by Claire Davis
He blinked.
Back in the car park, Oskar waited for Bear to shout or hit back. People always hit back in Brinsted Gardens. Suddenly he was gagging and throwing up from bile, weariness, snot and tears. Again, Bear tried to reach out and Oskar batted him away. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like two voices cried and shouted.
He watched Bear walk away quickly, back to the hostel.
****
He was aware of the wind and sounds of cars but vaguely, somewhere else. People walked around, close enough to touch. He blinked and let his shoulders collapse. A few years ago, the doctor called them flashbacks. He saw a counsellor—Mrs. Baker—at school and even though he lied about everything, still they gradually went away. Mrs. Baker had said his brain was dealing with incidents from the past, things he hadn’t understood at the time. She said memories were like books on shelves, waiting to be read, and sometimes the books you threw up too high to reach would eventually fall down on your head.
He ran towards the doors to the hostel, straight past Pink-and-White and Moira.
“Oskar? You OK?” they called.
“Fine. Just—things I forgot,” he yelled, shooting past into the hostel. It was empty, so he slipped straight into the disabled loo and bolted the door, forehead clammy and cold. He pressed the play button with trembling fingers and sobbed into the microphone. “This—look what you did to me! It has to stop. Understand? I can’t start doing that flashback shit again. I’m not coming again, OK? Not again. It’s no good for me! See? The past is best left. I can cope now. I’m miles away, and anyway, it’s all over.”
The tears fell, and then there was no stopping. He brought his legs up onto the chair and rocked. Mum, Morris, the hospital and the courtroom went round and round his head like a swarm of angry bees.
And at the back of his mind, swiftly moving to the front, was Bear’s face. The shove wouldn’t have hurt much. Oskar had been pushed and punched enough times to know the difference between a blow that bruised and one that didn’t. He thought of the shock and hurt, and then resignation as Bear turned away.
“Coming here did this! You and your fucking songs, Morris. You and your…happy face and pathetic jokes. Telling me I was special! What were you thinking? At least Mum knew better.” He kicked the desk.
“Hello, and thank you for listening in. Have you ever loved someone with a temper? Like maybe your own mum? Every time believed her when she said it would be the last time. Have you? Well, it’s shit. Utter shitbags. ’Cause there’s always another time, and then another. Hiding under the bed when I heard her hitting you, and then afterwards you’d say it wasn’t her fault. What were you thinking, Dad?” He rocked on the chair. “It was her fault and how could you tell me it wasn’t?” His words became lost in a torrent of pain that left him exhausted. “Hospital radio. Remember when Morris and me came here every weekend, always cheery. Always a smile. Do you? Well, here’s the thing—sometimes that smile was false. Even the happiest people can be dying inside.” He switched off, “Not coming again,” then on again. “I miss you so much, Dad. I miss you.”
Chapter 9: Music is Love in Search of a Word
Gareth
Dear Dad,
Can I even call you that anymore? I mean, you’re not much of one.
Your son
P.S.
Sorry.
P.P.S.
I’m not sorry!
Maybe you’re in a coma, stuck in a world of needles and drips like that time we don’t talk about (the overdose or whatever it was). And all that’s keeping you alive is my letters. Is that bad? That I hope you’re in a coma rather than just making another movie, like always?
Not much time until exams now, but I’ve shot up in my grades. I’ll never be any good at writing essays, but I do OK with the subjects I’m going to need for college. ’Cause that’s what I want. At least, I think so. I have to want something, right? Otherwise what’s the point in getting up every day to those idiots plastering my clothes with toothpaste, and no Bubble to stroke? I’m really angry, Dad, that you haven’t even bothered to let me know about my cat. Angry and sad. And yeah, I did try to run off again yesterday, and you know why?
Because I don’t know what happened to him! Did you even remember him when you went jetting off to the USA or wherever? I have nightmares of my little cat starving to death and trying to get in the house to me. It makes me throw up, and I mean that literally. Throw up after I stuff as much food as I can find down my throat. It’s gross. I hate it and I hate myself, but I hate you more.
I got quite a long way, Dad. I used my compass and map. They found me, like always, and now I’m not allowed off school grounds without a teacher. I had a shouting fit—and you know how I never shout. Can you name me one time I shouted? Then I cried—remember how I never cry? I cried so hard they all went quiet and gave me that look like I’m an alien. One of them even tried to hug me, and I pushed them off because I thought—what if I end up spilling everything? Once you start crying, it’s the end of keeping it all in.
So I just shut up. And afterwards, my teacher said they keep trying to contact you but you don’t answer. He said he understood I was worried and it’s their responsibility to keep me safe. I guess they felt sorry for me because I’m such a no-hoper. Oh, I could still leave if I wanted. I could just walk right out and get the train home. You know why I don’t?
Because you made me promise to wait here until you called. Remember? Just stay until I’m feeling more myself, you said. Remember? Then we can spend more time together. And where would I go, huh? And also I guess I don’t leave because I know you hate me.
I’m getting back to college now because all this talk is getting me upset.
So, college. I probably won’t make the grades but I can do what’s called a foundation year where you catch up to the necessary standard. A college has accepted me. Did I tell you that? I explained my schooling had been interrupted because of moving around a lot, and I can start in September. To be honest, all that keeps me going is knowing I’ll be out of here and even if you never see me again, I have somewhere to go. Mr. Green showed me how to apply for funding and loans, which is funny when you think my dad is a millionaire.
Zoology. That’s what I’m going to study.
Love from your son.
P.P.P.S. If you’re in a coma, I guess I don’t have to worry about the vitamins.
What does P.S. even mean?
****
Oskar
He was going to bang on Bear’s door; bang and kick until it opened. Go inside and say sorry, because he wasn’t like Mum. Oskar Braithwaite did not go about shoving people and shouting. Years of hiding under the bed wearing earplugs was all the violence he could take. So yeah, he was going in to see Bear and explain.
Right after drinking the vodka.
“You ever done tequila slammers?”
Pink-and-White giggled, cheeks red from walking up the hill to the hostel. Oskar had an unexpected exhaust backfiring moment. He liked her. He never liked anyone. People were out for themselves, couldn’t be trusted. They were nice to you only as long as necessary before buggering off. “Never. What is it?”
He leaned forward so they were closer on the sofa, and whispered, “It’s extremely dangerous.”
“What? Tell me?” She plonked the bottle of tequila on the table next to Oskar’s vodka and Carol Headscarf’s cider. “Stella says she might come.”
He ignored the reference to the queen of darkness. “We will need salt, lime, hair crimpers and hairspray.”
“Hairspray?” She squealed. Yup, he definitely liked her.
“And black clothes. But I don’t need to tell you that, I’m sure.” He nodded meaningfully at her hand-knitted yellow jumper.
“Oh! We’re going out after?” She jumped up and began bouncing. “But it’s not Friday. You never drink in the week.”
“Normally that is correct, Pink.”
“Paula.”
“Pink suits you better. Tod
ay is a special occasion.” It was a Thursday, with no lectures the next day. Even with heart bleeding and soul in strips, he knew when it was safe to get plastered without jeopardising his academic brilliance.
“Why don’t you ever call people by their real names?”
“Special how?” Carol HS swigged from the bottle of cider. “Pink does suit you. He’s right.”
“Use a glass, will you?” Oskar shuddered. No way would he be having any of that cider. Today was special because he fully intended to make up with Bear—make up properly with explanations and words. A few drinks before apologising, because he was a magnanimous person with tremendous capacity for personal growth. And because—because—because—his arms ached to be around Bear’s neck. “Special ’cause it’s time.” He stopped dramatically.
Stella-Artois appeared like a zombie to a feast. “Time to get shitfaced, man,” she said. “Has anyone seen some letters of mine?”
“Time to show ourselves…” Oskar said hurriedly.
“Oh, that sounds good! You promised us you’d come to the union and that was weeks ago!”
“Yeah!”
They gathered around the sofa. “I’ve been busy,” he said grudgingly. And he had. Every day, lectures then library where it was easier to study. An occasional lunch with Bear then back to the hostel for more studying, interspersed with flirtation.
“Why do you have to work so hard? I couldn’t give a fuck as long as I get through.” Carol burped.
Because the more work, the less time for thinking. “It’s what we’re here for,” he said flatly. Suddenly an expensive night out with students didn’t seem such a good idea. Money—money—always came back to the filthy lucre. Try as he might, Oskar couldn’t help comparing costs against the unpaid bills back at home. By now, the landlord had probably been round to see why the rent hadn’t been paid. “Is it warm in here or is it me?”
“No, Oskar’s right. But you can have a night off sometimes. Tell us how to do the slammers?”
If he went home now, there would be shit extravaganza of an unprecedented level. The fridge would be full of old food. People in the other flats would still be waiting. With no-one to wash the graffiti off daily, the windows would be sprayed with the words grass and scum. He grabbed the tequila bottle. “OK. You need salt on one hand, lime on the other and tequila shots lined up.”
“That’s disgusting. Salt?”
“Yeah. All ready?” he asked gaily. “Tip the salt on last.” He looked for songs on his tablet as Pink prepared the shots. “What era do we need?”
“80s!”
“Yeah!”
“Retro!”
“What’s so good about the 80s?” Stella-Artois glared, but somehow he didn’t mind her so much, not with one of Josh’s letters shoved in his pocket.
“Down!” he ordered. The sharp mix of salt and lime stung. Not enough to obliterate images of red writing on the windows. “Knock it back!” But they had two bottles and the night was young. He spluttered as the liquid burnt. “Four more then we dress to impress.” They lined up more shots and began necking them back.
“This is so exciting. Will you do my hair again?” Pink’s face was red from the vodka.
“And mine?”
“We will join a common cause. That of looking fabulous.” Oskar hiccupped. “Who is with me?” The more he thought through the booze, the more Bear had been to blame for the…what was actually no more than a tiny poke with one finger. If he hadn’t been standing there looking at Oskar like that, none of it would have happened. “My room!” he stood and shouted. “Meet there in ten—wearing black. All black and no pink.”
Once in his room, the pop stars glared down accusingly. “Wasn’t my fault. Not really,” he told Simon. “How was it my fault?”
“Extra make-up,” Simon said soothingly. “Drink up.”
“Shots!” Pink screamed.
****
Oskar opened one eye carefully. Either he was still dancing in the union surrounded by girls with crimped hair, or he was lying on Bear’s bed. On the floor, Bear was fast asleep on a sleeping bag. Sunlight crept underneath the curtains. Somehow the night was over although he didn’t remember most of it.
In the quiet of morning, Bear was gorgeous, too gorgeous to contemplate. Too gorgeous to have. He snored, face slightly bristled. A curled hand was up by his nose. Long lashes lay against his cheeks. It hurt to look, so Oskar closed his eyes and tried very hard not to exist. Five seconds later, he looked again. “Did I say sorry?”
The sleeping form murmured half-words followed by a sneeze. “Do you need the bucket again?” Brown eyes blinked. Oskar pretended to be asleep. The room was quiet except for the birds outside. He left it a few minutes, then squinted to check Bear had fallen back to sleep. Bear grinned. “Morning. How do you feel?”
“I’m still ’sleep,” Oskar said, mortified.
“But you’re talking.”
“No I’m not.”
“OK.”
“I can’t sleep now. Not with you watching me like a perv.”
From the corner of one eye, Oskar watched Bear and the sleeping bag shuffle nearer to the bed until there was no space between them. “Is that what pervs do? Watch people get shitfaced and dance, then let them sleep in their bed because they’ve thrown up all over their own?”
“I did not!” Oskar sat up indignantly. The room moved. “Oh god. Bucket?” He gave way to acid throat and vomit, aware of hands stroking his back. Finally a tissue was shoved under his nose.
“Here you go. You want some water?”
“I feel terrible,” Oskar moaned. “I’m gonna die.” Hands gently propelled him back on the pillow, and lifted his feet back to the mattress.
“I know. Lie back down. Don’t move for a bit.”
“I have to go back to Brinsted. I can’t stay here,” Oskar suddenly sobbed. He never cried in front of other people, not ever. “It’s just the booze.”
“Sure it is,” Bear said softly, stroking the hair from Oskar’s face. It felt nice, so nice that he sobbed more.
“My mum’s in shit.”
“That’s terrible. You poor thing.” Bear carried on stroking and soothing. “I knew it was something bad.”
There were more thoughts which didn’t transfer into words, and some that did. “Mum. She—she had to go away.”
“It’s OK. You mean rehab?”
“Rehab?” Oskar was momentarily shocked.
Bear nodded sadly. “I know about rehab, Oskar. Rehab, prison, hospital. I know about all of them. I wish I didn’t—but I do.”
Silence was broken up by the birds outside, and then Oskar’s tears. “No-one else to deal with it except me. I wasn’t gonna come,” he sobbed. “I shouldn’t have come.” And then he was in Bear’s arms, right where he’d wanted to be since the day they met at the train station. The arms got tighter as the sobs turned into raw, heaving pain.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t live all your life in the shadow of your parents, it’s not right. You poor baby.”
Oskar inched his head up until it was against Bear’s. His hair fell over them both and his mouth was sour like lemons. “Did I?” he whispered into Bear’s ear.
“Did you what?” Bear said against Oskar’s neck.
“Say sorry.”
Bear laughed. “First you almost kicked my door in, and then shouted for ages.”
“No! Please tell me I didn’t?” Oskar snuggled nearer until there was no space at all between their bodies. “But we went to the union. I didn’t shout. I never shout.”
“Well, the others went out, yes. You stayed behind, disappeared into the disabled bathroom for hours then crawled out on all fours to my door.”
“But how do you know I was on all fours if you were inside your room?”
Bear’s laughter crept along Oskar’s chin and down his neck. “Wasn’t in my room all night. I went into the lounge to watch TV. There I was—watching Bear Grylls—” he paused to slip a hand under Oskar’s
hair “—when I heard this noise from the corridor. So I peeped out and saw you—crawling. All fours! Throwing up. You’re no drinker, Oskar Braithwaite. Are you all right? I didn’t know what to say to you in the car park. I’m sorry I left you there. I went back to look for you, but by then, you’d disappeared. Are you OK?”
“Yeah.” Oskar hid in Bear’s neck. “Just—things got too much for me.”
“I could see that. You said a little about it last night—about studying stress and leaving home.”
“But no sorry?” Being lame shouldn’t have felt so good. He’d spilled a load of stuff to a boy he hardly knew and now was being cuddled. The word feeble did not scratch the surface of the depths to which he had plummeted. Tentatively, he stroked Bear’s back. It was hard and bumpy. He stroked more.
“That’s nice,” Bear murmured. “I’m not sure. You talked for hours but it wasn’t really words.” His mouth was close to Oskar’s. “You are very contrary! Do you know that?”
Did he ever.
“I’m sorry, then. Sorry for pushing you and for being an arse. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.” Not really. The laxatives and homemade flour bombs didn’t count because they were self-defence. “I would never hit anyone. It’s dumb and cowardly and shit and no sympathy whatsoever for anyone who does that and they should get help.” He gasped for breath. Bear’s body had gone still, like he was waiting. “I’ve never even hurt an insect.”
“Yes, you have. You told me all about it last night—about the neighbours’ kids and how you put laxative chocolate in their school bags.”
“I never did.”
“Yes. And you told me about sticking bananas up their car exhausts. Oh, and not forgetting the dog poop in the letterbox.”
“Oh my god.” Oskar died, actually right there in Bear’s arms. “I am laid bare at your feet.”
“Mm. And then you got amorous.”
“No!”
“Said you fancy the pants off me. You tried to kiss me.”
“Is there any way I can shut you up?”