Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

Astra holds my hand as we walk up to the front door of my house.

  Under normal circumstances, the police would be here for one of my three brothers -death threats are not uncommon for my family - but this is a first for me. I watch the neighbours having a good gawp. They stand together, arms folded, displaying shallow concern; nosey busybodies with something new to gossip about. The afternoon sun is now bright in the sky and it shines over the roof on to my face as I exit the car – caught in the spotlight. The two police officers are walking away from mother and one of them heads over to have a word.

  I recognise him as PC Tyler - the officer at Elvis’ exclusion meeting. He’s been round my house brandishing the strong arm of the law on enough occasions. I’ve seen him bring the smack-down on my family the best he can, and if he could, I’m sure that he would go above the call of law and duty to put my brothers away. He has sharp facial features, jet black eyebrows, and is about five ten with short light brown hair. He stoops over and addresses me.

  ‘Shelly. I’m sure Mrs Dawson filled you in. Your mother has explained that you were attacked at school today, and we’re going to have a word with the girl - Camille isn’t it? - and give her a stern talking-to.’

  Everything seems so efficient. Every sentence is delivered quickly, with precision, as if it is being cited from a manual.

  ‘Do you think it was Camille or Evelyn in the graveyard?’ I ask.

  ‘Could you spell their surnames for me?’

  I do this whilst I consider the implications for me. I’m pretty sure that it could only be one of those two, maybe both together, although I think I saw only one person. Why didn’t they just run out of the graveyard and attack me instead of making a death threat?

  Astra speaks pleadingly, ‘Officer, they’ve issued a death threat; shouldn’t this be taken more seriously than just giving the girl a talking-to. Shelly, here was knocked unconscious by these girls.’

  PC Tyler sweeps a huge hand right over to the back of his head, his eyes dart back and forth as if he’s already assessed the situation, and is formulating his conclusions.

  ‘Oh, I assure you that we are taking this with the utmost seriousness. First of all, we don’t know for certain if the girls in question are responsible for the vandalism in the churchyard and of course: innocent until proven guilty. But, a threat is a threat; what we can do is give the one who assaulted you today a telling-off, because it is a fact that you were assaulted. We’ll give her a reprimand if necessary to make sure that if this happens again, they’ll be very sorry. Try not to worry, a couple of us will go round and address – who is it who hit you - Evelyn or Camille?’

  Damn it. Damn, damn. I want to blame Evelyn, but I can only be truthful.

  ‘It was Camille Karrington.’

  ‘We’ll make sure that she’s scared on to the straight and narrow.’

  He smiles and it seems genuine enough. I’ve never seen a smile at the Clover household from a member of the Constabulary.

  Mother comes over and gives me a hug. ‘Don’t worry Shel’; the police think it’s somebody who’s venting their frustrations at life.’

  My mother doesn’t sound very convincing.

  ‘Why did she write that I’m going to die the day after tomorrow? Why are so many police cars here? Is it that serious?’

  I take this opportunity to enquire in the presence of Astra and the police officers.

  There’s a slight pause before PC Tyler takes the reigns.

  ‘In my experience, whoever it is – he or she – is somebody suffering from psychological problems and they will often make elaborate threats to unsettle their target.’

  He strokes his chin thoughtfully, ‘Whoever’s claimed you’re going to die, just wants you to feel uneasy for a few days, but because your family has experienced violence and threats in the past, we have to treat this accordingly.’

  ‘How can you possibly know they just want to make Shelly feel uneasy?’ Mother snaps.

  I feel a bit nervous in front of all these people; all this attention. I want to ask, why did that person go to all that trouble desecrating a graveyard, just to leave a threat aimed at me? But, just thinking about this sends my head into a spin. I realise that my head is aching at the front and the back. I suddenly feel very, very tired. Mother’s hand tightens round my shoulder, as I rub my head with my bruised fingers.

  ‘Why did they even deface the gravestones?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re not sure, but it could be that they were looking for something – got frustrated – and scrawled the threat.’

  ‘Which gravestones?’

  I know the answer before it comes.

  ‘Some of the kids’ headstones near the back.’

  ‘We’ll be around to keep a check on things over the next few days,’ reassures a different police officer.

  ‘I’m going in for a sit down.’

  I leave the scene. I don’t feel reassured, I feel guilty and I don’t know why.

  I’m just not used to this kind of attention and I’ve got to get away. I hear anxious murmurings from the ‘caring’ crowd assembled at the front gate, and I just want to get through the door and close out life for a while; close out this horrendous thing that has become my birthday. I wonder if the rest of my teenage days will contain similar amounts of drama.

  I walk in to the house, close the door, walk through the kitchen and consider going upstairs to see Buddy, but even though I love my bro, I just need a few moments to myself, so I head into the living room.

  There’s no one here, so I sit with my head in my hands, calming myself the best I can. My counsellor has taught me some breathing techniques, so I employ these for a while, taking air in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  Dezza comes to mind. He helped me so much earlier; maybe I’ll give him a call later. Eren Washwater, the handsome son of the History teacher, makes a fleeting appearance in my thoughts. I consider keeping him in their a little longer, but I try thinking of something altogether more relaxing to soothe my troubled mind. I open my eyes and look at the floor for a moment before arching my neck up, re-adjusting.

  Elvis sits opposite.

  I’m startled.

  ‘When did you get here?’

  I don’t usually talk. I fear him.

  He sits in the tatty armchair opposite, watching me, but doesn’t say anything.

  I stare at him, but I’m aware that I’m not holding his gaze directly. There’s something about him that makes me feel very uncomfortable.

  He says nothing. He’s looking right at me. His thin lips are turned up into a macabre sneer. It’s frozen on to his face like some evil, pale mannequin. He wears a sleeveless top. On his left forearm; a tattoo that reads:

  Josie Forever.

  If I was a bossy, arsy sister, I’d just tell him to stop acting like a loser, but I’m not, and I don’t want to be around him now. I consider closing my eyes and ignoring him, but that would make me fearful of him vanishing from the room as silently as he entered. I imagine him hovering over me, several feet off the ground, like some somebody possessed.

  He speaks.

  ‘You have no idea what’s going on, do you? …No idea…at all.’

  This is the last thing I need to hear, and without responding I exit and head upstairs.

  He disgusts me.

  It’s coming up to seven o’clock and my legs feel sore and heavy from my inadvertent work-outs today. I’m shaking as I trudge upwards, keeping one eye on the living room door waiting for Elvis to appear and glower at me. What the hell did he mean by that? I feel exhausted beyond exhaustion and I want to climb into bed and sleep away the rest of my birthday; that would be the ideal present. I open the door to my bedroom and see Buddy playing in the corner with some large Lego bricks. I see my bag on my bed; opened like the last time I saw it.

  ‘Hey, Buddy.’ I sound weary.

  Buddy turns round and smiles, ‘Happy Birthday, Shelly.’

  He stands and rubs his hands
against his thighs, and then starts searching his sideboard and bed for something. His actions are slow and methodical as if he keeps forgetting what it is he’s doing. He then stares at his feet like a puppy discovering its tail for the first time. He’s back where he started, standing over an envelope. It’s one of my pink envelopes – which he retrieves, before walking over to me singing; ‘Happy birthday to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Bud.’

  I open it; he’s made it himself and I smile at the picture he’s drawn of us both holding hands together. I know Buddy loves me unconditionally, and I take stock of this. I then give him a big, long squeeze.

  ‘How’s your day been, Buddy?’

  ‘I went to school.’

  He looks down to the right whenever he tries to remember things. His greasy hair is combed to the left of his brow, and his overactive thyroid and propensity for overeating, give him a podgy look.

  This is Buddy’s sanctuary. He spends all his time in our bedroom playing with his toys, blocking the outside world; the shouting; his bullying brothers. I’m aware that my thoughts are sad – sad for Buddy – but maybe they shouldn’t be. My counsellor told me I need to become attuned to these depressing thoughts; especially when they’re starting up. But, as my eyes are once more, drawn to my bed, I realise that I’m just as fearful as Buddy, even though he probably doesn’t recognise ‘fear’ in himself. I can’t stop thinking about what the angel said about all my family being in danger. I shake my head. Could I care less for most of them? It all feels so hopeless.

  ‘Your bag was singing a song?’

  ‘My bag…was…what?’

  ‘It was singing, Mary, Mary, quiet country. How does your garden grow? Silver bells...choco-lell and pretty maze all in a rose.’

  I eye my bag. I want to kick it out of the window and into oblivion.

  ‘When did it sing this, Buddy?’

  Buddy looks at the bag with a puzzled expression.

  ‘It’s always singing…’

  I take this to mean that the book has been serenading my brother on and off while he’s been in the bedroom; for him to remember the gist of a nursery rhyme all the way through is one mean feat. There must have been repetition.

  He chuckles. ‘It’s funny when it tries to fly...’

  ‘What tries to fly?’

  ‘The book tries to fly...and bites the air.’

  He keeps looking at my bag and starts to chuckle, hoping it might repeat its aerial escapade.

  I jump on to my bed: I want to pick up my bag, cycle to Harley pier and drop it in the sea, but something tells me that would be seriously unwise.

  I pull out the book and open it at the nursery rhyme section, pondering what it’s trying to tell Buddy, or me. I instantly turn to: Mary, Mary, quite contrary. I realise my tiredness has evaporated. I remember this rhyme; I remember chanting it in the school playground while playing hop-scotch. It’s about someone who is nice, who has pretty maids to look after her and has cockle shells and silver bells in her beautiful garden. Maybe the book is telling me that some good things are going to happen.

  Buddy plays quietly with his Lego.

  I turn to the back of the book and trace my fingers along the jagged symmetrical edges of the dome. I stare into the black hollow in its centre, and consider the meaning of the bell that it produced. There are no blue and white concentric circles descending in the middle. The book seems quiet and subdued. I feel so reckless right now; like the world has done me wrong and I just don’t care what happens. I place my fingers in to the hole knowing full well that I should test it with something else like a pencil.

  Instantly, there’s a smell of summer flowers, so fresh and invigorating; the finest floral bouquets. I draw my fingers back and smell them; nothing. The fragrance fills the room and Buddy looks up, sniffing the air.

  ‘Your perfume is nice.’

  In my bag, the bell makes one solitary chime. I draw my fingers out of the hole and rummage to the bottom of my bag for the bell, lifting it out. I bring it close to my face, examining the faint, ancient symbols. I peer into the back of the book and see the space is big enough to place the bell back inside. I could make at least one part of this sorry saga go away. I let the bell hover over the hole; it would fit back inside perfectly.

  So, I do it.

  A sod-it moment.

  I make the rim of the bell fit in the gap like Buddy fitting his blocks into appropriate holes. The bell descends inside so far that – by the laws of physics – it should be jutting out the bottom of the book. I push it further until my finger and thumb are parallel with the top of the hole and the object is completely immersed in blackness. I see nothingness where you would expect to see the outline of the bell. I sense that if I let go now, it will be lost forever; I don’t know how; I just sense it.

  I don’t want this mission. How am I, a seriously screwed up, counselled, bullied, shame-bringing teenager be able to complete the task that awaits me?

  I give a push and let go.

  The dome closes silently, covering the space.

  I wait. Is that it?

  That’s it.

  It’s over.

  I feel numb, but not with regret, just weariness.

  But it isn’t, is it?

  There’s a sudden jerking movement as the metal shards align in different positions; rearranging themselves in segments of four, before halting for a few seconds and starting again. I realise I’m pushing the book away, unsure about what is taking place. I anxiously look towards Buddy who is engrossed in his toys and continues to play, blissfully unaware.

  The dome opens in the centre and the bell hurtles out and smashes into the ceiling before landing on my bed.

  Like a rattle snake, the base begins to uncoil clockwise, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until the handle detaches itself from its waist. It rolls lifelessly away.

  Poking out of the cylindrical end of the handle is a roll of paper - a tiny scroll.

  The book is glowing somewhere towards the front cover. I open up the leaf to read the inscription, ‘To Shelly Clover...’ and read a new line.

  ‘Who has unlocked secrets.'

  Another line forms in golden ink before my eyes.

  ‘Keep this a secret: I don’t mind you using the book and claiming that it’s you and you alone solving all the mysteries.’

  What the hell?

  ‘X from the Cherub.’

  This is both stupid and astonishing.

  ‘PS. Do you like the floral aroma?’

  ‘PPS. Learn from the bell, don’t put it back just yet, thank you, Shelly.’

  My hands are shaking.

  I begin to wonder if the book is actually some kind of sophisticated computer. I eye the disassembled bell and take hold of the handle. Carefully, I prise out the rolled-up parchment inside.

  As I pull it apart, there’s a whooshing sound, and hundreds of tiny butterflies billow out, delicately weaving and dancing around the room like dust in the sunlight; mixtures of blues, violets, whites, reds and all shades in between; varieties that I have never seen before. None are larger than the tip of my thumb.

  Buddy turns round startled. His mouth drops wide open.

  With this display comes a truly beautiful aroma; powerful and yet subtle; not overbearing. My mind instantly races for a point of reference for it, but I have none. It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled before and it’s gorgeous.

  ‘Look, look, look!’ Buddy’s on his feet.

  The butterflies bob merrily up and down inside our room and we watch transfixed for some moments.

  It is just spectacular.

  I suddenly become aware of how calm I’m feeling. I feel like nothing can faze me. I feel so alert...yet calm.

  There are now so many in our bedroom, it is hard to make out any of the scant furnishings, such is the rich abundance of these petite visitors. Some settle on my shoulders and hair, gently fluttering and brushing past my face.

  Buddy su
ddenly charges around the room waving his arms up and down dancing in and out of the clouds, whooping inanely. I start to laugh. I can feel my heart hammer inside my head and my chest. He looks so alive. I feel so alive. Have I waited this long in my life for a moment like this?

  The butterflies move towards the ceiling as I look at the parchment still in my hands. I continue unfolding it. It looks worn and old; it’s sticky around its edges. I see black writing on both sides. On one side: Dutch Courage. On the other: Wrap around arm.

  Weird.

  I examine the scroll some more. There’s nothing else there. I stare at it a few more moments with one eye stationed on the book to see if any more writing appears, but nothing does. The butterflies steadily start to vanish; trickling into the plastered ceiling. I still feel so good and I reckon whatever I’m holding will make me feel good too.

  I pull back my sleeve and roll the parchment over my forearm, fastening it on the underside, smoothing my palm over and over it, trying to make it fasten. I just about manage to get some cohesion, when suddenly, of its own accord, the whole thing tightens. Warmth floods into my arm.

  It feels like I’m having my blood pressure measured. It constricts even further to a point where it feels like my arm is in a vice and then, without warning, the scroll itself begins to fade into my arm. Within a few seconds it has gone.

  I feel a sense of abject terror at what I see and start rubbing my arm.

  ‘Oh no! Oh no!…’

  But, it’s too late, there’s nothing for my nails to dig into. Vivid black ink glistens on my forearm, front and back. I scratch at it viciously. The words from the scroll have been etched into my skin.

  Dutch Courage!

  My skin feels tight. Do I feel any different: Super strong, super courageous?

  I feel anything but brave. Maybe, just wrapping this hitherto unknown and alien object around my arm is bravery in itself. The jet black ink positively sparkles in the evening sun now infiltrating our room.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit...’

  My skin reddens but the black marks remain: ‘Dutch Courage’ on the front and ‘wrap around arm’ on the back of my arm. I continue cursing at the most pointless skin-scarring in the world. I feel like a drunken Popeye who’s had too much rum and has staggered into the nearest midnight tattoo parlour and said: ‘However it comes?’

  Dutch Courage; that’s a strong drink isn’t it? Wrap around arm; what on earth is that supposed to mean?

  I’m enhancing the ‘Clover’ stereotype: Tattooed Chav.

  Buddy walks towards me as I scramble my sleeve up my wrist.

  ‘Where they gone, Shel?’

  ‘What? Oh! I don’t know Buddy; they were pretty weren’t they?’

  ‘They were butterflies.’

  ‘Pretty little butterflies, eh? Let’s not tell mum and our brothers about what we saw now.’

  Sadly, they won’t believe anything he says anyway.

  I continue making small talk with him while I fix the bell back together and deposit both it and the book into my bag, thrusting it under my bed in one fluid movement. With a great struggle, I focus my thoughts away from my new flesh emblem, and on to having an ordinary conversation with my favourite bro.

  ‘Thanks for the card. It’s lovely; did you make it yourself?’

  Our conversations are light and easy, even though my thoughts are elsewhere, and I ask him questions (That’s what our conversations mainly consist of: Me asking questions.), for over half an hour before the sun goes down, curtains close and lights are switched.

  Everything seems calm downstairs, and after I get ready for bed, (having received brief advice about my whereabouts over the next few days from mother) I hastily retreat to the sanctuary of my room, where I reflect on the many events of the day. I feel tossed and turned, but relieved that I’ve come out of today intact. My half an hour in the bathroom did not shift my tattoo and over and over again, I plot how I can conceal it. These thoughts are driving me crazy. I place the soft black pad that Arthur gave me underneath my pillow and shift the alarm setting on the accompanying device to seven am. Will it work? I click the ‘on’ switch and within a few seconds start feeling drowsy.

  Wow. Is this thing sending me to sleep too?

  This is my last thought.