Swallowing the Sun

by David Park

  ‘I know that,’ he lies. He’ll say anything to get her in the car, to have his chance to talk. He takes a step backwards to show that the choice is hers. She’s holding her hands to her eyes as if to staunch her tears but in them he sees, too, the constant calculation of what she could do to get away from him. He holds his arm out towards the car in a final silent invitation. She puts her fingers to her lips, plays with the zip of her top and then walks round the back of the car and gets in the passenger door.

  As soon as she gets in he starts the engine and drives off, ignoring her protest. ‘We’ll just park round the corner,’ he says to reassure her, trying to calm her rising apprehension. ‘Just a couple of minutes and then we’ll talk.’ He drives into the nearby shopping centre and parks as far away from the other cars as he can.

  ‘So you’re Andrea,’ he says, hardly wanting to look at her.

  ‘We never meant any harm to come to Rachel,’ she says. ‘It could have happened to any one of us. It could have been me.’ He doesn’t answer but stares at the recycling banks with their different colours and instructions. ‘Honest, Mr Waring, honest to God, we never thought this would happen.’ But already he knows there is nothing that is honest in her. He sees it in the flick of her hair, her spew of childish sincerity, the controlled shake in her voice. He grips the wheel with both hands, hunching himself over it. ‘We all loved Rachel, we all thought she was great. Really smart and good fun too.’ He watches a woman post a tatty bundle of old newspapers into one of the containers. One of them will carry his child’s photograph, her story.

  ‘You’re the one who gave the other girls the tabs,’ he says, still not looking at her.

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ she says, her voice rising into sharp peaks of indignation and hurt. ‘I swear to God I didn’t. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you the same.’

  ‘I have asked,’ he says.

  ‘It wasn’t me, it definitely wasn’t me. I swear it.’

  There is the clank of glass bottles being tipped into their container. He can’t bear her voice, the stink of her perfume, her sitting so close to him. He winds down his window as if somehow that might help him escape the terrible totality of her. He’s made a mistake, been foolish to think that the meeting will bring him closer to anything other than more of his anger. He wants her to go but he gives it one last try.

  ‘So if it wasn’t you, then where did the stuff come from?’

  ‘We all got them, it wasn’t one person. We all did it.’

  ‘And Rachel?’

  ‘She was there with everyone.’

  ‘And the drugs? They didn’t drop out of the sky, they didn’t just appear in your hand. Where did they come from?’

  She hesitates, slips into her little-girl-crying voice, pouring her supposed remorse all over him. ‘It was just some guy who was at the club – I don’t know his name or anything.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’

  ‘I swear, I don’t know his name. I only saw him the once.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I’m confused when I try to remember it.’

  ‘Remember!’ he shouts, suddenly banging the steering wheel and looking at her for the first time. His voice is fierce, breaking like a wave against the confines of the car, his sudden spray of breath misting the glass.

  ‘Young, maybe twenty, about your height, short black hair,’ she says, the words tumbling out. Only fear cutting through to her quick, only fear reaching something closer to truth. ‘Blue eyes, grey Adidas top, didn’t say much. We only saw him for a few moments. He was nervous, jumpy. That’s all, honest, that’s all I remember.’

  He wants to stretch out his hand, grab her by the throat, let her know what real fear feels like. He wants to put his hand in the fall of her hair and turn it into a slowly tightening knot. But she’s lucky because as strong as his desire is to hurt her, his feeling of repugnance at the thought of having to touch her is even greater and throbs inside his head and slimes the lining of his throat. He winds the window lower.

  ‘Get out of the car,’ he says, so low that she doesn’t hear what he’s said. He says it again, ‘Get out of the fuckin’ car.’ She goes to say something but he silences the words by holding his hand in front of the side of his face like a shield and then all he hears is her fumbling for the handle and the door clunking shut.

  *

  He’s giving it one last try, narrowing and squinting his eyes into the sharpness of razor blades, shrinking his body to nothing but the merest vibration of space. Trying to be invisible. Moving like a shadow across the buildings, leaving nothing in his wake but a stir of the air. But there’s something inside him that he can’t shrink or diminish and it’s pressing against his head, trying to burst out into words. He feels the weight of it in every step, clogging his breathing and slowing his journey – it’s the fury he feels at himself for what he’s done, for answering back, for not being able to take a joke, for not bending when the wind blows. He can’t hold it in any longer and he curses himself with the litany of his names. Fat Boy, Tits, Fatboy Slim, Willie the Whale, Cheesy, Flubber – on and on and when he runs out of names he invents his own, stringing them together like beads on the thread of his anger. He spits out the words and the anger slows him down, dissipating his invisibility, pulling at the edges of the cloak he’s draped about himself. It’s falling off his shoulders, dropping off him like leaves off a winter’s tree. He passes two boys who look at him, who see him. He opens his eyes and blinks as if he’s been swimming under water. It hasn’t worked – there are no miracles in this world.

  He stops at the comer of the science building and lets his hand feel the comfort of the pitted, flaking brick, then digs out a tiny bit with his thumb. In the buildings and tombs there are always doors, choices to be made, obstacles to be crossed. Maybe now if he can only find the right door he can break through to where he wants to be. If he were to go right home and get his school books out and begin to study really hard then he could be clever, pass all his examinations and do what Rachel did. He could follow in her footsteps and some of what his parents felt for her could be given to him. And if he’s going to take that road then they could find another school for him, transfer him out of this place. One day he’d be here, his name on the roll and then the next an empty desk and only silence when it’s called at registration. A clean break and a new start, where all that people would know him as would be his name, a school where everyone wears neat uniforms and does their work and goes home.

  ‘Tom! Tom!’ Andrews calls, tugging him by the sleeve. He tries to shrug off the intrusion but the smallest boy in the class keeps tugging; only his eyes are big, his voice sing-songy like a bird’s. ‘They’re waitin’ for you at the gates. Don’t go that way, clear off home through the park. Chapman says he’s goin’ beat the shite out of you.’

  He pushes the boy’s small hand from his sleeve. He wanted to be invisible, to have no body so now this insistent touch is bitter in its disappointment. ‘Let go,’ he tells him.

  ‘They’re goin’ to give you a kickin’. Frig off home the other way before they see you,’ Andrews urges.

  He should be grateful for his help but something despises it, doesn’t want shared membership of this club. ‘Let bloody go, Tich,’ he says. ‘And mind your own business, will ya?’ He sees the hurt in the boy’s eyes and it pleases him that the hurt is spread around a little. He watches Andrews – Handy Andy, pocket-size – slip away, fading away from his consciousness as other images of Chapman rush in and take his place. Everything inside him feels as if it’s collapsing, like a tent where the poles have been lowered to allow it to wallow slowly to the ground. He feels weighted and stalled, as if his feet have become great inert blocks and even though he tries to conjure up memories of the skaters, their bulked-up bodies balanced on the fluid, flowing lightness of their skates, there is only this growing sense of paralysis. And he’s trapped now in the closing net of his memory, of fights he’s seen – s
udden convulsive frenzies of fist and head, or a flurry of feet – fights where there are no rules and the only ending is the arbitrary but requisite infliction of pain and the spilling of a seemly amount of blood. He wonders what will appease Chapman, what will atone for his crime and suddenly he feels alone and very frightened. He looks around for Andrews, feels sorry for how he treated him, but sees only the empty playground, where inky smudges of crows blot the concrete as they scavenge the discarded crusts of sandwiches and peck at crisp packets.

  Maybe this is the time to tell someone, to go back inside and find the first face that looks friendly and let it all spill out. To sit in the counselling room with its cheery little posters and slogans – ‘Big shots are only little shots who try harder’, ‘Best friends come in all shapes and sizes’, ‘Be a friend to make a friend’ – and try to explain it all. But then there’ll be the who and when and where, the names of witnesses and he’ll have to sit and speak his names in front of someone who’ll nod and disguise their disgust at him with sympathy. He thinks again of his names, tells himself that they’re like badges he’s been given to wear, that they don’t mean anything, that they’re funny really and that he’d be crazy, a total and utter dick to give them up and exchange them for a new set. He can hear them now, the same ones he’s heard given to others who go down this road – Tout, Snitch, Supergrass, Blabber Bake, Squealer – and if he has to choose, and this is the moment he has to do it, then he’ll keep his own badges, rather than wear these new ones.

  He tries to stifle his loosening fear by telling himself that it’ll probably be over in a matter of minutes, that he doesn’t represent a worthy opponent to Chapman. That he might just make a joke of it, clown around with him a little, be content with a few slaps or spilling out his bag. He’s not going to fight so there won’t really be any point to it – it’ll all be a stupid waste of time, a little circus act of laughter. He might even clown round a little, make them laugh by being ridiculous or mock heroic. If he could do it well, make them laugh, they might even think he was all right, let him be one of them; and even if it’s worse but he shows he can take it, then just maybe they’ll respect him, think he’s finally paid the admission price.

  He forces himself out of the paralysis threatening to trap him and starts to hurry through the gates and along the road to home. It’s even possible that Andrews got it wrong – always chirping too loudly, wanting to be someone by being loud – and that by now they’re on their way home or shoplifting in the centre, or doing one of a hundred other things. His feet start to scurry and skip, his bag slapping against his back in syncopated rhythm and he can smell his own sweat, feel the fire of his feet. He scrunches his glasses repeatedly with his nose and as he hurries, little smudges of mist start to smear and bevel the lenses. His tongue feels thick and leathery and he starts to convince himself that the fear swilling about his stomach is nothing but hunger and imagines what he’ll eat to fill it when he gets home. And there is Lara, too, waiting for him, desperate for the touch of his hands. So the pained awkwardness of this hurry, the breathless tightness in his chest will soon be replaced by the lithe speed of her limbs, the wingless jumps across chasms, the streamlined dives into water and the only sound needed will be those little puffs of breath, half pain, half pleasure, as her sure feet find their next temporary resting place. He hurries on, for a moment travelling on the slipstream of her image and his hands drop to the holsters of his pockets.

  ‘Fuckin’ marathon man,’ Chapman says. ‘What’s the hurry, Fat Boy?’ They’re standing at the railings of the park, behind a van and in the penumbral shadows of the overhanging trees, where their black-blazered thinness makes them almost bars in the railings. He lets his hands slip into his pockets but finds nothing but emptiness.

  ‘Trying to put a hole in the pavement?’ Rollo asks, his hand caressing the top spike of the railing.

  ‘You need to get a sports bra, Fat Boy,’ Leechy says, his face full of pretend sincerity as if he’s offering a friend advice.

  ‘And a nappy because you’re shitting yourself now,’ Chapman says, stepping off the railings. ‘So all of a sudden you’re gettin’ lippy, Fat Boy, and just because somebody mentioned that your sister was a druggie.’ He comes closer to him and pulls his lapel. ‘And it’s not as if it isn’t the truth, is it Fat Boy?’

  He doesn’t answer but stares at a point in the distance and tells himself that he’s not worthy of Chapman’s anger, that in the face of his passive silence Chapman will soon get bored and the three of them will melt away. But Chapman tugs his lapel again and asks ‘She was a junkie wasn’t she? Couldn’t handle the stuff.’ Still he doesn’t answer and then he slaps him hard on the cheek with his open palm. ‘Wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, forcing himself not to place his hand on the stinging sear of his skin. Rollo takes his bag off his shoulder and starts to rifle though it.

  ‘That’s right, she was,’ Chapman says. ‘A sad smackhead.’ Then as a car goes past, he drapes an arm over his shoulder and says, ‘All right, mate?’ before turning it into a fist-closed thump when he car has gone. ‘And she was supposed to be a real brainbox. Doesn’t sound such a smart arse to me.’

  ‘Livin’ with you, Fat Boy, probably put her head away,’ Rollo says but he still looks only at Chapman and sees that he’s not laughing and there’s a narrowing of his eyes as if he’s scrutinising him and he knows that he’s deciding where to hurt him and he wonders why he hates him so much. There are fat flakes of rust blistering on the railings. He wants to peel them off with his fingers, see what’s underneath, and then he tells himself that if it’s personal he must deserve it for something he’s done, something he is.

  *

  After she gets out of the car he sits a while with the window down, trying to sift out her presence. He turns on the radio but the music is too loud and hurts his head. Only a few people visit the recycling banks and he thinks no one looks at him or notices his presence because they’re so intent on what they’re doing for the world, concentrating on their different parcels and getting them in the right place. He wonders what becomes of the things they leave, what journeys they go on and then he doesn’t know where to go or what to do. The car feels cold and after a while he thinks of Tom and decides to collect him at the end of school, surprise him with a lift home, even talk to him about things, how things are going. He’s neglected him, hasn’t spoken more than a dozen words to him in the last week, needs to give him more. But why does he always find it so hard?

  When he gets to the school he’s just missed the final bell and only a few stragglers are lingering at the gates or waiting for lifts, so he follows Tom’s path home, scanning the footpath for him. At first he doesn’t see the group under the trees until a bag being tossed in the air catches his eye and then he sees him. He’s with his mates. He almost drives on – if he’s with his mates let him be, he gets little enough company. Didn’t even know he had mates. Something about the tight huddle of bodies and the overhanging branches of the trees makes him forget it’s the wrong time of the year and for a second he imagines they’re playing conkers. A boys’ game. But as an arm swings down he gets a closer and clearer view and in seconds he’s braking hard and is out of the car. Rollo sees him first and tries to run but he grabs his collar and throws him against the side of a van, his back and then his head thudding hollowly against its side panel. Leechy has already gone, his black-soled trainers weaving in and out of the parked cars and the traffic. Chapman alone doesn’t move or flinch, but arranges his blazer as if he’s just noticed it’s untidy. With an almost gentle press of his palm, he pushes Tom back out of his face just as if he’s accidentally stood on his toes.

  ‘You all right?’ he asks his son as he sees the red weal on the side of his face for the first time.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Tom says, pushing his glasses on his nose and blowing a stream of breath like he’s just finished a race. But he doesn’t look at him, staring at the pavement as if searching fo
r something he’s dropped. When he goes to touch him lightly, he shrugs it off and tells him again that he’s all right. Behind them there is a sudden burst of movement and the slap of Rollo’s feet on the pavement as he, too, takes his chance to run.

  ‘You don’t look all right, son. Were these guys givin’ you a hard time?’ Tom meets his eyes at last and then glances at Chapman and shakes his head. ‘Looked like it to me and it looks like someone’s just hit you in the face.’ He turns to Chapman, who’s got a thin smile seaming the frozen fix of his face. ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘Yeah. He was slabberin’, mouthin’ off,’ Chapman says calmly, without any show of concern.

  ‘Is that right?’ he asks Chapman gently and then slaps him hard on the cheek, making his head almost jerk off his shoulders.

  ‘Dad don’t, please don’t. Let’s go home,’ Tom begs and in his son’s voice he can hear all his fear and he understands everything about what’s happening. ‘It’s all right, son,’ he says, holding on to Chapman’s lapel.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Chapman shouts, trying to twist and tear himself free like a fish on a hook. Tuck off! Get your hands off!’ But every twist and thresh only screws his grip tighter, and he keeps the boy at a rigid arm’s length.

  ‘So you’ve been givin’ my son a hard time, have you?’

  ‘Everybody gives Fat Boy a hard time,’ Chapman says before suddenly flailing a blow at him. He moves his head backwards and avoids it, feeling only the swish of air on the side of his cheek.

  ‘And I bet no one gives it better than you,’ he says, shaking him back against the railings. ‘Well I’ve something to tell you.’ He pushes him some more as if he’s trying to push him through the railings.

  ‘Dad!’ Tom cries again and he feels his hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him back but he ignores it.

  ‘That’s right, Fat Boy, get him off or you’re dead meat.’