Seeing Red

  I hate the way that in modern films, well the goddam camera is just moving all the time so you don’t know where you’re supposed to be looking from, and half the time you don’t know what you are supposed to be looking at. Actually, Steven Spielberg is pretty much to blame for that – although an honourable mention goes to Orson Welles with Citizen Kane. The camera moving all over the place is pretty much a Spielberg trademark. And because he was so successful with it, every talentless hack has followed him. Trouble is, only a few directors can do that with any panache – Robert Zemekis is another one – and everything else looks cheap and stylised and phoney.

  And you know what I hate the most? There’s a particular shot that’s used a lot and if you see it when you’re watching a movie you know you might as well switch off or walk out because it says, clear as a bell, that the director is a cheap hack. You’ll know the one; it’s where the camera is looking at something in a room; and then the camera starts to move back so we can see more of the room; and then, as if by magic – are we supposed to gasp at this point? – the camera has backed right out of the window and we can see the house. Then it moves back some more and we can see the house and the garden, and it’s rising up now, so that we can see the house and the garden from above. Then it goes back even more and even higher until we can see the whole goddam neighbourhood. At this point of course, anyone with any artistic discernment at all is reaching for a sick bag. It makes you want to puke, that shot does. No top-notch director would ever use it. Only hacks and phoneys. Sometimes, to show creative variety, they do it the other way round. Oh how I gasp with wonder when they do that. Start way out and bring the camera in until it’s inside the house and forcing us to look at something dim-witted. There are far more hacks and phoneys than there are artists. And that one shot proves it. I swear to God.

  I’m pondering all this when my door opens, startling me a bit. I hate that – when I’m deep in thought and someone brings me out of it pretty sharp. It’s like being woken up in the middle of a particularly fantastic dream. Madeleine puts her head round the door. Good job that I’m decent.

  ‘For Chrissakes, Maddie!’

  I make out that I’m annoyed – and I’d have every right to be – but really I’m not. I am totally in favour of having my privacy, but Madeleine is a special case. And besides, right away, I can see that she is unhappy about something.

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were here or not.’

  I could suggest that a good way to find out would be to knock. But Madeleine seems like she has something on her mind so I let it go.

  ‘Well, I guess I am here. So what did you want?’

  She’s still outside the door, and usually she would have breezed right in. I can tell that something is wrong, but Madeleine and me, we know each other well enough not to pry.

  ‘Oh nothing. I was just bored and wondered if you were watching TV or something.’

  Of course that is a dead give away that she has something on her mind, but I’m going to let it go for now.

  ‘Well, I was just about to.’

  I pick up the remote lying next to me and hit the button. I have configured it so that the TV starts in mute-mode, so it doesn’t freak out the whole house when I switch it on. Sometimes, if I wake up in the middle of the night, I switch on my TV. You can imagine how it would go down with Mom and Dad if there was a blast of noise at three am or something.

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  Madeleine smiles, which gives me a lift, I admit it, and before you know it, she’s lying next to me on my bed. She’s wearing just the Versace jeans and a Stella McCartney tee-shirt and her long legs near as dammit seem to stretch to the end of the bed.

  We lie like this for a while, chatting away about nothing in particular with the TV on in the background, unwatched. There’s something on Madeleine’s mind for sure, but she isn’t going to say anything, so I chill back and talk about clothes and shoes and make-up and stuff with her. We can fill hours with talk like that. And I comment on the polish on her toenails, perfect as always. I guess that it’s from the OPI Hollywood Collection, and that the shade is I’m Not Really a Waitress. It cracks me up that OPI have these really cute names for their stuff. It really does. And it cracks Madeleine up that I know so much about stuff like this, which is why I commented on it in the first place. Why she should be surprised though, I don’t really know. After all, she is the one who taught me all about this stuff.

  If you want to know the truth, it is just an educated guess I’ve made about the nail polish, based on the colour and the fact that I know that Madeleine buys a lot of OPI stuff. But it seems to make her happy for a while, so that makes me happy.

  And now we are just sitting here watching re-runs of old black and white episodes of The Beverly Hillbillies. We both enjoy them and Madeleine spots Sharon Tate in one of the episodes, which gives her a buzz, even though it’s a goddam shame what happened to Sharon Tate, being murdered with her unborn baby by the Charles Manson gang and all.

  Whatever is troubling Madeleine, I guess she’ll tell me when she feels she wants to.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’d rather be dreaming…

  I wake up and it’s the middle of the night. My TV is switched off and the lights are off, but I’m still lying on my bed wrapped inside the Dior robe. There’s a space next to me because Madeleine has gone. Yes, of course she’s gone. We’re not in the habit of sleeping together, sicko. That would be appalling.

  I twist my head to look at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. It’s just gone three in the morning. I don’t feel sleepy at all so I reach for the TV remote but something stops me. I can hear someone sobbing. And I listen harder and I know it’s from the next room. Madeleine’s room.

  There’s nothing I hate more in the whole world than the thought that someone I care about is unhappy. And I don’t just care about Madeleine; it goes deeper than that. There was definitely something on her mind earlier. Now I’m wishing I’d come straight out and asked her, but you can never turn back the clock.

  I am still wearing my robe so I creep out onto the landing. It’s definitely Madeleine. I wonder if I should go to see what the matter is. Would she want me to see her crying like that? Probably not, but it’s too late because I’m already tapping on the door as loud as I dare. She’s definitely heard me because the sobbing stops immediately. I know that she knows it’s me; Mom or Dad would have just barged in.

  ‘Maddie – it’s me.’

  I’m hissing the words. God I hate whispering. Even the sound of other people whispering makes my skin crawl. Some people can’t stand the sound of chalk on a blackboard. I can. I can listen to that all day. But whispering – it makes me want to commit acts of violence. It really does, I swear to God. I just can’t stand it.

  So here I am, whispering and hating the sound and hating myself, but it’s for Madeleine so I grit my teeth. And she doesn’t reply and there’s only quiet from beyond that door. So I have to hiss again.

  ‘Maddie, come on…’

  And then the door clicks open and through the two-inch gap (I’m guessing but it couldn’t be much more) I can see Madeleine standing in those cute Tiffany Blue pyjamas. I can barely see her face but what I can see are tear tracks down her cheeks and an eye that is swollen and red.

  ‘Maddie, what’s wrong?’

  I barely notice that I’m hissing now.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why are you crying? Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  I realise that standing on the landing pleading to get into my sister’s bedroom – well, it must seem like a Tennessee courtship, but really, what else can I do?

  ‘Come on Maddie, it’s obviously something. You can tell me about it, you know that.’

  But already I know that she’s not going to tell me anything at all. Not right now. She’ll have to tell me something at some point though. I already know that there is something wrong. And she knows that I know. I won’t let it go until I kno
w that she is going to be alright. That’s the way it works when you care about someone. I know that and she knows that. And you know it too, don’t you? It’s a universal law.

  ‘No, not right now. Just leave me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  Well, there’s not a lot I can say to that. She closes the door on me and I hear it click. She’ll talk to me tomorrow, so I’ll have to wait until then. But my mind is racing all the same, and it keeps coming back to just one thing. A boy.

  When girls cry like that, there’s pretty much always a boy involved. Madeleine has a boyfriend – David Lloyd. He’s a year older than her, twenty, and they’ve been seeing each other for about a year. Actually, he’s a pretty cool guy and we get along really well. I love the TVR that he drives – yes, his family has money alright. But right now, I’m thinking that if he’s done anything to hurt my sister, I just want to tear his arms and legs off. And this is what I’m thinking as I eventually drift into sleep. And that’s another reason to hate David Lloyd; I should have been dreaming of Sylvia.

  CHAPTER 8

  No one to talk to

  Another sunny day wasted at school. All I’ve done is look out of the classroom windows all day. I can see the athletics fields and stuff, and all that green makes me think of yesterday and being with Sylvia in the woods and by the brook.

  Of course the school wanted to know where I’d been yesterday and I just told them I’d felt sick and gone home. I said that in case anyone had noticed me in the library. And because of what happened with Eddie, some dumb-ass kid may have said something about seeing me before the bell. So I made this stuff up about being sick and forgetting the note from my mom. There is no such note of course, and I’ll have to forge one tonight to bring in tomorrow. I’ve done it before and it has never failed, so I’m not stressed about it.

  I hung around the yard when I got here this morning, looking out for Sylvia, but she never showed. I have to say that I was very disappointed. Really, I was. I thought about cutting school again and going down to that brook, as if she’d be there again. But I’m smart enough to realise just what a stupid romantic fantasy that is. I just hate people who live their lives as though things should be how they want them to be and not the way they really are. People like that are just deluded morons, and it’s because reality has a habit of intruding on their romantic notions that they are so easily rendered unhappy.

  All I want to do now, really, is just sit here, staring out of the window, thinking about Sylvia and that incredible laugh she has and her hair and her smile. And the scars on the inside of her arm. What the hell is that all about? I want to spend all my time thinking about Sylvia, for sure. But I can’t. Because there is also Madeleine. I’m worried sick about Madeleine. She said she’d talk to me today, but I didn’t see her this morning – which is very unusual – so I guess I’ll have to wait until I get home. I’m hoping it’s nothing. Girls can get weepy about things sometimes. It just makes me mad and sad to see girls getting upset. It breaks my heart, it really does.

  So this is how I spend my Thursday, daydreaming until the home-time bell. I don’t think I’ve spoken more than a dozen words the whole day. I’ve been in my own world. Even Eddie has been ignoring me. Not a word, not even a scowl. I wonder if he’s cooling down and realising that I’m not perving after his kid sister. It would be nice to think that things could get back to normal with old Eddie, but it’s not the most important thing on my mind as I sit alone on the bus home.

  When I get home the driveway is clear, so Mom’s not back and I’ll be able to talk to Madeleine. But the house is as empty as the drive. No Mom, no Dad. No Madeleine. So I shower and change, and I lie in my room and I wonder where they are, the two most important girls in my life right now.

  I’ve been lying here for an hour or so, turning my phone over between my fingers. I’m wondering whether I should call them, find out where they are, how they are doing. I haven’t as yet, because I’m disturbed by how strong the feeling is for me to do this. It makes me seem needy somehow. I don’t find that an attractive quality when I notice it in others and I sure as hell don’t want to find it in myself. But before you know it, I’m hitting the speed-dial for Madeleine’s cell phone. It rings and it rings and then after some mechanical clicking, there she is.

  ‘Hi. You’ve reached Maddie’s phone. I’m not talking to you right now because I’m either not available or I just don’t like you. Feel free to leave a message after the tone. Or don’t, as the case may be. Maybe I’ll get back to you, maybe I won’t. No guarantees.’

  She sounds cool in the message, but I know that Madeleine would just love you to leave a message. She’d hate to think she’d missed out on anything.

  I listen to Maddie’s message all the way through, even though I’ve heard it plenty of times before, just because I’m comforted by the sound of her voice. I don’t leave a message of my own though. I can’t imagine where Maddie might be, but I don’t dwell on that; not when I can be calling Sylvia.

  I don’t have Sylvia’s number assigned to a speed-dial button yet, so I have to browse through the phone’s address book to find it. I find it and punch in the numbers. It rings and it rings.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’

  Right away I’m thinking of the slob again, the slob I imagine to be Sylvia’s dad. I can hear the sound of a television blaring in the background this time, which only reinforces the image I’ve created.

  ‘Can I speak to Sylvia please?’

  ‘Christ, another one of you. She’s not here.’

  And the phone is slammed down. And I’m just holding my own phone against my ear. I’m not shocked at the rudeness – come on, you know me better than that. I’m just wondering what he meant. Another one of you. Another boy? Is Sylvia seeing someone? A gazillion possible scenarios are racing through my head – most of them ones that I do not like at all.

  I have to tell myself that I have only known Sylvia for a day, so it shouldn’t matter. But it goddam does matter. It really does, and I hate myself because it does. Why the hell can’t Madeleine be home? Christ, even Mom or Dad or both would be better than the empty house right now. Goddam girls. It’s absolutely impossible to like girls, I swear to God.

  And I just know that I am going to continue ranting to myself like this and making myself feel worse and worse, when the little miracle happens. I hear a car pull into the drive, and before you know it, the front door opens and closes again. Mom’s home.

  I throw on some cotton Dockers and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and go down to greet her. I find her in the kitchen. She lives in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi. I didn’t think anyone was home. None of the lights are on.’

  And that’s true. I hadn’t thought about it, but I’ve been lying upstairs for ages and while it isn’t really dark, we’re certainly well into dusk.

  ‘I’ve just been lying in my room, doing some reading for school and watching TV.’

  I can lie as casually as that any time I need to. It doesn’t do any harm and it gives Mom no reason to ask any questions.

  ‘Have you eaten anything? Do you want me to fix something for you?’ She’s saying this as she’s making herself a cup of coffee and not really looking at me.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I had a burger and fries at the mall on my way home.’

  ‘Oh, so you were at the mall. Buy anything nice?’

  She still isn’t looking at me but she is at least interested now. She likes to see the clothes that Madeleine and I buy. She’s a fashionista herself, is Mom.

  ‘No, I was just looking… Do you know what time Maddie will be back tonight?’

  It’s worth asking; she just might know, if Madeleine has spoken to her over breakfast this morning.

  ‘She might not be back at all. She was going to spend the day with Kirsty. Then they were going out tonight. She said she might stay over. Why, do you need her for something?’

  Jeez, Mom. If you want to pry, at least try to disguise it a little. I want to say t
hat, but I don’t.

  ‘No, nothing important. I just wondered where everyone was tonight.’

  ‘Well, your father is having dinner with clients. He said, remember?’

  I don’t remember, but I don’t say anything.

  ‘And I’m going to have to shut myself in the study. I’ve got tons to do, so you’ll have to entertain yourself this evening.’

  Now she turns to look at me.

  ‘Will you be alright on your own?’

  This is too much. It’s not like I’m five years old or anything.

  ‘Mom, I’m not five. Give me a break. I’m going back to my room.’

  ‘I know. Sometimes I forget though. You’ll always be my little boy, Tom.’

  Oh, I can’t even look at her when she’s coming out with drivel like this and I turn away in disgust. If she wasn’t my mother…

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to be busy in the study. It’s really important that I get this work done before tomorrow, so don’t disturb me unless the house is on fire, will you?’

  I can only shake my head as I turn to head back to my room.

  ‘Sure, Mom. If the house is on fire.’

  As I climb the stairs, I wonder just what the nature of this work might be. She does this from time to time – locks herself in the study and asks not to be disturbed. Sometimes she’s on her own and sometimes she’s in there with Dad. And that’s strange because I can’t see them in there working together. They are in totally different businesses. And I have my suspicions. I have been into their study when I’ve been home alone, and I’ve fired up their computer. And I’ll tell you, what I found in the history drop-down of their web browser actually shocked me. No really, it did. Sometimes I think I’m still traumatised by it. They visit sites for swingers. I guess that’s an old-fashioned term, but I like it better than wife-swappers. I can’t be certain that they go through with it, but something tells me that they do. There are Saturday nights now and then when they go out and stay out overnight. It isn’t often, but what do you think? Yeah, I think so too. I wonder if Eddie would think of them as goddam perverts.