The Nest

by Paul Jennings

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, looking at the icepick before me.

  ‘It’ll be useful if you get lost in the snow. You could use it to dig yourself a cave until help comes. And when you’re not using it I can borrow it when I have to go and rescue some idiot who’s broken down on a snowmobile.’

  He senses that I’m not jumping with joy over his present. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to customise it, you know,’ he says, his voice rising half an octave. ‘I’ve put that steel loop on the handle to attach a rope to in emergencies. You could lower yourself down a cliff if you were stuck. Or use it to climb back up out of a crevasse. I’ve sharpened the point to give it better grip. So don’t tell me I don’t care about you. Everything I do is for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  I run my thumb over the tip of the pointy end of the icepick. It’s like a needle. I shudder, and put it down. A snake strikes before I can run and I grimace as the image hits me. It only lasts for a split second but the knowledge that I’m a person who can let a hideous vision into my mind lingers like the ache of poison after the snake has struck.

  ‘I’ll hang it with the other tools,’ I say. I gingerly pick up the icepick by its pointy end.

  ‘Speaking of tools,’ he says, completely unaware of what I’ve just been going through, ‘we’ve got a lot of repairs today.’

  ‘It’s my birthday, Dad! Remember? You said I could have the day off.’

  ‘Damn it,’ he says. ‘Can’t you make it another day?’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s your birthday. Be selfish then. Off you go. Don’t worry about me. Enjoy yourself.’

  I leave the workshop while I’ve got the chance and try not to feel guilty about it.

  It’s a busy day on the slopes. We’ve had good falls of snow and now the weather is clear – just what the tourists love. Further down the hill, the parking bays are full of snow-covered cars and buses lined up like giant loaves of bread.

  It’s going to be hard to find Charlie amongst the crowds already spilling down the runs. I cross under the chairlift and search the slopes hoping to catch a glimpse of her. No luck. I glide down to the poma and see some tall black kids having fun on the learners’ slope. They are accompanied by a few adults – and Charlie, wearing her red parka. Some of the girls are laughing and falling over as they practise snowplough turns. Charlie leads one of the girls to the poma. The poles dangle down from the moving cable like long inverted bar stools and bounce up and down on their connecting springs as they clank their way uphill. Charlie’s girl moves slowly forward waiting her turn in the line. She watches as one by one the skiers put a poma pole between their legs and shove the dinner-plate disc behind their bum. It looks easy, just standing there letting yourself be pulled up the hill on a platter tow, but it isn’t.

  ‘Don’t sit down, Nadia,’ says Charlie.

  I know that Nadia’s going to sit down. Everyone does the first time. Sure enough Nadia grabs the pole, shoves it between her legs and puts all her weight onto the disc. The spring stretches and she drops onto her backside in the snow with a thump. For a frozen moment she just sits there then she desperately clings to the pole as the spring begins to stretch and she’s dragged along like a bundle of old rags. Finally she lets go and the whole thing snaps away from her with a clang. She rolls to one side and looks up, confused but unhurt. Everyone laughs, including me.

  Charlie sees me and turns away. She’s not going to talk to me, but she bends down and speaks to Nadia who takes off her skis and walks clumsily towards me in her ski boots. She gives a nervous smile with teeth that are whiter than the snow.

  ‘Thank you for bringing us here,’ she says shyly and without waiting for an answer she turns away. She takes a few steps then turns back. ‘Happy birthday.’

  I smile and watch her hurry over to the group. So Charlie has remembered it’s my birthday. She must still like me a bit. I begin to follow Nadia but Charlie shakes her head with a frown.

  It’s like a knife in my guts.

  Another week passes. My whole body and mind are tuned to Charlie. Something is missing and I can’t function properly. It’s as if someone has taken away one of my vital organs. I keep making mistakes in the workshop. I over-tightened three nuts on the studs of a cylinder head and stripped the threads. The old man was not amused because we didn’t have a stud puller and it took ages to get the ruined studs out. Then I dropped the spirit level and broke the glass in it. Of course I never heard the end of that.

  I constantly look out of the open workshop doors hoping I will see Charlie ski past. Every time I see a girl in a red parka my heart jumps.

  ‘Stop dreaming,’ says Dad. ‘Concentrate. Time is money.’

  I decide to write Charlie a letter – I have to end this torture. She might not read it, but at least I’ll have done all I can, and who knows, maybe one day she will, and then she’ll understand.

  I sit down at my computer and start tapping out my explanation. I write it out exactly the way it happened, making it clear that I’d already tried to put the wren out of its misery in the kindest way I could, and telling her how much I want to be her friend – which is putting it mildly but, hey, one step at a time.

  The next morning, which is Saturday, I put on my old leather jacket and trudge across the ski slope on legs that wobble with emotion. I knock on Charlie’s door and it’s answered by Russell.

  ‘Hi, Russell,’ I say. ‘Sorry to bother you but is Charlie in?’ I look over his shoulder in case she comes to see who’s at the door but the only thing that comes out is a delicious smell of hot bread from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, she’s home,’ he says. ‘But I’m sorry, Robin, she doesn’t want to see you.’

  ‘She’s been avoiding me for ages,’ I say. ‘Something happened and she misunderstood. Will you give her this letter, please?’

  He takes the envelope from me. ‘I don’t know what happened between you two, Robin, but I know Charlie. You’ll have to respect her wishes. I’ll give it to her, but if she throws it out unread you’ll just have to live with it.’

  ‘Thanks, Russell. See you.’ Suddenly I feel incredibly desolate, and for a moment I think about telling him everything. After all, he understands why it’s sometimes necessary to put animals down. But then I think maybe Charlie has told him about the way I ran off after dinner. They’re really close so she might have. I can’t lie to him and I can’t tell him why I ran either – no one must ever know. I nearly told Charlie.

  But I was saved by the bird.

  The Torch

  Ho, yuss, there be a tiger named Tiger in this story. In the forest. Of the night.

  Ho, yuss, there be a duck named Verity in this story. In the forest. Of the night.

  Ho, yuss, there be a man named Gordon in this story. In the forest. Of the night.

  I don’t know why I am talking like this. It just seems like the thing to do. Anyway, to get down to the tale, or maybe to the tail, it goes like this:

  A poor man lived in the jungle in a little hut. He had a major problem. He was so scared of the dark that he would never go out at night. Not only that, he would never – not ever – turn out the light. It was almost as if the darkness was acid rain that might fall down and smother him. The hut had but one door and no windows.

  Every night the man slept with the light on and kept the door tightly closed from dusk till dawn. Even when the moon was bright, he was too frightened to venture out in case it went behind a cloud. Without the moon he was dead.

  Ho, yuss.

  No woman would live with this man because he was afraid of the dark. So he dwelt with a white duck instead. Verity, the duck, waddled around in the hut as if she owned it. She sat on the chairs and did white poo. She sat on the table and did white poo. She sat on the bed and did white poo. She sat on the ceiling light and did white poo. The whole of the inside of the hut was covered in the stuff. It was dreadful. But it was not dark inside the hut. Everything was white
. Duck-poo white. It sparkled in the bright beam of the ceiling light.

  The man loved the duck. She was his friend, his mate, his life (but not his wife). Without the duck he would die of loneliness. The man knew that.

  Ho, yuss.

  Outside in the jungle the tiger roamed by day but not by night. Tiger was fearsome and terrible. He had yellow and black stripes and could not be seen in the dense foliage. When the tiger growled it was like the noise the bath makes when the plug is pulled, only a hundred times louder. If anyone were to see this tiger it would be the last thing they would see. He was a fearsome tiger.

  Oh, and I forgot to say:

  Ho, yuss, there be a Prince of Darkness in this story. He was scared of the dark too, but he loved to shine it on others.

  I am going to call him the POD because Prince of Darkness is too long a phrase to keep typing out. The man was terrified of the POD because of his fearsome torch.

  This torch worked in the day – yes, the day. In the full light of the sun it cast its darkness. Yes, darkness. It shone rays blacker than the blackest night. The POD could shine (if that’s the word) the torch across a sunlit field. A black, black beam would cut through the sparkling sunshine. Everything it fell upon would vanish into its shadow.

  One day as the man stood at his door looking through the forest clearing he saw the POD creep up behind Verity, the duck. Tiger was sitting on the branch of a low tree. Click. The POD switched on his terrible torch. The black beam engulfed the duck. She disappeared from sight.

  ‘Oh, no,’ cried the man. He wanted to rush out and save the duck but he was frightened that the deadly torch would be turned upon him. The POD chuckled and laughed in a wicked way. Then he switched off the torch. The poor duck sat there stunned. She was now a black duck. All her feathers were singed and burnt. She said, ‘Quack.’

  Ho, yuss.

  Next the POD crept up behind the tiger who was warming himself in the sun. Click. The POD switched on the black beam. The tiger was engulfed in darkness. The POD chuckled his evil chuckle and after he had finished with the chuckling he turned off his torch. The tiger’s black stripes were blacker than before. His yellow stripes were gone altogether. His whole coat was burnt and singed. The tiger was fearsome no more. He opened his mouth and made a very tiny bath-plug noise.

  Now the POD turned his attention to the shaking man who backed into the hut and slammed the door. The handle turned. The POD entered clutching his evil torch. The man eyed the open door and looked for his chance to escape. But the POD closed the door behind him and leant on it. There was no exit. The POD pointed the torch of darkness at the shaking man. His thumb moved towards the switch.

  Click.

  The room was cast into darkness. The whole room. The POD screamed. It was not his click. The man had beaten him to it. He had switched off the ceiling light. He had chosen to put himself into the darkness.

  There was another click and then another scream from the POD. His black beam could not shine in the darkness. He was now engulfed in his own nightmare.

  In the blackness the man saw many sights. Heard many sounds. Felt many feels. He froze and burnt and was blown in the wind. He plummeted to the depths. He soared to the heights. He crashed to the floor.

  Finally he crawled to the door of the hut and out into the blinding light of day. The POD, who for the first time had experienced his own black nightmare, staggered out and fled naked and smoking across the field.

  The duck and the tiger and the man watched him go.

  The tiger was now a black panther. He rather liked it. He stood on his hind legs and began to jig and jog. The duck flapped and cavorted with him. The man joined them and together they danced the day away.

  That next day the man cleaned out the duck poo. In the coming months he made a pond for the duck and found himself a wife. He was burnt and singed and totally bald for the rest of his life. But he was never frightened of the dark again.

  That is my tale. If you ask me what it means I will say nothing at all.

  I made it up.

  Ho, yuss.

  THE NEST

  3

  Some days nothing goes right from the time you get out of bed until the time you get back in again at night. I’m making toast for breakfast and a slice gets stuck in the toaster which I start trying to fish out with a knife.

  Dad snatches the knife from my hand. ‘Idiot,’ he hisses. ‘You haven’t even turned the power off.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He shakes his head, letting me know he really does think I’m hopeless. And I am.

  ‘Go clean the spark plug on that snowmobile Mountain Rescue brought in. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  ‘Where’s the spark-plug spanner?’ I ask when his tall frame casts its shadow through the workshop door.

  He looks at the rack and sees that it’s not in its place. ‘I told you to clean up. You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ he says, fishing the spanner out of his pocket and throwing it at me.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say.

  He suddenly notices the nest up on the wall just inside the door. ‘Didn’t I ask you to get rid of that bloody thing? The filthy birds will be back again come spring.’

  Swallows’ droppings run down the wall like food on a baby’s bib. I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to destroy the nest, not after what happened in the forest.

  ‘I forgot,’ I say.

  ‘Liar.’

  His face turns white and his anger grows like a snowball rolling down a hill. Little gobs of spit form a rim around his mouth. ‘Robin, every day I slave in this workshop. I’m father and mother. I get lonely, you know. I get tired, but I don’t forget about you. What about me? Why do you forget about me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind.’

  ‘Get rid of the bloody thing before tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Okay, I will.’ I go over to the snowmobile and disconnect the high-tension lead which I hold in my left hand.

  ‘Put your other hand on the spark plug,’ says Dad.

  I follow his orders automatically and he twists the starter key and turns over the engine. A million tiny jackhammers suddenly drill into every organ in my body. My teeth eat at each other and my jaw goes into a crazy dance. It’s like an army of dentists’ drills at work on every centimetre of bone and flesh. I’m under attack from within. It’s an implosion of blunt hailstones.

  He takes out the key and the pain stops as quickly as it began. I shake in the aftermath of the shock.

  ‘That’ll teach you to respect electricity,’ he says.

  On the bench is the icepick. Instantly I get an image of jabbing him with it right in the middle of his bald patch. A cerebral snake has bitten me. I have to run. I have to get out of here. I storm out of the workshop and rush to my room where I curl up into a ball on the bed. What Dad did was cruel but the image that flashed into my mind was something worse. I try to figure it out. I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t want the image. Causing pain is evil and I would never do it.

  Or would I? Is there something dark and terrible lurking inside me that isn’t in anyone else? Could I lose control and commit murder?

  I try to distract myself by pulling out the bottom drawer of my dressing-table and taking out my mother’s hairbrush. I slowly brush my hair with it. Some of my own black hair catches in the bristles and becomes entwined with the few red strands of hers. It’s a sign, but of what I don’t know. I start to feel better. I decide to go for a walk and see if the fresh air can clear my mind.

  The workshop is deserted. Dad’s nowhere around. I’m just by the door when I hear a voice. ‘Hi, Robin.’

  I look up. ‘Hi.’ It’s Verushka.

  She peers at me through those half-closed eyes. ‘Feel like a coffee?’ she says. ‘You look like you need one.’

  I’m still quivering a little but I manage to answer and sound relaxed. ‘Sure,’ I say, wondering what she really wants. ‘Come on in.’ />
  ‘Not here, dummy, let’s go to Candleglow.’

  Now I’m intrigued. ‘Okay, I’ll just clean up a bit.’

  I wash my hands in the old sink and take my jacket from the hook on the workshop door. Dad isn’t going to complain about my absence this time. It’s like when he threw Mum’s ring out: he knows he did wrong but he’ll never admit it, so he goes silent and gives off vibes that tell me quite clearly the incident can never be mentioned.

  Verushka and I walk slowly across the ski slope. I’ve never seen her skiing. She always walks everywhere even though she lives in a ski village. We get to the café and it’s pretty crowded but there are a few tables free. I drop into a seat.

  ‘Not there, dummy,’ says Verushka. ‘It’s noisy. The best tables are by the window. You can keep an eye on what’s going on.’

  We move to a table where we can see clear across the valley to the mountains beyond. The snow-capped peaks are like rows of sharks’ teeth.

  ‘I’ll get the coffees,’ I say.

  ‘A latte and a slice of mudcake,’ says Verushka.

  I make my way over to the counter and place our order. When I get back I see that she’s peeled off her parka to reveal a really low-cut top which I try hard not to stare at. I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the chair.

  ‘God, you’re ready for a new coat,’ she says, looking at the worn leather sleeves. ‘But then I guess you won’t have much money left for clothes after your big gesture.’

  I feel my face turning red. ‘Huh?’ I say, pretending not to understand.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I heard you’re not too popular with Charlie these days. What happened?’ She stares at me intently from beneath her long fringe.

  ‘Oh, it’s just one of those things,’ I say, trying to look casual about it. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘No I don’t, actually. The word is that she’s not speaking to you.’