Dream Machine

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Dream Machine Page 34

by Will Davis


  Just then my heart skips a beat because there at the end of the drive a figure is being let through the gates. It’s got a pushchair and I know instantly that it’s Joni. Even though you’re supposed to check with someone first if you’re going to go outside I can’t wait, so I push the sliding door open and start running up the drive to meet her. I call out as I get closer. Joni looks a bit surprised when I throw myself into her arms. Then she starts laughing and hugging me tightly back.

  ‘All right?’ she says after a bit, pulling back. ‘Let’s have a squiz at you.’

  She pretends to admire the punky haircut Susan gave me while I was asleep, then grabs at my midsection like she’s checking to see if I’ve been eating enough and shakes her head and tells me I’m way too thin. I have a look at her. She’s got a new hairdo too, a sharp bob with amber lowlights, and is wearing a pale pink jersey and an ankle-length white skirt with two pleats down either side. I’m so behind on fashion these days it’s embarrassing, since the magazines we get delivered are always out of date, but I’m surprised at how chic she looks. It’s still Joni though. I look down at the pushchair. Strapped into the seat is this massive fat child in a little blue and green tracksuit with an orange baseball cap wedged over his big head.

  ‘This is Baby,’ says Joni. ‘Baby, say hello to Ella.’

  Baby just stares at me. Children frighten me, but for Joni’s sake I crouch beside him and say hello in the sort of soppy voice that always comes out automatically when you talk to small kids. From the look on Baby’s face it’s as if he’s trying to figure out what species I belong to, but I act like I find him adorable, pretending to adjust his cap, and at least he doesn’t start crying.

  ‘He’s nearly three,’ Joni tells me proudly.

  I tell her he’s cute and she beams at me like I’ve just told her he’s a genius. We start walking up towards the house. Joni can’t get over the size of the place, and keeps joking if there are ever any vacancies to send her the application form. But I can see she’s the tiniest bit unnerved really. That’s to be expected, Holly says, because for most people coming here means stepping outside their comfort zone.

  Since it’s a nice afternoon instead of going in we take the path that winds round the side and leads across the grounds, past the tennis courts.

  ‘Fuck me!’ shouts Joni. ‘You’ve got tennis courts? What the fuck is this place? There a jacuzzi somewhere round here too?’

  I realise she’s serious and I can’t help laughing at her. She grins and starts to tell me about her life in Reading. She says she’s finally moved out of her mum’s place and into a flat of her own in another area, and that it’s nice because there’s a couple of other mums on the same block and they all help each other out with the kids and share the cost of a babysitter when they want a night out. Every few minutes she leans down and checks on Baby as if making sure he’s still there, like she thinks he’s going to have undone his belt and bolted while she wasn’t looking. It reminds me of how she looked after me during the competition. You can see that she really loves him, and that she doesn’t even care if he is fat.

  I nod to everything she says and try to seem interested, but after a bit we fall silent. I was looking forward to showing her around and telling her what I’d been up to. I’d even planned to give her something – the bookend shaped like a swan that I made in one of our pottery workshops. But after hearing about life outside it suddenly all seems really stupid and small in here. I mean, what does Joni care about mood paintings or the fact that I got special privileges for not freaking out when Susan chopped off all my hair when I was asleep?

  We pass the courts and go into the flower garden behind, where everyone has their own plot and is allowed to grow whatever they like. A lot of the girls opt to grow vegetables for some reason, but I’ve planted mine with lots of cornflowers because they grow easily and are so colourful. So far hardly any have come up though, which Gemma who loves gardening says is because I didn’t rake the soil enough before I planted them. There’s a bench in the middle of the plots which we plop down on. Joni reaches over and unbuckles Baby and we watch him toddle back and forth, trying to catch cabbage whites in his fat little hands.

  ‘You hear about Riana?’ says Joni after a bit.

  I nod. It was weird how all the papers just forgot about her a couple of weeks after it was all over. I suppose they were busy with all the stories about Purrfect sacking Tess as their manager, and the ‘exclusive’ interviews with Michelle that were supposed to tell the real story behind what happened. But not long ago there was an article in one of the papers about how the hospital wanted to switch off her life support, only because she doesn’t have any family they can’t get the permission for it. I was sad when I read that.

  ‘I’m going to go and visit her when I’m out,’ I tell Joni.

  ‘What’s the point of visiting a vegetable?’ she snorts. ‘What you gonna do cept look at her and prod her?’

  I stare at her, appalled.

  ‘What? It ain’t like she’s gonna know you’re there or nothing!’

  I just carry on looking at her. This is a trick I’ve learned from Holly, not to say anything but just to wait until someone starts to feel uncomfortable and rethinks what they’ve said. Sure enough after a minute Joni goes red and looks away.

  ‘Well . . . maybe I’ll come with you,’ she says sheepishly.

  I reward her with a big smile. No matter how tough she acts, Joni’s still the sweetest person in the world, and always will be.

  A gust of wind blows a cloud of dandilion spores across the plots. ‘Cor, getting chilly, ain’t it?’ says Joni, rubbing her arms. I suggest that we go up to the house and hang out in the common room, which should be quiet now because everyone will be in the dining room having their tea. Joni nods and calls over to Baby, who’s pulling up bulbs from Maria’s patch. She buckles him back into the stroller and we return towards the house.

  In the common room someone’s left all the lights and the TV on. I tell Joni to sit anywhere and she throws herself down on one of the beanbags nearest the TV. I take the one beside her and pick up the remote, which has been left on the carpet. I flick the channels absent-mindedly, not particularly looking for anything. Maybe it’s just a coincidence or maybe it’s fate, but no sooner have I changed the channel than Louise’s face fills the screen. Both me and Joni sit bolt upright and exchange looks. She’s onstage with the other girls from Purrfect and they’re singing their new single, ‘This Is War (Don’t Ya Know?)’, the one with all the synthesisers and power chords in the background. They’re all dressed in khaki and combats, like they’re going to war, and Saffron’s even wearing a red bandanna around her head, Rambo-style. The backdrop behind them is of a burning jungle.

  ‘Jesus,’ mutters Joni, rolling her eyes.

  Louise has a whole solo to herself. Kharris, Monique, Saffron and Fina roll their bellies around her and sing the chorus while she runs her hand over her exposed navel and launches into a string of Oohs and Ahhs. She looks great actually, older than I remember and somehow taller too – though I suppose that could just be the angle they’ve filmed her from. But despite what hair and make-up have done, there’s something hard about her face. It’s like she’s just going through the motions. It’s not that I envy her: I’ve discussed this a lot with Holly and we’ve agreed that I never really wanted to be in the band in the first place, so it’s not jealousy making me feel this way. It’s just that there’s something so hollow about it. There’s a sort of blankness to her – to all of them. Maybe it was always there and I just never noticed it before, I don’t know. I never listen to Purrfect anymore, apart from when their songs come up on the radio, but I know from the magazine interviews that Louise has settled in well and they all think of her as their baby sister and feel that the band has never been so tight. It’s nice, I suppose. I hope she’s happy.

  ‘Looks like she’s had her boobs done,’ remarks Joni. I’ve got to admit it does look like her chest has fille
d out a bit, but then it’s well hidden underneath her crop top and so it could just be chicken fillets. Joni carries on making little comments about how rubbish everyone looks right up until the song finishes and the next band starts to play. I can see that she’s still bitter about the whole thing, but secretly I’m glad she didn’t get it. I wouldn’t want to be watching Joni on that stage and seeing that blankness in her face.

  ‘Oi, Baby, put that down!’ shouts Joni suddenly. I look over and see that he’s found a pink crayon and has started scrawling across the wall with it. Joni jumps up and prises it away from him. Baby immediately bursts into tears.

  ‘Shit, Ella,’ says Joni. ‘I’m sorry! It ain’t gonna come off!’

  She passes the crayon to me and starts working at the wall with the sleeve of her cardigan just in case, succeeding in doing little more than spreading the pink even further. When she raises her hand there’s pink all over the sleeve as well. I start laughing, I can’t help myself, and pretty soon Joni is laughing too. We stand there cracking up and every time it seems like we’re going to stop one of us starts up again, setting the other one off. Baby stops crying and looks between our faces in wonder. Eventually we both collapse back on the beanbags, gasping. It’s nothing huge, but it’s probably one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.

  ‘We gotta go,’ sighs Joni when she’s finally got her breath back. ‘Got a train to catch, ain’t we, Baby?’

  It seems like they’ve only just arrived, and I’m about to protest, but then I look up and see they’ve actually been here nearly three hours and I remember the last train from town leaves at nine. I walk her up the drive, to the halfway point by the field which is as far as residents are allowed to go without supervision. Back at the house the bell is ringing again, which means it’s time for evening activities for anyone who wants to participate in them. Joni kisses me on the cheek and gives me a wink, promising to come again soon. Then she walks off towards the gate, trundling the stroller with Baby in it and not looking back.

  Once she’s through the gate I turn and run back to the house. I can hear the other girls chattering away in the common room, preparing for whatever they’re doing tonight, but I don’t go in. Instead I carry on up the stairs to my room, which is on the top floor right beside the bathroom. I go to my desk and take out my writing pad. Then I switch on the lamp and sit down and try to think of something inspired to write. After a minute I put:

  Dear Jack,

  Today Joni came for a visit. It was lovely to see her after all this time, and she brought Baby with her, too. That’s her little boy. You’d like him I think, since you always have liked children. Maybe we’ll have some of our own one day. If we do I wonder who they’ll look most like – you or me.

  I pause and chew the pen, which is a disgusting habit that I’m trying to kick since it not only ruins the pen but also leaves a nasty taste of ink in my mouth.

  What I want to know is when are you coming to visit, Jack? Every day I wake up breathless with anticipation, thinking that maybe today will be the day. But it never is.

  It never will be. I’m not that stupid, I know he isn’t coming. He’s never going to get this letter either, or any of the others that now lie in a folded-up pile under my mattress. He probably doesn’t even know what’s happened to me, despite Rita’s threats of legal action. He’s probably living in a big house with that bronze woman. Maybe he’s even married to her now.

  Nobody knows I write these letters, not even Holly. I’m supposed to be over him, learning to let go and move on. I keep them a secret, because what Holly and everyone else fails to understand is that I’m never going to move on. My love is for life. Those feelings I have for Jack are real, and they’re the only thing I’ve got that I can believe in. That’s why I’m holding on to them no matter what. Somehow, one day, maybe years from now, maybe even decades, we’ll be together again, I know it, and I can wait. I’ll wait for ever if I have to.

  There’s the sound of footsteps up the hallway outside, so I quickly slide the letter away under a text book and throw myself back on the bed, just as there’s a knock on the door and Jackie pokes her head round.

  ‘Ella? You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  Jackie nods like this is perfectly understandable, despite the fact that it’s a Sunday and I didn’t get up until ten thirty.

  ‘How was your visit?’

  ‘Great! It was so nice to see Joni again!’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’

  She smiles and tells me that they’re watching a DVD downstairs if I want to join in. I say I’ll be down in a few minutes and she nods again and gently closes the door. As soon as she’s gone a wave of tiredness hits me and I have to fight the urge to shut my eyes. I don’t know, maybe you really can get exhausted just by people coming to visit you. After a minute of trying to find the motivation to move again I give up and close my eyes.

  I find myself picturing Riana. I imagine her lying in her hospital bed surrounded by all these multi-coloured tubes and bits of machinery which bleep as they monitor the waves of her brain and heart. I try to imagine what her dreams are about, while she sleeps that sleep which they say she isn’t going to wake up from. I wonder if she knows the difference between her dreams and real life. I wonder if in a way she isn’t better off dreaming.

  A Note on the Author

  Will Davis was born in 1980 and lives in London. His first book, My Side of the Story, won a Betty Trask Award.

  First published in Great Britain 2009

  Copyright © Will Davis

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  The right of Will Davis to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit,

  reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form,

  or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,

  printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication

  may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 4088 0321 9

  www.bloomsbury.com/willdavis

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  Acknowledgements

  Heartfelt thanks to Mum, Dad, Tamsin, Seraphina and Dawn for all their advice, support, tips, forbearance and technical expertise.

  Massive thanks to my agent Peter Buckman, my editor Michael Fishwick, and to Justine Taylor, Anna Simpson and everyone at Bloomsbury.

 

 

 


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