by Jane Casey
‘Got bullied,’ he explained. ‘Home-schooled now.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, understanding. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine that studying alone in a house like that would be too easy. ‘How do you like it?’
‘It’s all right.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Got a high IQ, don’t I. School was boring, anyway.’
‘Good. That’s really great.’ I smiled. ‘Well, as I said, it was Danny I came to see. Do you know what time he’ll be back?’
‘Nah. He comes in whenever.’
‘Right.’ I started to edge away from the door. ‘It was nice to meet you, Paul. I’ll catch up with Danny some other time. Maybe you could let him know I was asking for him.’
Paul looked disappointed. ‘Don’t you want to come in?’
I did not want to go into the house. Paul wouldn’t know anything about Charlie, which was why I had gone over there, and I didn’t know when Danny would get back, or even if I would have the nerve to talk to him when he did. Besides, the house was squalid beyond belief. But I could also tell that Paul was lonely. If he didn’t go to school, and Danny was out all day, he probably didn’t get to talk to many people. I’d never seen him coming or going – not that that meant much. I kept my head down when I was at home, and I didn’t exactly keep sociable hours. But I had a feeling that Paul just didn’t spend any time outside his own house. And he was how old – twelve? Too young to be shut in. I would feel guilty if I walked off, I knew. I would be letting him down. We survivors had to stick together.
‘Thanks,’ I said brightly, stepping across the threshold and just managing not to hold my breath. The house smelled like a locker-room – old socks and damp clothes and sweat. Paul shut the door behind me, then led the way down the hall to the kitchen. The house was a carbon copy of ours, but the hall felt different, darker. Looking around, I saw that the door into the sitting room was closed. The one at home was panelled glass; this one was solid. It made the hall feel smaller. I was glad to get into the kitchen, where the afternoon sunshine picked up every mote of dust that hung in the air. The room was warm and quite comfortable, with a sofa against one wall and a table in the middle that was covered in books and loose sheets of paper, a laptop sitting in the middle of the mess. It seemed to be used as a living room as well as a kitchen, and even though it was strikingly untidy, there was something homely about it. The draining board was piled high with dishes and pans, but they were clean. Storage was limited to a couple of cupboards, the remains of a fitted kitchen that had left marks on the walls where most of it had been ripped out. One door hung off its hinges, revealing row upon row of tinned beans and boxes of cereal, bought in bulk. A battered microwave in the corner looked as if it had seen hard service over the years. In the corner, a giant freezer hummed to itself beside a large, dented fridge. But on top of the fridge was an expensive-looking sound system for an iPod, and a massive TV was mounted on the wall opposite the sofa. Danny seemed to spend his money on home entertainment, if not home comfort.
‘Have a seat,’ Paul said, gesturing towards the table, and I went over and pulled out one of the vinyl-seated chairs. It pitched violently to one side as soon as I let go of it, and I saw that it was balancing on three legs.
There was a chuckle from behind me. ‘Not that one. The leg’s here, look.’ Paul was pointing at the kitchen counter, where the chair leg lay, splintered at the top. ‘Danny broke it the other day, and–’
He broke off for no reason that I could see, but he looked flustered. Affecting not to notice, I chose another chair and sat down.
‘Cup of tea?’ Paul padded over to the kettle.
‘That would be lovely.’ I crossed my fingers that the mug I got would be free of botulism and watched him move about the kitchen, gathering mugs and teabags. He was quick and deft in his movements, in spite of his bulk, though the mild exertion of making tea was causing him to wheeze. There was, underlying everything, a certain confidence in the way he behaved, something that I wouldn’t have expected from a boy of his age. I was starting to like my neighbour. He caught me watching him and smiled cheekily; I had the feeling that he was pleased I had agreed to come in, though why he should be, I wasn’t sure.
‘Milk?’ he asked, opening the fridge with a flourish to reveal several two-litre cartons of full-fat milk, a tray of lager, chocolate desserts in pots and packets of cheddar and sliced ham. No vegetables. No fruit.
Paul was waiting for an answer, carton poised over one of the mugs.
‘Just a splash,’ I said quickly.
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
Paul dropped four heaped teaspoons of sugar into his mug and stirred it in. I winced, suddenly protective of the enamel on my teeth. He pushed some papers aside and put my mug down in front of me, then scuttled sideways to retrieve a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits from a cupboard. I shook my head when he offered them to me. He threw himself into the chair opposite mine and lifted three biscuits out of the packet, dunking them into his mug for a couple of seconds, then forcing them into his mouth in a single sticky wad. I watched, fascinated, as his cheeks bulged like a python’s belly full of live prey.
When he could speak, he said, ‘Got to get ’em in in one go.’
I nodded. ‘Good technique.’
‘I’ve been practising.’
I smiled into my mug. He was a bright kid, just as he had said. A stack of several fat books was on the table in front of him and I turned the pile to read the spines. Programming. Computer language. Theories of computing. Higher maths. The philosophy of technology. I was lost; I could barely understand the titles.
‘Do you like computers?’ Paul asked, opening the top book on the pile and riffling through the pages. His face had brightened at the very word and for a second I could see the young boy hidden in that shroud of overstretched skin.
‘I don’t know much about them,’ I said apologetically. ‘How about you?’
‘Love ’em.’ He had started reading, eyes glued to the page. ‘They’re brilliant.’
‘Are you … good with computers?’ I didn’t even know what questions to ask.
‘Yeah,’ Paul said, sounding matter-of-fact rather than boastful. ‘Built my own. Got my own operating system – well, it’s based on Linux, but I’ve done my own thing with it. Computers are what I want to do.’ He looked up from the book briefly, his eyes shiny with enthusiasm. ‘They’re what I do now.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all internet, yeah? No one knows I’m only twelve. I do a bit of testing for people, try things out. Do websites for people. Work on stuff. I’ve got a friend in India; he’s at university there. We’re trying to solve an equation that no one’s ever worked out.’
I had been wrong about him being trapped. As long as his broadband worked, he could go anywhere, meet anyone, be himself without being judged.
‘Where do you get the books?’
‘Off the internet, mainly. You can get them second-hand – they don’t cost that much. Sometimes I order books from the library; Danny picks them up for me. I don’t like that so much, though. You can’t keep them for as long as you like. It’s annoying.’
‘Is Danny into computers?’
Paul shook his head. ‘He doesn’t get it. Danny’s good with mechanical things – cars and stuff. He likes using computers, but he doesn’t love them.’
It was fairly transparent that Paul pitied his brother. I felt similarly uncertain about how computers actually worked – email and online shopping were about as much as I could manage – but I didn’t want Paul to lump me in with the semi-skilled users like his brother. It was important to me to gain his trust. I was starting to think I might be able to help Paul. I could rescue him, set him on the right track. All he needed was a little encouragement.
‘And so Danny goes out to work, and you stay here, is that right?’ I asked gently, careful to keep any criticism out of my voice.
‘Yeah. Don’t have to g
o out any more. I do the shopping and stuff online and they deliver it. Danny gets anything else we need. He looks after me.’
There was looking after and looking after. Danny had given his brother a roof over his head and supported him when he dropped out of school. He obviously encouraged the boy in his computer studies. He’d probably been more of a dad to him than his own father. But set against that was the catastrophic weight gain he had done nothing to stop. Paul had been allowed to run away from the problems he’d had in school rather than dealing with them. It wasn’t ideal.
As I watched, Paul absorbed two more biscuits and flicked to the index of the book he was holding, completely engrossed. Maybe it wasn’t fair to Danny to criticise him. There was something steely running through Paul, disguised though it was by his soft, swollen appearance. If he wanted to eat, was there anything anyone could do to stop him? It wasn’t as if I had ever been able to prevent my mother from drinking. Could I expect Danny to do better for his brother?
I had been supporting my chin on my hand, watching Paul read. I must have made some small movement, because my elbow skidded on a loose piece of paper and shot into a pile of books, knocking them to the floor with a clatter. I jumped out of my chair and started to gather them up, smoothing out crumpled pages and stacking them neatly. With some difficulty, Paul bent down to retrieve a couple of sheets of closely written foolscap that had slid under his chair. The effort made him grunt like an old man, and I fiercely regretted whatever had driven him to find comfort in food. It was wrong that a twelve-year-old boy should be almost unable to bend down to pick up a piece of paper.
When I finally straightened up with the stack of books and slid them on to the table, I noticed a copy of the local paper that had been hidden under the pile. Under Carol Shapley’s byline, there was an account of Jenny’s death beside a large colour picture of the girl. I lifted the paper and laid it to one side, not wanting to put the books down on top of Jenny’s photograph. It felt disrespectful, somehow. Paul was gazing at the paper too, an odd expression on his face.
‘You were her teacher.’
I was surprised. ‘Jenny? That’s right. How did you know?’
‘I knew her from primary school.’ On closer inspection, his eyes weren’t piggy as I had assumed, but dark brown and rather beautiful. They were almost lost in twin canyons of flesh that creased to his temples, and as I watched, moisture slid along the folds. He rubbed at them with a grubby paw. ‘Do you know what happened?’
I shook my head. ‘The police are investigating, though. I’m sure they’ll find whoever did this to her.’
He flashed a look at me, then stared down at the paper again. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘Did you see much of her?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Now and then. Used to help her with her maths when she needed it. She was lovely. Never said anything nasty about me. She didn’t care about … about this.’ He gestured at his body, his movements suddenly awkward. I bit my lip as his face twisted and he buried his head in his arms, shoulders shaking. I reached across the table and patted his arm, trying to comfort him. After a minute or two, he looked up at me, his face red and shiny with tears.
‘I just … I just miss her.’
‘Me too,’ I whispered, on the edge of tears myself. ‘Me too.’
As I left the house, I told Paul that he needed to do more than sit in front of a computer all day.
‘You should think about going back to school.’
‘School’s boring.’
‘School’s the best place for you,’ I countered. ‘There’s more to life than computers. When was the last time you read a book that wasn’t about maths or machines?’
He rolled his eyes expressively. ‘OK, teacher. I’ll read something else.’
‘Make sure you do.’ I waved and headed back across the road, starting to think about novels that he might enjoy – I could borrow them from the school library. He was clearly such a bright boy, but he needed to broaden his horizons. I would talk to Danny about it, I decided. I could follow up by asking about Charlie. Out of all of these shattered lives – Charlie’s, mine, Danny’s, Mum’s even – Paul’s might be put back together.
The smell of the Keanes’ house stayed on my clothes and in my hair for hours afterwards. Without really analysing why, I found myself cleaning the whole house obsessively – dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, the works. I cleaned the bathroom and my bedroom, but not the living room, where Mum was spending the day watching television, the glass in front of her refilling, as if by magic, every time it got within a swallow of being empty. When I put my head around the door, she gave me a look Medusa would have been proud of. I withdrew.
It was only when I was on my knees cleaning the oven that it occurred to me that I was reacting to the grimy house across the road, where everything I touched had had a film of grease on it and crumbs dusted every surface. I couldn’t live with the thought that our house would look like that to an outsider – unkempt, ignored, barren. I watered the plants on the kitchen windowsill, even though they were half dead and wholly unlovely. I made the windows gleam and the floor shine, and I replaced the mustiness of undisturbed air with lemon-scented chemicals and an unseasonably sharp breeze from outside. I even took everything out of the kitchen cupboards and cleaned them, getting right in to the back. Appliances that I barely recognised, let alone knew how to use, stacked up along the counter, straggling plugs that hung off the end of tortured flexes. I doubted that any would pass contemporary safety testing; they looked as if they would burst into flames as soon as you plugged them in. I found blenders, mixers, even what I identified incredulously as a yoghurt-maker. Without a second thought I filled a box with out-of-date kitchenware. We’d had a charity leaflet through the door asking for donations. They were in the area collecting early on Saturday morning and were looking for unwanted household goods. These things definitely counted as unwanted. In all honesty, I couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting them either, but surely it was better than just throwing them away. At the back of another cupboard, behind a stack of pink-flowered plates I didn’t recognise and couldn’t remember ever having seen in use, I found a small plastic plate and cup decorated with a strawberry motif. I sat back on my heels by the open door and turned them over and over. I hadn’t seen them for years. These were the only utensils I would consider using until I went to school. There was even a photograph in the album of Mum and me in the garden, when I was about three. I was eating a sandwich off my special plate while she held a toy parasol over my head to shade me from the sun, and laughed at me. It must have been high summer; she wore a striped sundress with spaghetti straps. The memory of sitting on the grass with Mum was sharp and bright. Love, indulgence, care, tenderness – I had known these once. It was just that my luck had run out when Charlie’s did.
I blinked back tears. For some reason, it went right to my heart that Mum had kept the plate and cup. Of course, she had obsessively preserved a lot of things in our house, but that was to do with Charlie, with trying to pretend that nothing had changed since the day he disappeared. This was different. This was about me. More than that, it was the kind of thing a normal mother might do. It was one tiny, fragile link with a woman I had never known, something that I might have laughed about with her if things had been different. If things hadn’t fallen apart. I put the little plate and cup back in the cupboard with a sigh, and carried on.
It was getting dark by the time I’d finished. I hefted the box of fossilised electrical goods down to the end of the path, where the charity collectors couldn’t miss it. I straightened up, hands on hips, and at that moment, a car door slammed. I whipped around, sure as I could be that someone was behind me, my heart thumping. The adrenalin ebbed away at the sight of the empty road, the blank-windowed houses like so many false fronts in a Wild West town. Nothing moved. No one spoke. I peered to left and right, squinting to see if anyone lurked in the shadows, then headed for the house. I felt slightly ridiculous
as I scanned the view from the front step before shutting and bolting the door, but after all, I still had the bruises to show for my last display of witless bravado. From now on, I had decided, if I felt threatened, I was going to react accordingly. Ignoring my instincts could have got me killed.
Of course, it doesn’t matter how many locks and bolts you have on a door if you open it just because someone rings the bell. I knew this. But in spite of myself, and in spite of the fact that it was after ten and I wasn’t expecting anyone to call, I hurried to answer the front door while the air still vibrated. The sound had set my nerves jangling too and my heart was thudding as I opened the door, leaving the chain on, still wary. Through the narrow gap, I could see a huge bunch of lilies and roses wrapped up in shiny cellophane and curling florist’s ribbon. The flowers quivered invitingly, hiding the person holding them from my view.
‘Yes?’ I said, and was somehow not surprised, but still disappointed, when the bouquet was lowered to reveal Geoff’s face.
‘Not the welcome I was hoping for, but OK.’ His eyes were bright with excitement and he was grinning as if we were sharing a joke, just the two of us. ‘I wanted to give you these.’
I stared back stonily, not charmed. ‘Why?’
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
‘For you to buy me flowers? I would have thought so, yes.’
Geoff sighed. ‘I saw them and I thought they were as beautiful as you, then.’ He pushed at the door, and the chain thrummed. He frowned. ‘Aren’t you going to open the door properly?’
‘I think I’ll leave it as it is,’ I said, resisting the urge to slam the door on his hand.