Inside My Head

by Jim Carrington

  I watch my phone, wait for the reply. It doesn’t take long before it beeps.

  HE NICKED A TRACTOR OFF A FARM AND DROVE IT OFF, Z WAS WITH HIM. NAUGHTY NAUGHTY! BIG ROB’S GRANDDAD SAW THEM. HEE HEE.

  I put my phone down. I shake my head. I lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  .

  Zoë

  My phone rings.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  ‘Hello, Zoë, love. Where are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sitting on a wall, Mum, near the pier.’

  ‘Are you OK, love? You sound sad. Is Gary there with you?’

  I sigh. I look at the empty wall next to me. Gary isn’t there. He’s gone. I don’t know where. Maybe I won’t see him again. Maybe that’s it. I feel like a complete bitch. ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I say. ‘Just a bit tired. Can you come and get me?’

  ‘OK, love. We’ll be there in a sec. Stay where you are.’

  .

  The journey starts with a big hug and a lot of tears, mine and Mum’s. Then there are the questions. I give them a few answers. They don’t believe me. That much is obvious. But I don’t give everything away. I certainly don’t tell them about the tractor and the gate and the fact that Gary’s run away. I lie and tell them Gary’s mum picked him up. When the questions are finished, Dad gives me the lecture. About how irresponsible it was. How I’d worried my mother and let’s hope it hasn’t had an effect on the unborn baby. How I should let them know where I’m going. All that stuff. It’s silent for a bit, then. I stare out of the window. And everything goes rushing through my head again, all blurry like I’m standing in traffic, watching the headlights as the cars swerve around me.

  Every field we go past, I think it’s the one where we left the tractor. I keep looking for it, checking it’s there, seeing if anyone’s found it. But I think we must be going back a different way to the way Gary took us – the roads look much wider and busier. And I can’t see the tractor.

  .

  Gary

  I’ve been walking for a while now. There’s a little lane with a sign. Warston Beach 1/2 mile, it says. I walk down the lane. I might as well. I might as well go somewhere. Otherwise I’ll just keep walking.

  The lane’s really bendy. Seems to go on for ever. But after a few minutes there’s an empty car park and a little bit further on there’s some dunes. The beach must be on the other side of them. I walk straight past the car park and on to a little path that goes through the dunes. And straight away, I’m on to the beach. It’s huge. The beach stretches as far as I can see on either side. And the sand goes out miles before it gets to the sea.

  I sit down, look at the sea for a minute. But looking at the sea makes me think about everything all over again. About the pier. About Zoë. About what I did. I hide my head away, in my arms. Only as soon as I do that I get a waft of Zoë off her flaming jumper. Oh, Jesus! I’m such an idiot.

  I sit there, my head in my arms, and I just breathe. Try and concentrate on that instead of the other stuff. It’s what Nan used to tell me to do if I was feeling angry. It feels like I’m doing it for ages, hours. But it don’t really work, cos I’m still thinking all these thoughts. Every so often I convince myself that everything’s OK really, that I’m overreacting, that I should go home. But it don’t last long, cos then I think of me trying to kiss Zoë, or I think of the tractor, or Paul Knaggs, or my fucking mum and dad, or Henry’s bloody gate, or the fucking medal man. Everything. It’s all fucking wrong. I’ve messed it all up. There ain’t no point going home. Most likely I’ll get chucked out of school now I’ve hit Knaggs again. And now I’ve stolen a tractor, I’ll probably be in trouble with the plod as well. They’ll put me on a fucking ASBO or something. Give me a tag, so Paul Knaggs and all those bastards have got something else to take the mickey out of me for. So I ain’t going back.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do, though. I could just walk straight out into the sea. Start walking into the water, and when it starts coming up around my ankles, my knees, my shoulders, my nose, my eyes, I would just keep walking until I’m completely underwater. I can’t fucking swim, so I’d drown pretty bloody quick. Then that’d be it. No more problems. I wonder if it’d hurt when I ran out of oxygen, when the water started to flood into my mouth and my nose and my lungs.

  I should do it. They’d be sorry then, sorry they treated me like shit. Mum would, definitely. She’d cry. Serve her right as well. I dunno about Dad. I s’pose he’d be upset. But he’d probably be pretty relieved as well, to have me out of the way. As for all the dicks at school, as for Paul Knaggs, I hope he’d feel so bloody guilty he’d top himself. I mean it. I hope he’d have such a guilty conscience that he couldn’t live with it. I want him to know how it feels.

  I dunno about Zoë. Maybe she’d be upset to start with, maybe she’d even cry. But she’d forget soon enough. She’d make some new friends or find some other div like me to help. After a year she’d forget who I was. She’d definitely be better off without me around.

  .

  David

  I’m in bed. I should have been asleep ages ago. I was pretty tired earlier. But since Mum told me about Gary Wood, about his mum, well, now I can’t relax. And Knaggs texting didn’t help much, either. So I’m still awake. I don’t feel like I could go to sleep at all. I feel kind of wired. You know, when I was really little and I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie in bed and cry until someone came into my room. If it was Dad, he’d always joke that I must have a guilty conscience if I couldn’t sleep. This time he’d be right. Cos I just keep thinking about what Mum said. And Knaggs’s texts. I should have said something to Mum. I should have told her the truth.

  See, if Wood has run away from home, if he’s done anything mental at all, it’ll be my fault. Well, it’ll be Knaggs’s fault mostly. But I’ve just stood there like a pebblehead and let him do all this stuff to Wood. And I’m the one that keeps getting Knaggs off the hook. Like in the ICT room earlier. I should have done more. I should have stayed behind after the lesson and told Mr H what Knaggs had been up to. Stuff Knaggs. Stuff the rules.

  I pick my phone up off the desk, go to my inbox and reread Knaggs’s messages. I must’ve read them about 50 times already. Reading them again doesn’t help.

  I close my eyes and try to think of something else, something that’ll stop me from thinking about Knaggs and Wood and me, something that’ll get me to sleep. The first thing that pops into my brain is Zoë. I could think about me and Zoë being together, as unlikely as that sounds in real life. But it’s what I’ve been thinking about most nights lately, if you know what I mean. I don’t think it’s a good idea right now, though. I don’t think it’ll help me sleep. So I start thinking about football instead: Norwich City in the final of the cup, which is probably even less likely to happen than me and Zoë getting together. But it might stop me from thinking about some of the other stuff.

  .

  Gary

  It’s freezing. Absolutely bloody freezing. My watch says 23:45. I’m still on the beach. Been here for hours now. Getting angry. Going mad. Freezing my bollocks off. Trying to think of what to do next. Where to go.

  I’m feeling tired and I gotta find somewhere to sleep, somewhere a bit warmer than this stupid beach. I could walk back to East Strand, I s’pose. There are places in town I could sleep – shop doorways, beach huts and stuff. But I don’t know if I wanna do that. I couldn’t sleep in a doorway, with people going past, looking at me. I want somewhere a bit more private. I might be able to afford a shitty hotel or a B & B. I put my hand in my pocket, pull out my change and count it. £11.40 plus a few coppers. Won’t be enough to stay anywhere, not even a shitty B & B. So I’ll have to doss down.

  I get up and brush the sand off my trousers, look both ways along the beach. I can’t see anywhere that would be good for sleeping. I s’pose the other side of the dunes would be be
tter, a bit more sheltered than the beach. So I go back through the dunes, along the path and on to the little lane again.

  And I see the car park. There’s a little building there. Toilets. All locked up. But I could force the door open. It’d be warmer than out here anyway. I walk over to it. And as I get closer the smell hits me. Piss. That’s that. No way I’m going in there for the night. I’d rather freeze my arse off than have the smell of piss in my nose all night.

  So I start walking again, through the car park. And at the end of the car park, I find a path that leads off, along the bottom of the dunes. So I follow it. The path’s a bit overgrown with loads of thistles and stuff. But it’s quite sheltered, with the dunes on one side and a hedge on the other. And it’s warmer. I could sleep here, on the path, if the worst comes to the worst. Just tread the plants down a bit. But I keep walking, stepping on the thistles and the brambles and the nettles. Over the hedge I can see a field. There are cows in there, lying down at the other end. Guernseys. Dad slept with the cows sometimes, when he worked for Henry. Not in a weird way. If they was calving or something. Or if they was ill. He’d set up a bed in the calving sheds. But I’m not gonna sleep in the field with them ones, that’s for sure. So I keep walking.

  After a while there are gardens on the other side of the hedge instead of fields. And that gives me an idea. Cos some of the gardens have got little sheds in them and stuff. The first two aren’t big enough – I don’t reckon I’d fit in them lying down. So I keep going. There ain’t nothing in the next garden, just a kids’ swing. But in the one after that, there’s a boat. Quite a big boat, down at the end of the garden. I stop walking and look over the hedge. It’s easily big enough to fit me in. It’s got a cover over it as well. And there ain’t no lights on in the house. None. No one’s around. So I pull the hood of Zoë’s jumper over my head and then squeeze through the hedge.

  .

  It’s about one in the morning. I’m lying here, curled up in the bottom of the boat. Freezing. Uncomfortable. My mind’s been rushing since I’ve been here, about what’s happened, about what’s gonna happen if I go back, about what I’m gonna do if I don’t go back. But there’s one thing that keeps coming back. Every time my brain feels like it’s gonna explode with all the pressure, it comes into my head, like a little safety valve. I’ve thought about it before. Before tonight, I mean. About topping myself. I’ve thought about it a few times. But then I could never do it. I never went as far as, like, slitting my wrists or nothing. But I thought about it. I thought about how I’d do it.

  I know where I could get a gun. All I gotta do is go home and there’s one waiting there. Dad don’t use it no more, but he still keeps it. In the shed. It’s a shotgun. One pull on the trigger and it’s all over. I’ve thought about it a lot, lying here.

  I saw this programme the other week on the telly, about this American kid. One day he took a gun to school. He’d been planning it for ages. He got hold of the gun from some dodgy shop or something and bought a load of ammo. Then he just went into school and started shooting: BANG, BANG, BANG. I’ve been thinking about that as well.

  This American kid started off with all the kids he hated in school, all the ones that took the piss out of him and stuff. He lined them all up and then made them kneel down, made them beg for their lives, made them apologise for all the stuff they’d done. He even made them say some sick shit. Then he just shot them. BANG. Right in the middle of their foreheads, one after the other.

  He done the same to the teachers. Well, most of them. Made them get down on their knees an’ all. Made them beg. Shot them. BANG.

  After that he went mental, started shooting people at random. BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

  In the end he ran out of bullets, ended up in the library, holding a load of other kids as hostages, ones he didn’t really know. The police talked to him on a megaphone, tried to get him to let everyone go, started giving him some bullshit about how if he came out now it’d all be all right, they’d sort everything out. But he knew that was just a load of crap. Everything was messed up. Everyone’d messed him up and now he’d messed them up. And he knew he’d go to a prison for the rest of his life, getting even more shit. There was only one way that things was gonna get better. So he came running out of the school holding the gun, pretending like he was gonna shoot. Police shot him dead straight away.

  Like I said, I’ve thought of that too. And I know who I’d kill first. I know what I’d make them say. I know how I’d kill them. And I know how I’d finish it. I’d save the last bullet for myself. BANG.

  .

  David

  It’s now three in the morning. The house is completely silent. I don’t think I’ve slept at all. I’ve just been lying here, tossing and turning, trying not to think about stuff. But you know what it’s like, trying not to think about stuff – your brain rebels and thinks about it even more. Or at least mine does.

  I thought a change might help. So I got up a while back, poured a glass of milk and switched on the telly, started watching a repeat of an old American sitcom. I only watched it for about five minutes, though. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t concentrate. All I want to do is sleep, just blank everything out. I don’t want to be lying here, thinking, feeling.

  So I get up again and walk out of my bedroom. The landing’s dark, but underneath Ollie’s door I can see a crack of light. He’s still up. And I can smell what he’s doing. I knock on his door gently, so as not to wake Mum and Dad.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘It’s me – David.’

  After a few seconds the door swings open. The smell of spliff gets stronger. Ollie takes his spliff out of an ashtray, leans out of the window and takes a long drag.

  ‘Why you still awake?’ he says.

  ‘Can’t sleep.’

  ‘Come and have a drag of this,’ he says, holding out his spliff.

  I shake my head. I can just imagine what Mum and Dad would do if they caught me smoking a spliff. They’d go absolutely mad. Like they did when they first caught Ollie. I go and sit down on his bed, though.

  ‘Might help you relax . . .’ he says.

  I shake my head again.

  Ollie shrugs and takes another drag. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says, after blowing the smoke out.

  We sit there without speaking for a bit. There’s some music playing really quietly. Some old, weird-sounding music.

  ‘So, how come you can’t sleep, then, Davey?’ Ollie says.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘Just can’t. Can’t stop thinking about stuff.’

  Ollie nods his head slowly. ‘Thinking about what?’ he says.

  I look down at the carpet. ‘Nothing important,’ I say.

  ‘You know what I do if I can’t sleep?’ Ollie says.

  I look up again. I shake my head. ‘What?’

  ‘Mum’s got some sleeping pills in the bathroom,’ he says. ‘Couple of them’ll knock you out, no problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ollie nods. He picks up the spliff and carefully knocks the ash off the top of it.

  ‘It’s not dangerous, is it?’ I say.

  Ollie takes another drag. He shakes his head. He blows out the smoke. ‘It’s fine,’ he says, kind of gasping the words out. ‘They wouldn’t be allowed to make them otherwise.’

  So I go into the bathroom. Switch the light on, go over to the medicine cabinet, open it. I have to rummage through it – there’s loads of stuff in there, most of it out of date. The sleeping pills are right at the back behind the aspirin and the paracetamol. I read the bottle. Two tablets to be taken before bed. I undo the lid, shake the tablets out, and then gulp them down with a mouthful of water. I put the tablets where I found them and then return to my room. I puff up the pillows, straighten my duvet and get in. Close my eyes and take a deep breath, wait for sleep to come.

 
.

  Thursday

  Gary

  It starts getting light early. I haven’t slept too well. I don’t think I’ve slept at all, to be honest. Too much stuff going through my head. Too angry. Too embarrassed. Too everything. So as soon as the birds start singing and the sun’s out, I get out of the boat and stretch. My back and my shoulders feel stiff. But I don’t hang about. I don’t want no one from the house to see me and call the police. So I squeeze back through the hedge on to the path and I start walking. Back towards the car park.

  There’s a car in it already. I look at my watch. It’s only half past five. Who goes to the beach at that time? I walk along the path, through the dunes. The sound of the waves hits me straight away. It’s really loud. It wakes me up. And the air as well. It’s wet and cold and salty and fresh.

  I walk along the beach, kick a few stones, look out at the sea. There are some ships sitting on the horizon. They’re not really moving. Maybe they’re anchored, waiting to go into the harbour along the coast. Or maybe they’re just going very slowly. I’m not sure. I don’t really know much about boats.

  I’m thinking about what I’m gonna do. What I’m gonna do with the rest of my life. I could just start walking. I could go anywhere. Scotland, maybe. If I walked for ten, twenty miles a day, it’d take me a couple of months, I think. Or I could steal a car. I’ve never driven a car before, but I s’pose it can’t be that different from a tractor. I could get a job somewhere, on a farm or something, find somewhere to live. I reckon I’d be better off than I am right now.

  A little further up the beach I can see a load of stuff that’s washed ashore, probably off a boat or something. When I was little and Nan used to take me to the beach, sometimes we’d find stuff that’d floated all the way from Holland washed up on the shore. I walk towards all the crap. There’s a load of nets and some wood, a bit of seaweed. But I can see something quite big and red as well. Looks like a buoy from a distance. But when I get up close, I can see it’s not a buoy. It’s a petrol can. I pick it up and look at it. It’s empty. There ain’t no holes in it as far as I can see.