by Tom Grieves
More typing. He frowns.
‘Right there. The cherry was in full bloom. Looked amazing. Everyone commented on it. Auntie Meg said it was a present from God, a sign.’
He looks up, shakes his head.
‘And the vicar got the words muddled and we all giggled and …’
‘I can’t find anyone who … we’ve got plenty of Joneses, of course, but not those Christian names and not on any dates close to the ones you—’
He’s embarrassed. It’s clear he wants to help me. But I’m spinning now.
‘Right there. It rained later and the blossom came down and we got soaked running to the car.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop it, stop messing with me. What have you done?’ I take an angry step towards him. I feel the big man inside me, the one who challenged Jeff. ‘Cos there’s nothing wrong with my memory. It’s you, this place. Check them again, check that bloody computer again.’
He starts to type. Both of us want the information to change and correct itself. Both of us know that it won’t. And while he types, muttering apologies, I feel as though the sun has suddenly set, like something colossal is blacking out the sky.
Podgy looks unhappily at the screen.
‘It’s not my mind, it’s not me that’s fucked up,’ I yell. ‘I’m telling you. And Dad’s old mate Ant gave me a fiver. Stuffed it in my jacket pocket and kissed me. See, it’s not my brain, it’s not me. Someone’s been playing, someone’s been screwing with your computer, with this place. I should make a complaint, you should, we should. I’m telling you, they should be there, just there, under that tree. THAT tree.’
I run out of words. He stares at me, too scared to speak. I realise that both my hands are clenched into fists.
‘It’s just … it’s not me, my mind, that’s not the problem.’
I look back outside at the grave. Standing there are two men. Big men. They wear sunglasses. One of them scans the graveyard as though he’s looking for someone. Both have short hair. And I find myself taking a step away from the window.
Podgy hasn’t moved, his mouth’s still open.
‘Look, I … okay. Is there another way out?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I came in from that door. Is there a different way to get out?’
*
Something inside helps me out without anyone seeing. An instinct, or something taught and well-hidden, I don’t know. Either way I slip over the metal fence, shielded by a tree, and if anyone’s waiting for me at the gates they’ll be disappointed.
Why would anyone be waiting for me?
There’s nothing wrong with my mind. There’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong.
*
I walk three miles then wait at a bus stop, leaving my car at the cemetery.
It’s dark now. I sit in the shelter and try to work it all out. Buses come and go, their doors puff open and the driver waits, but I never look up. I don’t want anyone to see my face.
Dark circles spiral beautiful, terrifying patterns in my mind, then crack and splinter. Roots wither and die. A beautiful sun rises behind my eyes then explodes, poisoning me with its deadly radiation.
I stare at my hands. I notice old scars beneath the fresh ones.
Another bus stops, its engine urging me to step on, but I can’t move. A demon sits next to me, laughing, knowing everything.
The bus pulls away and it’s dark again. Dark and quiet. Except for the laughter.
*
I don’t know what time it is when I finally return home. The journey was slow and sore, but I barely noticed it. As I get to the door though, I realise that I’m soaked through. It doesn’t matter, there is a red heat within me. I slip the key into the lock and hang my coat up as I have every day. It’s quiet. The kids must have gone to bed long ago.
It’s warm. Unopened junk mail lies by the door. The front mat is still dirty from the kids’ muddy boots after our walk in the park.
Carrie appears from the kitchen. Her eyes are red. She stares at me – relieved and furious.
‘You switched off your phone. No one knew where you were, the garage were very pissy about it until they realised how worried I was.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And?’
I don’t reply.
‘Ben!’ her voice is higher and louder now. ‘I’ve been worried sick. I had to get Carol to pick up the kids cos I was scared that if I left the house I’d miss … the news … that you’d …’
She’s nearly crying. But I won’t move.
‘I’ve been so worried.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If that’s all I’m getting, we’re going to have one big fucking fight because—’
‘Please. Don’t. Don’t.’ My hands. ‘Do you love me?’
‘Not when you behave like a complete prick—’
I find I’m screaming. ‘Jesus Christ! I’m trying, I’m trying, I just need you to … do you love me?’
She looks at me, I see her expression change, and she rushes to me. Holds me.
‘I like it, Carrie. How we are. Simple. All I have to do is worry about footie results and bills and how we can stop Emma sticking peas in her ears. I like it. And I love you.’
‘I love you,’ she says. Her face is so soft.
‘But you’ve been lying to me,’ I say, and she suddenly seems a little bit harder. ‘I need you to be straight with me now.’
‘I haven’t been lying—’
‘I need you to be straight with me.’
The reply is quiet. Not scared, but … I don’t know. I love her too much to be able to read her.
‘Okay.’
Okay. ‘I went to Bolton today. And it wasn’t like anything I remembered.’
She just shakes her head, doesn’t understand.
‘I feel like … half of my brain’s been cut out or, I don’t know, but I can’t trust what’s in here and that’s really, really scary.’ I pull away from her. Not cos I don’t want to hug her tight, but the energy inside me is too raw. ‘When was the last time we went to visit my parents’ graves?’
‘Honey, I think you shouldn’t—’
‘I want you to answer my questions.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your wife. Stop it.’
A car drives past outside, the stereo’s on full blast. It stops me for a second.
‘I’m in trouble, Carrie.’
‘So we’ll see the doctor.’
‘Who? Dr Mackay?’
‘Why not?’
‘You know, I’ve never met anyone else who goes to Doctor Mackay. They all go to the local surgery on Elm Street. Why is that? I mean, I’ve never seen anyone else in that waiting room. It always feels creepy, don’t you think?’
‘Let’s just, let’s just go in the morning, we’ll worry about this tomorrow.’
‘Don’t we always say this? We’ll fix it in the morning. We just fix everything by going to sleep.’
‘I think you’re suffering from some kind of depression or anxiety—’
‘That’s good.’
‘—and I think you’re starting to see things in a destructive way and I think you should maybe shut up before you do real damage here.’
‘Seeing things in a destructive way? When did you eat the dictionary?’
‘Alright. Imagining things.’
‘Which things am I imagining, Carrie?’
Silence.
‘Am I imagining the bit where I attack strangers in the night?’
‘Yes! God! Of course you are.’
I stare at her. Flawless.
‘No. I think I do.’
‘Ben—’
‘And I guess you think so too.’ She’s shaking slightly. ‘I went there, to the cemetery and it was like I’d forgotten how to walk or, no I can’t, that’s not it but … I was so shocked because you trust what’s in your head, right? I mean, we do things because of experience. Don’t put your hand over the kettle’s steam, cos you
remember it’ll hurt. I’m made up of everything I remember. But out there, nothing is … I don’t know anything out there. So I come home. Cos this is the one place – the one place – where it should all make sense, but then I look at you and I know you’re lying.’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying. This is a lie. You are too. The kids, Jesus.
‘Ben—’
‘But I remember it all so clearly.’ My voice is cracking, my chest is heaving, but I have to get this out. ‘I remember holding Joe in my arms the minute after he was born. Remember the smell of the room. And I love him. I love my little boy to death, with all my heart. But he’s not real. Is he? The dreams I have, they’re not dreams, are they? They’re real, they’re the real things. But not Joe, not Emma. Not you.’
‘Let’s go see someone. Please. Anyone. You choose.’ She reaches out a hand to me. But I don’t take it and she starts to cry. ‘Please, baby, please. Don’t listen to yourself, you’re just run down. We can fix you. Please, I just want the old Ben back again.’
She glances at the front door. It’s a tiny glance, but it’s a tell.
‘Why did you …?’
I go to the door, peer out of the spyhole. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
She doesn’t bother to deny it.
‘Is someone coming? Carrie?’ Her lip crumples. ‘Carrie? Is this right? What’s happening?’
I lunge for her. Angry. I grab her and pin her against the wall.
‘What’s happening to me?!’
She screams – but not to me. To the room, to the house. To others.
‘Help me! He knows! He knows! Help me for God’s sake!’
Her screams stun me and I let her go. She doesn’t move, doesn’t run. And when her eyes meet mine I see guilt and shame.
‘Who were you talking to?’ She doesn’t reply. Another glance to the door. ‘Carrie? What’s about to happen? Hon?’
And then suddenly she pulls me to her, holds me tight, then whispers in my ear.
‘Throw away your shoes, your clothes. Throw everything away. Never answer the phone. And run.’
I pull back, scared by the words, by the lips that speak them, so close to me. She looks at me fearfully. Her hands grab mine.
‘I love you,’ she whispers so quietly that I almost can’t hear her.
A key turns in the lock and I turn, surprised. Suddenly three men charge into the room. They grab me before I can resist. I see a syringe. I try to avoid it but they are too fast, too strong.
Carrie screams. The syringe hits my arm hard. I feel its tiny sting and the darkness rises up and over. I try to call her name. Carrie.
Carrie.
Carrie …
FOUR
Each day, Michael would drop Toby off at the school gates, leaving him only a few minutes to make it into class on time. Today, however, a series of red lights had delayed them and Toby was late. As he hurried in, the corridors were quieter than usual. The bell had already rung and there were only a few stragglers left. He glanced in at other rooms as he passed, saw teachers arguing happily with pupils, heard a violin being played badly. He felt the sting of his socks as they rubbed against the cuts on his feet.
He pushed open the door into his classroom and kept his head down. Anna Price was standing at the blackboard. He glanced at her, muttered an apology and shuffled to his place. Anna watched him, pausing momentarily to express her displeasure but continuing so that the class couldn’t make it an issue.
They were reading Macbeth. Toby found his book and sat quietly at the back of the class, turning pages when required. He looked up as Anna encouraged Raj and Paulette to read together in front of the class. Paulette was embarrassed, not wanting the public exposure, and as Anna tried to encourage them the whole thing quickly descended into chaos. Toby watched everyone laugh. He felt like he was seeing it from behind a cracked window. Anna finally got some control and Raj began to read in a quiet, slurred voice, massacring the old words as the class sniggered quietly and Anna watched with pursed lips and folded arms.
As Toby sat there, watching them, a memory jolted him. A sucker-punch to the head.
Thrashing about in dark water, freezing cold, unable to see, fighting to reach the surface.
The memory flashed and faded. But it left Toby short of breath. He looked around, jolted, but Paulette was still stumbling over the verse and the class was laughing at her.
Then another memory came crashing in.
Screaming under the water – the air from his lungs bubbling away from him. Screaming and screaming, but unable to pull himself up to the surface.
‘Shit!’ The word burst out of him involuntarily. It stopped the rest of the class dead and suddenly all eyes were on him. Someone started laughing. But Toby could still feel the burning in his lungs.
‘Toby?’ Anna came forward, surprised and annoyed by the outburst. Toby looked up. He could feel the horror of the memory tapping at the back of his neck.
‘Nothing.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing, Miss.’
‘Well, I’m sure it was something for you to interrupt the lesson like that.’
Toby just stared at his desk. He didn’t normally get into trouble and he could tell that the class was thrilled to watch this. Much better than Shakespeare.
‘Toby?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I insist.’
‘Look, can we, can we just get on with the sodding play?’
A few gasps, then a lad called out, ‘Hey, Toby’s finally grown some balls!’ and the class roared in approval.
‘Right. That’s enough!’ Anna snapped. ‘Toby Mayhew, detention after school. Raj and Paulette get on with it – and if I hear a word from anyone else then there will be big trouble. Do you all understand?’
The class murmured and grumbled, but no one really gave a shit. Paulette carried on reading, and soon everything was back to normal. Anna glanced at Toby, she caught his eye and her expression softened – what’s happened? she asked silently. He looked down and didn’t look back up for the rest of the lesson.
*
He continued to avoid her gaze during detention at the end of the day. Anna watched him from her desk, looking up between doses of a celebrity gossip magazine, but the boy remained sullen and withdrawn. Eventually, she’d had enough and got up, standing over Toby, waiting for him to give in and look up at her. But still he didn’t move.
‘So, what happened, Toby?’
He just shrugged.
‘It’s not like you.’
Again, nothing.
‘I rang your father. He seemed, well, not that surprised.’
‘Yeah, well …’
But he shut himself off before he could say any more. Anna leaned against the neighbouring desk and waited, exploiting the silence. Just as she thought she’d failed, Toby finally looked up at her.
‘Is everything okay at home?’ she asked, grabbing the moment.
‘How do you mean?’ He seemed genuinely confused by the question.
‘Well, sometimes, when you’re having trouble at school, it’s actually because things aren’t … going so well … at home …’
She raised her eyebrows to make her point, but Toby stared at her blankly.
‘I saw you were limping, when you came into class.’
‘It was my fault.’ A pause and then he muttered, ‘apparently.’ It was said under his breath, but it was a shared whisper.
‘What was?’ Anna asked, leaning forward.
‘Nothing.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘Dunno.’
‘If it wasn’t your fault, then whose fault was it?’
He just shrugged, eyes down again. Anna’s hands gripped the desk a little more tightly.
‘If it wasn’t your fault, Toby, then was it … your father’s?’
Another shrug.
‘Toby, is your father—?’
‘I don’t know!’ he blurted out.
It wasn’t a shout and it wasn’t aggressive. ‘I don’t know anything! It drives me mad, never being able to be sure about anything. I’m always told things and I believe it if they say it, but there’s stuff in me as well, you know? Stuff that’s not stupid, but I can’t prove it. I mean, how do I get proof? All the things they say …’
And then the frustration ran out. A wound-down toy.
‘Just drives me mad,’ he repeated. He ran a hand through his short hair. It was the act of a much older boy. Anna stared at Toby and remembered the way Michael led him away from school. A hand on the back of his neck.
‘Toby. If you’re saying … what I think … then you need to talk to someone professional.’
‘Done that. They just move me to another city, another school.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been to four schools in five years. Didn’t you check my report?’
‘Well, no, I—’
‘Never bothered.’ It was said matter-of-factly, without accusation; an acceptance of the rules. ‘No one checks. No one believes me.’
‘I believe you.’
‘No, you don’t. Sorry, Miss, no offence, but …’
‘I do.’
‘You’re nice, a bit concerned, just like the others, and I think you’re a really good teacher too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. But you won’t actually do anything.’
‘Yes, I will.’
Something prickled within Anna. She had a thing for the underdog.
‘What are you going to do?’ Toby continued. ‘Talk to the Head? Social services?’
From his mouth, the suggestions seemed specious.
‘Well,’ said Anna, bristling, ‘what would you want me to do?’
Toby’s sad eyes stared at her with doubt, but he was looking at her properly for the first time that either could remember. Maybe the first time since he walked into her class six months ago.
‘Find me proof,’ he said.
‘Of what your father did to you?’
‘Well, if it was him.’
‘Okay …’ she said warily, not sure where all this was leading. Toby seemed brighter-eyed all of a sudden and Anna was disquieted by this enthusiasm.
‘You know how to get proof?’ she asked.
‘I guess. If you can take me there, so we can see it for real.’