The Bunker Diary

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Probably just frayed nerves,’ I said. ‘This place can get to you.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  A strange thing happened then. His good eye started blinking, slowly and steadily, and then his face stilled and his eye glazed over and he just sat there staring into space. After a while his head began to sag, as if he was falling asleep. It just hung there, bowed to his chest. I moved my chair, squeaking it on the floor, and then I noisily cleared my throat a couple of times. But he didn’t seem to hear me. I started worrying that he’d passed out or something. I was just about to get up and give him a nudge on the arm when his head gave a little jerk and he suddenly straightened up, his eye wide open.

  ‘Uh?’ he said. ‘What’s … ? What?’

  ‘Mr Lansing?’

  He looked at me. Confusion showed briefly on his face, and then it suddenly cleared again and he smiled. ‘Linus,’ he said. ‘Linus Weems.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Charlie Weems’s son.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he said. ‘You’re Charlie Weems’s son?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, Weems is quite an unusual surname, isn’t it? And I remember reading an article about your father a few years ago in which he mentioned a teenage son. I also remember reading somewhere that your father is a huge fan of the Peanuts cartoons, and I seem to recall that Charlie Brown’s best friend was a character called Linus van Pelt.’ He smiled at me. ‘I’m not really a great admirer of the Gribbles, but I’ve always loved cartoons and comic strips, and I think your father’s earlier work is up there with the very best.’

  Some people have the ability to get you talking. They can get you telling stuff that you wouldn’t normally share with anyone else. Russell is like that. I don’t know how he does it. He doesn’t really do anything special, he just sits there, asking the odd question and listening patiently. There’s a peacefulness about him that brings things out.

  He certainly got me talking.

  I didn’t mean to start telling him everything about my dad, but once I’d told him that he was right, that I am Charlie Weems’s son, and that Dad’s earlier work is really good, and the Gribbles are really crap, and that Dad did name me after the character in the Peanuts cartoons, I just couldn’t seem to stop talking.

  ‘I’ve never forgiven him for calling me Linus,’ I admitted. ‘It’s such a stupid name.’

  ‘It could have been worse,’ Russell said. ‘He could have called you Snoopy.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but at least everyone’s heard of Snoopy. Most of the kids I know don’t have a clue who Linus van Pelt is. They just think I’ve got a really stupid name.’

  Russell smiled sympathetically. ‘Linus is the one with the security blanket, isn’t he? The little kid who believes in the Great Pumpkin?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We talked a bit about Dad’s cartoons then. They’re actually nothing like the Peanuts cartoons. They’re a lot darker, a lot more unsettling, and they’re not really suitable for young kids. A lot of people compare them to Gary Larson’s Far Side stuff, and I suppose they’re a bit like that. A bit surreal, a bit bizarre. But if you ask other cartoonists to describe my dad’s stuff, most of them will compare it to the work of a man called Bernard Kliban, who very few people have ever heard of …

  Which was pretty much my dad’s situation until the Gribbles took off.

  ‘Is it true that before the TV series he never made any money from his cartoons?’ Russell asked.

  ‘He made a bit,’ I said. ‘But not very much. Most of his money came from the stuff he got published in magazines, which wasn’t a lot.’

  ‘What about his books?’

  ‘Nobody bought them.’

  ‘So how did you manage?’

  ‘My mum had a job. She was a lawyer. That’s how she met Dad in the first place. He was one of her clients.’ I looked at Russell. ‘Dad got done for drugs, and Mum helped to keep him out of prison.’

  Russell smiled. ‘And then they fell in love and got married?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Although … well, I was only little when Mum was around so it’s hard to remember anything very clearly, but I know they used to argue quite a lot, shouting and screaming at each other like maniacs. Mum was always nagging at Dad to get a proper job. She’d get really angry sometimes, telling him that she was fed up with him sponging off her all the time. I don’t know if she meant it or not, but there was no doubt that Dad was dependent on her for money. That’s partly why everything got so bad when she died …’

  I was nine years old when my mum died.

  She got ill, started staying in bed a lot. Her room smelled bad.

  She went into hospital and died.

  Dad cried a lot and stayed drunk for days at a time.

  I can’t think about it.

  Can’t …

  Don’t want to.

  ‘Dad had to start selling stuff eventually,’ I told Russell. ‘The car, Mum’s jewellery, whatever there was. He sold it all. And we still didn’t have any money. It got so bad that he even began looking for a job, a real job, something that would actually bring in some money every week.’

  ‘Did he find one?’

  I smiled. ‘All he’s ever done is draw cartoons. He doesn’t know how to do anything else. He’s totally unpresentable, he doesn’t like people, he’s rude, he takes drugs, he drinks too much …’

  ‘Not the ideal employee then?’

  I laughed. ‘Not really.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  The Gribbles happened, for God’s sake.

  The Gribbles.

  You’ve probably never heard of them. I mean, they’re massive in most parts of the world, especially in the Far East, but for some reason they’ve never really caught on in the UK. Dad’s original picture book – called simply The Gribbles – was published here but it probably only sold about twenty copies. Not that Dad cared. He never wanted to do the book in the first place. He didn’t even like the Gribbles. They were just something he’d drawn one day when he was bored, a few sketched doodles at the bottom of a page. He’d never meant them to be anything. But his publisher happened to notice the sketches when Dad was showing her something else and she thought they’d make good characters for a children’s picture book.

  ‘I don’t do children’s picture books,’ Dad told her.

  ‘I can’t pay you for your other stuff, Charlie,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry, but nobody wants it.’

  Dad sighed. ‘So how much can you give me for the Gribbles?’

  Not much, was the answer. But that was enough for Dad. He went to work on the Gribbles, fleshing out the sketches until he had his basic character, which in effect was just a big lumpy head with stubby little arms and legs (a bit like a mutant, and slightly scary, Mr Men character), and then he drew about half a dozen different versions, gave each of them a different colour, came up with a few little adventures for them, and that was pretty much it.

  The Gribbles.

  They look a bit like this:

  All I can really remember about the original book is that the colour of each Gribble was supposed to represent its personality. So Blue Gribble was sad, Red Gribble was excitable, Black Gribble was …

  I can’t remember what Black Gribble was. Evil, probably. Or maybe depressed?

  I can’t remember.

  Anyway, the book came out, no one bought it, and the Gribbles sank without trace. And then, just at the point when everything seemed utterly hopeless, Dad’s agent rang to say that a Japanese TV company had bought the rights to the book and they were ma
king a cartoon series based on the characters.

  And that’s how Dad became rich beyond his dreams. The TV series was a huge hit in Japan, and within a year or so it had been sold to almost every country in the world, and the money just started pouring in. And it’s carried on pouring in ever since. Dad even gets a cut of all the merchandising – the Gribble dolls, the Gribble lunchboxes, the Gribble pencil cases. He makes a fortune from that kind of crap.

  And, of course, he loved it at first. He bought all the stuff you’re supposed to buy when you’re rich – the big house in the country, the beach house in Santa Monica, the villa, the cars, a boat … vast amounts of drink and drugs … he could buy whatever he wanted. And he did. But after a while (and after he’d stuffed so much cocaine up his nose that he was almost permanently up in the clouds) he began to realize (or at least tell himself) that money alone wasn’t enough, and that what he really wanted, above all else, was respect. He wanted to be taken seriously. He wanted to be known as an artist, as someone with something to say. He didn’t want to be remembered as the man who created the Gribbles.

  (An interviewer once asked him if he was proud of them. ‘Proud of the Gribbles?’ Dad snorted. ‘I despise the fucking things.’)

  And now, the more money the Gribbles make for him, the more bitter and twisted he becomes. It eats away at him every day. It drives him crazy. And that’s why he can’t stop chasing around all over the world, trying to get his ‘projects’ up and running – animated films, graphic novels, experimental CGI stuff. The kind of stuff that he hopes will give him the respect he thinks he deserves. And that’s why I’ve had to put up with too many years of boarding school, too many years of cold grey walls and twisted teachers and snotty kids with savage minds …

  ‘It got to the point where I just couldn’t stand it any more,’ I told Russell. ‘It was driving me mad. I mean, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d had a home to go to at the end of the day, but I didn’t. I had to live there. I had to be there all the time. Day in, day out, night after night, having to put up with the same old crap – the stupid jokes about my name, the nasty little comments –’

  ‘What kind of comments?’ Russell said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Nothing much really. Just the usual small-minded shit, you know. The kind of stuff you get when you don’t fit in – you’re some kind of weirdo, or you must be gay or something …’ I looked at Russell, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean –’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ he said, smiling. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Life can be hard when you don’t fit in.’

  I nodded. ‘It wasn’t even that bad really. You know, I didn’t get beaten up or anything, and most of the time I didn’t really care what the other kids thought of me anyway. But I just couldn’t stand having to be with them all the time. Watching them eat, watching them wash. Hearing them belch and fart. Smelling their smells. It was a ridiculous way to live. Everything about it just stank.’ I sighed. ‘You know that horrible smell of someone else’s shit? It was like that, all the time.’

  ‘So,’ Russell said, ‘you ran away?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly run.’

  ‘But you left school. You left home.’

  I nodded again. ‘Dad drove me back to school after the summer holidays. He dropped me off, I waved him goodbye, and then I just walked into town and got on a train to London. That was just over five months ago. I’ve been living on the streets ever since.’

  ‘And how has that been?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’

  He smiled. ‘Any less smelly?’

  ‘Not really. But at least you can get away from it.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘Anywhere. Mostly around Liverpool Street.’

  ‘Hostels?’

  ‘No, I tried one once. It was worse than school. It’s best to stick to the streets. There’s plenty of places if you know where to look. Doorways, abandoned houses, railway tunnels. It’s not as bad as it sounds.’

  ‘What do you live on?’

  ‘Busking, begging, handouts. A bit of stealing now and then.’

  ‘It must be hard.’

  ‘No harder than anything else.’

  ‘Do you … ?’ he hesitated. ‘Do you take anything to make it easier?’

  ‘You mean drugs?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t take drugs. I’ve seen what they can do. I don’t want to end up like my dad.’

  ‘But there must be a lot of drugs around?’

  ‘There’s a lot of everything around.’

  Russell went quiet again then. He just sat there, staring silently at his shoes. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, so I joined him. They were nice shoes to look at. Like Teddy boys’ shoes. Black suede uppers and thick rubber soles.

  After a while he looked up at me and said, ‘You’re a remarkable young man, Linus.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You stick to your guns.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, you must get offered things all the time. Drink, drugs … whatever. And you just say no. I think that’s very admirable.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want to die, that’s all.’

  Now it’s late.

  I’m tired, exhausted. I haven’t talked so much for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever talked so much about Dad. I’m absolutely drained. But I can’t seem to stop writing.

  I feel a long way from everything.

  Floating, sad, apprehensive, cold. I wish things were different, but they’re not. They never are. They can’t be.

  I can’t get Dad out of my mind. I keep wondering what he’s doing right now. I try to picture him at home, in the front room maybe, sipping brandy in front of the fire. Or in the kitchen, at the table, surrounded by the dark oak beams, the sealed brick walls, the copper pans hanging on the wall …

  But I can’t see it. I can’t see anything.

  It’s all too far away. Too long ago.

  Everything is too long ago.

  I have hazy memories of being at home with Mum and Dad when I was little, but I don’t know if these memories are true or not. They run like bootleg DVDs in the back of my mind, all grainy and jumpy from being copied too many times. I remember Dad making up stories and poems for me, singing me songs, showing me cartoons and pictures in books … but it isn’t him, it’s just a memory of him.

  And Mum …

  I don’t want to think any more.

  I wish I’d asked Russell if he’d heard anything about Dad, if he’d read any recent articles about him or seen any interviews or anything. He does interviews sometimes, trying to promote his latest project. He never talks about the Gribbles though. He doesn’t usually talk about his personal life either, but I just thought that maybe if he had been on TV or something he might have mentioned me. You know, a message or something, a plea for information …

  But I guess Russell would have told me if he’d heard anything.

  It’s hard not caring.

  Hard enough to make you cry.

  Friday, 10 February

  Last night I dreamed about Lugless and Pretty Bob. They were at school with me. It was night-time, in the dormitory. Lug and Bob were holding court, telling stories, and all the kids were sitting round listening to them. The strange thing was, I didn’t know any of the kids’ names. I recognized their faces, but I couldn’t put any names to them. Anyway, they were all sitting round with their eyes glued to Lug and Bob as if they were TV stars or something. Pretty Bob was leaning against the wall e
ating a banana, and Lug was sitting cross-legged on the floor telling how he lost his ear.

  ‘Nah, nah, listen,’ he was saying. ‘You know the thing about whatsis? The crow-man, flowers, the painter, Vango –’

  ‘Goff,’ said Pretty Bob. ‘Von Goff.’

  ‘Right, him. See, what he did, there was this other painter man did jungles and tigers and stuff and Goff din’t like him –’

  ‘Gangrene,’ said Bob.

  ‘Yep, yep, that’s him. Goff had a fight with Gangrene and Gangrene shot off Goff’s ear. And that’s what happened with me. ’Cept it was crayons with me.’

  ‘The Terminator’s crayons,’ said Bob.

  Lug grinned. ‘Yeah, the Turnimaker. Whoo, he’s a big boy, that one. See, I took his crayons and he ate my ear.’

  ‘That’s why he don’t get no drinks,’ said Bob. ‘You ask Lug if he wants a drink, he says, “No thanks, I got one ear.”’

  All the kids started laughing.

  And then I got up and said, ‘That’s not what happened.’

  And everyone looked at me.

  I said, ‘A dog bit him, that’s all. That’s how Lug lost his ear. A dog bit him.’

  Everyone’s eyes went cold, like I’d ruined everything, and then the scene faded and the view panned out to a small white building standing alone on the top of a hill in the middle of an open prairie. I think it was a farmhouse. It could have been a chapel, but I’m pretty sure it was a farmhouse. Like one of those old-fashioned places you see in Western films, you know? A plain wooden building with a bell tower at one end and a corral out the front. The bell tower was what made me think it might be a chapel, but I’m sure it was a farmhouse.

  It was summer. The sky was clear and blue, the prairie grass was whispering softly in a lazy breeze. The corral, if that’s what it was, formed a perfect circle bounded by a white picket fence.

  And that’s where I was sitting. Right in the middle of the corral.

  I don’t know why I was at this farmhouse, but I’m fairly sure I didn’t live there. I don’t think anyone lived there. And I don’t know where I came from or how I got there either. The dream had no journey. But I have a kind of dream-memory of crossing the prairie and climbing the hill, and I can remember the feel of the long grass brushing softly against me …