by Mark Tilbury
‘Where’s your dad now?’
‘In the house.’ Where else would he be? On the roof?
‘Oh my God. Call the police, Don.’
Don didn’t argue. He rushed into the living room, no longer looking half asleep.
Rachel wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. I smelled talcum powder and TCP, felt the warmth of her body, the touch of her hand on the top of my back, rubbing me in small circular movements. I bit down hard on my lip, trying to stop the tears.
So much for that. The floodgates opened. My knees buckled. My grief spilled out in great big racking sobs. Snot ran into my mouth.
Rachel pulled me close. Took the weight of my body. Tried her best to soothe me, tell me that things would be all right. But, how could they be? My mummy was dead. My daddy had killed her. I was being punished for all the bad things I’d done. Nicking chicken eggs. Lying. Flicking paper at Tina Eaton in class. Stamping in a puddle and getting muddy water up the backs of her tights. Telling the class idiot, Bobby King, that Tina fancied him. Writing made-up love notes to the pair of them. What had Tina ever done to me? Nothing. Tina Eaton would laugh her head off if she could see me now.
By the time I’d finished crying, my whole body felt empty and hollow. Rachel’s husband told her the police were on their way. ‘Get the boy in the front room and sit him on the sofa.’ And then, quieter, ‘What a mess.’
I sat down on a massive green sofa. So soft. So comfortable. Not like the rock-hard threadbare thing in our house. Oxo sat by my feet, head resting on my knee.
Rachel sat next to me and encouraged me to drink my tea. Told me I needed to keep my strength up. It would be a long night. She asked if I wanted a biscuit.
‘I want my mum back.’
‘I know you do, lovey.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘Let’s see what the police say.’
‘But she’s dead.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Let’s wait and see.’
‘But, what will happen to me?’
She patted my knee. What sort of answer was that? A secret sign language for kids who no longer had parents.
‘What’s going to happen to Oxo?’
‘He can stay here for now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘You promise?’
Rachel did.
We sat in silence until the police arrived. I prayed with all my heart I’d somehow got it all wrong; that my mum was just unconscious, like she’d been so many times before. The police would tell me to go back home. Mum would be fine. Nothing a few days’ rest wouldn’t cure. Everything would be back to normal in a day or two.
Whatever normal was.
Maybe this time Dad would realise he couldn’t keep beating her up. He would stop drinking, get help, see a doctor or something. Things would be different. But, this wasn’t a film or a soap opera on the telly. This was Michael Tate’s life, and good things never happened to liars and cowards, who splashed water up Tina Eaton’s tights, or hid in their bedroom whilst their dad beat their mum to death, and threw her down the stairs.
The police took me out of the house. Oxo followed me to the front door. I clutched my mother’s earring in my right hand. My only source of strength.
Rachel held Oxo by the collar. ‘It’ll be all right, Mikey.’
It wouldn’t. ‘Please take care of him.’
‘Of course I will, lovey.’
I would never see Oxo again. This wasn’t a thought. Not even a feeling. Just an awful pressure squeezing my heart as I looked into his eyes. The most honest eyes I’d ever seen in my life. They said, Hey, I’m your best pal. Don’t you forget it.
And I never did. I’d trust a dog over a human any day of the week.
Chapter Thirteen
The blue flashing light of the police car vanished. Rachel and Oxo, as well. I was back outside the closed door of number “19” again, in the wheelchair, trapped once again inside my useless adult body. The wheelchair turned itself around and headed back towards the darkness of the tunnel.
I tried to process what had just happened. How I’d stepped into a child’s world. So real. So terrifying. We rolled along in the darkness. Me and the invisible pusher. The wheels squeaking rhythmically.
Perhaps it was my mother pushing me. Come back from wherever dead people go to show me what had happened to her. But, why? And what did it have to do with me killing Becky?
Maybe she’s showing you that you turned out to be just like your dad. Showing you how history repeats itself. Only you outdid Billy the Bully by twenty-one stab wounds. No beating about the bush, so-to-speak, for this second-generation killer, Mikey the Murderer.
After a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours, the wheelchair veered left, and headed towards the light again. ‘Where are you taking me?’
The pusher wasn’t saying. I could just make out a large building in the distance. I thought I could hear Oxo whining; a pitiful sound which spoke of sorrow and abandonment.
As my eyes grew accustomed to these new surroundings, I noticed the brick building was a huge, detached place, with a large, central area rising on two levels. It spread out about fifty or sixty feet either side of the central structure. Five windows in each section suggested five separate rooms. A gateway, flanked by two grey, stone pillars, led to a large gravel turnaround area. Grass, with ugly, large, stone ornaments, completed the front of the building.
I half-expected my old man to come lurching across the grass, one fist swinging by his side like a bastard’s promise, the other clutching a beer can. A sudden thought, clear and certain: this was a prison. Either where I was heading, or where my dad was serving his sentence.
An ambulance was parked near the front of the building. Its light revolved, slashing the grass with blue blades of light. A kid was carried out of the central building on a stretcher, young, maybe only nine or ten. Blond hair matted with blood.
A short, fat man in a dark blue suit waddled out of the building, and stood by the rear doors of the ambulance. Two men in dark blue uniforms loaded the kid inside.
One of them slammed the doors shut. ‘What happened to him?’
Fat Man shook his head. ‘I tell them not to run in the corridors. The floors are wet. Do they listen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Do they hell as like. Young fool slipped and went headfirst into the wall.’
The ambulance man gave a knowing nod. ‘Kids don’t have ears for good sense.’
Fat Man mopped sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief. ‘I do my best. But….’
I watched the ambulance pull out of the gravel drive and turn right. It vanished from sight. Fat Man walked towards me. He stopped near the gate and rested a hand on one of the stone pillars. He looked at me. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His dark, curly hair looked either greased or wet. Perhaps both. His blue eyes glinted.
My chest tightened. Who was he? Why did my head feel like it was melting?
He grinned at me. ‘Hello, Michael.’
I tried to look away from those mesmerising eyes, but I couldn’t.
He shook his head. ‘Kids, eh?’
I looked down at my useless legs, and willed them to work. Get me out of that wheelchair.
‘Whatever is the world coming to? Everyone thinks it’s spinning clockwise, but you know as well as I do it spins anti-clockwise.’ As he spoke, he made a circular movement with his index finger, indicating a clock ticking backwards. I’d heard the words before, but couldn’t quite remember where from.
‘Who are you?’
He ignored me. ‘Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Funny how time grows wings, and flies away when you’re having fun, eh, Michael?’
I couldn’t see anything funny about it.
‘Which way does your wheel spin, Michael Tate?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Backwards or forwards? Or is it a job to say when it’s buckled?’
I looked to my left and right. N
othing but black empty walls.
‘I’ve lost count of the kids I’ve seen trying to ride along the road with tyres as flat as pancakes. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I didn’t.
‘Are you a mummy’s boy, Michael?’
I wanted to shout at him, scream at him, tell him my mummy was dead, but he already knew that; it was written in those twinkling blue eyes.
‘Or are you a chip off the old man’s block, Michael? A splinter, perhaps?’
I’m nothing like that bastard. Firm and definite. But, only in my mind. Why was I such a fucking scaredy-cat?
‘You look like you might be trouble, Michael. Trouble with a capital T. So peg back your ears, and listen to what we call a home truth – no one wants you, boy. You’re an outcast. Do you know what an outcast is?’
I did. Only too well. But, I wasn’t a boy anymore.
Fat Man licked his lips. ‘I can’t understand why society would want to waste money on a little runt like you. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
‘I don’t know wh—’ The wheelchair suddenly jerked and turned around. It headed back into the tunnel, wheels squeaking, picking up speed. Ark, ark, ark, like a demented bird. Laughter echoed around the walls. Evil laughter. Taking pleasure from someone else’s suffering. Mine? Probably. Fat Man licked his lips in my mind’s eye. Licked his lips and scolded me with those sharp blue eyes.
We burst into the hospital room. The door slammed back against the wall, loud enough to alert someone at the other end of the hospital, never mind the nurses’ station. I heard the hiss-koosh of a machine. Or was it my breathing? Or my heart? Or both? The wheelchair ground to a halt alongside the bed. The footbrake snapped into place. Those gentle hands helped me out of the chair and back onto the bed.
I watched the wheelchair move back alongside the wall. Brake applied. Seat creaking, as the leather settled. I took several deep breaths and leaned back against my pillows. I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Had I glimpsed my past? Witnessed the murder of my mother? And who was the Fat Man standing at the gates of that big ugly building?
Even in the dim light cast from the corridor, I could still see the emergency door and the red lettering. There was now a new message nestled between My little love-bug and We have to be strong. No one wants you, boy.
I expected the door to burst open any minute and reveal the Fat Man, blue eyes glinting. Thankfully, the door remained closed and bolted, for now. I looked at my hands. The same hands which had touched my mother’s dead body. Held her cold, clammy hand. But, how was that possible? Invisible people didn’t visit you in hospital at night and take you for walks in wheelchairs.
Photographs don’t come to life, either.
I looked at the magazine lying on my locker and resisted an urge to check if the photos were still inside. I didn’t think I’d be able to cope if the bloody things started moving again. I’d had enough drama, real or imagined, for one night. I just wanted to go to sleep and get relief from this waking nightmare.
My right hand was balled into a fist, knuckles gleaming white in the shadowy darkness. I relaxed and uncurled my fingers. At first, I thought I was imagining things.
Sitting in my sweating palm, was my mother’s gold stud earring.
Chapter Fourteen
So hot. Burning. Shaking. Can’t feel my legs. A crowd of people around the bed. Voices. One booming above the others, calling my name. ‘Michael? Can you hear me?’
A thought. Loud and clear. Of course I can hear you, you idiot. You’re shouting loud enough to burst my eardrums.
‘Do you know where you are, Michael?’
That one was easy. Hell. Where else? I tried to answer, but my tongue felt as if it was wrapped around a tree. No, that wasn’t right. Not a tree. Only Oxo’s lead could be wrapped around a tree.
‘Michael?’
I now realised the booming voice belonged to the Fat Man in the dark blue suit. The one standing at the gates of hell. And then darkness engulfed me. Sweet and black and as quiet as death.
A rude intrusion. Light shining in my eyes. Someone slapping my cheek. Soft at first, and then harder. ‘Michael? Can you hear me?’
The words screeched through my head, like fingernails down a blackboard. I tried to open my eyes, but the lids were glued shut.
‘Fetch him some water. He’s coming round.’
The mention of water made my throat spasm. I wanted to go back into the darkness, to the comfort of nothingness.
‘Michael?’ A softer voice. A woman’s gentler tone.
I opened one eye and gawked into the distorted face of Emily. It floated above me like a child’s balloon. ‘Where am I?’
She poked a drinking straw between my lips. ‘You’re in hospital. Have a few sips.’
The water tasted good, as sweet as honey. I sucked for all I was worth.
Emily pulled the straw away. ‘Steady. You don’t want to gulp it, you’ll get stomach cramps.’
My eyes slowly adjusted to my new surroundings. I saw three other beds on the ward. The one next to me and the one opposite were both occupied. The one near the window was empty. The empty bed made me think of death.
I grappled with reality. Remembered my last trip out in the wheelchair. The murder of my mother. The big building, with Fat Man at the gates. My mother’s earring. ‘What happened? Why have I been moved here?’
‘You were delirious.’
‘Come again?’
She smiled. ‘Away with the fairies for the best part of two days, Michael.’
‘Why?’
Emily shrugged. ‘We’re not sure. It might have been drug withdrawal; it might have been an infection. Maybe both. Your temperature’s much more stable now. You don’t seem to be hallucinating anymore.’
‘Hallucinating?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s common. You were seeing some pretty weird things.’
‘Like what?’
‘A fat man in a blue suit.’
My heart stood still. ‘What did he look like?’
‘I don’t know, Michael. It was your hallucination. You kept yelling for someone to stop him. Said he was going to take you into a tunnel. Back to the building with the stone pillars.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You said something about a boiler room.’
This threw me completely. I remembered nothing about a boiler room.
‘At one point, you thought Dr. Prendergast was your father. Said he was going to take you home to kill your mother. Then, you giggled hysterically, as if he’d just told you the funniest joke ever.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Oh, and you kept asking for Oxo. Who’s Oxo?’
An image of the dog flashed in my mind, head resting on my knee, alert brown eyes watching my every move, tail sweeping the floor like a turbo-charged broom. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You said you missed him.’
‘Really?’ I didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation about what may or may not have happened beyond the emergency door. I’d already got Emily to touch the wall once. Satisfy my curiosity. If I started babbling on about trips along a pitch-dark tunnel to a terraced house and beyond, she would probably mark me down as a total nutter, and recommend they shoot me full of sedative.
‘You cried. Sobbed your heart out. Insisted someone had to save him. Are you sure the name means nothing?’
‘No.’
‘Weird name – Oxo.’
‘Maybe I was dreaming about gravy.’
Emily laughed. ‘You seemed pretty adamant Oxo needed rescuing.’
I assured her again the name meant nothing.
‘You might remember something in time. I reckon you might be experiencing memory flashes.’
‘Did I say anything else?’
‘Not while I was around. Only gobbledegook. You kept saying my little love-bug, over and over. Mostly, you just drifted in and out of consciousness. Your temperature went through the roof at one point; that’s w
hen the doctor moved you here to keep a better eye on you.’
‘Will I ever go back to my old room?’
Emily shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is something wrong?’
She didn’t answer for a moment. When she did, her voice was hesitant. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Michael. It’s just that I overheard Detective Inspector Carver talking to the Doctor. He reckons they’re going to transfer you to a remand centre soon.’
Just the mention of Carver’s name made my stomach loop-the-loop. ‘Did he say when?’
‘No. But, I got the impression they want you out of here as soon as possible.’
What could I say to that? I don’t want to go? Please save me from the evil policeman?
‘Oh, before I forget, I found this on the floor.’ She held my mother’s gold earring out for inspection. ‘Do you recognise it?’
‘It belonged to my mother.’ And then, hurriedly, ‘Jimmy brought it in.’ What else could I say? I brought it back with me after witnessing her murder?
She didn’t look convinced. ‘Oh.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘Of course.’ As she dropped it into my palm, her fingers brushed against my skin. A tiny electric shock passed through me. I watched her go. She didn’t so much as walk along the ward as glide.
The thought of being moved to a remand centre filled me with dread. Carver would have free rein to torture me, set people on me, make my life a living hell. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I wouldn’t have access to the emergency door and the tunnel anymore. I didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse, but a tiny part of me believed the truth lay beyond that door. If I left the hospital, I would never know.
Perhaps I could feign an illness, buy some time, pretend to hallucinate, and talk rubbish. It might be worth a try. Anything was better than being released into the care of Carver and his cronies.
I looked at the earring – tangible proof I had really gone through that tunnel to Whitehead Street and been transformed into a boy. I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. As real as the man next to me. The vase of flowers by his bed. The black woman sweeping the floor. The old woman opposite, propped up on her pillows, mouth open, eyes closed.