by Irfan Master
‘What do you want?’
‘Leave her alone.’
‘You want to give me some lip, boy? Do you?’
‘Don’t hit her.’
‘Who should I hit then? You?’
‘Yeah, hit me.’
Scowling, he turned away and made to close the door. Jamming my foot in the door, I shook my head.
‘Leave her alone.’
Grabbing my T-shirt, my father lifted me from my feet and dragged me across the landing. Mum screamed and stood up, clutching her stomach.
‘I told you to go away, boy. You’re just like her. You don’t listen. And people who don’t listen end up getting hurt.’
‘We’re not people. We’re your family.’
‘Well, if you listened, I might treat you like family.’
Flinging me to the ground, Dad stood over me. Grabbing his leg, I shook my head once more.
‘Leave her alone.’
‘I warned you, boy …’ said Dad.
I don’t remember if Dad was using fists or palms or feet. I didn’t know if he was kicking me or punching me. In these moments, I usually found a sense of calm. A place I could go that wasn’t here. Was elsewhere. As each blow connected with my body, I absorbed it. Took it into myself and sent it elsewhere. I knew I was probably grunting in pain, screaming even, but I couldn’t hear it. After a while I felt softer hands, cradling my head. A smell I knew. Of lemons and chopped coriander. Mum held me close, as the blows still rained down. A downpour. Something made me come back to myself. Standing at the top of the stairs on unsteady legs was Farah. Eyes wide with shock, she stood pointing at Dad. Mum made a small crumpled sound, but I wasn’t listening. Dad hadn’t spotted Farah, and grabbing Mum’s hair dragged her across the carpet towards the stairs. I scrambled, trying to untangle hurt limbs.
‘No, Dad, no. Behind you!’
Dragging Mum by the hair, Dad swung his free hand to strike her again, and clipped Farah on the head. Farah reached out for me, holding her hands out, stretching every sinew and fingertip, but she was already falling. And just like that, the anger in the house evaporated. Dad fell to his knees as Mum rushed down the stairs to Farah who lay at the bottom. She looked peaceful to me. Serene. Almost as if she was having a nap. Mum stroked her hair, spoke her name, afraid to move her. Each step groaned as I raced down, punctuating the low keening from Mum. Kneeling beside Farah, I held her hand, squeezing it. Eyes flashing open, she looked right at me. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She tried again, but there was nothing. Mum gathered her in and held her close to her chest. Resting her head on Mum’s shoulder, Farah looked at me. There were no words.
Adam looked for Laila daily, but she was avoiding him. Seeing Cans leaning against a wall bobbing his head, Adam waved and made his way over.
‘Wassup?’ said Cans, pulling Adam in for an embrace.
‘Same ol shit,’ replied Adam. ‘What you listening to?’
Cans’s face lit up.
‘Serious, I made a mixtape with some pro tools software. Man, you don’t know about that software – it’s a miracle maker.’
‘Let me hear. What did you remix?’ asked Adam, smiling.
Cans pulled off his headphones and popped them on Adam’s head.
‘Sounds good,’ said Adam after a while, handing the headphones back.
‘Good? Good? That’s all you can say, you with all those scribbled words … Aargh.’
‘Have to listen to the original again, but sounds like you’ve stripped it down and made it more, err … basic?’
‘Exactly. Stripped it down to its basic. Essential elements only, you get me.’
Adam did. He understood what Cans had done, stripping away layers of sounds, almost working in reverse so that the song was in the early stages of production. Sometimes Adam would do that with his own drawings and paintings. Would strip the layers off until he was back to the first few scribbles and strokes. At the point when anything was still possible. Looking at Cans as he listened again, right hand signing the beat, head twitching, Adam wished he could strip some of the layers of his own life and reset it back to when there were still different possibilities. He wished there was some editing software with advanced tools for his life.
Cans glanced at him and took off his headphones.
‘You’ve got that faraway look again. Come back these ends, fam.’
‘I’m here, I’m here,’ replied Adam, trying to focus.
‘What you been up to recently? How’s the heart dude?’
‘He’s all right. You know, keeping it together, under the circumstances.’
‘And you?’ asked Cans.
‘I dunno, bruv. Life feels mad-crazy at the moment. I told you bout it last time, it’s a lot, you get me?’
‘From what you told me last time, it’s mad-crazy-beautiful, bruv. If your life was a track I was mixing, I’d try to add some mellow into the mix, man. Just to keep you settled, you know.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t you mix one for me? A song for Adam.’
‘You’re on. Probably some acoustic number, so you could stare off into the distance all deep an that.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘No, come on, I’ll do one for you. A special Cans remix.’
‘You seen her about?’
‘Eh? Seen who?’ Cans pretended to fiddle with his headphone wire. Adam glared until he looked up at him.
‘Oh, her. Erm, a few times in passing …’
‘When? Recently?’
‘The other day … Look, fam, maybe you wanna call that one …’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Adam, agitated.
‘I’m just sayin, maybe she’s not for you, bruv,’ replied Cans, looking at his feet.
‘What you sayin?’
‘Look, I saw her the other day, yesterday. She was with that dude, you know him.’
Adam’s chest tightened and he gritted his teeth.
‘Who?’
‘That tall one that hangs around with all those wasteman.’
‘Faze?’ asked Adam in a hoarse voice.
‘Yeah, him. Tall boy.’
Leaning against the wall, Adam turned away from Cans and looked straight ahead. He’d been so stupid, pushing her away. Not sharing his stuff with her. He’d told her just a bit and then clammed up. And now she was no longer with him.
‘Come on, bruv, it don’t matter. You’re the better man. You’ve just got things going on in your life. She must know that, so it’s her choice. If she can’t help you now, she can’t help you. You get me?’
Looking up at Cans, he nodded. She did know about him. She knew it was difficult right now, so why would she disappear like that? And with Faze too?
‘Come on, bruv, the bell’s about to go. Let’s get to our lesson and forget about her …’
Adam walked along with Cans in a daze. He didn’t want to be here. The buzzing static of everybody around him was driving him insane.
‘I’ve got to go. I can’t be here.’
‘What? Where you got to be?’
‘I have a place. Wanna come?’
Cans looked at his watch and grimaced.
‘Yeah, go on then. It’s only our final year and the rest of our lives and all that.’
As they trudged away from the school, Adam tried to empty his head of Laila, but all he could think about was her storm-filled eyes.
Cans whistled low and long as they stood looking out over the dead trains. Adam watched his expression change as he grasped what Adam was trying to do.
‘How long you been at this now?’ asked Cans, awe in his voice.
‘About a month, almost every night,’ replied Adam, surprised himself at how hard he’d worked on it.
‘It’s crazy. You’re one crazy guy.’ Cans shook his head. ‘It’s sick.’
Adam smiled, and for the first time in a long time relaxed and looked over his work. It had been hard going at times, especially in the cold, bending low over the freezing metal, stru
ggling not to get paint on his clothes and keeping to his original plan. Cans looked at him with different eyes and continued to shake his head at him.
‘It’s epic, man. This is some historically epic shit right here.’
‘Yo, I was aiming for epic,’ replied Adam, beaming.
‘Trust you not to be satisfied with just painting on a canvas or a wall like everyone else. You have to be extra, still.’
‘It’s been somewhere I could get away from my other self. Sometimes even get away from my head. When I’m up here in the dark, it feels like I’m painting on top of the world, and only God’s watching.’
Cans looked at Adam curiously and whistled again. Turning on his heels, he spun around, almost toppling off the train. Righting himself, he pointed at Adam.
‘Whatever else is happening, man, you’re in control of this, your art. Only you in your whole life, no matter what happens, you will always have this. Pick up a pencil or a brush or a spray can and that’s it.’
Adam looked over the trains and shook his head. ‘Nothing lasts forever. Nothing stays the same. I don’t know why I did it.’
‘Does it need a reason?’
‘Nah, I suppose it doesn’t.’
‘I think that’s how it’s supposed to be, bruv.’
Adam looked at his work and nodded.
‘Just, don’t sign this one, my G. It’s gonna have to be one of those anonymous works. But we’ll both know where the legend began,’ said Cans, thumping his chest.
‘My brother. Yeah, we’ll know, and that’s all that matters.’
‘Why did you agree to this, William?’
‘I didn’t agree to it. Your mum told me I had to do it!’
Adam glanced at William and pursed his lips, pretending to be annoyed, but really he was happy William was there. Ever since he had started school, Adam had hated parents’ evenings. He hated the teachers dismantling his character bit by bit until all he was left with was must try harder. He hated that they all said he was a bit of a dreamer and didn’t join in with the others. He hated that they picked up on his inability to listen, follow instructions or complete the work. Adam was glad his mum wasn’t coming. That was a lot of hate for her to handle.
‘OK, here’s the deal. Most of the teachers will say that I’ve got no chance at getting through. That I don’t listen, that I don’t work hard enough and that I’m just not cut out for college.’
‘And would that be true?’ asked William.
‘No, not really …’
‘What do you mean, not really?’
‘Well, they all seem to think I’m some kind of empty shell of a boy with no idea of what’s going on.’
‘But you’re not,’ said William.
‘No, I might be an empty shell of a boy, but I do know what’s going on.’
‘Smart-arse. Bet a few of them say that too,’ replied William.
‘Probably. Look, this school, the teachers are under fire. They just haven’t got time to always teach. Most of the time it’s just crowd control.’
‘Yeah, but you could still help yourself. You’re not one of those kids who hasn’t got it.’
‘I don’t know what sort of kid I am, William. I can draw – that’s about it.’
‘Well, that’s a start. Let’s see what they have to say.’ William walked ahead of Adam into the school hall.
As William and Adam made their way to the first appointment, a few people began to turn towards them and stare. Some nodded at Adam, but most turned to look at William as he eased past them to wait patiently in a queue.
‘They’re all looking at us,’ said William under his breath.
‘A tall pale dude and a skinny brown kid walk into a crowded hall …’
‘Smart-arse,’ said William.
‘It could be a good joke though,’ mused Adam. ‘A friend of mine told me I was too serious, so I’m trying to be more light-hearted.’
William nodded and took a look around the room. Different areas had been allocated according to subject. Humanities in one corner, sciences in the other. Art in the middle, PE near the door.
‘Who’s first?’ asked William.
‘Maths. Mrs Green.’
Straightening up, William held out his hand and smiled.
‘Hello, Mrs Green, I’m William.’
Mrs Green looked at Adam and raised a slim eyebrow. Always calculating, thought Adam. He would have to share that one with William later.
‘He’s with me. My mum couldn’t make it – she had to work. Here’s a note.’ Producing a crumpled piece of paper, Adam handed it to the teacher and sat down.
Passing the note back to Adam, Mrs Green smiled at William. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Tide. I’m glad somebody could make it this time. You didn’t get here at all last time, did you, Adam?’
‘No, miss,’ replied Adam, folding and refolding the piece of paper.
‘Well, I have to say, I’m very concerned about Adam. The exams are only a few months away and, to be totally honest, I don’t really know if he’s going to make it. I have had some occasional pieces of homework from him, but I couldn’t tell you what level he’s working at. He’s a mystery to me.’
William looked at the maths teacher and nodded. Adam had told him to nod every few seconds and say ‘sure’, ‘of course’, and ‘I understand’ whenever possible. He explained that teachers liked that.
‘I understand,’ tried William.
‘Do you? I wish I did,’ spluttered Mrs Green, looking at Adam.
Looking sideways at Adam, William wondered what it would be best to say now. Concentrating on smoothing out his note, Adam shrugged his shoulders. William looked the teacher in the eye.
‘Can he do the work?’ asked William.
‘Well, I think he can. I might know more if he did more regular work for me.’
Each teacher had their say: Adam was good at all sports. Except he often forgot to get involved in the game. He liked standing on the periphery watching. Adam wasn’t interested in experiments. But he did like the technical drawings of insects, especially moths. That wouldn’t get him a C grade though.
His geography teacher, Mr Mackintosh, said Adam had a very good sense of place. He only wished he would find this place and hand in his coursework.
For history, Mrs Faulkner said Adam’s grasp of great events from the past was good. The hope was that he would drag this knowledge into the present and do some work for her. His English teacher, Mr Gray, said Adam was a keen student of literature, his understanding of texts sophisticated and measured. That he wrote well – that he had a startling imagination. But he won’t pass his exams. He doesn’t write how the exam boards want. It was a shame, he said, because he rather liked how Adam wrote.
William nodded and smiled and listened carefully. This was the first time he’d been in a school in over thirty-five years. Each teacher said similar things but in different ways. But it was the look in their eyes that did it for William. A look that said, no, he wasn’t always present, and no, he didn’t always do the work. But he could. As the evening went on, Adam became more fidgety, but William smiled at him. After each appointment, he patted him on the back. Adam was confused. Each teacher was less complimentary than the last and every teacher said he was likely to fail. So why was William smiling?
‘Who’s next?’
‘She’s not here yet. We have to wait. It’s not been good so far,’ said Adam, looking sidelong at William.
‘I think it’s been good.’
Adam stared at William.
‘Were you listening to them?’
‘Yeah. They all said that you can do the work.’
‘That’s not what they said. They said I never did any work.’
‘That’s different from not being able to do the work.’
‘Is it?’
Now William looked sidelong at Adam.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mum would be laying into me about now.’
‘You can do the work. That�
�s better than not being able to do it at all,’ said William.
‘When did you become Mr Glass Half Full?’
‘About the time you became Mr Half Empty,’ replied William.
Adam muttered something under his breath, but was glad William was there. Something had changed in him over the past few months since he’d come to them, and the whole family had benefited from his solid presence.
‘My last teacher might actually say something good about me.’
‘Best for last, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ replied Adam, as he led William towards Miss Matheson. She sat as she usually did, looking at some picture in a large heavy book. Adam was sure he recognised it. It was one of his favourites.
‘Is that the book with Icarus in it, miss?’
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Mrs Matheson, looking up and fixing them with a welcoming smile. ‘Would you like to see it?’
Adam nodded as William sat down and leaned in close.
‘Do you know the myth of Icarus, Mr …?’
‘Tide. Yes, but only because of Adam. He has sketches of Icarus in his notebook.’
‘Yes, it’s a favourite myth of his. Has he told you that he’s going to use Icarus as the basis of his final piece in the exam?’
‘No. No, he hasn’t.’
Adam looked at his hands, long tapered fingers flickering, flexing.
‘Yes, it’s very exciting. You know, it’s a joy to have Adam in my class. There’s nothing he can’t draw, but that’s not why I like his work. It’s that he draws it as he sees it and not necessarily as it should be. Does that make sense?’
‘No, but that sounds like Adam,’ replied William.
‘OK, let me try to explain. Most of my students will represent on the page what they see with little or no interpretation of their own. A lot of them are very good at drawing, better even than Adam, but their work has nothing of themselves in it. With Adam, he’s on the page. He’s in every scribble and scratch of his pencil. He questions in every drawing what art is. And each time he breaks his image down to its true essence. Does that make any sense?’
Looking from Mrs Matheson to Adam, William nodded. ‘No.’