“Francisco—where are you off to?” I said loudly. I turned my head to the audience but I couldn’t see a single person, even though I knew they were all there. The spotlight was so bright that it seemed there was only me and Liam on stage. The projection of Jojo’s friend appeared on the wall opposite. The projection always reminded me of Ruen because it looked like a real person but you could see the wall behind him. The orchestra started playing and it was loud, like scratchy, screaming violins. I gave my line: Now I see it with my own eyes, I believe you. It is real. But when I looked at the projection again it didn’t look the same. The man was wearing a black balaclava now and a black jacket. I wondered if someone had changed the reel in the projector. He was just standing there, holding a gun.
Aoife came on stage as Hamlet, and she looked at the ghost and reached to touch it. He is my father, she said. He is my father! O Hamlet, progenitor, warmest father, namesake—tell me why you’re here.
The ghost turned and faced Aoife. The voice of Jojo’s famous friend filled the auditorium.
I was murdered by that same traitor who has married your mother …
Aoife stared as the ghost talked to her, telling her to avenge his death. She looked really scared and clung on to me, and I felt numb.
Remember me, Hamlet.
I looked at the ghost and he held up his gun. And then it was like the stage and the smoke and the projection of Jojo’s famous friend as the ghost and the audience all disappeared. And I wasn’t even Horatio anymore.
Remember me …
Aoife was no longer standing beside me. The stage had disappeared and instead of a black sea of faces, I was standing on a country road. There was a row of small stone shops behind me and a church and a post office. Some women were pushing prams along the narrow pavement and a little girl in a yellow dress was standing in a shop doorway eating a packet of chips and throwing some for the pigeons. The road was black and shiny as if it had been raining. There were two policemen at either side of the road, one old, one young. A police car was parked on the side of the road just past me. It’s a police checkpoint, I thought. I could see the camera in the back of it pointed at the patrol.
A blue car came up the road toward the checkpoint. Enjoy them while they’re young, the policeman on the opposite side of the road said. Not long before they start borrowing your car and bleeding you dry. The young policeman spotted the car coming toward them and he walked into the center of the road with his hand up.
The blue car came closer and I could see two men in the front. The man behind the driver’s wheel was so small I could hardly see his face over the steering wheel, but as he got closer I saw he was old and bald with a white tuft of hair at the back. The other man’s face was hidden behind a black balaclava. I could feel my breaths getting faster and my heart galloping because I knew who he was.
He was my Dad.
The policeman in the middle of the road shouted something to the older policeman who took out his radio and started talking into it. The policeman in the middle of the road reached for the gun in his holster at his waist and when the blue car stopped my Dad jumped out of the car and pointed a gun at him.
It happened so fast I thought I must have missed something. There was a woman pushing a pram nearby and she screamed and ran into the post office and someone came out and grabbed the little girl who was feeding the pigeons and slammed the shop door. Another man just froze, as if he had turned to ice. The young policeman raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot!” he said, and his voice was full of warning not fear but I was close enough to see his face, which was sweaty and strained. The older policeman had his gun pointed at my Dad and I was very scared.
But my Dad wasn’t. He kept his gaze on the policeman in the middle of the road.
“There’s another patrol nearby,” the older policeman said, still pointing his gun at my Dad. “It’s not worth it, pal. You won’t get far.”
My Dad turned his head back to the driver, as if he needed to ask him something, and in that split second the older policeman shot at him but the shot missed my Dad and cracked the windscreen of the blue car. My Dad spun around and aimed his gun and the younger policeman pulled out his gun but my Dad shot him first.
I saw it like it happened slowly.
The man who had froze like ice dropped his can of Coke.
The pigeons flapped up into the air.
The sky bounced off the wet road.
The policeman’s head spun around to me. His mouth was curled in a weird way and his face was a blur. Blood shot out of his forehead like a red horn.
My Dad turned and I heard another shot. It was a crack, like a firecracker only much louder and with a kind of thud behind it that made me feel sick. The second policeman’s arms flung forward and his knees crumpled and he fell forward. And when I looked back at my Dad he was already in the blue car and the old man behind the wheel made the tires spin and they drove away.
When I looked up again I wasn’t at the police checkpoint or on stage. I was in my dressing room in front of a mirror and I wasn’t wearing my combat suit anymore, just my boxer shorts and my black boots. My face was wet and my mouth was red and I was shaking all over. I lifted my arm up to see the marks on it and it was shaking but I could see I was bleeding. Someone was behind me. It was Bonnie Nicholls.
“Alex,” she whispered. “Alex, what happened?”
I looked around the dressing room and for some reason it looked like it had been burgled. The dressing table was turned over with all four legs sticking up. One of the big photographs on the far wall was shattered and my locker was open with all the contents on the ground.
“What happened, Bonnie?” I said, but before she could answer my legs turned to jelly and I heard her scream and everything went black.
When I woke up I was in a hospital bed in different clothes and my body hurt like I’d been trampled by a herd of dinosaurs. The nurses gave me some medicine, which has pushed most of the pain into the distance. I had a huge black shiner and my nose was so swollen that every time I said “I didn’t do it” it came out like “I nin’t noo it.” After the nurses came a doctor came in and all he wanted to know is why I like drawing skeletons. I got so angry that I started to cry and I saw him write anger issues on his notepad.
Anya and Michael and Auntie Bev came later on. I was so relieved to see them that I burst out laughing. This surprised Auntie Bev but made her laugh, too, even though her eyes still looked upset.
“You look like a queen,” I said to Anya, though I just meant to say she looked nice. She was wearing a clean white dress with no marks on it and her hair was up, which made her neck look long, and she had makeup on.
“What happened, Alex?” she said. “Did Ruen do this?”
Anya looked at some papers the doctors had written about me and then she started asking me more questions, but I felt sleepy and I just wanted some onions and toast with a cup of tea.
“Do you know what happened?” I asked Anya.
“We were hoping you would tell us what happened, Alex,” she said.
I pressed the balls of my palms into my eyes and took deep breaths. I felt so confused. I thought, maybe I really am going crazy.
When I moved my hands from my eyes I noticed that I’d said this out loud. Both Michael and Anya were looking at me really strangely. “Were you upset about your mum tonight, Alex? Did something happen earlier in rehearsals?” Anya said.
I opened my mouth to tell her about the policeman and the shooting and that I had seen my Dad, but even though I tried no words came out, just sobs and I started crying so badly that my whole body shook and my back started to ache.
Auntie Bev sat on the bed beside me and took my hand. Then she put her arms around me and held me for a long time.
“Was this an accident?” she said when she let go, and her voice was very small. “Or did you do it to yourself? You can tell me, you know. I won’t be upset. We all just want to help you.”
Ju
st then, Ruen appeared as Ghost Boy. I must have jumped with fright because right away Anya asked me what was wrong. Ruen stood at the end of the bed, staring at me. He was giving me the Alex Is Stupid look.
“I’m not stupid!” I yelled at him.
“It’s okay, Alex,” Anya said, but I shook my head because I didn’t mean her. I hated Ruen’s eyes right then, it was like they were bigger than normal, like bulging, and even though they were black as two lumps of coal they could see right through me.
“Tell them you did it,” he said, nodding his head and smiling.
The way he said it made it sound like he was offering more of a helpful suggestion than a command, like he knew something I didn’t and that it would be a good idea to do as he said. He said it again. “It’s okay, Alex. Just tell them.”
I took a deep breath. “I did it,” I said.
Auntie Bev let go of me and Anya and Michael looked at each other and I was really sorry I’d said it. I wanted Auntie Bev to hold me again. I wanted to ask Ruen why he said I should say that so I just said, “Can we talk about this more in the morning? I’m really tired now.”
Anya crouched down so she could look me in the eye. “You did this, Alex? Or Ruen did it?”
Ruen looked angry then. I remembered the police checkpoint.
“My dad did something very, very wrong.” I said it very carefully, and Anya’s face changed as if she’d seen something she hadn’t seen before.
“Did he hurt you, Alex?”
I shook my head.
“Did he hurt your Mum?”
I shook my head.
“Can you tell me what your dad did?”
For a moment I was going to. But then I felt a new feeling. I felt really, really ashamed, which didn’t make sense because it wasn’t my fault. But I still felt like she would be disappointed in me.
“Maybe after a sleep you can tell me,” Anya said, and I felt so glad of that because I was so tired and sore and my brain felt like mud. I nodded and lay back and closed my eyes.
When I was sure they’d left, I said to Ruen, “why did you tell me to say that?”
He was just staring out the window as if he was looking for someone. He didn’t answer so I asked him again. I was starting to get really mad at him.
“Why would you tell me to lie?” I asked him.
He turned and pressed his face really close to mine. His breath smelled like a butcher’s shop on a sunny day. I turned my face.
“But you did do this to yourself, Alex,” he whispered. And then he didn’t look angry anymore, but like he pitied me. “Poor Alex,” he said, picking up the ball and batting it off the wall opposite. “You don’t realize it, do you?”
“Realize what?”
“That you did do this.”
“And how did I do this?” I said loudly, though it hurt my chest to yell. “How would I lift myself up and fling myself into the wall?”
“Weren’t you asleep at the time?”
“I was not! I was getting ready for the third scene …”
He stopped batting and tilted his head as if he’d just thought of something that I hadn’t. “Or were you dreaming that you were getting ready for the third scene?”
My head felt like hamburger meat now. I just wanted to sleep.
“I have to sleep now, Ruen,” I told him.
He nodded. “I promise not to tell your mum about this.”
I thought to myself, but Mum doesn’t even know you exist, but I said nothing because if I really did do this to myself I certainly didn’t want Mum finding out. It would make her sicker. And I felt glad then that Ruen was going to keep it a secret.
“Do you think Mum is okay?” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s fine. Would you like me to make sure she’s okay, Alex?”
I nodded and felt so relieved. “Yes, please. I would love that.”
Ruen smiled and leaned over me. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”
I nodded.
“Tomorrow morning I’d like you to ask Anya those questions I gave you. Can you do that for me, Alex? I would be extremely grateful.”
“Okay.”
And then I don’t remember anything else because I fell asleep and dreamed of Granny all night.
18
RUIN’S QUESTIONS
ANYA
Alex’s latest predicament is a shock, to say the least.
I had returned to my seat in the auditorium just as Alex was on stage consoling Hamlet about the hasty marriage between his widowed mother and uncle. I looked over the other members of the audience—many sat forward in their seats, eager to hear this young man’s advice to Hamlet. I felt a swell of pride for Alex. And I wondered if he had crossed a bridge of sorts. I glanced at Michael and thought about Alex’s treatment. Should he receive treatment at home? Should I sidestep the furor that will be caused by having Cindy deemed unfit to act as Alex’s mother and admit him to MacNeice House, a place she believes to be for lunatics? Is Alex demonstrating psychotic symptoms, or are these just symptoms of post-traumatic stress?
But something happened during the intermission. When the curtain went down and the audience were rising from their seats I spotted Jojo elbowing her way across the auditorium, pushing through the crowd. I saw her signal a staff member, then turn to the auditorium, scanning the pews as if she was looking for someone. I waved, but she didn’t see me. Her expression frightened me.
“Something’s wrong,” I said to Michael.
“What do you mean?” He followed my gaze to the front of the auditorium, where two boys in REALLY TALENTED KIDS T-shirts were running to the door that Jojo had just exited. “We have to go,” I told Michael.
When we arrived at the dressing room, Michael pushed past a crew member and we saw the state of the place—someone had trashed it. The furniture was overturned and the mirror was shattered, the pieces catching my reflection in a million glinting shards. Worse, a case of stage makeup had spilled across the black floor, giving the initial impression of blood. Bonnie, the girl who played Ophelia, said she had heard a lot of noise coming from the dressing room. When she entered, she saw Alex throw himself against the wall, then fall. He was unconscious for a few moments—she thought he was dead, Bonnie told us, sobbing.
I found Alex’s aunt and told her that Alex had had an accident, though I still wasn’t sure what had happened. The Red Cross team had already taken Alex to the emergency room, a cast member told us, though he seemed more anxious about finding an understudy to continue the performance than answering questions. Beverly, Michael, and I took a taxi and arrived at the city hospital a short while later, where a nurse led us to a side room in the pediatric unit.
Alex looked terrible. Both eyes were bloodshot and his nose was bruised and swollen. A nurse informed me that he had bruising around his lower back that suggested that Alex had deliberately flung himself against the wall. The force that caused the bruising was unusual in the case of self-harm; it looked like a much larger person must have lifted Alex up and thrown him a distance of approximately ten feet. Of course, this was impossible. Alex was alone. I can only hypothesize that the strain of performing had been too much for him. When I read through Shakespeare’s original and Jojo’s adaptation, I had noticed that the relationship between Hamlet and his father is underlined by a corrosive sense of debt, of the need to carry out revenge on his father’s behalf. Alex’s relationship with his own father is clearly something I need to investigate more, and I made a note to push Alex a little to talk about it. But I need to wait until he recovers physically.
Michael and I shared a taxi, making the journey together in silence. My mind was racing with hows and whys, circling the issue of the play’s themes like a vulture. The truth was, I had already located my answer, but I wanted to pick the bones of it out of guilt. I should never have allowed Alex to perform in the play. I should have known the kinds of pressures a public performance would have placed on him at such an intensely vulnerable period in his life
. And I should have insisted, insisted, that Alex be transferred to MacNeice House.
When the taxi pulled up outside my flat, I turned to Michael.
“As soon as Alex leaves hospital, I am moving him to MacNeice House.”
He chewed his cheek, keeping his eyes on the space of seat between us. “I know,” he said quietly. For a moment his eyes met mine—filled with a startling amount of want. He turned away as I got out and the taxi pulled away.
When I went to see Alex the next day he was dressed and waiting. His aunt had already visited, a nurse told me. She had brought Alex’s clothing. He winced as he sat upright, but had taken care in getting dressed, red bow tie, brown-and-white-striped shirt. He had something in his shirt pocket, which he revealed to be one of the photos of the new council house. He was keeping it close to his heart, he said. I was delighted that something I had done had made him so happy.
“Where’s Michael?” he wanted to know.
“In his office, I expect,” I told him. “Did you want to see him?”
Alex shook his head. His dressings had been changed but the silvery morning light revealed the bruising around his face to be traveling through the blue hues of deep impact. I recognized this was a very serious self-harm episode, completely undermining how happy he appeared on the surface.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked.
He seemed suddenly hesitant to meet my eyes. He rubbed his bicep and said, “Sore.”
“I bet.”
I pulled up a chair at the table, mulling over the best way to broach the subject of Alex’s father. It was important that I ease him into the subject gently, establishing that whatever it was his father had done was not going to land Alex in trouble. On the table was a tray of food left over from breakfast—a dilapidated fruit salad, a tub of warm Greek yogurt, and porridge sprinkled with pine nuts. I lifted it out of the way and set it on the floor close to the door, handing Alex a cup of water.
Boy Who Could See Demons Page 17