Swallowing the Sun

by David Park

  ‘Vegetable,’ Annie says, ‘and it’s on the board!’

  ‘He can’t read, him. He’s dyslexic. Aren’t you, Johnny, son?’

  ‘He could read it if it said everything was free,’ Annie answers, serving two girls at once. ‘He could read it then all right.’

  ‘I’m not dyslexic,’ the boy says. ‘I’ve never even been to extra reading. A burger and chip.’

  She serves him and he looks at her as if he’s noticing her for the first time. Does he know who she is? Did he see her on television? The food disgusts her, she wants to tip it out of the heated trays and spill it all on the floor, let them wallow in it like pigs at a trough. There is the sound of breaking glass from somewhere in the hall and the usual ironic cheer. It feels as if the noise is irresistible, as if it’s tightening round the little firebreak she’s tried to clear in her head. She needs a drink of water but there isn’t time.

  ‘A salad and pasta, please,’ one of the teachers asks. She doesn’t recognise her face. Maybe she’s a student. She looks very young, hardly more than a child herself.

  ‘Miss, have you marked our test yet?’

  ‘You only did it this morning,’ she says, balancing the plate and her purse carefully in her hand.

  ‘It was hard, Miss.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be so hard if you paid more attention in class, Brian.’

  ‘A burger and chip.’

  ‘Please,’ Annie says.

  ‘A burger and chip, please.’

  ‘Are you all right, Alison?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says; straining to hear what the next child has said. Silence was always what was important to her. Tread gently, don’t disturb anything. Don’t make a fuss in case it breaks her concentration, because it must take enormous concentration to be able to remember all the things she needs to know. And the food had to be simple and clean. Just a round of toast, a piece of fruit or a couple of biscuits. Sitting at her desk, her head bowed over the books, the light almost touching her hair. ‘How’s it going?’ – that’s all she would say before she went out the door.

  ‘A soup and a hot dog please.’

  She opens the lid of the soup and stirs it with the ladle. It feels thick and heavy but she tries to fill the polystyrene cup carefully so that none spills over the sides.

  ‘And a hot dog, please.’

  She nods her head in apology. The rush of the fire roars in her ears. Everything flees before it. It’s harder and harder to breathe. Sparks shoot from tree to tree, igniting a strung necklace of flame. There’s sudden cracks of noise like guns being shot and as she stares down the hall, she thinks there is nothing she can do to evade the flames’ all-consuming path.

  * * *

  There’s an unspoken deal with the RE teacher. He sits on the edge of the desk and talks about whatever takes his interest and if they don’t interrupt, he doesn’t give them work to do. It’s the period after lunch and after its exertions most of them are tired, so they make little cushions of their heads and soon the drone of his words is replaced by their own daydreams. The air is heavy and stale, laced with the sharp tang of sweat. Under the shoes of those who have been playing football, little worm casts of grass settle which have freed themselves from the ridges of their identical shoes.

  Tom thinks the RE teacher doesn’t believe in God because for the last term he has discussed the miracles in the Bible and given scientific explanations for each of them. The Red Sea was parted by an earth tremor; the water that turned into wine merely fermented; the witnesses of the resurrection experienced a collective hallucination. Tom doesn’t believe in God either and as he looks round the class he sees only a variety of slumped forms, heads propped in hands, eyes staring at nothing. Under his own desk there is no grass but a little pile of screwed up golden paper like the droppings of a golden sheep. He silently pops the toffee eclairs into his mouth like a trout gulping flies. His tongue rolls and prods them until they bob about his mouth, a boat in a swell. When they are soft and pliable his jaws chomp and masticate them meticulously and all the time his mouth never opens.

  In the absence of inspiration the teacher begins to read from the Bible. It’s the story of Christ being taken by the Pharisees to the brow of a hill that they might cast him down, and how he passes through their midst as if he is invisible to them. The story interests him and he listens carefully to every word, trying to work it out in his head, to understand how it might be done. Something distracts his concentration. He glances sideways to see Chapman smiling at him. For a stupid, mindless second he goes to smile back and then watches as Chapman contorts his face, screwing his mouth, letting his tongue snake and loll, making his eyes bulge. Then Chapman’s smiling and nodding his head at him, enjoying his joke, enjoying his joke about Rachel. He can’t look any more so he grips the side of his desk and stares at the teacher, but it doesn’t stop him hearing Chapman whisper, ‘Fat Boy’s sister was a smack-head.’

  He thinks of going home, for the briefest second thinks of telling someone, but knows he has to stick it out. Like he always does. He prays to the God he doesn’t believe in that he, too, might wear a cloak of invisibility, that he might pass through his tormentors and not be seen, but later in the changing room there is no hiding place. He takes his normal spot which is the peg in the corner closest to the showers, tries to change as quickly as he can after the games period.

  ‘Great tits, Fat Boy,’ Rollo says. ‘Better than Jordan’s.’

  ‘You should be on page three of the Sun with tits like that,’ Leechy laughs.

  ‘Why don’t you borrow your ma’s bra?’ Rollo asks, flicking the mud from the soles of his boots at him.

  He takes even longer than usual to take off his kit in the hope that he’ll be able to leave while they’re in the showers. He pretends he has a knot in the lace of his boots, keeps his head lowered and doesn’t react to anything that’s said. As his fingers fiddle with the knots, they’re pressing keys in his head so now he’s running and his feet are carried on wings. Down the corridors, running, jumping into the arms of the air and never looking back or feeling fear. So let the dogs leap from the shadows, let them snarl and arch their backs ready to spring, because he can blast them with the explosive power in his hands. Give them back their own fear so they can taste it in their mouths.

  ‘Tits, you never told us your sister was a junkie,’ Chapman says, suddenly walking towards him. He’s just come out of the shower and has a towel wrapped round his waist. The words make the changing room silent. He knows everyone is looking at him. No one is laughing. ‘Must run in the family. For you’re a bit of a junkie yourself – always shovellin’ shit down your throat.’

  For the first time he looks up, then takes his boots off and holds them both in his hands. Chapman has stopped and is watching him. The silence is terrible in his ears. He thinks of tiger eyes, the way fire burns in them, knows that he can never be invisible, that there’s nowhere he can run.

  ‘Shut your face, Chapman,’ he suddenly says in a voice he doesn’t recognise as his own, so he’s not sure for a second whether it’s his or someone else’s he hears.

  ‘What did you say, Fat Boy?’ Chapman asks, cocking his head to show he needs to hear the answer, that he’s doing the decent thing. Giving him the chance to make a public apology, by saying ‘nothing’. Maybe if he says it, he’ll let it go, make a joke of it.

  ‘I said, shut your face about my sister.’ He stands up, still clutching both boots. He doesn’t care anymore. He takes off his glasses and puts them in the breast pocket of his blazer. They all know what the gesture means. The room is bleary, smeared featureless – even Chapman’s face is soft-focused. He can’t see the expression in his eyes, in the silence has to listen for what is going to happen. So before anyone else does, he hears the door of the changing room open and the slapping, squeaking feet of the PE teacher.

  ‘Tom, get yourself into those showers, splash some water round yourself. And the rest of you lot get changed and ou
t of here. There’s a first-eleven practice starting in five minutes.’ He collects sick-notes from non-changers and a set of school rules given as a punishment, then borrowing someone’s newspaper, flicks the pages. ‘And Tom, don’t be using all the school’s hot water on that beautiful body.’

  He stands in the showers on his own. In the distance a bell rings. Someone turns off showers but he doesn’t move, standing perfectly still as the droplets from the shower heads drip on his body, until the only sound he hears in the changing room is the gurgling of the water as it runs down the great sucking mouth of the drain.

  *

  Rob’s there acting as if he’s in charge, as if he’s been her lifetime carer. She sits in the chair at the hearth and sometimes her hands pluck at her dress and make throwing movements towards the fire. Although she isn’t eating, her mouth moves and sometimes she pushes out the side of her cheek with her tongue. Rob hovers about her like a good angel, slipping a cushion behind her back, at regular intervals kneeling at her feet and squeezing her hand, talking to her all the time.

  ‘Are you all right now, Ma? Your boys are here to look after you now. We’ll see they take good care of you.’

  He watches her eyes as she looks at Rob and smiles, but it’s the same smile she uses for everyone. She nods her head at him while her skittering hands pluck at invisible threads and throw them in the fire. There are still little smuts in her hair and one on her cheekbone. The smell of smoke wreaths the whole house even though he’s opened every window.

  ‘It’s for the best, Martin,’ Pat says. ‘It’s a miracle she didn’t burn the whole place down and herself with it.’

  ‘It’s lucky you looked in when you did. If those kitchen curtains had caught and it’d got a hold, I don’t know what would have happened.’

  ‘Is there any sign of the ambulance?’ Rob asks. ‘It wouldn’t take it to be a matter of life or death.’

  ‘They’re goin’ to check her out, then give her an assessment, the doctor says,’ he tells Pat, even though he’s told her already.

  ‘It’s for the best, she couldn’t go on like this. The doctor told me he didn’t think she’d be coming back. She’s gone down pretty quick over these last few months.’

  Rob kneels at his mother’s feet again. ‘It’ll be all right now, Ma, they’re goin’ to take good care of you.’ He tries to remove the smut from her cheek with his finger but only smears it across her skin. Pat comes and wipes it clean with a tissue. ‘We’ll see you get the very best of everything,’ Rob tells her. Then while still kneeling he looks up at them. ‘It should never have got to this. She could have killed herself. I knew something would happen. I told you Martin, you know I did. Knew it for sure, didn’t I?’

  ‘That’s right, Rob, you did. You told me.’

  ‘Where’s my bag?’ she suddenly asks, starting to get out of the chair.

  ‘I’ll get it for you, you stay there,’ Rob says.

  ‘What ambulance?’

  ‘It’s just to give you a wee check-up, see if the smoke got in your lungs,’ Pat tries to assure her, as she hands her the bag.

  ‘What smoke?’ she asks. ‘Has somebody been smoking? They’re not allowed to.’ She fumbles in the bag until she finds her purse, then takes some pound coins from it and hands them to Rob. ‘For your birthday, Martin. I nearly forgot.’

  Seeing his confusion, he says, ‘Take them, Rob.’

  Putting them in his pocket, Rob goes back to the window and looks for the ambulance. ‘Where is it?’ he asks, his voice edged with anger. ‘If she was suffering from smoke inhalation or a heart attack it’d be a right mess by now. Did they get the right address?’ he asks.

  ‘They’ll be here soon, Rob, why don’t you go to the end of the street, make sure they know where to come?’

  Rob nods and hurries outside. He goes to the chair opposite hers and sits down. She gives him the same smile she gave to Rob.

  ‘I almost forgot about your birthday,’ she says, looking in her purse again. ‘I have some money for you here, you can buy yourself something.’

  ‘You’ve already given it to me. My birthday’s not every day.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Pat says, disappearing into the kitchen.

  He watches his mother’s eyes start to dart about the room, her hands grow more animated, more desperate in their plucking and now she’s looking at him, almost looking through him. When she speaks her voice has dropped to a whisper.

  ‘You’re not allowed to smoke,’ she says, ‘but I won’t tell him. I won’t tell him you’ve been smoking.’

  The words course through his being, freezing everywhere they touch. He tries to calm the rush of his heart, stop himself stepping through the door of the past. It’s a while before he can bring himself to speak.

  ‘You’ll be better off out of here,’ he tells her. Then watching her eyes, says, ‘You should have left long ago.’ In the kitchen he hears the spurt of water and the kettle being filled, and because there is a voice in his head telling him that he’ll never see her again, he whispers, ‘You should have left years ago. Should have packed a bag and gone. Taken us with you. Why did you never do it?’ She looks at him but it’s as if there’s a fine film coating her eyes through which she no longer sees anything as it really is. She reaches for her handbag again, searches intently for something, then takes a comb out and runs it through her hair. Her tongue is pressing against her cheek again, probing and pushing it. The kettle comes to the boil, there is the rattle of the teapot lid.

  They should be in bed but they’re too excited to sleep. Rob keeps asking how long it is until the morning. They’ve only been sent to bed an hour ago and in the kitchen they can hear her working, getting the turkey ready for cooking. It’s just been delivered to the door, the voice of the butcher rumbling in the hall as he wishes her Happy Christmas. Rob wants to see it, keeps on asking him to come with him and sneak a look. They know he’s out of the house, that there’s no chance of him coming back until his drinking money is spent, so eventually they get out of their beds. With exaggerated slowness and delicacy, their extended spider arms and legs feel their way down the stairs. There is the smell of bacon being cooked and the sizzling kitchen is already veiled in steam and heat. Rob pushes him forward and he stumbles. She turns her head, sees them freeze-frame but only smiles and they know it’s all right, so they walk towards her. A pot containing more potatoes than he’s ever seen is cooking on the ring. She splashes salt on the bubbling foaming water. But now they only have eyes for the turkey. It’s huge, its flaccid, goosebumped skin humped loosely on a giant dish, daring them to touch it. Rob goes first, gently pressing his finger into it, then squirming away with revulsion. He goes next, then jerks his hand away with fear and pleasure. She laughs at them, reminds them that they’re supposed to be sleeping but he can tell that she’s pleased they’re there. She gives them little nibbles of the bacon and after they eat it they wipe their greasy fingers on their green paisley pyjamas. But it’s not over yet because she lifts the plate with the turkey on it and advances towards them, stepping slowly, her eyes wide with pretend menace. They squeal and walk backwards but she keeps coming and then they take to their heels and she chases them down the hall. They do it again and again, until she tells them that it’s enough and the turkey has to go in the oven. Afterwards as they lie in bed their hearts pump like pistons and then as calm slowly claims them, he tries to follow her movements from the noise she makes, until he slips into a soft and easy sleep.

  He takes the comb from her hand and combs her hair, removing the filament of smut. Her hair feels wiry, spots of black spangling the grey like a monochrome photograph. She holds her handbag on her lap and sits as if he does this every day. It was the only time he can remember when there was fun in fear.

  ‘Who was smoking?’ she asks. ‘Tell them the man says they’re not allowed to smoke.’

  ‘I’ll tell them,’ he says.

  ‘Takin’ up hairdressing Martin?’ Pat asks.
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  ‘Gettin’ the smoke out of her hair,’ he says, slipping the comb back into her bag and taking the cup of tea she hands him.

  ‘I’ve had a word,’ Rob says as he leads the ambulance men into the room. ‘It should be all right now – I’ve explained everything.’

  ‘That’s good, Rob,’ he says as one of the paramedics kneels at his mother’s feet. His face seems familiar but he can’t place him and then suddenly he is shaken by the thought that perhaps he was one of the crew who carried Rachel to the hospital.

  ‘So you’ve had a bit of a fire, luv,’ he says, placing his hand on hers.

  ‘You’re not allowed to smoke,’ she says. ‘Someone’s been smoking.’

  ‘Very bad habit, smoking. Gave it up years ago myself. Do you think you can stand up?’

  She smiles back at him but doesn’t reply.

  ‘We’ll help her,’ Rob says. ‘Won’t we, Ma?’

  ‘No need,’ the paramedic says. ‘Geordie, get the chair. We’ll soon have you out of here, luv, get you to hospital for a wee check-over. Soon have you as right as rain.’

  He was told she was dead when she arrived at the hospital. Perhaps he was with her during the final moments. Maybe this man shared her last living moments. Maybe she said something to him. He wants to blurt out his questions but stifles them and turns his head away for a second.

  ‘You’ve been having a fire, luv,’ the paramedic says. ‘And it’s not even the Twelfth of July.’ Then, turning to them, asks ‘Did she inhale much of the smoke?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rob answers, ‘we got her just in time.’

  Pat looks at Rob and then at him but he avoids her gaze. Geordie returns with a wheelchair and working together they slowly lift her into it while Rob hovers around them as if he’s directing the operation.

  ‘Careful now,’ he says, walking backwards and holding the door wide.