The Wrong Child

by Barry Gornell

  In the classroom glade, the grave was obvious. The mound was smooth and the grass slippery and bruised. The spade looked like an invitation to dig him back up again, so she cast it aside. She used the boats to make a small cross on the mound, five down – four across. She crossed herself, though did not pray, as if that would be going too far, too quickly.

  Seven years earlier

  Kerr Munson had spent the previous evening writing all about Dog Evans and Jonny Raffique; documenting the events, and the effect Jonny had had on the class on Dog’s first day back at school after suspension.

  Kerr Munson was the happiest boy in the class. He couldn’t speak but that didn’t stop the rest of the class asking him questions. Calvin Struan had called him the Dummy, once. The word, exported from Struan House, had earned him a severe communal beating. He was saved by Kerr’s wordless intervention.

  Kerr’s world delighted him. His articulation, when needed, was rendered through an ever-changing repertoire of hand signals, too erratic and nebulous to ever be corralled into an alphabet. Emotions were the hardest thing to get a grip on, running through his hands like water in a sieve. Occasionally frustration would force out tears and a rhythmic punching of his left hand with his right, as if the left was refusing to talk, to get the point across. A sudden separation of his hands as his fingers rampaged through his hair, looking for the key to fit the lock that would open and allow him to communicate. His hands always came away empty. He would grin, slap a palm against the dome of his forehead as though it was his own fault and try again as he finger-combed his hair back into some kind of order.

  The irony of his situation was that Kerr Munson had a dazzling vocabulary and exercised comprehensive control over it. The limited palette of formal sign language frustrated him and was too slow. His own rapid and idiosyncratic delivery was beyond the grasp of his peers. Kerr Munson’s internal happiness, the contentment that so gnawed at Dog Evans, came from the fullness of expression he achieved with the written word. His diary was dense with detail and description. His observations, mature beyond his years, were a running log of his life, open all the time, alongside his schoolwork, his breakfast, his dinner, and with him in his bed; all unread in his lifetime.

  That Tuesday morning, arriving at school later than he usually did due to snow, Kerr Munson scanned the playground and took the time to quickly jot down that there was no sign of Dog Evans, Jonny was standing with the elder boys, though Calvin Struan was slightly on his own, Mr Corrigan hadn’t arrived yet, the snow on the roof was at least two feet deep, it was still dark, and then he noticed the broken ground of the bird’s grave.

  16

  Wittin’s church was warm but empty. His nose and ears tingled with the change of temperature and the ongoing buzz from the alcohol. Finnegan’s skull swung in his left hand, held by the eye sockets as John Cutter had done. He hid it in the confessional.

  The vestments were piled where Deborah had slept. He picked them up and folded them neatly. Lifting the last, the one that had been closest to her, he believed he saw the vague outline of her body, still pressed into the thick pile of the carpet. He defined the line of her back between hips and shoulder blades, her ankles less so as her shape grew indistinct. He connected indentations and scuffs to create a picture of her lying there in much the same way the farmers, poets and astronomers had formed constellations of stars into giants, animals and objects; desiring order and significance. He knelt, went to cross himself, but stopped. On hands and knees, his head to the ground, he assumed the position of the penitent. Instead of praying, he sniffed. It was Deborah. She filled him. He was drunk again. He wondered if she still hoped for another baby. He told himself she was wrong; it wasn’t too late for him to save her. They could both start again. It struck him as the least that should happen. He would take her away.

  A short while later, Wittin had opened another bottle and sorted and boxed the possessions he would carry with him. His dog collar lay on the chest of drawers.

  Seven years earlier

  Connor Gardner was sheltering on the bench beneath the slide with Robbie and Cameron Voar. They called it the wigwam. The older kids didn’t go there. Connor was yawning when he spied Jean and Jenny as they came through the gate.

  ‘Quick, quick.’ He tried to hide, but Robbie and Cameron were already betraying him, shouting and pointing.

  ‘He’s here, he’s here.’

  The girls made a beeline for them.

  ‘Well, what about you two, you’re not very good friends at all, are you?’ said Jean, leaning into the wigwam to tickle Robbie and Cameron, which was what they wanted. ‘I think we’d have spotted him anyway, don’t you, Jenny?’

  ‘Even behind you two,’ said Jenny.

  Connor sat back, grinning and not sure where to look under the scrutiny of the two older girls. Jenny grabbed the peak of his bunnet and he quickly clamped both hands on his head to stop her pulling it off.

  Connor’s hair was a firework of ginger spirals that outshone a kind and warm face of freckles and hazel eyes. He had a pathological fear of the barber and point-blank refused to go. His mother didn’t force him. The screaming hysterics of the last visit had reduced her to mush. His bald father was philosophical. ‘Enjoy it while you have it,’ he said, seeing no great need to donate his son’s crowning glory to the barber-shop floor.

  It grew.

  It didn’t get long; it got big, then bigger. Until his mother decided enough was enough and invested in a tub of Brylcreem.

  Each morning thereafter he would arrive for class with his head like a polished helmet, greased down tight against his skull ‘so you can concentrate’. As the day unwound, so did his hair. Connor had taken to wearing his hat at all times, even during gym. Jenny let go.

  ‘Wee Connor,’ said Jean, arms akimbo, an exaggerated frown on her face, ‘why were you trying to hide from us?’

  Connor couldn’t help but smile as he tried to make himself smaller, his head sinking down as he tucked his chin into his chest, his arms tight by his sides.

  ‘There must be a reason.’ Jenny bent to the level of the boys, looked from one to another and then settled her gaze on Connor. ‘Why else would he hide?’

  ‘I wonder what it could be?’

  ‘His button,’ said Jenny as her slender index finger worked its way under Connor’s chin. He wriggled and writhed on the spot, eventually twisting his neck and revealing the undone top button of his shirt. The girls cooed with delight and Connor knew the pretence was over. They sat him upright and set to work.

  ‘Not buttoned up properly again. What are you like?’ said Jenny.

  ‘At least you’ve got your shoes on the right feet today,’ said Jean, as between them they fastened his buttons and straightened his tie. One final check and Connor was lifted from his seat and put into their bag.

  ‘Bye, Connor,’ said the twins in unison, used to seeing Connor carted off most mornings. Jack Todd heard them and took his chance to jump into Connor’s place amongst the boys for a heat.

  Being the smallest boy in the school, Connor had been adopted by those girls with a nascent maternal streak as their living doll, practice baby and obligation. His size and weight meant they could sit him in a holdall and carry him around the playground, a handle each, taking turns. Jean and Jenny made their way across to Maggie and Ronah, two of Connor’s other mothers. Connor was slung so low and the snow lay so thick that he left a trail between their footprints. He could feel it through the bag, rushing below him. He sat back and imagined he was on a sledge.

  Jean and Jenny looked down at him in expectation, waiting for him to try and escape. Attempting to get out was his part of the game. Each time he did, they would gang up on him and tickle him hard enough to make him weak and remind him who was in charge, at least until their game was over.

  This morning he was tired. Out of bed too late to enjoy his breakfast, he sti
ll wanted the cuddle he usually got from his mum, who was also running late. As they were passing Maggie and Ronah, Connor made one feeble attempt to get out of the bag, pretending to struggle so as to force the girls to touch him and mould him back into their makeshift cradle. He enjoyed giving in to them, being told he was adorable as they tweaked his apple cheeks. He lay back, surrendering to the rock and sway of carriage. With the four watching over him and snow melting as it hit his face, Connor Gardner dozed off. The proxy mothers were delighted, their maternal abilities confirmed at such an early age. They were naturals; they would be good mums.

  He remained good-natured as they fussed over him ten minutes later, the youngest in the school, waking in their care, surrounded by the girls of the class except Lucy Magnal, who all agreed he looked like a baby Jesus. He rubbed his eyes. His glowing face gave the impression that it had been structured by happiness; his soft bones shaped by a strong smile of clustered pearls, baby teeth displaced by the second growth but not yet ready to leave. He flushed at the attention of the girls and it was to his chagrin that he needed looking after at all.

  When he stepped out of the bag he was determined to be grown up for the rest of the day and made yet another mental note for the following morning to check his buttons, his zip, his bag and his tie. He knew that every morning they would inspect him upon arrival and find the one thing that had slipped his mind or he had forgotten to do; the one thing that meant he needed to be mothered. Not any more, he thought to himself. He yawned and went to stand with the older boys, who looked as if they were sharing a secret. They were talking about growing up. Connor thought he should listen.

  17

  When John Cutter returned to his home in the evening, he found Lynne Storrie waiting for him. She was upset. Her mascara no longer did her any favours. She ran to his car before he had time to get out.

  ‘Something’s wrong, John, something bad’s happened to Nugget, I just know it, and I think I know what and I can’t bring myself to say the words because they’re too awful. I just don’t think I can say them.’

  He could see the lump of Nugget’s nugget in his pocket. Even as she spoke, he was speculating on its value.

  ‘Lynne, slow down. I can’t make any sense of what you’re saying. Get in. I’ll drive you home. You can tell me all about it in the car.’

  ‘Why can’t we talk here, John?’

  ‘It’s my home. This sounds like it might be work. Get in.’

  Lynne walked around and got in the passenger side. She slammed the door.

  ‘Warm enough?’ She nodded. ‘Something’s wrong, you say?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said as he reversed back onto the road. ‘Take your time, nice and clear now. Tell me why.’

  She held onto the words for a while, eyes closed, swaying slightly, thinking how to start.

  ‘Nugget went to the house.’

  ‘The house?’

  ‘Dog’s house, last night, just after what happened.’

  ‘Why? That makes no sense.’

  ‘The money.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘I tried to stop him, John, but he was having none of it. He had this notion about getting there first, not being beaten to it by somebody who didn’t deserve it. It was like paranoia or something, as though he had some divine right to it.’

  ‘Lynne.’

  ‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘Lynne.’ He braked hard to snap her out of it. The car skidded before stopping and she braced herself against the dashboard, expecting a collision.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to … What money?’

  A single line creased her brow as John Cutter examined her, waiting.

  ‘The money that was sent,’ she said. ‘That Nugget’s been posting through the boy’s door for years. You didn’t know?’

  ‘Rumours.’ Cutter turned his attention back to the road and continued the drive towards the Storrie house. ‘How much?

  ‘Enough. More than, maybe. He didn’t know exactly.’

  ‘Enough to leave?’

  ‘To stop being poor was all he wanted.’

  ‘But could he have left? Gone, with all the money?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t leave me and Bru.’

  ‘Did Bru come home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he’s still with Nugget somewhere?’

  Lynne nodded. John Cutter thought about the loss of a good dog as he drove in silence to the front door of Nugget and Lynne’s house. He moved the gear into neutral and pulled the handbrake. He turned the key and the engine died. They sat for a moment. The windscreen began to mist.

  ‘Lynne, do you think killing the boy was a good thing?’

  ‘Now, I’m not sure it matters.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Nobody will miss him.’ She smeared make-up across her face as she wiped, the scarlet nail varnish flashing. ‘Not like I’d miss Nugget.’

  ‘Well, it appears somebody will.’

  She looked at him, her bovine eyes magnified by the swell of tears.

  ‘Shep and Rebecca are coming back.’

  ‘But how …’

  ‘Somebody called them; knew where they were, somehow.’

  ‘Who? Why?’

  He offered the palms of his hands in ignorance.

  ‘Anyway, there was a body, after the fire. From what you’re telling me, it looks like it must be Nugget’s. I’m sorry, I really am.’

  He watched the waterworks, thick and quick, slicking down her chin and neck, into her cleavage.

  ‘Thing is, Lynne, we’re going to need a body, something to show them, to bury. You understand, don’t you?’ Lynne shook her head against the whole idea as Cutter continued talking. ‘I’m thinking we give them Nugget’s remains, from the fire. They can take them away with them if they like, bury him elsewhere, get some closure for themselves, get on with their own lives without asking any more questions – allow us to get on with ours. Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘But Nugget?’

  ‘We’ll honour him, in church if needs be. Somehow we’ll acknowledge his passing and the sacrifice he made, you made, for us.’

  ‘But he didn’t. He was killed in the fire. Who started it? John, do you know who started it?’

  ‘I … well, I was thinking it was probably Nugget. He was the only one there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lynne, I’m not comfortable casting aspersions, particularly about the dead, but you know what he was like. He was stimulant-inclined, shall we say? Was he drunk when he left here, high? Was he smoking again?’

  ‘I gave him whisky, and pills. They were supposed to be for courage.’

  Cutter paused. ‘He didn’t really want to go?’

  Lynne turned away. Her crying worsened. She sat with both hands covering her face, muffling the wail. He pulled her close as if to comfort her. She was already finding a way to blame herself. He didn’t understand it. It was a great day. This whole fucking village was crying.

  ‘Anything else you want to share with me, Lynne?’

  She got out of the car without saying another word and approached the side door of what she had just been told was her house. She stood on the step and hesitated. She cleaned her face with both hands.

  ‘Nug?’

  Cutter left her waiting for an answer as he backed out on to the road.

  As Cutter drove through the village, John Longfield, farmer and retained firefighter, ran down the apron of the station house in his overalls, waving his hands for him to stop. Cutter swung the car around the back of the station and got out.

  When he pushed the wicket gate open, Longfield was waiting for him in the station house. Cutter stepped in and was hit by the smell.

  ‘Careful where you stand, it
’s all over the floor; starts six feet after you’re in.’

  ‘Diesel?’

  ‘A tankful,’ said Longfield, pointing to the length of tubing that hung from the appliance. He became slightly cowed, flexing his fingers as he worked out how to proceed. ‘Listen, John, I’m sorry about this, I really am. I was debating whether to call you when you drove past.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Well, it’s government property to start with, but,’ he gestured at the scene, ‘it looks deliberate, don’t you think? She didn’t mean us to be able to save that house.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Well.’ Longfield’s awkwardness increased. He chewed his lip for a second, rolled his eyes, avoiding Cutter’s. ‘It was Debbie, John – Mrs Cutter.’

  ‘Deborah will do,’ said Cutter, hiding his confusion and surprise. ‘There is no Mrs Cutter.’

  ‘Okay, fine. If that’s how you want it.’

  ‘That’s how it is.’

  Cutter took his cap off, hunkered down and took a good look under the appliance, to ascertain the full extent of the spill.

  ‘The whole tank?’

  Longfield raised a shutter, took a monkey wrench from a side locker and hit the fuel tank, producing a hollow galvanised boom.

  ‘Less one jerrycan that’s missing from the store. I’d say you’ll find it in the Evans’ house if you look.’

  ‘You sure it was Deborah?’

  ‘It’s what I heard. She was the only one there, next to an empty jerry can. They pulled her away before she got burned herself.’