Beast

by Matt Wesolowski

  —What was it like, just the two of you together. Did you get on?

  —Yes and no. In the way that siblings do and don’t. We didn’t fight – Elizabeth wasn’t like that. But … things happened.

  —Go on…

  —Just stupid things. Kids’ games. Nothing important.

  —What sort of games?

  —Like, she was the older one, and she was responsible for me when my parents or the babysitter or whoever weren’t there. On Saturday mornings our parents used to lie in for fucking hours, sleep off their hangovers, so Elizabeth was in charge. She invented these games to keep me still, keep me quiet. She had this one called ‘statues’. I was up and down the walls you see. I don’t think I was even medicated then. We were allowed to eat cereal and Elizabeth was allowed to get it for us. If she came out of the kitchen with Coco Pops I knew we were in for a game of ‘statues’.

  —Why Coco Pops?

  —I wasn’t allowed them, you see – too much sugar or additives or whatever; and because we had this new sofa and Mam and Dad would lose their shit if I spilled chocolate milk on it. It was so fucking important to them – the telly, the sofa, the carpet.

  The game was, when Elizabeth was done with her cereal, she would balance the bowl on my head. A bowl half full of chocolate milk. The game was to see how long I could manage to sit still through an episode of Maid Marian and her Merry Men before I moved and the bowl fell. How long before I covered me and the sofa in chocolate milk.

  —I imagine that happened, right?

  —Of course it did. More than once. Then I would spend the rest of the morning frantically trying to clean up the mess while Elizabeth just sat there watching the show. Then, when Mam and Dad came downstairs, I was in trouble.

  —That sounds like a really mean thing for her to do.

  —Right? But it was probably annoying for her, me being such a pain. I guess everyone has their own way of doing things, right?

  I feel like Jason is giving Elizabeth a bit of a pass for this. But I can see why; Elizabeth was having to play the role of parent to a youngster with untreated ADHD, without much guidance.

  Older siblings have a degree of power over their younger counterparts anyway, and Elizabeth was thrust into a position of responsibility by parents who, by Jason’s account, seem not to have been much of a presence.

  —Now I’m thinking about it, there were other games too.

  —Really? Are you OK to tell me about them?

  —Elizabeth’s games were seasonal. When it was cold, when it was still dark and frosty outside, that’s when we would have to play ‘snowmen’.

  —How did you play it?

  —So, our living room faced out onto the garden. There was a small porch full of wellies and stuff. Elizabeth would tell me to go and get my hat and gloves from the porch. The tiles in there were always properly freezing. I used to hop in and hop out again. Then she would tell me to go and stand outside in the garden wearing only my hat and my gloves.

  —What would happen if you refused?

  —Hmm … that’s a good question. I don’t … I don’t ever remember feeling that was an option. What she said, I did. If she wanted me to play snowmen, I played snowmen.

  I would be allowed to strip naked in the porch so my pyjamas didn’t get wet. After the first time, I began to wear underpants so she didn’t see me fully naked. When I was down to my underpants, I had to go out into the garden and stand stock still with my arms out, like a snowman. She would tell me I had to stand there for as long as possible, to see how long I could take the cold.

  —That sounds awful.

  —I thought so too. I dreaded playing snowmen, I dreaded it more than statues, but I had to do it. There didn’t seem any rhyme or reason. I mean, I must have done something – some crime – to deserve it, but I could never work out what it was. I just remember standing there, my arms out, fingers and toes burning they were so cold. She would be sat there on the sofa. I never knew when she would unlock the door. The click of the key in the lock. I still … excuse me, sorry … I still get a flush of relief whenever I hear the turning of a key in a lock. It’s stupid.

  —It doesn’t sound stupid to me; it sounds—

  —Abusive? Evil? Like something a terrible person would do? Yeah. I told you, see? I told you you might not like this.

  —I’m not here to pass judgement, Jason. I’m here to hear your story. If that’s what happened, then that’s what happened.

  —You haven’t asked me, but I know what you’re wondering – and that’s whether I’m glad she’s dead. You’re wondering whether, when those lads locked her in Tankerville Tower and she froze to death and they cut off her fucking head, I felt like there was some sort of poetic justice to it, right? Whether some little piece of me felt like she deserved it?

  —Is that what you felt?

  —A little. Yes. I’ll admit it. It would be weird if I didn’t, to be honest. But I mean, man, they cut off her fucking head. That’s some fucked-up shit. That’s beyond just murder. That’s brutal.

  —Why do you think they did that? Do you have a theory?

  —Ergarth’s a desperate, bleak fucking place full of desperate, bleak people.

  There is a sullen silence and Jason stares at me, his face betraying little. He’s sat dead still, waiting for a reaction. I wonder how long he’s held this conflict between grief and anger inside him, letting it churn and boil. He tells me that this is one of many reasons why he was not present in the wake of Elizabeth’s death, why he stayed away.

  —I felt like something would betray me; something in my face or my manner. I was scared that I might accidently say the wrong thing, and everyone would know that I didn’t really care my sister was dead. More than that, I was scared that my mam and dad would find out about those things she did.

  —What would have happened if they had?

  —It would have destroyed them. More than her dying. It would have smashed up that view they had of her as this fucking perfect creature, this perfect person.

  —Were you worried other people would find out about Elizabeth’s games too?

  —I know, right? Then what would happen? Her little online army would be baying for my blood. That was my main concern, cos that could have compromised what we are doing for the animals.

  —So how did you actually feel – about her dying, I mean?

  —It’s … complicated. You should care when something like this happens, shouldn’t you? I mean for fuck’s sake, I care about animals that couldn’t give two fucks about me; animals that, if they could, would run away from me; animals that simply cannot conceive that I am trying to help them. I’ve even seen what those knives can do – take their heads almost clean off while they’re still alive. I care about them, I lose sleep over them, but when Elizabeth was killed … well …

  I know I didn’t feel good about it. But I do remember wondering if it was as easy to cut off her head as it was a sheep’s? Was there the same amount of blood? I guess a human neck is thicker bone, isn’t it? I just remember thinking about it; wondering whether I cared; but I just felt … nothing. You’re not allowed to feel nothing these days, though. You have to be crying on breakfast TV between adverts for car insurance and fast food. If you don’t, you’re evil. I knew what the world would think of me if I grieved for my sister the wrong way.

  —Those animals you’ve dedicated your life to helping, they can’t help themselves; they need you. Elizabeth didn’t.

  —That’s true. Elizabeth could certainly fend for herself.

  —I wonder if you see a little bit of yourself in those animals – a younger Jason, who was helpless, who had no one to stand up for him.

  —I wonder that too.

  —These incidents when the two of you were younger, they’re troubling. For me, they seem to go just that little bit further than the usual sibling bullying.

  —You’re right, they do. There were other things too – plenty of other things. Is me telling you all this s
poiling the image of my sister? Is it tainting how everyone remembers her?

  —Your feelings, your memories are your own.

  —Like, she used to drink tea. Mint tea – we weren’t allowed caffeine. Mam would give her the cup with the teabag still in. I wasn’t allowed tea because I was too scatty. As soon as Mam was out the door, Elizabeth would tell me to put my hands out and close my eyes…

  —I can guess what happened next, Jason. Did you never tell your parents about any of these things? Did they never see what was happening?

  —No. Elizabeth was smart; good at everything. Well, she was also really good at covering her arse. If Mam and Dad found me crying with burned hands or wet pyjamas, it was my own fault.

  I at least got their attention then, I suppose. In some ways I guess I was grateful. That’s why I never spoke up, that’s why I never told them. At least when they were screaming at me, they were saying something to me.

  I think Jason Barton is being more guarded than he would like to make out. I almost feel that this whole conversation has been rehearsed. I haven’t challenged him on his stance about anything yet; but that’s not to say I won’t. Underneath the façade of the grungy activist, I feel that there’s something very vulnerable. So how I manage this part of our discussion will be crucial to whether Jason stays onside or not.

  —When I was around thirteen I was diagnosed, at last, with ADHD – much to the shame of my parents, who took it as some sort of slight. Next to Elizabeth, with her grades and her prizes, I’d always felt like a failure, and the diagnosis didn’t help.

  So when we talk about these horrible things she did to me when we were kids, it automatically begs a question, doesn’t it? Did I have anything to do with her death?

  —I haven’t asked that question.

  —You don’t need to. It’s there, between us. It’s hanging over everything; it has since she died. The messed-up little brother. I’ve never told anybody about the things she did – for that very reason; that question would rear its head. It’s like when someone dies and the first suspect is the partner. That’s fucked up, but they’re also the most likely killer. That’s what we are as a species, as a society. We’re these strange mutant apes that got too big for our boots and spend our time killing each other. Did I kill my sister? No. I didn’t know her well enough to kill her, if you get what I mean. We were like strangers. I rarely visited Ergarth, and she never came down to Bristol to see me. It was like we were colleagues who’d worked together for a few years and gone our separate ways.

  —When was the last time you saw her then?

  —I was actually in Ergarth a few days before she died.

  —I didn’t know that.

  —But I didn’t even see her, or my parents. I was visiting a couple of old mates. I never said goodbye.

  —Do you wish you had?

  —I wish … I wish more that I’d been able to ask her why? Before she died. Just find out why she used to treat me the way she did when we were little. What was it I’d done to justify it?

  Were there times I fantasised about killing her when I was a kid? Yes. Yes, because that’s normal.

  —And with what happened, the things she did to you, it made sense for you to have those feelings.

  —Right? But I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her.

  —Just to play devil’s advocate here Jason, maybe there are some who’ll hear this and say that you may have been justified if you did.

  —Funny that, because people justify keeping a sentient, defenceless creature in disgusting, inhumane conditions before mercilessly killing it then letting its flesh go rancid in the fridge. That’s much more horrific if you ask me.

  —People in Ergarth talk about how much good your late sister did. What a positive role model she was. So I’m currently struggling to find a clear motive for her murder.

  —It’s funny that you should say that, you know, because I’m not. I’m not struggling to understand it at all.

  Jason folds his arms and leans back in his chair. I feel like he wants me to react to this, but I don’t. I wait. I let silence permeate the room, hanging between us like a fog, and hope Jason decides to fill it.

  Eventually, with a sigh, he does.

  —I don’t think it was her especially who was the problem. But she kind of personified that problem, you know? With her videos and her hashtags and her #givingmondayback or whatever. And she was setting up a charity wasn’t she?

  —Wasn’t that a good thing – encouraging people to give to the homeless? It’s still going, isn’t it?

  —Yeah. Of course it was. But think about it: do you remember the last time you gave to charity?

  —Yes. I suppose so. I have a few direct debits. I’ve put some extra groceries in the food-bank boxes in the supermarket.

  —Right. But did you feel the need to take a photograph of yourself while doing it? Did you set up a charity in your own name?

  —No. I suppose not. Why would I?

  —Exactly. You don’t need to show anyone. You keep it to yourself. You do something nice and move on. You don’t need to tell the world. People only do that for other reasons.

  —I’m not sure what you mean.

  —It’s all attention. People want to brag about how great they are – ‘look at me giving to charity, aren’t I just wonderful?’. I guess it’s one way of getting attention. That was one of my sister’s.

  —I could think of worse.

  —Yeah? How about this; have you seen her #givingmondayback photos? If not, have a close look; look at the guys she took pics with. They’re all pretty Instagramable, they’ve all got beards and dogs, or one leg or something. She ignored the young lads passed out from smoking spice; she didn’t bother with the crackhead mothers with broken teeth. Makes you think, doesn’t it? – about why she was doing it. Really. Was it for them or for her?

  —The counter-argument being that doing it, no matter how ‘Instagramable’ it is, encourages people to do the same.

  —Mate, people know to give to charity. All this is about getting attention. Our parents gave us none so we had to find validation somewhere. Hers was online. I got mine in other ways.

  —Like how?

  —OK – can we rewind a bit? I want to go back a few years. I want to go back to school. That’s where Elizabeth became popular. That’s when she first started the YouTube channel, her Instagram, this image of herself. That’s how she got her attention. The attention we never got from our parents.

  —What do you remember about that time?

  —I started Ergarth High in year seven, when Elizabeth was in year eleven, the year she did her exams and left. Mam and Dad thought she’d be staying on at sixth form. So did I. The teachers too. Anyway, she was the one who was the netball captain, the debate captain, the top girl or whatever shit it was. So when I got there, they all thought I would be like that. They expected me to be like her.

  —Do you think they were disappointed – the teachers I mean?

  —They told me outright I was a disappointment. They gave no shits. I was a disappointment to them from day one. I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t do their work, I couldn’t do one thing I was asked. That’s the fucking problem with the school system in this country – they don’t give a fuck. Since the fucking Tories took over, it’s all been about statistics. If you’re a kid like me and you learn in a different way or you have ADHD or a learning difficulty you make their statistics look bad. To get through school, you have to be a certain shape. If you’re not that shape, you’re the peg that doesn’t fit in the hole.

  —So what became of you?

  —I was shoved in with the rest of the square pegs – always in after-school detention. That’s how I first encountered Martin Flynn.

  As has been mentioned before, Martin Flynn has mild learning difficulties and has been described by many in Ergarth as a thug. According to Jason, the after-school detention system put together pupils from all the year groups for an hour in an empty classroom wit
h pens and paper and dictionaries. The pupils were supposed to sit in silence and copy out of the dictionary.

  —If it was Delkyn, the deputy head, you shut up and got on with it. It was shit. But if it was someone like Mrs Brandon, the cooking teacher, it was great. If you so much as moved for Delkyn, you got a phone call home and another after-school. If it was Brandon, you could get away with talking quietly so long as you didn’t fuck about and piss her off. The teachers were on a rota for supervising detentions, and you soon learned who you could push and who you couldn’t.

  —So tell me about Martin Flynn.

  —At first I thought he was great. He looked like trouble; he was huge, bursting out of his uniform. And one of those faces, like all the Flynns have, like a troll. I thought he was like me, another misfit. But he was a real hard case. Everyone in school knew it – no one messed with him.

  George Meldby was always in there too but I never noticed him, no one did, he was small, quiet, weird. He just sat there in the corner, getting on with it.

  —What about Solomon Meer, was he in those after-school detentions?

  —Once or twice maybe, but not really. He spent most of his time in isolation. That was different. A bit more shit. Isolation was for the bad ones; after-school detention was for the little pains in the arse, like George Meldby and Martin Flynn.

  Jason explains that he wanted to impress Martin Flynn, so he started showing off in detention. He’d make noises to annoy the supervising teacher, throw things, be a general pain. This behaviour encouraged the others and soon, after-school detention became almost like a game. While Elizabeth Barton achieved exam results and medals, Jason Barton began making his way up the ranks of the troublemakers. What I’m interested in, however, is why that was.