by Olivia Levez
‘That’s rich. That’s rich, coming from you. I’ve never known such an obstinate, wilful, intractable cow in my life. You’re pig-headed –’
‘Me, pig-headed?’
‘Reckless.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Impetuous.’
‘Why do you always sound as if you’ve swallowed a dictionary?’
‘Cow-bag.’
‘Wanker.’
We’re spitting words into each other’s faces. His blue eyes are splinters and it’s like the island’s holding its breath, listening to us.
Rufus looks down at his hands, which are empty.
‘And now you’ve made me drop the sodding spear.’
We both look at the spear, which is drifting away from us, peacefully. Every so often it rolls, as if it’s basking in the waves.
‘I’ll get it.’
I dive under before he can stop me and I follow its shape, letting the sea absorb me into its wavering world.
I try my best, I really do. But it’s kind of hard to seethe underwater.
Rufus ignores me when I get out of the water.
He’s busy gutting the fish and doesn’t look up.
Whatever.
I place the spear next to the other one and wonder whether I should go back to camp alone, but I’m not actually sure which path we took; there are several possibilities and I don’t want to ask him.
Instead, I wander down to the end of the beach and potter round the rock pools. The sea sparkles teasingly and I wish, I wish I could get a boat and sail out, right to the horizon.
There are birds here, picking their way about the rock pools on long, red legs. They make a high piping sound and I know they’re oystercatchers; I’ve seen stuffed ones in the Horniman Museum.
The real thing’s better though. I sit watching them, trailing my hand through the palm shadows on the sand.
‘Ready?’
You forgot Cow-bag.
I get up and follow him, arms folded.
Follow the shadow of his headdress, which moves across the sand in long, flickering lines. Rufus is holding his flip-flops. His feet march purposefully along the edge of the sea.
OhmyGod. No.
‘Stop,’ I cry.
He freezes. ‘What now?’
‘Do. Not. Move.’
I’m running now, heart flipping.
‘What is it?’
‘Stay there.’
He’s frowning; thinks I’m playing another one of my tricks.
I shake my head; can’t breathe. Make him look down at where I’m pointing.
At the monster in the sand.
Will It Get Us?
I know it’s a monster ’cause me and Johnny used to scare each other about it in the Horniman Aquarium. One puncture from one of those spines and you’ll never see tomorrow.
‘Go on, dare you.’
‘No. You do it, Frannie.’
‘I think the glass is cracked just there.’
‘Will the poison come out and get us?’
‘Yikes, I don’t know. Shall I test it and see?’
‘Yes, yes. Go on, Frannie.’
Huffing his breath against the glass as I place my finger against the crack and pretend to die.
‘Hahaha. Again, again.’
Swapsies
‘Stonefish,’ I pant.
We both look down at where I’m pointing.
Spines like barbs and big as a lobster, it’s knuckling into the wet sand, trying not to be seen.
Rufus leaps back, breath hissing.
‘Christ. Bloody hell.’
‘I know,’ I say.
We both peer down at it and Rufus prods it with his spear.
I shiver.
‘Well, thanks for, um, telling me.’
‘Better put your flip-flops on,’ I say.
He nods, white between his freckles.
We walk back together, both inspecting the sand as we go.
The fish smells good.
Rufus does it a different way from me, placing the fillet on a flat stone in the coolest part of the fire. I don’t care how it’s cooked so long as I get to eat some of it.
My stomach growls.
Rufus clears his throat. ‘Listen, about what you did today…’
‘Let’s forget it,’ I say. I’m busy chopping limes. It’s a relief to be using a properly made knife after my tin-lid one. I’m not so worried about losing my thumb.
‘No. I never thanked you properly.’ He coughs. ‘I mean, you probably saved my life.’
Well, I did save your life. No ‘probably’ about it.
‘Just forget it.’
The cooking fish hisses as Rufus talks.
‘It was my father who made me scared of heights. I was at boarding school…’
He’s attacking an onion with the machete and I worry he’ll have his hand off if he doesn’t watch what he’s doing.
‘Here – give me that,’ I say.
His hand is trembling. I make him swap so he has the smaller knife.
‘I was seven or eight – I hadn’t been at Gordonstoun long – and the masters took us to North Wales on an outdoor expedition course. We had to do orienteering and part of the route was up Mount Snowdon.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I say.
‘As a treat for being the first ones to finish, we got to use the zip wire. I was last up and as I stood there, looking over the valley, I knew I couldn’t do it.’
‘Why not?’ I ask. I chop a chilli into tiny pieces, sucking in my breath as the fire goes straight into the cuts and sores I always seem to have on my fingers.
‘It was like my father all over again, when he used to make me do the monkey ropes –’
‘The monkey ropes? Jesus, were you brought up in a zoo or something? Didn’t you ever, like, just sit down and watch a bit of telly?’
I think of the days and days doing just that with Cassie.
Rufus ignores me. He’s gazing across his melon patch with a tortured look on his face. I take the knife off him.
‘“Higher, boy, higher,” he’d shout at me. “I’m not having a boy of mine acting like some sort of nancy boy.”’
Nancy boy?
For a moment it’s like Rufus is seven years old again. I see the gangly kid he must have been, shivering as his father forced him up the tree or whatever the hell it was.
‘And the harness,’ he blurts out. ‘It was so tight. I could hardly move my legs to climb, it was so hitched up.’
I look up at him. ‘So not only did you get shoved up a pole, you also had a massive wedgie?’
He blinks at me. ‘I’m sorry?’
I pass him the chilli and limes. ‘Never mind. At least your mum wasn’t a dodgy old prossie.’
That makes him blush.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I suppose my problems must seem rather petty compared to what you had to put up with.’
‘I think the fish is done,’ I say.
The fish is incredible.
Every single, limey, chillified, soft, flaky mouthful of deliciousness.
‘Unctuous,’ Rufus says.
‘Definitely,’ I agree. I have no idea what he’s on about.
Pause.
‘So…swapsies?’ he says.
‘You what?’
‘Swapsies. Now I’ve told you one of my stories about how messed up I am, you could tell me one of yours?’
I stare at him.
‘I mean, all I know is that you live with your mum and her boyfriend…’ His voice trails off.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
I put my tin down and get up to stoke the fire.
Loan Shark
‘So what made you want to burn your school down? Didnae like it there or what?’
The Scottish policewoman has brought me a cup of tea. Her name is Christine, but she says to call her Chrissie.
‘She’s landed herself in a bit of a mess, this one,’ she tells Wayne. ‘She’s not talking to m
e. I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet, what she’s done.’
Wayne shakes his head. ‘I’m shocked – we all are. Don’t know how I’m going to tell her mum. This one’s always been difficult. You know what teenage girls are like.’
His hand’s gripping my shoulder. I can feel his thumb pressing and rubbing.
‘What will happen to her?’ he says.
Chrissie-the-police-officer looks serious. ‘There’ll be a court hearing of course and, it being an arson attack, there’s a serious chance of Frances being taken to a Young Offenders Institution. But it’s her first offence, so…’ She shrugs and Wayne makes a face.
‘What a mess,’ he sighs, and Chrissie nods. I stare at the desk. There’s a lipstick mark on Chrissie’s mug. There’s a plate with plastic packets of biscuits. They start talking about what action the school’s taking; when the court hearing will be.
I still smell of smoke.
I wonder if Miss does too.
The police officer told me that Miss is in a coma. That she suffered burns, and did I know what that meant? How did I feel about what I’d done? The policewoman is nice, but her eyes tell me that she’s shocked. She’d be appalled to have a daughter like me.
‘Well, I think that’s all the paperwork done,’ she says.
Wayne looks at her.
‘Anaïs Anaïs, am I right?’
She stares.
‘Sorry, sorry. It’s a habit.’ He smiles. ‘It’s just that my old mum used to wear it. Reminds me of her, that’s all. My favourite perfume.’ Wayne sighs. ‘What are you like, eh?’ he asks me.
He turns back to the policewoman. Thrusts out his hand. ‘Thanks for everything, Chrissie. I’d best be getting this one home now.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Teenage girls.’
Christine-who-likes-to-be-called-Chrissie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
She’s still looking after him as we leave.
And now we’re in the car and the traffic’s slowing down.
I’ve still got the biscuits the police officer gave me: a little plastic packet of bourbons. I hate bourbons; they always taste dusty and nothing at all like chocolate.
‘Haven’t said anything to your mum,’ Wayne is saying. ‘She’s got enough on her plate. So I’ve had to borrow the money for your bail.’
He presses the horn and swears at the car in front. He reaches over and takes his time pulling a load of home-made CDs out of the glove compartment.
I concentrate on pulling the plastic biscuit packet into tiny strips and ignore him.
Wayne’s found his CD, one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel. The other’s trying to shove the rest of the cases back.
I edge as close as I can to the window.
A voice starts crooning about stars shining. Wayne’s put his own record on. It’s from the time he got through to the second stage of Sing Your Heart Out, when he thought he’d make it big. Even Cassie stayed awake long enough to watch him perform in front of the live audience. The real Wayne sings along to his gravelly voice, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Thinks he sounds like Frank Sinatra, but he doesn’t; Sinatra’s voice is smooth as velvet.
‘Want to know who sang that? That’s The Mamas And The Papas, that is.’
Well, and the rest, I think. I close my eyes and try to smother Wayne’s voice with Ella and Louis Armstrong’s version. It’s not working.
‘And now me. It’s gonna be my debut single. When they sign me up.’
Yeah right.
The car shakes as Wayne reaches round to the back seat. I dig my nails into my hands; I wish he’d keep his eyes on the road.
‘Crisps?’
I shake my head; listen to him opening a bag with his teeth.
He’s crunchcrunchcrunching, wagging his head in time to his own voice singing about lingering till dawn.
My nails dig.
The lights change to red.
He’s leaning towards me now, voice breathing out a waft of cheese ’n’ onion crisps.
We’re stationary now.
‘So, thought about what I said before?’
Not this again.
‘You’d be a great backing singer, love. Get you in a nice little dress up on that stage. Just you an’ your Uncle Wayne.’
I turn away from him and stare at a sticker on the dashboard. Elvis is King. Long live the King, it says.
‘Most girls would give their right arm for an opportunity like that. I’d buy you some nice clothes, make you look pretty. You oughta be more grateful to me.’
There’s knives as well as gravel in Wayne’s voice now.
‘After all I’ve done for you and your brother: housing you, keeping your mother in work, putting food on the table. You owe me.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ I say.
Wayne moves closer, his cheesy breath damping my cheek.
‘You just need to be a bit nicer. Smile more. You’re lucky to have me looking after things. I just need a bit of appreciation, that’s all. It’s not everyone who’d have you back after what you’ve done, is it?’
When I recoil, he laughs.
‘All right, all right, I get the message. Think I’m interested in a little freak like you? Your mother shoulda got rid of you long ago. What are you? An arsonist what burns her school down, makes her teacher all disfigured. What if she dies? Have you thought of that? They’ll put you away, lock you up for life. You better be nice to your mother and me – you’re lucky to have a nice home like this, a monster like you.’
Wayne’s on a roll.
I close my eyes. Try so hard to freeze but it’s not working.
‘Know what that policewoman told me? That she’s lucky to be alive, your English teacher. Got her face half-melted away. Your little brother’s lucky to be rid of you. He’s better off without you.’
Don’t tell me things I already know.
Wayne leans closer, eyes bright. ‘They won’t let you be alone with him, not someone who’s done the things you’ve done. You’re a danger – nearly killed a kid, didn’t you? Think they’ll let you see him unsupervised? Not on your nelly.’
I stare at the dashboard; try and melt it.
Wayne snorts and turns the CD player up. There’s a break in the traffic and he throttles up, swerving into a gap in the outside lane.
I listen to him crooning about dreams all the way back to the flat.
At least his hand’s back on the steering wheel.
Wayne’s World
I brush crisp crumbs off my leg and follow Wayne up the steps to the flat.
‘Come on, then. Come see your mother,’ he’s saying.
We pass the landing where I can get up on to the roof and I wish I was there; wish I was on my mattress with my earphones on.
Wayne unlocks the door.
‘Here she is,’ he says. ‘Here’s your little darlin’.’
Seems like Cassie’s been on the skunk all day; the room reeks of it: sort of stale garlic mixed with cut grass. When she sees me, she rises up from the depths of the settee like a terrible fish.
‘Baby,’ she says.
‘I’ve found her. I found the dirty little stop-out,’ Wayne says. He smiles at me. ‘Go and hug your mum, love. She’s been worried sick.’
Cassie smells unwashed. She pulls me into her pain and she’s soft and smells of need and hurt and no hope and pathetic, pathetic, she’s pathetic, she’s –
I wrench myself away. Can’t bear her clammy hands squeezing sohardsohard like it’s going to bring me back. Like hugging’s going to make it all better.
Cassie sways a moment, all bleary and bloated. Her confused eyes are killing me.
She sinks back down on the settee and Wayne goes and stands by her; caresses her shoulder.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ I say.
Cassie reaches for him and leans her head against his chest.
I push past them into the kitchen.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I can hear Wayne fussing ove
r Cassie.
‘No, no, don’t you get up, love. I’ll tell you later what she’s been up to. Let me deal with her, don’t you worry. Let me light us both a little rollie – there you go. That’s right. That’s better, isn’t it.’
I’m removing plates out of the sink, trying to find a mug, when I’m aware he’s standing behind me. I can smell the smoke from his fag.
‘You shouldn’t treat your mum like that.’
‘Like what?’ I say.
‘It’s not fair, not after what you’ve done.’
I rinse out the mug with cold water.
Wayne doesn’t move away. Just stands there, smoking.
‘Got a nerve, you have.’
I take my time with the mug.
‘What?’ I say.
The kettle steam is misting the window. I reach over to open it.
‘Coming in here, bold as brass, making coffee.’
‘It’s my home. I live here.’
I squeeze past him and get the coffee. Spoon it into the pot.
‘Coffee?’
‘I don’t think so, love.’
He reaches on top of the fridge for a six-pack.
‘I haven’t told your mother about you being held in custody. But I won’t be able to bail you out next time, sweetheart. You’ll be lucky if you get only two years for what you’ve done.’
I watch his fingers snap a couple of cans out of the plastic.
‘What you looking like that for? She needs a drink. We all do, after what you put us through. It’s no wonder your mother’s the way she is.’
The coffee’s bubbling. I take a spoon.
Wayne leans up close so I’m looking straight into his eyes, black and too-small in his smiling face.
‘You need to start toeing the line, darlin’.’
Cassie bleats from her nest.
‘Wayne?’
‘Coming, love,’ he says. He takes a family pack of crisps and a bag of doughnuts from the worktop. ‘Look what your Waynie’s got for you.’
At the door he stops and turns to me.
‘Try and be nice, love. Remember you owe your Uncle Wayne.’
He winks and the smoke from his cigarette rises high like a spiral.
Truce
‘Sorry,’ says Rufus. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ I say.