The Boy with Two Heads

by Andy Mulligan

  ‘Are you going to stop teasing Aparna about it, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to work with her, Rikki: she’s team-leader—’

  ‘I tease Aparna because she has no personality. She’s wet, she’s conventional and she’s Jeff’s buddy. She needs teasing.’ He looked up, and shouted: ‘Hey, Aparna!’

  ‘Shut up, Rikki,’ said Richard quietly. ‘Leave her alone.’

  Rikki shouted again, louder than ever. ‘Aparna – baby!’

  ‘Get on with the drawing. Please!’

  Aparna was at work at the far table. She was sitting beside Jeff, who lived in the same street as she did. Richard had never got to know her well, because she was so shy, but Kidspeak had pushed them together. Everyone trusted her, and respected her cleverness.

  Jeff was looking at Rikki now, and he wasn’t smiling. Salome glared at him, but Aparna kept her eyes down, mixing her paints carefully. Miss Maycock was out of the room.

  ‘Aparna!’ shouted Rikki. ‘You want a banana?’

  This had become a favourite joke. He liked the fact that the two words rhymed. Aparna continued to ignore him.

  ‘I’ve got a big bunch today, Aparna!’ called Rikki, louder than ever. ‘Why don’t you come and get one?’

  ‘Get lost,’ said Jeff. ‘You’re not funny.’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Salome.

  ‘Oh, guys!’ said Rikki. ‘Jeff’s defending his girlfriend!’

  ‘Shut up, Rikki,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Come on, Jeffrey. When’s the baby due?’

  Jeff went beetroot-red and threw his paintbrush down. Aparna said something to him and tugged at his shirt – but Jeff was making his way across the room. There was a smattering of laughter, and Mark whistled.

  ‘Don’t say any more, Rikki,’ whispered Richard. ‘We don’t need this.’

  ‘But Jeff’s coming over, just to see us,’ cried Rikki. ‘Jeff’s visiting his old friends! We hardly see anything of you these days, Jeff, now you’ve got a sex life.’

  ‘I’m asking you to shut your mouth,’ said Jeff. ‘You’re not funny – you’re just an idiot. And what you’re saying is offensive.’

  ‘Offensive, how?’

  ‘You know how.’

  ‘I’m just offering Aparna a juicy, big banana. How is that offensive?’

  ‘Everything all right?’ said Miss Maycock, trotting back in. ‘Oh, that’s a lovely picture, Rikki – why is it so black?’

  ‘You need to keep this guy quiet,’ said Jeff to Richard.

  ‘Jeff, he’s being stupid. Ignore him.’

  ‘I’m trying to like you, Richard,’ said Jeff. ‘But that thing on your shoulder needs battering again. Someone’s going to do it unless you make him shut his mouth.’

  ‘Can you ask Aparna to show her picture, miss?’ said Rikki. ‘I’m always so inspired by what she does, because she’s so wonderfully gifted.’

  Miss Maycock smiled. ‘Maybe at the end of the lesson,’ she said. ‘That’s a very kind thought, Rikki. I want you to finish yours, first. What is it, by the way? It looks like a thunder-cloud . . .’

  ‘It’s not as good as Aparna’s, miss. It never is.’

  Aparna’s artwork was outstanding – but then everything she did was outstanding. She excelled at swimming and gymnastics, and the previous year she had taken a major role in the city’s semi-professional ballet. She was a very keen pianist too, playing in the county youth orchestra.

  Somehow, she seemed to have been born without a mean bone in her body, and she spent most of her time trying to avoid the attention everyone wanted to give her. For example, she had painted a picture for a recent schools’ competition, and had won second prize. The piece had toured the country, and postcards had been made of it. It now hung under glass in the school’s main reception, and had featured as the cover of the school magazine.

  Aparna had only been embarrassed by the fuss. She seemed to shudder, and writhe away from the spotlight – and yet it was continually trained upon her. The title of the painting was ‘Icarus Descending’, and it featured a landscape of crazily leaning crags that zigzagged into a blisteringly hot sun. The eye was drawn to a tiny lighthouse at vanishing point, and you got vertigo looking at it. As you gazed into the centre you felt yourself swooping to the ground, and it was as if you would crash-land any moment. Jeff had said it was the most beautiful painting he had ever seen – and that had been the beginning of what everyone assumed was a romance.

  Eric had asked the question: ‘What’s Icarus?’

  Aparna had been too shy to explain, but had at last been persuaded to say, ‘It’s what he saw.’

  ‘When? Who?’

  ‘When . . . when his wings came off.’

  It was clear that very few people knew what she was talking about, so Mr Barlow called everyone together the next Friday afternoon, and told them he was reinstituting ‘story time’. There had been cries of disgust at first, because the children all knew only the Year Fives and under were read stories, and they were facing the big exams. But they also knew that Mr Barlow was the best storyteller in the school. When he got into a story, his stammer disappeared, and it was a wonderful way of ending the week.

  ‘You need to know about D-Daedalus,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘Oh, and you need to know about the Minotaur. I should have started this weeks ago . . . Pull the b-blinds down, please.’

  They created a blackout, huddled onto the rug, and in minutes Ancient Greece materialized around them.

  ‘Daedalus was imprisoned in a high tower,’ said Mr Barlow.

  ‘I remember!’ said Mark. ‘The bird-man, huh?’

  ‘Shhh!’ hissed several people.

  Mr Barlow frowned, and continued. ‘Up there where he sat, it was only the birds that kept him sane. He would watch them from the window, soaring and skimming over the sky. Sometimes they’d come and perch on the sill, and occasionally – of course – they’d drop a feather. Out of all that observation came his most remarkable idea. He offered the birds cake crumbs, and the birds got used to visiting.’

  ‘Did he eat them?’ said Eric.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t they poo everywhere?’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Salome.

  Mr Barlow raised a hand. ‘They’d take the food from him,’ he said, ‘in return for a feather. Over the weeks and months, Daedalus gathered pillowfuls of feathers, and he put them all into sacks. “Are you making a duvet, F-Father?” said Icarus.

  ‘“I’m not making a duvet, son – no,” said Daedalus.

  ‘But what he was making he kept absolutely private, waiting for his boy to fall asleep at night. Only then would he work on his invention. Feathers, wax, twine and the lightest straw. He was way ahead of his time, and he knew that the skeletons of birds must be almost weightless. He was studying aerodynamics because, don’t forget, nobody in Ancient Greece had ever flown.

  ‘Anyway, there came a day when his invention was ready. Icarus woke up, and there on the bed were two pairs of the most enormous, glorious wings. So many birds had contributed feathers that they were multi-coloured – and they were so big they spread right across the room. There was no time to be lost, of course. Daedalus strapped one pair onto Icarus’s shoulders, and Icarus helped him with his own. Soon, they had the window wide open and were ready to go.

  ‘“There’s one thing,” said Daedalus.’

  ‘Don’t go near the sun,’ whispered Richard.

  Mr Barlow smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t too strong in the early morning, but he knew the sun would soon get roastingly hot. “Stay below me,” Daedalus said. “Stay behind me, and stay low. These wings are just feathers and wax, and if we go too near that sun once it’s up . . . we won’t last long. Do you understand me?”

  ‘Icarus was the same age as you, of course. So the boy nodded.

  ‘With that, the old man leaped out into the abyss, turned head over heels – and was suddenly flying. Icarus did the same, jumping out as far a
s he could, and then one flap, and oh my goodness, the power in those wings. He shot up like a bullet, the breeze getting right under him. Now you can understand that both father and son were experiencing something that . . . well, only angels experience. They soared and whirled and looped the loop. But it was Daedalus who remembered that the whole point was escape. It was Daedalus who led, and they were soon over the coastline and then over the sea. Poor Icarus, however, could not control himself. I have to go higher! – that’s what he thought, and who could blame him?

  ‘Daedalus gave chase, and screamed out after him: “The sun Icarus! The wax!”

  ‘The boy simply didn’t hear. He flew higher and higher, and if he heard anything it probably sounded like a bird calling. In the end, all Daedalus could do was watch as his son turned into a speck, soaring upwards. Then, suddenly, the air was full of feathers, because, oh . . . the sun was indeed too hot, and Icarus had flown too close.

  ‘Out of the feathers came the plummeting form of a terrified boy. His wings were in tatters, and all he had round his shoulders were a few bits of straw. He went headfirst past his father into the sea, and there was nothing the old man could do but watch him crash down into the water.’

  Mr Barlow paused. ‘That,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘is the story of Icarus.’

  ‘Was he drowned?’ said someone.

  ‘He was drowned.’

  There was a light smattering of applause, but most children simply gaped.

  ‘How come there’s never happy endings in your stories, Mr Barlow?’ said Eric at last. It was his first appearance at school that week, and his hair was a mass of intricate dreadlocks. ‘Why are they always so sad?’

  ‘I didn’t write it,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘It’s not m-my ending.’

  ‘But whoever did could have said . . . I don’t know, “Icarus flew higher and higher, and then suddenly remembered: Oh my God, I can feel my wings getting melted. Dad was right!” Then he zooms back down again just in time, and they both get home safely, and live happily ever after.’

  ‘And that would be a better story, though?’ said Mark. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I just want a happy ending for once,’ said Eric. ‘People don’t always have to die. If you’re flying, you don’t have to crash.’

  ‘My grandad flew,’ said Richard, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Rikki very quietly.

  Mr Barlow nodded. ‘You’ve told us that before, Richard. Tell us again.’

  Richard licked his lips, and found that his voice was shaking. The little wings were in his fist. ‘He was a Navy pilot,’ he said. ‘He flew Buccaneers off HMS Eagle. He flew Vixens too, but he loved the Venom best, so he stayed with jets. Usually out on the carriers.’

  ‘That’s aviation history, of course. He m-must have had some stories.’

  ‘He said it was the best feeling in the world, up there, in control. They were still developing the planes then, you see – he was in one of the first squadrons that landed the old Hornets. So he did the tests for that, and then he did the aircraft carriers – the big ships. You drop in at about . . . I think it’s a hundred and fifty miles an hour, and you line up on lights, and then you have to catch the wire – it’s stretched across the ship’s runway, and it brings your plane to a dead stop. You go from one-fifty to zero in two seconds, and as it catches you have to give full throttle, just in case you’ve missed it. Otherwise you wouldn’t get up again. You come out of the sun, so it won’t blind you. And there are three wires across the boat-deck, and there’s a hook under your tail. It’s called “assisted landing”, and the best pilots catch the middle wire, first time round – every time. He got a medal for fifty perfect drops.’ Richard looked up, slightly breathless. ‘But he had to stop in the end, though – did I ever say why?’

  ‘Stop talking,’ said Rikki in his ear. ‘Nobody cares.’

  ‘Why?’ said Carla.

  ‘Did he crash?’ said someone.

  ‘No,’ said Richard. ‘He saw himself, on the wing.’

  ‘Saw himself?’ said Eric. ‘What are you talking about?’ Richard looked at him. ‘It’s what . . . happens when you reach this point in flying. He explained it, but I didn’t really get it. He was in the cockpit – it was a Seahawk, I think, and he was out over Wales, and everything was fine. Great visibility, and he was just getting ready to go back . . . when he looked to his right. And on the tip of the wing, he saw himself. Just sitting there, like a ghost. And he looked at himself, and at first, the guy on the wing was just looking forward. But then he turned, and Danda couldn’t take his eyes away then. He was looking at himself, like there was two of him – two heads – and they just gazed at each other.’

  The class was absolutely silent.

  ‘What happened?’ said Mr Barlow.

  ‘Well, he managed to look away, just in time. And he looked down at the controls, and of course he was doing about three-ninety, so he was way off course, and he realized that he’d lost the rest of the squadron. He’d been looking at himself for maybe fifteen seconds, which could have killed him. So he turned back—’

  ‘Was he freaked out?’ said Eric.

  ‘Yes. Totally. Because he’d heard of other pilots seeing themselves, and it was always a sign that you couldn’t handle flying any more – you were no longer stable. You’d been too high and there was part of you that couldn’t go on. So you have to tell your commanding officer, which Grandad did – he went straight in and told him that this had happened. And they, er . . . they did checks and lots of psychological counselling stuff. They made him draw pictures, and they kept at him and at him . . . and then they grounded him. So he stopped flying, and he taught simulations after that, and helped develop one of the simulators they still use. The Jameson simulator . . . but that was before I was born, before we moved into his house . . . Before.’

  Again, there was a pause. In the end, Eric said, ‘Well, that’s a happy ending. I thought you were going to say he crashed and burned.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘No. He invented things as well, and when he retired—’

  ‘Why don’t you bring him in?’ said someone. ‘He could tell us himself!’

  ‘Shhh!’ said someone else.

  Richard became aware that everyone was silent, and even anxious. Aparna was staring straight at him, and she looked frightened. The class knew his grandad had passed on. Richard had been absent for six days, because it had all been so horrible, so terrible, so impossible – everyone knew, and the silence now seemed unbreakable. Every child knew the facts and nobody would ever, ever mention them. The boy who’d asked the question was new.

  Rikki sighed loudly. ‘Tell them again,’ he said. ‘It was a year ago, nearly.’

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Tell them how he died. They’ve forgotten, you see, Rich? – it wasn’t important enough, and they’ve moved on with their lives.’

  Rikki turned to the class.

  ‘Grandad died last year, guys. He was walking us home, ’cos he used to meet us from school. We were walking along and he had a great big, bone-breaking heart attack, right on the pavement, about five minutes from here. Took one hour to get an ambulance to him, by which time he was cold as a stone. It wasn’t a problem, though, because the hospital said he would have died anyway, so the fact he died like a skinny old dog . . . even though he was a hero . . . like some dog in the street, well, that was just tough luck. He was always meeting me and walking me home, even when he was sick. And he was always buying me stuff – like chocolate, which of course he would always eat most of. He was greedy. Selfish . . .’

  Richard was shaking his head. ‘He wasn’t. He so wasn’t.’

  ‘He had diabetes, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  Rikki laughed. ‘We’d watched him getting weaker, but he hated being in bed. He’d been active all his life, so he always came to get us. And this one day, about quarter past four, he suddenly stops, and puts his hand on his chest – just here. And we
said, “You OK?” – and he said, “Wait.” Just like that: “Wait a minute.” “What’s wrong?” says Richard. And he goes all white. Grandad, I mean – not me.’ Rikki sniggered. ‘Then his legs went, and oh-my-God he’s on the pavement. Bam! Ha, right outside the newsagent, with everyone staring. One dead grandad, simple as that.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Second-hand clothes, yes? Funeral, and all this stuff nobody knew what to do with. Stuff left over – all the crap in his cupboards – man, we still haven’t got rid of it all, ’cos it’s a big house, and we’d moved in, to be with him, because Mum wanted to look after him more. It’s our house now, of course.’ He shook his head. ‘But oh my God, you put it in boxes – the crap, that is. You shove it in the attic, but you don’t know where to put it, and it drives you mad.’

  Rikki was laughing.

  ‘Oh, and even the ash – listen to this! After we burned him up, we put his ash in the wind at this ceremony thing, out on some airfield that all the old men came to, so . . . off he flew on his last flight – the pilot without a plane – and I heard someone sneeze, and I thought, Wow, maybe they’ve got a bit of Grandad, right up their nose. Gone with the wind, huh? Gone!’

  He knocked his head gently against Richard’s, as Richard stared at his knees. ‘Life is cruel,’ he added. ‘Don’t expect a happy ending, buddy. Ever.’

  ‘But, Rikki . . .’ said Mr Barlow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was a wonderful man.’

  ‘How do you know? He wasn’t your grandad.’

  ‘Everyone knows. He was a hero, like you said.’

  ‘Didn’t stop him dying.’

  ‘He’s not forgotten—’

  ‘Not that we’re complaining – there’s more room upstairs now, and we got rid of the smell. Everything’s worked out for the best, guys. Life goes on, getting better. He was an arse.’

  There was a silence, and then the bell went, sudden and shrill. The children got up to leave, and all Mr Barlow could do was watch, for Richard and Rikki bolted out of the classroom, pushing through the crowd long before he could get to them.

  The teacher stood in the corridor as the doors banged, and Dr Warren was suddenly beside him.