Killing God

by Kevin Brooks

‘Don't fucking patronize me, Dawn.’

  ‘I wasn't –’

  ‘Look,’ she says, tight-lipped, ‘I didn't come round here to tell you all this because I feel sorry for you or anything… OK? Because I don't… and I don't want you to feel sorry for me either. D'you understand?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I mean, I know what you're going through… that's all. I know what it's like. And I just wanted you to know…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah, why did you want me to know?’

  ‘Because…’ She shakes her head. ‘Shit, I don't know.’ She bows her head, breathes in deeply, then blows out her cheeks (like she's finally decided to tell the truth) and looks over at me. ‘All right,’ she says quietly. ‘I like you, OK? I think you're… you know… I think you're all right. And I just wanted to let you know…’ She hesitates, looking troubled.

  ‘It's all right,’ I tell her. ‘You don't have to –’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘I know what you're trying to say.’

  ‘No, you don't.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, slightly impatiently. ‘So tell me then.’

  ‘It's Taylor's dad,’ she says simply, her eyes fixed on mine. ‘Lee Harding… he's coming round here tonight.’

  almost gold

  After last night, Mel tells me, after they'd got me drunk and Taylor had tried (and failed) to get me to tell her about Dad's money (or maybe I should say Lee Harding's money?), and after I'd passed out and Taylor had had another look round the house and not found any obvious hiding places… after all that, on their way home, Mel tells me, Taylor had told her that she was going to tell her dad about me.

  ‘I tried to persuade her not to,’ Mel says, ‘but she'd already made up her mind. The way she saw it, her dad was going to find out where you live sooner or later anyway, and Taylor reckoned that if he found out from her, she might still be in line for a cut of the cash.’

  ‘So she told him?’

  ‘Yeah. I rang her this morning. She said she told him last night. She told him everything. You know, about us coming round here and checking you out, about your mum being drunk all the time, about all the expensive stuff you've got…’ Mel looks at me. ‘He's coming round tonight, Dawn. From what Taylor told me, he thinks you've either got the money somewhere here, or you're still in touch with your dad. He's coming round here to find out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About seven thirty, Taylor reckons.’

  I look at the clock (17:11).

  ‘I'm sorry,’ Mel says. ‘If I'd known –’

  ‘Do you think he'll come on his own?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don't know… probably. I mean, he knows there's only you and your mum here, so it's not like he needs any protection or anything. And, like I said, he likes to deal with this kind of stuff personally.’ She looks at me, her eyes deadly serious. ‘He's not a nice guy, Dawn. He's not nice at all.’

  I'm trying to think about things now. I'm trying to think about what it all means and what's going to happen and what, if anything, I can do about it… but it's all so ridiculous, so ludicrous, so head-spinningly unreal… it's impossible to even begin thinking about it. All I can think about right now is – how the hell did I get from my world of nothing to this?

  Q. How do you get from a world of perfectly contented loser-ness, a world of Nothing Coats and dogs and snails and letters and songs and useless ideas about killing God… how do you get from there to here? How do you get to be sitting in your room on a rainy Thursday afternoon with a beautiful mystery-girl sitting on your bed telling you stuff that's too unreal to comprehend?

  A. I don't know.

  ‘Listen, Dawn,’ Mel says (and I look up from my stupid reverie to see her getting up off the bed and crossing the room towards me). ‘Are you OK?’ she asks, stopping in front of me.

  I smile at her. ‘Not really.’

  She puts her hand on my shoulder and she looks me in the eye and says, ‘Look, I know I'm probably the last person in the world you want any advice from, but if I were you… well, I wouldn't try to hide anything from Lee Harding. I mean, if you do know anything about the money, it might be best to just tell him.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Best for who?’ I ask, staring right back at her.

  She doesn't say anything for a moment, she just looks at me, and I know she knows that I'm suddenly beginning to doubt her seemingly good intentions. I don't want to doubt her, and I definitely don't like the idea that she's still playing games with me, but there's a part of me that can't help thinking that maybe all this apparent concern of hers – the confessions, the sharing, the stuff about liking me – maybe it's all just another way of getting me to tell her what she really wants to know: i.e. where's the money?

  She takes her hand off my shoulder and steps back, a look of disappointment in her eyes. ‘I'd better go,’ she says quietly.

  ‘You can't blame me for not trusting you,’ I tell her.

  She smiles at me. ‘I know… I don't blame you. I'm just trying to…’ She shakes her head and starts doing up her coat. ‘It doesn't matter. There's nothing I can say, is there? I can't make you believe me.’

  I watch her as she zips her coat. ‘You don't have to go.’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  I carry on watching her. ‘What about Taylor?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I don't know… I just…’

  I don't know what to say.

  Mel looks at me. ‘It's just how I cope, OK?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Taylor, being with her… being the way I am.’ She shrugs. ‘I mean, all this fucking hard-ass shit – it's the only way I know. It's what I have to do to be all right. Just like you have to do what you have to do to be all right. Taylor's just a part of it, that's all.’

  ‘Yeah, but you spend all your time with her. You must like her.’

  She laughs. ‘Liking's got nothing to do with it. She's either my friend or my enemy, that's all there is to it. And she's too much of a bitch to have as an enemy.’

  ‘The easiest way out…’ I mutter.

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  I smile at her. ‘So I don't suppose there's any chance of us being friends, is there? Even though you think I'm all right.’

  Mel grins. ‘No chance. I've got a reputation to keep up.’

  ‘But you do think I'm OK?’

  She moves closer to me. ‘Yeah… I said so, didn't I? I think you're OK.’

  ‘And you like me.’

  ‘Yeah… I like you.’

  ‘But when you see me at school, you still won't talk to me.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You're Dawn Bundy. If I start hanging around with you, I won't be Mel Monroe any more. I need to be what I am.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe –’

  ‘No maybes, Dawn,’ she says, putting her hand on my shoulder again. ‘It's not going to happen.’ As I look up at her, she puts her other hand on my other shoulder and leans in close to me. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘But that's just how it is.’

  And then she kisses me, perfectly, on the lips.

  And we look into each other's eyes for a moment.

  And Mel smiles.

  And that's it.

  ‘I have to go,’ she says, stepping back.

  I start to get up, my legs a little wobbly.

  ‘It's all right,’ she tells me. ‘I'll see myself out.’

  I pause, looking at her.

  ‘What's the matter?’ she smiles. ‘Don't you trust me?’

  I hesitate for a second – torn between wanting to see her out, but not wanting her to think that I don't trust her – and then I lower myself back into the chair.

  ‘Yeah,’ I tell her. ‘I trust you.’

  She smiles again. ‘OK… well, I'll see you…’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She opens the door. ‘And don't forget what I told you.’


  ‘I won't.’

  And with that, she's gone.

  I listen to her footsteps skipping lightly down the stairs. I hear her open the front door… a pause… (and I'm already lost now, lost in my head, lost in the memories of what just happened… the taste of her kiss… and the things I wish I could make never happen).

  I'm already lost.

  never saw it coming

  It's five thirty now. And if Mel was right about Lee Harding, that means there's only two hours to go before a seriously unpleasant man comes hammering at my front door.

  One hundred and twenty minutes.

  It's not a lot of time.

  And I know that I shouldn't be wasting it by lying here on my bed, still in my dressing gown, with my eyes closed and my dogs lying (on their backs) beside me and my iPod on full volume and my head full of music and words and memories of kisses and hymns and dead brothers and caves and vicars and fathers and mothers and daughters…

  No, I shouldn't be thinking about these things.

  But I am.

  Q. Why?

  A. Because I've already thought all there is to think about Lee Harding, and all I've come up with is a list full of can'ts:

  1) I can't call the police because they'll want to know why Lee Harding is coming round here, and I can't tell them about the money because it's drug money and Dad stole it.

  2) I can't get in touch with Dad because I don't where he is, or even if he's still alive. And even if I could get in touch with him…

  3) I can't think about that.

  4) I can't call Mum because she doesn't have a mobile phone.

  5) I can't just leave the house and hide away somewhere until Lee Harding has been and gone because:

  (a) he'll only come back again later

  and (b) Mum's going to be back soon (actually, she should be back already, but I'm not surprised that she's not. I expect she's stopped off in a pub on the way home for a drink or two, or three or four). But, anyway, she'll be back soon, and I can't leave her to deal with Lee Harding on her own.

  6) I can't do anything, can I? All I can do is lie here, lost in my music and memories, and wait for Mum to come home. And hope that she isn't too drunk. And then…? What's going to happen then? I don't know. We'll talk, I suppose. I'll tell her what Mel told me. And we'll try to work out what to do.

  Maybe we'll decide to give Lee Harding the money.

  Or not.

  Maybe we'll lie to him.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe we'll both be too scared to do anything.

  And he'll just shout at us.

  Or beat us up.

  Or worse…

  I don't know.

  All I can do right now is lie here, listening, and hope that nothing will happen.

  nine million rainy days (1)

  I'm half asleep when it happens. I'm still on my bed, still in my dressing gown (with my eyes still closed and my dogs still lying (on their backs) beside me and my iPod still playing), and I'm in that wonderful twilight place that bridges the world between sleep and non-sleep, the place where you can dream without dreaming and sense without knowing. Your senses are closed, your mind is in darkness. Your body is there and not there. You can hear without listening. You can hear the sounds inside your head and you can hear the sounds outside your head, and you don't know which is which. The sound of a thought becomes the sound of a song. The sound of a song becomes a picture of things you can't see. And the music in your head becomes whatever you want it to be.

  (nine million rainy days

  have swept across my eyes

  thinking of you

  and this room becomes a shrine

  thinking of you)

  Your life.

  (and the way you are)

  Your ghost.

  (sends the shivers to my head)

  And then something moves. And just for a moment you think

  (you're going to fall

  you're going to fall down dead)

  you're dreaming. You think (in your half-sleep) that the movement you felt is not a movement but a sound, or the feeling of a sound… but a split second later, when you feel it again, you know that you're wrong.

  You're not dreaming.

  You're awake now.

  Wide awake…

  And you're instinctively aware that the movement you felt was Jesus, that you were resting your hand on his body (feeling his dog-heart beating in time to the music) and that the first movement you felt must have been the sudden tensing of his muscles, and that the second movement you felt must have been when he jumped off the bed (with Mary) and started barking like mad at the bedroom door (ROWROWROWROWROWROWROW).

  Which they're both still doing now.

  Which means there's someone in the house.

  And now you're not just awake, you're hyper-awake, ripping out your earphones and sitting up straight and listening hard… breathing hard, listening hard… but all you can hear is the frenzied yapping of your dogs. And you know that they wouldn't be barking like that at your mum, so now you're glancing desperately at the clock, hoping (please) that it's not seven thirty yet…

  And it's not.

  It's five past six.

  So Lee Harding shouldn't be here yet… but then the dogs stop barking for a second, and you hear a muffled footstep on the stairs – a careful step, a creak, a pause – and time doesn't matter any more.

  You're petrified.

  Staring rigidly at the door.

  Your arms crossed tightly.

  Clutching your dressing gown to your chest.

  And… Jesus Christ.

  The door is opening.

  The door is opening.

  And the dogs have gone silent, backing away.

  And you've stopped breathing.

  This isn't real, it can't be…

  But it is.

  It's real.

  The door is open.

  And a man is standing there, looking at you.

  ‘Hello, Dawn,’ he says.

  nine million rainy days (2)

  I can see him, standing there in the doorway, his tattered figure haloed in the dusty light… I can see him. His washed-out eyes looking at me. His face unshaven, pale and drawn. His once-blond hair now raggedy brown, matted and darkened with rain…

  I can see him.

  My dad.

  I can't speak.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asks nervously.

  I can't speak.

  ‘Dawn?’ he says.

  ‘Dad…?’ I breathe.

  He smiles anxiously. ‘I'm sorry… I didn't mean to frighten you. I just…’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘The front door was open… I thought…’

  ‘Mel…’ I mutter.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing… a friend of mine was here, that's all. She must have left the door open when she went…’ I stare at him. ‘God, I can't believe it's you…’

  He shrugs. ‘It's me…’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We need to talk, Dawn,’ he says. ‘And there's not much time… do you think I could come in?’ He lowers his eyes. ‘It's all right if you don't want me to… I mean, I understand. I can stay here if you want… or if you want me to go –’

  ‘No, it's OK,’ I say quietly.

  He looks at me. ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod.

  As he steps cautiously into the room, Jesus and Mary (with equal caution) waddle up to him with their heads held low and their tails wagging warily. It's a tail-wag that says – are you really who we think you are?

  ‘Hello, dogs,’ Dad says to them.

  Their tails wag faster.

  Dad looks at me. ‘Is it all right if I sit over here?’ he asks, gesturing at my desk.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I'm not really sure how (or what) I'm feeling as I watch him move over to the desk and sit down. Empty, I suppose… I just feel empty. Blank. Too shocked to feel anything. And maybe that's for the best, because there's too muc
h I could be feeling right now – fear, anger, hatred, disgust… embarrassment, shame, despair, disbelief…

  (and all my time in hell

  is spent with you)

  It's all too much.

  Jesus and Mary have jumped back on the bed now, and Dad's sitting down at my desk. He looks so different to how I remember him. He looks old, worn out, beaten down. He looks dull – dull eyes, dull hair, dull clothes. He looks like a man who buys his clothes from the dull-old-man-clothes section in charity shops. He also looks unfamiliarly sober.

  He smiles tentatively at me. ‘You're still listening to The Jesus and Mary Chain then?’

  I look down at my iPod on the bed beside me. It's still playing, the tinny-sounding music still audible through the earphones.

  (i have ached for you

  i have nothing left to give

  for you to take)

  I don't want to talk about music.

  ‘Where have you been all this time, Dad?’ I ask him, my voice a lot colder than I mean it to be.

  He looks sadly at me. ‘I'm sorry, love… I didn't want it to be like this. I didn't want to just turn up out of the blue –’

  ‘Where have you been?’ I repeat.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nowhere really… I've got a little flat on the other side of town, across the river. You know the St Thomas estate?’

  ‘The big tower blocks?’

  He nods. ‘It's OK… a bit noisy sometimes, but you know…’ He glances distractedly around the room, then looks back at me. ‘I've got a job too,’ he says. ‘You know… a real job. Nine-to-five and all that… well, not quite nine-to-five.’ He grins, embarrassed. ‘I deliver furniture.’

  ‘Furniture?’

  ‘Yeah… it's not the most exciting –’

  ‘Farthings,’ I say suddenly. ‘Farthings Furniture… it's your van, isn't it? The blue one.’

  He doesn't say anything for a moment, he just lowers his eyes again and absentmindedly picks at his nails. And as I look at him, I realize that there's something else about him now that wasn't there before: a complete lack of vitality. He has no energy. No zest. No life. I mean, before, when he was still My Dad, he'd never sit as lifelessly as he's sitting now. No matter how drunk or stoned or whatever he was, he'd be fidgeting all the time, constantly changing position, his eyes never still. But now… well, now he's just sitting there, all hunched up, almost motionless. Like there's nothing left of him. Or nothing left for him.