by Alex Shearer
Nothing. Nothing had changed. Nothing except that it was tidy now. So tidy you’d know immediately that nobody could possibly have lived there. It was people-are-coming-to-visit tidy, we’re-trying-to-sell-the-house tidy. It was your mother’s dream of tidy, just like she was always nagging you to keep it.
My clothes had all been put away, they were hanging in the wardrobe and folded up in the drawers. My magazines and comics were neatly stacked in a pile under the chair. All my books and annuals had been put away in the bookcase, all in order, from big to small, all the right way up, and all with their spines facing outwards so that you could read the titles and the authors’ names.
My bed was made. My War Hammer pieces were all in their box. My pens were in the jar. My football posters were still on the wall, only the peeling edges had been stuck back up with fresh blobs of Blu-Tack. Yes, it was all there – apart from me. It was like a car without a driver, I thought, like an aeroplane without a pilot. What use was a room with nobody in it?
I didn’t stay long. I wouldn’t let myself remember everything that had once been me and which had once been mine. I tried not to think of all the good days and the happy times I’d spent in my room. Sometimes I maybe had a friend there, and we were making a model, or playing a game, or just talking. Most of the time I was on my own there. But that was OK. That’s what your own room’s supposed to be – a place to be alone in when you want to be, or need to be. But I didn’t want to be there on my own just then, so I walked back out through the door and straight into—
Alt!
I know, it’s an odd name for a cat – and that’s the abbreviated version. His real name was Alternative, but as that was a bit of a mouthful, we called him Alt for short. It was my dad who thought the name up. Eggy and me had been arguing for ages over what to call this kitten and Dad got so fed up with all the shouting and disagreeing and the stupid suggestions that he looked up from the computer where he’d been tapping away at something and he shouted, ‘OK! That’s it! We’re going to call him Alternative! And no more arguing!’
And that was that.
I expect he must have got the idea from the computer keyboard. He probably just looked down at it, saw the Alt key and that was it – Alternative.
So it was an odd name, but it stuck. And it could have been worse. He might have called the cat Numerical, or Page Up or Scroll Lock or System Requirements or Caps Lock or Delete or something. But that was how it all came about.
Anyway, I walked out through my bedroom wall to find myself face to face with Alt – well, not face to face exactly, but shin to whiskers anyway. I hadn’t expected to find him there and for a second I froze. But that was nothing as to what he did. He didn’t just freeze, he turned to ice. He went rigid, and as he did so all his fur stood on end, just like he’d been plugged into the mains. And I thought about the electric chair in America, and wondered if maybe they had an electric cat basket as well, to put an end to vicious cats who’d been terrorizing society.
‘Hello, Alt,’ I said. ‘Have you missed me?’
I bent down to stroke his fur and to maybe try and calm him a little. I knew I wouldn’t be able to really stroke him, but the memory of stroking him was still vivid enough in my mind for it to be almost like the real thing.
But as I crouched down and reached out to touch him, his fur bristled up even higher, and his back arched so much that he almost turned into a black and white question mark.
‘It’s OK, Alt,’ I said. ‘It’s only me. How are you? Don’t be afraid. It’s just Harry.’
His fur was standing up so much now and looking so brittle and spiky that he almost seemed like a scrubbing brush.
‘It’s OK, Alt, it’s Harry,’ I said. ‘I’m just dead at the moment, that’s all, good cat . . .’
I directed these comforting words at him, but they didn’t seem to calm him down. I thought they might do because he was obviously a sensitive cat. After all, for the whole day I’d stood right next to people I used to know – even sat on them in some cases, even held their hands, like I did with Dad, or hugged and cuddled them like I did with Mum – and yet not one of them had realized that I was there, or had any inkling at all.
But Alt did. Mind you, I’d heard that about animals, plenty of times, that they have some kind of sixth sense. And people say that they often know in advance when storms and earthquakes are about to arrive, even when the earthquake could be hours away and the storms yet to blow up.
‘Come on, Alt,’ I said. ‘Come on, it’s only Harry, it’s only me.’
I reached out for him. I saw that his claws were unsheathed. His teeth were bared too, just like he was a little lion out to kill a little zebra.
‘Alt, come on – it’s Harry.’
He began to hiss, sounding something like a leaking water pipe. I decided that it might be best to leave him alone and I started to back off, but maybe I moved away too quickly because he suddenly let out the most blood-curdling, stomach-churning, eardrum-shattering screech you’ve ever heard. He all but cracked every mirror in the house. And then, not content with doing it once, he went and did the same thing again.
‘Meowoooooooooeeeee!’
It was awful.
I’d heard him sometimes out in the garden at night, when he’d meet up with another cat and they’d get a duet going, but that was nothing compared to this. I mean, sometimes my dad would even come into my room to borrow my water pistol, my one-hundred-feet-range Super Soaker, and he’d fill it up with water and take pot shots from the bathroom window at Alt and whoever else was in the choir. And my mum would be saying to him, ‘You shouldn’t do that, it’s cruelty to animals,’ and he’d say, ‘What about them and the noise they’re making? It’s cruelty to eardrums.’ And then he’d add, ‘Besides, it’s only water. A drop of water never hurt anyone.’ And then he’d take aim with the Super Soaker and – splatt!
End of performance.
But that was nothing compared to this. This was like a hundred babies all crying at once while seven hundred sirens went off and while two thousand teachers dragged twenty thousand fingernails down four thousand blackboards.
It was awful.
Eggy’s door burst open.
‘Alt! What are you doing? Why are you making that horrible noise!’
Then Mum and Dad came out of the kitchen and looked up the stairs.
‘Eggy! What’s going on? What’s wrong with that cat?’
So there’s them, all looking at Alt, and there’s Alt howling and staring at me, looking like he’s about to spring up at any moment and get me by the throat. And I somehow felt like I’d gone and got myself into trouble again. And all I could think to do was to sort of wave feebly at everyone and say, ‘Hello, Mum, hello, Dad, hello, Eggy. It’s only me.’
Alt backed into a corner and looked ready to fight to the last clump of fur. Dad came up the stairs to see to him.
‘Come on, Alt, what’s the matter, old fellow? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
And he wasn’t far wrong there either. Dad reached out to try and calm him, but Alt just swatted at his hand with his paw full of open claws.
‘Ow!’
Dad looked down at his fingers. There were four weals along the length of his hand, and one of them was already bleeding.
‘You’ll need to wash that,’ Mum said.
‘I know!’ Dad snapped at her.
‘And disinfect it.’
‘I know,’ he said, and he went into the bathroom to run the wound under the tap. Then he got an antiseptic wipe and cleaned the scratches with it, and he cursed a bit as it stung, then he wrapped his hand up in toilet paper while Mum found him a plaster.
‘Have you had a tetanus injection recently?’ she asked him.
‘Yes!’ he said, still a bit snappy.
‘What about rabies?’ Mum said.
‘Rabies! How can he have rabies?’
‘Well, you know,’ Mum said, ‘mad cat disease or something.’
�
��Mad cat disease?’
‘From eating infected pet food or something.’
‘He can’t have mad cat disease,’ Dad said. ‘There’s no such thing as mad cat disease – is there?’ he added, a bit uncertainly.
They both turned and looked at Alt then, who was still making his last stand in the corner, ready to fight everyone and everything to the death.
‘He certainly looks a bit crackers,’ Mum said.
‘Maybe he’s had a breakdown?’ Eggy suggested. She was standing in the doorway of her room, giving Alt plenty of space and not wanting to get too near to him and frighten him even more.
Dad looked at Eggy.
‘Breakdown?’ he said. ‘The cat’s having a breakdown? If anyone’s having a breakdown round here, I am. I’m having a breakdown, that’s who’s cracking up – me. Never mind the cat!’
And just after he said that, and just as I went to pat him on the back and say, ‘Take it easy, Dad, it can’t be that bad,’ Alt must have seen me move, because he let out another of his terrible wails. And if we’d thought the other ones were bad, well, this was even worse. This was the wail to end all wails. And I wasn’t just worried about him cracking the mirrors now, I thought he might well go and crack all the bricks too, and the whole house would fall down. And I felt that maybe I should never have come back to see them all then, that I was the cause of this, and I was just bringing them trouble.
The dead and the living don’t mix, I thought. They just don’t have anything in common any more. We’d had a parting of the ways, only instead of keeping going, I’d come back to retrace my steps. And maybe I shouldn’t have done it. And I wouldn’t have either. If it hadn’t been for the unfinished business.
It was Eggy who came to the rescue.
‘You know, Dad,’ she said, ‘I think that if you gave Alt a clear run out, he’d be OK. He’s cornered in there and can’t see any way of escaping from whatever it is. He just needs some space.’
‘Yes, but what’s “whatever it is”, Tina? Why’s he gone like this?’
‘Oh, you know cats, Dad. They have funny turns all the time. Just go back down the stairs and open the door for him and he’ll be OK.’
‘OK. Come on,’ Mum said, ‘let’s try it.’
So they went down the stairs and they opened the front door, and then they backed away from the door so that there was nothing to block his exit, and Eggy looked at Alt, and she pointed at the open door, and she said, ‘OK, Alty. It’s clear now. Off you go.’
I’d like to say he didn’t need asking twice, but he did. He needed asking several times, but he still wouldn’t move.
I realized then that it was because I was standing in his way, and to get down the stairs, he first had to run through me, which he plainly didn’t want to do. So I stood to one side, to give him a clear way, and I waved my hand to beckon him on and said, ‘OK, Alt. There you go.’
And that did it.
There was one more of those awful wails, which must have curdled all the milk in the fridge – if not all the milk in the local supermarket, and that was over a mile away – and then Alt was off, just like he was in the Olympics and the starting pistol had been fired. And there he was, going for gold, all the way down the stairs and straight out of the front door. Then he was off across the gardens and soon out of sight, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d ended up in Australia.
‘Oh well, he’ll be back,’ Dad said, his head poking out of the door. ‘He’ll be back sooner or later, I dare say.’
And he closed the front door, and went back to the kitchen.
Mum hesitated a moment and glanced up the stairs to where Eggy was looking down. Their eyes met, and they both seemed to be saying something without actually needing to say anything, as if looks spoke volumes, just like poets and pop songs say they do.
‘You all right, Tina?’
‘I’m OK, Mum. Are you OK?’
‘I’m all right. Tea’ll be ready soon. I’ll call you.’
‘OK, Mum.’
‘OK.’
And they gave each other a pale, wan kind of smile, and Mum headed for the kitchen and Eggy headed for her room, and I walked in right behind her, before she had the chance to close the door.
Of course, I could have walked in anyway. But the novelty of walking through walls and closed doors soon wears off, and you want to do things the ordinary way again and to be like everyone else. You don’t always want to be going through closed doors like you had to sneak in everywhere. Sometimes it’s nice to go in through an open one, and feel welcome.
Eggy
Eggy’s room was always tidy. Not like mine. My mum claimed it was because girls are just naturally tidy and boys aren’t. But I don’t think so. I’ve seen girls who were like walking bin bags. I’ve even seen some girls’ bedrooms that looked like a garbage truck had exploded in them.
Pete Salmas showed me his sister’s room once when I was round at his house on a sleep-over.
‘Come and see this, Harry,’ he’d said. ‘You’ve got to see it to believe it.’
Well, he was right about that. For a start you could hardly get the door open for all the junk. And when you finally did get your head round for a peek at the place, well, it was unbelievable. It was just like his sister had turned into a bag lady. There was stuff everywhere. Comics, papers, magazines, posters of the latest heart-throb with I love you messages written on them in lipstick. There were knickers on the floor and pairs of tights hanging out of drawers, looking like a load of cobwebs.
‘She won’t mind us looking, will she, Pete?’ I asked him. ‘I mean, she’s not in here, is she?’
And he just shrugged and said, ‘How would you know?’
And he was right about that. How would you know? She could have been in there even as we were sneaking a look inside, buried under a heap of old T-shirts, and no one would ever have been able to tell.
‘What about your mum, Pete?’ I said. ‘Doesn’t she get mad?’
‘Used to,’ he said. ‘All the time. But then she gave up. She said if Poppy—’ (that was his sister’s name) ‘—if Poppy couldn’t be bothered to keep her own room tidy at her age, then my mother certainly wasn’t going to do it for her any more. So that’s how it’s ended up – deadlock.’
The radio was murmuring away in the background. I never knew how Eggy could work with the radio always on. But she did. Even when she did her homework it was on and the music would still be playing. And sometimes my dad would come in and say, ‘How can you work with that racket? How can you concentrate? Doesn’t it distract you?’
And Eggy would say, ‘Dad, the only thing distracting me is you coming in and asking me why the radio isn’t distracting me. OK?’
And he’d go off then, and leave her to it. But he’d only come back a bit later and say the same thing all over again.
So the radio was softly murmuring, and I heard the DJ’s voice as he introduced the new number one. And you know, I hadn’t heard it before. Hadn’t even heard it – the new number one record in the charts. And once again I had the feeling that I was all in the past, and that the world was moving on without me.
Eggy went and sat down at her desk – well, it wasn’t really a desk, it was more what they call a bedroom vanity unit, but Eggy used it as a desk. She wasn’t that vain, really. Pretty (not that I ever said that to her) but not vain. That is, she didn’t spend her whole life looking at herself in the mirror, not like some people.
She had some photographs of me up on the wall. Some of them were years old, and she must have dug them out since I’d been dead, because I was sure they hadn’t been up there before.
She was working at some history essay. Her books were open on the vanity unit, and she had an A4 pad there and some pencils at the ready for making notes.
As I watched she sat back down on her chair, and she took up her history book. But much as she tried to read it, and much as she tried to concentrate, her eyes kept glancing up at those old p
hotographs. There were photographs of me on my own and photographs of the two of us together. There was also a photo of when Eggy was small and when I was only a baby – maybe I’d even just been born. And she was holding me, with Dad’s help, while Mum looked on, rather nervously, as if worried that Eggy might drop me on my head. (And maybe she even wanted to drop me on my head, just a bit.) Then there were later photos of her and me, both of us getting bigger and older. And she was always three years ahead of me, always my big sister, and I was always her pesky little brother, driving her nuts and getting on her nerves.
There were photographs of holidays, photographs of family occasions, photographs of Christmas and of birthdays, both hers and mine. There were photographs of cakes and conjurers and real little kiddy stuff that we had long since put behind us. There were photographs of all of us too, of me and Eggy and Mum and Dad, all standing there together, smiling at the new camera with the automatic timer.
There I was. And there we were. And nothing would ever bring us back or make us whole again.
I felt so sad again – but I wouldn’t give in to it. I was on a mission, like they say, and I had to see it through. I had to settle the unfinished business. I had to forgive and be forgiven. I couldn’t let Eggy go through the rest of her life remembering those last words she’d ever said to me, just before I stormed out to get run over by a truck.
‘You’ll be sorry one day when I’m dead!’ I’d said to her.
‘No I won’t be!’ she’d shouted after me. ‘I’ll be glad!’
And then I’d never come back.
‘Eggy,’ I said. ‘Eggy, it’s Harry. I’m here, right by you. Right here. But don’t be afraid. It’s OK, Eggy, I’m a ghost now, that’s all. But it’s OK, it’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m not going to haunt you for ever. I just came back to make it up with you, to say I’m sorry. Can you hear me, Eggy? Do you know I’m here?’
But she looked back down at her history book, and reached out and turned a page over, and she didn’t know that I was standing right behind her, so close that I could reach out and touch her.