by John Young
“Goliath! More like Frankenstein’s monster.”
“Steven Seagal and Dobby the Fairy.” He laughs like a drain at that one.
“You told me Dobby was an elf!”
He grins.
“How about Falstaff and Prince Hal!” I say, just to wind him up because he won’t know who they are. But he surprises me again.
“Ohhhh fancy,” he says. “Since you’re being a smart arse – Homer and…” he pauses. I think he is going to come out with something like ‘Socrates’ but he laughs and says, “Lisa Simpson.”
“Lisa?” and the japes get us back on terms again.
The rain has stopped, but it’s cold. He doesn’t seem to notice and actually looks neat and tidy, no evidence of our big snow escapade earlier. Unlike me: big fisherman’s sweater now stretched to my knees, bright orange sunglasses and squeaking leather boots. Even though I’m moaning like a birthing sow about the thought of sleeping in a leaky tent, I’m still kind of excited. It’s awesome just being away, escaping. The great outdoors was never very big in our family, so a roundabout with trees is fine by me.
“OK, Mr Butlin’s, what do we do about the three lanes of traffic?”
“Yep, the road is busy, but that’s good, no one else will come.” He moves his eyes off the road and onto me for a moment, blasting my negative vibes with his razor stare. “You’re such a whinger. I never took you for a whinger. The rush-hour traffic has already calmed a bit – we’ll get across when there’s a lull. Then I’ll nip out for some burgers and drink and no one will disturb us because no one in their right minds will want to come over. We’re outlaws, act like one.”
I glare at him even though I see some sense in his case.
“Touchy, and whingy,” Skeates laughs and pushes me in jest.
I punch him a few times and he pretends it hurts while trying not to laugh at me. It’s another five minutes before we see a big enough gap in the traffic to allow time for me to hobble over. Even so, he has to half-carry me across, like we’re in a badly balanced three-legged race, swinging bags of outdoor gear. We’re both giggling by the time we’ve fought through the bushes and low branches that will hopefully obscure our home for the night.
“Let’s see this tent of yours,” I say when I get my breath back. I open the tube of green nylon and empty out a load of poles, more nylon and metal pegs.
Skeates looks at me with a knowing grin. “On you go, put it up.”
I just stare at the pile of kit.
He laughs. “Give it here.”
I let him pitch the tent. He seems to know what to do, so I sit on a rock and hold a torch for him. It’s been a hell of a few days, for me anyway: climbing out windows, raiding Slots-o-Fun, making a quick getaway by boat, escaping the Trolls, skiing in the slush and nicking cars. I’ve had more excitement in the last forty-eight hours than I’ve had in the previous fifteen years. And it’s telling, because despite the good vibes I feel like a bag of crap.
The traffic noise is loud, although the trees muffle the worst of it. We can’t see out at all, so no one can see in. His logic is right: a big busy roundabout with a forest in the middle is a good place to hide. He rolls out the sleeping bags, throws them into the tent and stands up.
“There you are, home sweet home.” He holds his arms out proudly at the small green tent. “I bought the three-man rather than the two, in case you got any ideas,” he laughs. “Will I go get some scoops and eats?”
I don’t reply. I want to go with him into town, but I feel grim; the sleeping bags look so comfy and inviting. I haven’t felt this exhausted in ages and I know why – no meds and too much energy wasted having fun. As long as it’s just steroid fallout, I should feel better after a good sleep. But when I’m tired I get paranoid. I begin to regret my earlier optimistic self-diagnosis. What if this is more than steroid exhaustion? What if I’ve put my chances of recovery at risk because of this?
Skeates makes my mind up with a brief amateur medical summary: “You look plugged, mate. Take a lie down and I’ll bring some grub, OK?”
I don’t argue. I climb into the tent and flop onto the sleeping bags. The tent is tiny so I would’ve hated him to have bought the two-man. I listen to the roar of traffic and wish I’d remembered to bring my meds. To distract myself, I check my phone, which has been turned off to save charge.
Shite, twenty-three missed calls! All from Dachaigh House, Mum and Emo. I open some messages from Emo:
“Where ru? U OK?”
“Connor, please call. Everyone is asking about u and Skeates. Skeates!!!!! I can’t believe ur with him haha. Mrs MacDonald is driving me mad with questions and ur Mum is coming home soon. Where ru?”
I check the calls, fifteen of which are from Emo. My finger hovers over the dial button. I really want to talk to her, but I know that if I call she’ll persuade me to return to Stornoway and I really don’t want to. I made a promise to myself that I would see Dad. Plus, I’m in this together with Skeates, rascal and all that he is. He’s got us this far and I can’t let him down. To be honest, I’m having more fun than I’ve had for years. So I text back.
“All OK. Tell Mum I’ll be home soon. Is she OK? I’m on a wee camping trip. Tell everyone I’m fine.”
Then I add:
“15 missed calls. Ru missing me?”
I turn off the phone. I’m too tired to wait for a reply and may not have the resilience to ignore requests to turn back, especially if Mum is out of hospital. I feel terrible that I’m not there for her, so I dither again about phoning. In the end, I justify my cold-heartedness with the fact that we only have a couple of days to go.
Plus, fifteen calls! That’s more times than Emo has phoned me in her life! I should go away more often.
I’m so tired I don’t even take my caliper off before crashing out asleep.
Chapter 17
Nadie Deja Este Mundo Vivo
“Leave me alone,” I scream and struggle. I feel confined, claustrophobic and unwilling to wake. This terrifies me, and I gasp for air as if I’m drowning. Hands grip my neck. It’s pitch dark and someone is shaking me. I can’t move, and I panic, yell and kick out.
“Calm down, Connor, you’ll wake the whole town.” Skeates’s voice is a loud concerned whisper, although I detect a hint of humour in it.
I feel hands on my chest and I struggle, panicking when I realise that my legs are constricted. I feel fresh air on my face. Suddenly, it dawns on me where I am: in a sleeping bag on a roundabout in Perth. This realisation makes me both want to laugh and cry.
Skeates opens the tent flap further and waves in air. He has his hand over the small torch to shield the light from my eyes. The traffic noise has settled. I kick off the sleeping bag and realise I’m soaked with sweat.
“Alright! Alright!” I shout. “No need to shake the life out of me.”
“Shit, Connor, I thought you were dead the way you were out. You weren’t moving!”
“How long have you been away?” I ask him.
“About three hours.”
“Three hours? You’re kidding?”
“You looked like you needed a nap, so I took my time.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went for a few scoops, did a bit of shopping. Here’s your burger.” He hands me a packet that says ‘Brett’s Burgers’ on it. “They’re awesome. I had mine on the way here.”
I’m famished and wolf it down. Half the time I only eat to take the medicine taste away, and it’s a relief to be hungry again. The return of my appetite must be a good sign. Still, it’s not like me to crash out so completely. I know that I’m a time bomb without my meds. But I ignore all the warning signs and chow down on my burger.
Skeates is staring at me with anticipation all over his face.
“What?” I say.
He continues to grin and stare at me, waiting for something to happen. It’s freaking me out.
“What?” I shout, then slowly grin as I realise why. “Aw, man, that’s ho
t!”
He laughs.
“Mmmmmm, chilli sauce, great.” I have to fake it a bit as my taste buds start to realise this burger is a real roaster. Not too much faking – the chemo ate all my taste buds so I love spicy food.
Skeates looks disappointed and impressed in equal measure at my chilli-handling skills.
“Here, this’ll cool you off.” He hands me a tin of lager.
I shake my head so he cracks it open and necks it himself. His eyes are glazed and I guess that he’s already had a few whilst out in town. I look into the bag for something else to quench the chilli fire. Tins of beer, juice, water, Red Bull, chocolate, breakfast stuff, bread and cheese, toothpaste and toothbrushes. He has some common sense and I’m pleasantly surprised. He sees my look as I hold up a toothbrush.
“You have to look after yourself, Connor, and you need teeth.” He grins a big wide smile of white gnashers.
“Did you not get ID’d at the shop?”
“I have a fake one, but I’m never asked. I make sure I go to places where they don’t care too much.”
I can see how he gets away with it. Skeates is only fifteen, but I wouldn’t have guessed if I didn’t know already. There’s a maturity about him that would convince anyone that he’s older. His face has lines beyond his years.
I munch away for a while, gulping down Red Bull between bites, and Skeates sips his beer in contented silence. I stare at him, thinking of his history, his reputation and the things I’ve seen him do. There’s an edge that he always seems so close to dropping over, yet he manages to stay in control. He’s a product of a broken family and much-too-early independence. I must be staring hard as he becomes twitchy.
“You goldfishing me?” His speaks with a drawl and his tone seems slightly higher pitched for his size and looks, which adds to the sense of menace. It would be a mistake to take it lightly, though an easy one to make.
“Just wondering,” I say
“Wondering what?
“You are a real psycho aren’t you? You’re not pretending. You’re a real proper nut-case.”
He grins in reply, like I’ve just told him that he’s really talented at something difficult.
“Are you an amateur psychologist or something?”
“Naw, just stating the obvious, you psycho.”
He grins again and I wonder how far I can trust him. After the last two days he seems more reliable – I no longer worry that he’s out to get me – but I don’t trust his temper. I’m not sure that when our interests diverge he would worry too much about me. One thing’s certain though: he isn’t the Skeates I thought he was a week ago.
“Anyway,” he says, all philosophical, “I’m chilled most of the time, just looking out for someone to pull one over on me. People have done that all my life. First my dad and my mum, then neighbours, and the Trolls. Even the boys at school, every one of them would snake me, given the chance.”
I nod.
“You have a girlfriend, Connor?”
“No.”
“What about Emo, is she not your girlfriend?”
“Emo?” I try to laugh and redden as I remember her in my room the other day.
Skeates’s radar instincts pick up that he’s hit on something. He points at me and laughs. “Look at you, Connor ya rascal, you and Emo!”
I ignore him as the mention of her name makes me miss her. Until recently I’d never thought of her as a potential girlfriend. She’s my best friend, and in part that’s why it felt strange when we touched the other day. I wonder how to say all that to Skeates. I don’t want him teasing me and I don’t want to lie either. There’s a trust developing between us that I could never have envisaged before, and I feel comfortable with that. So I say, “Emo is more like a sister to me, at least since my sister Erica died.”
He listens in silence to this. There is no teasing, no waiting for the weakness to have a go at me, so I carry on.
“I miss Erica. Every day is as painful as the first, and if I think about her I lose it. She was just…” I don’t finish. I can’t talk about Erica’s death. I know it would help but I don’t because I’m addicted to the pain of the memory, it proves she was real. The pain brings her back.
Skeates is silent for a few more moments so I decide to check if Emo has replied to my message from earlier.
Her next text has more concern in the tone than the last one.
“Connor! No! I phoned 15 times cos the police called round here looking for u and Skeates. Where r u?”
“Shite!” I say.
“What?”
I show him the messages. He reads the few messages before too. “There’s a photo of me! What do you mean ‘at the zoo’?”
“It’s not that I’m worried about, it’s the one about the polis.”
He shrugs. “Aye, I got a few texts about that from my neighbour. What do you expect? You’ve legged it from a care home with a history of GBH.” He laughs. “Anyway Connor, you’ve lived on Stornoway for how many years?” he doesn’t wait for a reply. “And you think that for a few days the whole place will fall apart without you? You go back now, you get in the shit. You go back next week, you’re in the same shit but you’ve said hi to your dad. So you may as well enjoy the trip and put the shit off for as long as possible.” He grins at his logic. I can’t help but grin back.
He points his tin of lager at me. “More to the point, Connor, what have you done to deserve fifteen calls from Emo? You snake!”
“No lassies calling for you, then?” I ask and grin at him. It’s not often I get one over on him. I take another photo of Skeates in the tent and start to type a message to Emo.
“David Attenborough never shared a tent with his monkeys!”
I press send just as another arrives from my mum. I try to open it and the screen goes blank.
“Shit!” I say. “Just gone dead. My mum tried to get in touch.”
“Stop fussing, Connor. Best not to know – it’ll only spoil your trip.”
“She was in hospital.”
“Then she must be better if she was texting you. Happy days.”
“You have an answer for everything, but if it was your mum you wouldn’t be so cocky!” I shout, and immediately regret it because I can see anger and hurt in his eyes.
He shrugs. “You’re right, Connor. I don’t need to worry or feel guilty about people at home because I don’t have people at home to worry about me. So I can do what I want.” He says this in a way that sounds both sorry and glad.
For the first time, I see a chink of insecurity in his armour. I detect anxiety and jealousy that no one is chasing him in the same way. No mum, no friend to worry about him. He’s right, though. A few days won’t matter a jot, so, painful as it is, I swallow hard, put my phone away and change the subject.
“What about you, Skeates? You got a girl?”
“Yeah, a few. Lindsay was my first love.”
In response to this unexpected show of emotion I feel myself quieten, ready for a confession, a softer side to the school nut job.
“She was in my class.”
“I don’t remember her,” I say.
“I would have loved to take her out, but was too shy to ask.”
His lips curl slightly, his eyes glisten and I swallow, wondering how to react. This is really unexpected.
“The fullness of my feeling, was never made clear, but I send her my love…” Suddenly he’s in hysterics, struggling to get the last words out. “…with a bang on the ear!” And he convulses on the floor in fits of laughter. “You wanna see your face, Connor, funniest thing I ever saw!”
I have to smile as I get the joke. They’re lyrics from an old Waterboys song. He had me, and we sing the rest of the song like two scunnered soaks.
“I should have recognised that song, Mum used to play it all the time,” I say.
We calm and he says, “Seriously though, no one special. I do have a regular girlfriend. Well, sort of.”
“Who is it?”
&
nbsp; “Not telling you.”
“Go on.”
“Mairi McKelvey.”
“Naw way, she’s quality. Far too good for your mingin arse.”
“Very funny.”
“You in love, Skeates?” I laugh, only a bit though. I’m chuffed that he’s admitted that to me, even if he did catch me out.
Skeates sups his tinny and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. It’s weird to see him this quiet. I sense that he’s building up to something because his lips open and close like he’s trying to find the right words. He clumsily fumbles a question.
“Are you really going to die?”
“Nadie deja este mundo vivo,” I say.
“What?”
“No one leaves this world alive. It’s a famous
Mexican proverb.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish?”
“I don’t, but I heard it on the TV years ago and it was so relevant to me that I remembered it.”
“Nadie deja este mundo vivo,” repeats Skeates, as if to memorise it. “Nadie deja este mundo vivo.”
“Yep, we’re all going to die sometime,” I say and laugh a real big false chortle. “That’s what the doctors told me when I started my chemo. They were prepping me in case it didn’t work. They have a special script for chatting to death-row kids. I would hate that job. Cancer doctors have steel necks.”
“And did it work?”
I don’t answer for a moment. I shrug. “I don’t know. They’ve kept me alive since I was seven, but they’ve never been able to completely get rid of the cancer, no matter how much they zap me with radiation. I guess I’m lucky to have made it this far.”
“When was your last zap?”
“Not long ago.” I point to my bald head. “I’m still waiting for the results of the latest round of chemo. At some stage they’ll say no more.”
“Unless you kick its ass this time?” he says, like fighting cancer is akin to a scrap on a Friday night.
“The problem is, Skeates, it hides. You can’t kick its ass if you can’t find it, can you? It creeps around inside you and fools everyone. It has no morals, no objective but to kill.”