My Name Is Leon

by Kit de Waal

  “Yeeeyyii, yeeeyyii, tatta, tatta.”

  Carol looks at him.

  “Yeeeyyii, yeeeyyii, tatta, tatta.”

  Leon moves his hands like Jake moves his hands when he’s banging a toy in his high chair.

  “Leon! Leon! Ta-ta, ta-ta.”

  “Is that him?”

  “That’s how he said it, Mom. Just like that.”

  They hold each other and he can feel her chest heaving and her jolting sobs. Leon has to tell her.

  “I could be him, Mom,” he says. “You could come back for me and, sometimes, I could be him.”

  25

  In Leon’s dream he’s standing in a cooking pot with white flames licking up the sides. He is slippery with oil and can’t get out. He’s an ogre’s dinner. Then he’s running in bare feet on scorched sand, acres and acres of it in every direction, but there are no hiding places and if he doesn’t keep running, a giant’s foot will come out of the sky to squish him flat. If only there was some water. He’s calling out but his throat is cracked and sore and every time he opens his mouth someone says no. So he says no back and they say no louder, so he says no and no and no and then Sylvia wakes him up.

  It’s dark outside and all the lights are on.

  “Come on, come on,” Sylvia says, making him sit up. “Drink this. That’s it. All down.”

  She puts her hand on his forehead and his cheek.

  “Burning up,” she says. “No wonder you’re making such a racket.”

  He gulps the water down and throws the quilt off.

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “No, love,” she says. “Don’t look it neither. I’m going to get you some more water. You stay there.”

  Leon’s back is sticking to the sheets. He tries to open the window but Sylvia catches him and tells him to get back into bed.

  “I’ll do that,” she says and when she opens the window a beautiful, cold breeze comes into the room and makes him feel better.

  “Now, drink this and take these two pills. Says you’ve got to be twelve on the packet but you’re about the size of a twelve-year-old. Can’t hurt.”

  But the pills are lumps of chalk and it takes him forever to swallow them. His throat is raw and his head is hot.

  “All right, love. Don’t cry,” Sylvia says and takes his hand. “I think you’ve got the flu, that’s all. Won’t kill you. I expect you’ve got a touch of the miserables as well. No wonder. Come on. Snuggle in now and I’ll help you cool off.”

  She slides Leon’s comics off the bedside table and begins to fan him, little puffs of cold air all over his face and back. Sylvia isn’t as nice as Maureen but she is smarter.

  “Can you tell me a story?” he asks.

  She says nothing for a little while then she sighs.

  “I could really do with a cigarette but that won’t help you sleep. All right then. Now let me think.”

  She takes so long thinking that Leon thinks that maybe she can’t be a fan and tell stories at the same time and he would rather have the fan, so he says nothing.

  Sylvia stops suddenly.

  “Here’s one I remember,” she says and starts the fan again.

  “Once upon a time there was a man who was peacefully driving down a windy road. Suddenly, a little bunny skipped across the road and the man couldn’t stop. He wasn’t going very fast but he hit the bunny head-on. Smack. The man stopped the car right away and he quickly jumped out of his car to check the scene. There, lying lifeless in the middle of the road, was the Easter bunny. The man cried out, ‘Oh no! I have committed a terrible crime! I have run over the Easter bunny!’ The man started sobbing quite hard. What was he going to do? How could he put it right? And then he heard another car coming. It was a woman in a red convertible.”

  “What’s a convertible?” asks Leon.

  The fan stops and Sylvia says, “A car with no roof. Do you want me to carry on?”

  “Yes,” says Leon, “with the fan as well.”

  “Anyway, the woman stopped and asked the man what the problem was. The man explained, ‘I have done something horrible. I have run over the Easter bunny. Now there will be no one to deliver eggs on Easter Sunday. All the children will be sad and it’s all my fault.’ ‘Don’t you worry,’ said the woman and she ran back to her car. A moment later, she came back carrying a spray bottle. She ran over to the bunny lying dead in the road and she sprayed it. The bunny immediately sprang up, ran into the woods, stopped, and waved back at the man and woman. Then it ran another ten feet, stopped, and waved. It then ran another ten feet, stopped, and waved again. It did this over and over and over again until the man and the woman could no longer see the bunny and it disappeared into the woods. When it had gone, the man shook his head, ‘Wow! What is the stuff in that bottle?’ The woman replied, ‘It’s hair restorer. It brings your hair back to life and adds a permanent wave.’ ”

  It isn’t a story, it’s a trick.

  “Get it?” asks Sylvia. “Hair meaning hare. Hair on your head and hare meaning rabbit. Do you get it?”

  She has stopped being a fan now and Leon feels sleepy.

  “Is that the end?” he asks.

  “Well, no. The rabbit has gone off to have his adventures. Like you’ll have adventures in your life. We all have adventures, some are good and some are not so good. You’re in the not-so-good phase.”

  “What else happens to him?”

  “That’s enough for one night.”

  Sylvia gets up and opens the window a bit wider. She turns the light off and closes the door.

  “I’ll come back and check on you in a bit. Sleep time now.”

  When Leon wakes up, the sun is shining outside. He’s still too hot but his head has stopped hurting. He gets up and goes to the living room.

  Sylvia is watching the TV with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

  “Here he is,” she says, smiling. “How’s the soldier?”

  Leon goes into the kitchen, gets a drink of water, and sits next to Sylvia.

  “I’m hot,” he says. “Do I have to go to school?”

  “School? It’s one o’clock, boy. You’ve missed school for today. Here, take another couple of these.”

  He swallows another two tablets, nestles down onto the sofa, and closes his eyes. He remembers what Maureen told him about not having bad dreams by thinking of nice things. He tries hard to think about Christmas and his birthday and the presents he might get. He thinks about the Incredible Hulk and he looks down at his chest. One day, if he gets really angry, his chest will grow enormous and he will burst out of his clothes and nobody will be able to stop him doing anything. He thinks about being strong and having powers like Superman or Batman and then he feels Sylvia covering him up with a blanket.

  Once, when he was little, he was in the park with his mom and she covered him over with a blanket. He was lying on the grass. He remembers the smell of the earth and the feel of scratchy leaves on his legs. The sky was far away and everything was still and quiet. His mom was singing to him but it was more like a whisper and his dad was there as well. His dad was reading the newspaper and he was leaning against a tree. Leon had a blue and red ball and an Action Man and they left the Action Man at the park and his dad promised to get him a new one. And he did. But that was later. While they were at the park, under the tree, under the blanket, under the white sky, he fell asleep with his mom’s hand on his back, with her song in the air, and when he woke up, he was in his bed and it was nighttime. He wonders if there is another boy in that bed now. He thinks about that boy playing with his toys and using his things and he can feel the anger inside bubbling around and making his chest heave.

  He throws the blanket off and sits up.

  “Too hot?” asks Sylvia.

  “Can I go back to bed, please?”

  As soon as he is in his room, he gets his
red backpack from his cupboard and puts it on his lap. He looks inside and counts his things. He opens the pockets with the zippers and looks inside at all the things he’s collected and then he puts it next to the bed. The full feeling in his chest has gone. He gets back into bed and closes his eyes and sees his mother’s back, sees her jeans and her cardigan and her sneakers disappearing down the corridor at the Family Center. And he doesn’t see her turn around and wave, because she didn’t.

  In the morning, he’s better and he’s starving. Sylvia puts her hand on his forehead as he eats four Weetabix with sugar sprinkled on top.

  “Better stay off school for one more day. All right?”

  Leon runs to his room and gets dressed. He takes his backpack and goes back to the kitchen.

  “Can I go out on my bike, please?”

  Sylvia looks at him with one eyebrow higher than the other.

  “How do you feel? It’s hot out there, you know? Go on, but half an hour tops. All right? How long did I say, Leon?”

  “Can I have two hours, please?”

  “No, you get back here for lunchtime. It’s ten thirty now. That’s an hour and a half. Go on.”

  26

  There is hardly anyone at the allotments. No Mr. Devlin. No Tufty. Only a few old men in distant plots and Mr. and Mrs. Atwal sitting on chairs by their shed. Leon waves as he cycles past. He rides through the allotments, past Mr. Devlin’s plot, past Tufty’s plot and past five other plots, to the edge of the allotment where there are scruffy bits of land that no one wants, where tall, forgotten plants sprout seeds and prickly leaves, coarse and sharp, where there are gnarled trees and overgrown paths. And an old shed.

  Leon parks his bike at the back of the shed and tries to open the door. It’s made of heavy planks of wood nailed together. He has to pull it hard with both hands and when he steps inside it bangs behind him, clashing against the corrugated iron roof that shudders and moans. A heavy lump of light comes in through a broken pane of glass but the other window is covered in a veil of dust. No one can see him but people might have heard the door. He peeks out. Nothing. Ropes of curling plants stick to the walls; spiders’ webs, thick as cotton wool, nest in the corners and hang between the wooden struts that hold up the roof. There are dead moths and butterflies caught in white sticky traps. The whole place smells of hot soil and dry wood, not like Tufty’s shed. There are plastic plant trays upturned on the floor, a metal chair on its side, and a crooked wooden table leaning against the wall, its legs splintered and uneven. Nobody looks after this shed. Nobody wants it. Leon leans against the heavy door and props it open with his backpack to let in some fresh air. He looks out of the gap in the glass. There are no neat rows of plants nearby, there are no wigwams, no water barrels, just wild sprouting plants as high as Leon’s knees, clumps of coarse grass, dense, uneven bushes. Leon sits down on the step of the shed. It’s perfect.

  By the time Leon cycles back toward the gates, lots of people are around and some of them wave at him. He stops at Tufty’s shed and goes to inspect the Scarlet Emperors. The shoots seem to grow taller every single day, working their way up toward the sun, coiled tight around the bamboo canes, plaited together, bright green heart-shaped leaves along the stem like a picture from “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Leon always gives them a bottle of water when he passes, even if Tufty’s not around. He fills the plastic bottle from the water barrel and drips water over the base of each until the dirt is black and sodden.

  “There you are, little plant,” he says, but as he’s speaking he has a funny feeling. Something reminds him of Jake and he straightens up quickly as though he can hear him cry. Leon feels Jake so close that his heart begins to bang in his chest. Jake! Jake! Where are you? He turns around but everywhere he looks there are just old people bending over with their spades and forks, no babies, no children.

  Maybe he heard something. Maybe Jake is living nearby. The social workers could be lying when they said they didn’t know. Again, he turns around and around, his eyes darting from the sheds to the hedges, everywhere and beyond, to the trees and to the tops of the houses and beyond and beyond, to the flats and maisonettes that he cannot see and beyond to the house where Jake lives without him.

  He turns again, his eyes scanning the ripped white clouds, the hazy blue. How old is Jake now? If he can walk he might have escaped from his new forever family and he might be trying to find Leon like Leon is trying to find him. Leon feels the sun on his head and the full feeling in his chest and the pounding of all the questions that nobody answers and then all Tufty’s plants float up past his eyes like wisps of dancing, fluttery green feathers.

  When he wakes up, he is in Mr. Devlin’s shed, sitting in an old leather armchair, and Mr. Devlin himself is leaning against the door.

  “You’re sick,” he says. “There’s a drink of water next to you. Look. Drink it.”

  Leon sips at the water from a metal army cup.

  “When you’ve had that, get straight home. You shouldn’t be out. You have a temperature.”

  Leon sits up straight but his legs are empty and weak.

  Mr. Devlin puts his hand out.

  “No, not yet.”

  His voice is different now. Soft like Maureen’s.

  “Just sit. Sit still. You’ll feel better in a short while. It’s the sun.”

  “My bike,” says Leon.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Don’t move. I’ll go and get it.”

  Leon gets up slowly and looks around. He likes Mr. Devlin’s shed. Everything is all piled up and there are lists of things pinned to the walls. There is a walking stick tied to the ceiling with bunches of onions hanging off it and upside-down plants tied up with string. There is a wooden bow and arrow up there as well, turning in the breeze from the door. It’s too high for Leon to touch and it’s all dusty like it’s been there for years. There is an old brown and green rug on the floor with a hole in the middle and painted wooden boxes on their sides with pots in, old seed packets with faded pictures, an old toy train, a gas mask and a metal can with a lid, the white skull of an animal and a bird’s wing. On the shelf above him are lots of old books, more books than there are at school, and a fancy teapot. There is a wooden spear with a carved head propped up in a corner. There are tools everywhere and cans of oil. Everything is old but nothing is dirty.

  And tucked behind all the interesting things are photographs of boys, lots of them, dozens; there are five or six different brown boys in the pictures and then lots and lots of one boy in particular. In some of the pictures he’s a baby and in others he’s three and then five and then seven or eight. He’s so pretty he could be a girl. But best of all, on an old wooden bench are lots of knives and some of them haven’t got any covers. Leon looks everywhere but he can’t see the Kanetsune. Up high, just out of reach, is something that looks like a pistol. It’s a real pistol. He can see it just on the edge of the shelf next to a dirty glass jar full of brown liquid. If he had something long he could reach it and knock it down. But he would have to catch it carefully otherwise it would blow everything up. Or he could stand on the arm of the chair and . . .

  “Here it is,” says Mr. Devlin, wheeling Leon’s bike to the door of the shed.

  Leon is standing near the knives.

  “You mustn’t touch those,” he says and his gruff voice is back. “Best get off home now, if you’re better.”

  “What are all those things?” Leon asks.

  “They are things that belong to me,” Mr. Devlin says and holds the door open wide.

  “Is that a real gun?”

  But Mr. Devlin doesn’t answer. Leon wheels his bike all the way home because he still doesn’t feel well, but there are things in Mr. Devlin’s shed that he wants to see again.

  27

  Leon has swollen glands, so he has to miss a whole week of school. Sylvia says he has to tidy his room properly and help her take the weeds out of
the front garden. He has to clean his school shoes. He has to help her rearrange the airing cupboard. He has to sweep the path and finally he has to go to the supermarket to help her carry some of the stuff for her street party. She buys lots of tins of salmon and bottles of juice and the bags are so heavy they cut into Leon’s fingers.

  Sylvia pulls a cart that is full to the top with tea bags and jars of coffee, bags of sugar and trifle mix.

  “We’re starting early. A little bit here and there and, on the day, we won’t have so much to get. It’s only six weeks now.”

  But Leon just wants to go to the allotments, go to his shed, and make it nice. Get it ready. He has taken a tea towel from Sylvia’s kitchen and a little hand broom from under the sink. He has got some tape for the hole in the window and lots of other things. And he needs to get a padlock, because Mr. Devlin has a padlock and Tufty has a padlock and they do things properly. So after he has done all his jobs, he puts his backpack on and goes to the front door.

  “Oi,” says Sylvia. “Where you going?”

  “On my bike.”

  “Where on your bike?”

  “The big gardens.”

  “You mean the park?”

  “Yes,” he says quickly, “the park with the railings.”

  She looks at him for a while, then she lights a cigarette.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Like what? Give me an example of ‘nothing,’ Leon.”

  “Like a ball in case I see any of my friends.”

  “Two hours,” she says and he races out the door.

  It rained in the morning and it rained the day before so the road is slippery and black. He gets off his bike at the allotment gates in case Mr. Devlin is there and wheels it in. Mr. Devlin is kneeling down with a trowel. He raises it as Leon goes by. Tufty is standing with Castro with the ginger hair but as he waves at Leon his face changes. Leon looks behind. A group of men are walking into the allotment behind Leon. They ­haven’t come to look at the plants and they’re not wearing the right clothes for gardening. They have their hands in their pockets and one of them is kicking stones. They walk straight toward him and they look angry. Leon knows that they have come to take him away for stealing.