What kind of condition might John have?’

  ‘One that makes other people feel terrible.’

  It sounded ridiculous. Like something a little kid would say. But it was my strongest thought. Being in a room with John was how I imagined I might feel if someone got onto a tube train with a bomb in their bag and I saw the wires sticking out.

  ‘You talking to Mum’s not going to help,’ I said.

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Not unless you persuade her not to marry him.’

  She looked uncomfortable. ‘She loves him, Lex. She’s wanted this wedding for years.’

  ‘He was flirting with the office intern at the party.’

  ‘Where are you going with this?’

  ‘You could tell Mum you saw him. Tell her to kick him out.’

  ‘Lex, what you’re asking me to do isn’t reasonable.’

  I threw my hands in the air. ‘So, what am I going to do?’

  ‘You’re going to let me talk to your mum.’

  ‘She does whatever he tells her. It won’t make a difference. You know it won’t.’

  She regarded me silently. It had stopped raining. I’d had an idea she’d grab her coat and march round to the flat and tell John there was nothing wrong with me and I didn’t need fixing. I thought she might invite me, Mum and Iris to live at her house. But, of course, she wasn’t going to do that. She’d been intimidated at the party. She’d had to imagine John’s friends on the toilet even to dare speak to anyone. She barely saw Mum any more. What kind of friend was she anyway?

  I slid my jacket back on.

  ‘Lex,’ she said. ‘Don’t go.’

  But if I was out too long, I’d be breaking the contract. I couldn’t get sent to the doctor today because Kass was coming for supper and I wanted to kiss him again.