She looks to her right at the old poster she Blutacked on to the back of the closed bedroom door. The album artwork for The Low End Theory.
The green painted letters running down the back of the body made up of wavy red lines. She remembers staring at the same picture on Dad’s CD as the album played on Sunday mornings.
She reaches for the old suitcase to her left that she dragged from the spare room earlier. Sliding the brass locks, she pops the clasps up and lifts the lid. Pieces of paper, letters and old photographs spill out on the floor.
Pressing the top of the bulging pile with her left hand, stopping the flow, she fishes inside with her right like she’s choosing tickets in a raffle.
She feels the bumps of something stuck to paper and pulls it out on to her lap. The two stick-figure characters are drawn in rough blue and green crayon and have tubes of pasta stuck on to their limbs. Next to them more pasta tubes form the trunk of an out of proportion palm tree, its leaves the same size as the giant smiling heads next to it. Underneath them, against the pink sugar-paper background, the words Mom and Dad are written in writing that looks like somebody penned while riding a roller coaster. Ameliah reads her own name in the same warped letters in the bottom right corner.
She runs her fingertip along each of Dad’s huge sausage fingers and remembers the picture on the fridge in the old house.
She remembers Mom pinning it on to the smooth white of the door with two magnets shaped like bottle tops and pulling her into a hug, kissing her temple. Mom always held hugs that little bit extra, just enough for you to know that she meant it.
Ameliah glances at her watch: 22:58 in black against the dark green background. It’s late and she should probably sleep.
The old stereo speakers mumble words. Ameliah pricks her ears, hearing something new. The hiss covers the voice again. Ameliah gets up, dropping Mom and Dad on the floor next to her. The fountain of old papers gushes over the edge of the suitcase and on to the carpet as she moves to the stereo, presses stop then rewind. The tape squeaks as the spools spin in reverse. She clicks stop, grabs the pen from next to her lamp and presses play. The static starts and Ameliah leans in to try and discern the word. The muffled voice sounds like the cycle of a distant washing machine, the beat of low syllables on a slow cycle, then:
— I don’t know, I was just trying to do something. I don’t think he even realises how much he ruins things.
Ameliah stares at the chipped speaker nearest to her face.
Why hasn’t she heard this before? Why can’t she hear it all?
She reaches for the shoebox lid and stares at the words in dark ink. As the hissing static continues, she stares into space, tapping the cardboard lid with the end of her pen, the felt tip blotching blurred circles every time it connects.
— Who are you?
She shakes her head as she speaks, ready to laugh at herself, and then the speaker answers:
— Who, me?
The air inside the car was thick with the lingering argument from dinner. Sophia stared straight ahead as she drove. Ryan looked at the back of Dad’s head in front of him, slumped heavy on his palm, trapping his hand against the glass. He imagined the view from high above them. The car’s headlights becoming the blip of a homing device on the screen of some government agency keeping tabs on their whereabouts.
Behind Sophia, Nathan stared out of his window, grinding his teeth, his empty hands balling fists and releasing them over and over.
Ryan stared at the fold-down armrest. The dark brown felt looked like grizzly bear skin. He knew that there were people who were experts at saying something at times like this. People who had the kind of timing and judgement to completely lift the weight of a ruined celebration off everyone’s shoulders. People like Mom.
Mom would’ve made some joke about still having corn in her teeth that she was saving for supper or a comment about their waiter’s walk that would make everyone smile, reluctantly at first, but once the dam had been broken with that first smirk, the atmosphere would lift and pretty soon everyone in the car would be laughing from their bellies.
Ryan thought of Mom’s voice. The way words would just fall out of her mouth. Tumbling into the air, ready to make things better.
He thought about Eve. Her voice. How her accent had hit him in the park and how similar it was. He wondered whether Ireland only made perfect girls then remembered Tracey Cunnane from school and scrapped his theory.
He looked into the rear-view mirror. Sophia’s eyes reflected the amber glow of an oncoming car then faded. He couldn’t make out whether she was welling up or if it was just the light.
Sophia glanced in the mirror and their eyes met.
Ryan looked down. Sophia stared back at the road.
Ryan looked across at Nathan, the cause of the tension. His birthday meal ruined by his pushing the limits of what he could say to get a reaction. Dad switching to whisky and drinking quicker to avoid retaliating. Sophia torn between blowing her lid in a public place and trying to save the meal.
Ryan wondered whether Nathan felt bad. Whether he behaved like he did in the moment and then felt guilty as he lay in bed, or if this was some kind of evil master plan to sabotage everything.
Whichever it was, it was clear to Ryan that Nathan was angry, and if he didn’t think it would earn him a punch in the ribs and a headlock, he told himself he’d ask him why.
As the car turned into their street, Ryan was hit with a compulsion to rescue things. He racked his brain, trying to channel the essence of Mom. What would she say? Something funny. Something perfect. He felt his moment slipping as Sophia pulled the car up outside their house and switched off the engine. Dad groaned and slowly raised his head.
The car fell silent. Ryan took a deep breath, his mind drawing a complete blank, then, from nowhere:
— Phew. Anyone else really need a poo?
Everyone turned and stared at Ryan with an equal mix of confusion and disgust. Ryan cracked a weak smile and made a mental note to never try and be Mom again.
In his room, Ryan stared at the small red recording light on his boom box. The tiny teeth of the tape reels rotating like miniature hubcaps as he spoke.
— It was pretty bad, Mom. Dad wanted to say something, but he just drank more and more instead. Nathan’s such an idiot. How can someone be such an idiot? I had a burger. The car ride was proper moody. It’s his fault. Then I had to go and open my mouth. I don’t know, I was just trying to do something. I don’t think he even realises how much he ruins things, you know?
He let out a long sigh and glanced at his radio alarm clock. The boom box hummed, still recording.
— Anyway, it’s nearly eleven, Mom. I’m tired, I’m gonna go.
— Who are you?
Ryan felt his stomach drop. The voice of a girl. He looked over his shoulder. His room felt suddenly alive in the lamplight. He told himself to stop being stupid, that didn’t just happen, but he couldn’t let it go. He leaned in towards the speaker.
— Who, me?
The speakers crackled then there was just the hum of the tape. Ryan waited. Nothing. He sat up, scrunching up his face then shaking his head as he remembered Dad saying the first sign of madness was hearing voices. He puffed out his cheeks and pressed stop, watching the red light fade with the speakers’ hum. He looked round the room again then lay down on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and told himself that he’d seen one too many science-fiction films.
Ameliah stares at the stereo. The tiny red light is on and she notices that the button next to play is pressed too. She must’ve accidentally pushed record and play together. She shivers and stabs the stop button with her finger. She feels the hairs on her arm stand up as the two buttons click off and the red light fades.
She looks round the room. The door is shut and the old suitcase under the window is partially buried by old papers and photos.
She thinks about what she told Simone and the others yesterday in the park, Dad’s story about hea
ring a voice, and tells herself that her brain is playing games. She raps the top of her head with her knuckles like she’s knocking on a door.
— I’m not stupid, you know. It’s all just suggestion, I’ve seen David Blaine.
Her voice is eaten by the silence. She stares again at the stereo and feels her fingers reaching for the buttons. She is sure that didn’t just happen, but her blood is bubbling with curiosity. She breathes in and, with her index and middle finger, presses record and play at the same time. As the plastic buttons depress, the red light comes on again. The speakers hum into life. Ameliah waits. Nothing but the hum. She leans closer.
— Hello? Is anyone there?
Her eyes drift across the room to the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. She looks at herself, the dark rings under her eyes, leaning into the old stereo like an elderly woman trying to hear the news, and smiles as she speaks.
— What the hell are you doing?
Her reflection shakes its head and she presses stop. The hum dies and she lies back on to her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She feels her head sink into the pillow and her hair as she sighs and tells herself that she probably needs a hobby.
Ryan stared at the doorbell then at the letter box. It was still early and he knew that the doorbell might wake Liam’s dad, but that quietly knocking the letter box had left him standing on the doorstep for ages before.
He thought about the voice on the tape last night, picturing himself telling Liam, and Liam’s big face curling into a smile as he laughed at him. He hadn’t heard anything. Nothing real anyway.
Shaking his head, he looked up at the house and wished there was a better way to let Liam know he was here but, as Liam’s room was at the back and the street was terraced houses all along, there really wasn’t much he could do besides scaling the drainpipe, climbing over the roof and abseiling down to Liam’s window.
He psyched himself up to press the bell quickly, one short blast that Liam would hear but wouldn’t wake his dad.
Breathing out a long sigh, he raised his finger just as the front door opened and Jason stepped out.
Ryan stared up at Liam’s older brother. Jason was nineteen and had the face of a man on top of his giant muscular body. His large T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, beanie hat pulled down over his shaved head. He smiled at Ryan.
— Good timing, littlun.
Jason’s voice sounded like the man who speaks over film trailers, gravelly and strong, and fitted his body perfectly. He pulled his paint-splattered rucksack on to his shoulders as he passed Ryan on his way to the front gate. Ryan nodded a nervous smile. Jason was pretty much cool in a can. He worked in a factory that made car parts, and ran the under-sixteens football team at the working men’s club on a Saturday, and always called Ryan ‘littlun’. Even though it wasn’t the most complimentary nickname, Ryan was still glad he’d been given it.
Jason slid his headphones over his ears and pointed with his thumb.
— He’s upstairs trying to rap.
Ryan smiled and rolled his eyes.
— Thanks, Jayce. What you listening to?
Jason didn’t hear as he headed out of the gate, on his way to make machines.
Ryan eased the door shut and tiptoed along the dark hallway towards the stairs. The top half of the walls had raised floral wallpaper, separated from the deep green of the painted bottom half by a thin strip of varnished wood.
Liam’s house always smelled like it had just been hoovered as his mom was obsessed with Shake n’ Vac. Ryan breathed in the mountain-fresh fragrance as he climbed the stairs. At the top, he stared at the door to Liam’s parents’ room down the landing. Halfway along, the bathroom door was open and light from the window cut a strip on to the dark floor like a warning barrier. Ryan lifted his weight up on to his toes and crept round the banister to the right.
As he passed Mary’s room, he heard the sound of strummed guitar chords from inside. He stared at the poster on her door. The baby swimming underwater next to the word Nevermind. The strumming guitar turned horrible then stopped and he heard what sounded like two giggling voices from inside.
He quickly moved away, knocking lightly on Liam’s bedroom door next to a hole roughly the size of a fist. The door stayed shut. Ryan pressed his ear to the painted wood, trying to hear sounds of life, just as Liam, wearing an emerald green dressing gown, pulled it open. Ryan fell forward, saving himself with his foot.
— Jesus! L—
— Sshhhhhhh.
Liam grabbed Ryan by the shoulder, looking past him into the hall, and pulled him into the room. Closing the door, he pushed Ryan up against it, pressing his thick finger against his closed lips.
— Quiet, man!
He broke into a smile and let Ryan go, walking over to his unmade single bed and sitting down.
— They’ll hear you.
Ryan straightened his jumper and scanned the room. The balding blue carpet was covered in strewn clothes and magazines. On the left next to the window, a small fish tank sat on top of a cheap white desk. Sun shone through the water and glass, rippling light on Liam’s legs as he sat.
Above Liam’s pillow, a large poster showed a man in a kilt looking angry, holding a sword, above the word Highlander. To the right, the flesh-coloured plaster of the unpainted wall opposite the window was covered in attempts at graffiti letters and tags, a huge wonky purple letter ‘L’ the centrepiece.
Ryan slumped on to an old red beanbag on the floor near the door.
Liam’s face looked excited.
— Ask me who?
Ryan looked at him.
— What?
— Ask me who’ll hear.
Ryan shrugged his shoulders.
— What are you talking about, man? I was quiet. I tiptoed up the stairs. I stepped over the creaky bit on the landing—
— No. I mean in there.
Liam pointed to the wall behind Ryan’s head, his eyes dancing. Ryan stared at him.
— Mary?
Liam shook his head, his smile widening.
— She’s here.
He whispered the words, covering his mouth with his left hand, jabbing a point at the wall with his right.
— Your girl. Eve. She stopped the night.
Ryan felt his stomach flip over like a fish on the pavement. His eyes widened.
— What?!
Liam bit his bottom lip.
— She stopped the night. I didn’t even know she was here till I came up to bed and heard them talking.
Ryan sat up and stared at the wall. He tried to imagine Eve in the next room, sitting with Mary on her bed, listening to Nirvana.
— Are you serious?! Don’t mess me around, Liam.
— I’m not messing you around. She’s in there now. How about that for mission accomplished?
Ryan stood up and moved to the wall, leaning in until his ear touched the cool smooth wallpaper.
— I can’t hear anything.
— Here.
Liam held out an empty pint glass.
— Use this.
Ryan took the glass and placed it against the wall, pressing his ear to the bottom.
— I can hear the sea.
Liam shook his head.
— Give it a sec. You have to concentrate. It’s like tuning in. Close your eyes.
Ryan closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought he could make out the murmur of voices. He saw Eve’s face in his mind. Her dark hair framing her face. Her green eyes staring straight at him. He lowered the glass, smiling. Just knowing she was the width of a wall away felt amazing.
— So what are you going to do?
Liam stared straight at him. Ryan narrowed his eyes.
— What do you mean?
— I mean what are you going to do? You have to do something, right? This is some kind of sign. It has to be.
Ryan moved over to the bed. Liam shuffled along, making room for him to sit down.
— What do you expect me to do? Knock on the door an
d invite myself in? Hey, ladies, what you listening to? Nirvana? Cool, yeah, I play a bit of guitar myself and blah blah blah blah blah. I’m not gonna do anything.
Liam frowned.
— Ryan. She’s right next door. This is too much of a coincidence. Now grow some balls and go lay it down.
Ryan felt butterflies in his stomach.
— Shut up, man.
— I’m serious. She’s there, man, on a plate, I mean she’s probably still in her pyjamas and everything. I wonder what pyjamas she’s got? I bet they’re really skimpy and—
— Shut up! I can’t think.
Ryan stared across at the fish tank. Lines of sunlight cutting through into the room.
— You said she stopped the night?
— Yeah.
— OK, so her and Mary must be pretty close already.
— I guess so.
— Right, so there’s no rush. There’s no need to mess things up. We can just take our time and figure it out.
Liam shook his head.
— You may as well have a beak and white feathers.
Ryan looked at him, confused. Liam bent his arms, pushing his hands into his armpits.
— Why don’t you fly a bit, Mr Chicken?
He flapped his pretend wings. Ryan shook his head.
— Chickens don’t fly, you idiot.
Liam’s face dropped.
— But they’ve got wings.
Ryan smiled.
— So have ostriches, and penguins. Have they had breakfast?
— Not even a little bit?
— No, trust me. They just run around and lay eggs, now have they had breakfast?
— Erm, I don’t think so. They weren’t awake when I got up and I haven’t heard them leave the room.
Ryan’s face lit up.
— Perfect. OK, so sooner or later they’ll have to eat. They’ll go downstairs for food and that’s when we stroll through on our way out and say hi, real cool like.
Liam leaned forward.
— OK, good, then what?
— Then what what?
Tape Page 6