by Frances Vick
When he came back into the kitchen, pale, very sad, he said that he wanted to make a cross, and use Tony’s soldering iron to burn Tinker’s name on it.
‘Right-o, of course!’ Tony was glad to do something. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you—’
‘No,’ David said quietly, firmly. ‘I want to do it myself.’
‘It’s quite a tricky instrument though—’
‘How about if I help you?’ Piers put in. ‘I think I can remember the rudiments? David?’
And so, father and son retired solemnly to the summer house – David standing on the threshold, his back ostentatiously turned to the entrance – and together they burned TINKER on one of the few pieces of wood that had escaped the bonfire. It turned out later to be an unused frame that Tony had been saving for something, and that felt good. It felt good to destroy something of Tony’s; it felt good to know that Tony couldn’t complain about it either, not after what he’d done.
For the next few days David stayed in his room, in a state of blank, crushing sadness. The depression absolutely terrifying. David had never felt depressed before; before Tinker, he’d strongly suspected that depression was just an excuse for layabouts like Tony to do nothing, drink too much and never be held to account for their actions, but now it was happening to him, he had to accept that it was real.
David couldn’t move for it, couldn’t train, organise ‘Precious Memories!’, sink into Jenny’s mind. He couldn’t even leave the house to follow her. He didn’t even want to open the windows of his room – the air was fetid, humid in there; it smelled of loss and fear and death. Sometimes, when David woke up, he’d smell the fishy evil of the canal, and he knew that Marc hadn’t gone away after all; Marc was still here, and getting stronger all the time, because Tinker wasn’t there to ward him off.
The only thing that stirred from his gloomy torpor was extreme irritation and very loud noise, both of which were amply provided by Tony who was entering the annual event he called his Spring Cycle.
Tony’s Spring Cycle – ‘having a good clean out’ – involved great displays of self-conscious endeavour over what could sometimes be weeks. Tony hauled everything out of the summer house and dumped them all over the lawn. Wooden chairs, cigarette-scarred and musty, were piled with papers, with clothes. A guitar was propped up on a djembe drum; a ukulele poked out of a bucket full of cleaning products; why, David didn’t know, because Tony couldn’t play any instrument, had no musical talent at all. Some of the ugly, muddy daubs he called art were stacked against the door, others lay face up on the grass, staring up into David’s room; all those eyes, staring from murky depths, dozens of Marc Doyle’s… David stopped opening his curtains and kept his back to the window at all times.
During his Spring Cycle, Tony liked to prop the speakers up at the windows of the summer house and listen to one of his eight records – opera mostly – each scratched and tinny. He even sang along with the godawful noise while he ‘pottered’. Tony ‘pottering’ was horribly compelling and repellent at the same time. The mess of ugly paintings, un-upholstered chairs, and cheap, chintzy fabric in the garden grew ever higher, as Tony wandered around, deciding, loudly, what to keep, what had ‘promise’, before inevitably cramming it all back into the summer house in even less order than before. On the few occasions even Mother had complained about the mess, Tony had said, ‘There’s madness in my method’, as if it was clever.
Normally, David wasn’t around during the entire Spring Cycle. His parents went on holiday together, once a year, religiously, and they always took David too: Greece last year, Egypt the year before – and this meant that David only witnessed the very start and the very end of Tony’s yearly foray into decluttering. This year, though, David flatly refused to join them. He didn’t want to go anywhere, see anyone, or leave his room. Father didn’t think they should leave him, but Mother needed a holiday, and perhaps it was a good sign? Independence? Give him his space, he’ll come through this… and so they agreed. One week though, not two.
‘And call whenever you need to, son?’ Father said more than once. ‘I’m just at the end of the line, OK?’
When they left, Catherine kissed both David and Tony wetly. ‘Behave, you two!’
‘Oh, we’ll have a grand old time!’ Tony told her, and winked at David. ‘Won’t we, chum?’
Then, when the car disappeared down the drive, Tony went straight to the summer house, and David went straight to his room. And that was the way it was for the next five days. If it had stayed like that, everything would have been fine. But Tony had to push it. It was all Tony’s fault – everything that happened later was his fault.
46
His parents were coming back that evening, but Tony, having promised to complete his Spring Cycle by the time they got back, was only just starting in earnest. He crossed from one pile of crap to another, talking to himself, and David could hear him, even through the closed window, and it made his head hurt. The noise-cancelling headphones didn’t help either: while they protected him from some of Tony’s noise, they allowed Marc to swim up from the deadened depths of his mind, and David was trapped between Tony’s loud chaos and Marc’s stealthy silence. Fortunately, David had come up with a plan to defeat them both and protect himself. It was tricky, delicate, and it demanded huge… what’s the word? What’s the word? Jesus, it’s so loud, so loud? Why so loud, whysoloudwhysoloudwhy—
For the last hour, Tony had been playing the same aria from Carmen, and the scratched record stuck at the same phrase every few minutes. Each time it stuck, it took him at least thirty seconds to notice and pick up the needle, and start it all over again. ‘Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime…’
David paced his room like a bear driven mad by captivity.
He couldn’t concentrate with that – screaming – going on. And he had to, it was imperative because, if he didn’t, then he couldn’t sleep, and if he didn’t sleep he’d go mad, and Marc would win and that couldn’t happen. Bullies don’t prosper. That’s the truth; Marc needed to be told—
‘STOP IT!’ For the first time in a week, David opened his window.
‘Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime…’
‘TONY! STOP IT!’ He couldn’t focus.
‘Si tu—'
He opened the window wider and leaned out. The fresh air made him feel dizzy. ‘TONY! TURN IT OFF!’
Tony popped his head out of the summer house and waved. David noted, painfully, that he was wearing a red velvet beret. ‘OFF OFF OFF!’
‘Back from the land of nod, are we?’ Tony shouted over the noise. David pointed furiously at the speakers. Tony nodded. ‘Callas!’ he called.
‘It’s SKIPPING!’
‘What, can’t hear you, let me turn it down – what?’
‘Tony, the record’s been skipping for ages,’ David called, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. ‘Can’t you get a new needle or something?’
‘Has it?’ Tony smiled quizzically. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘You do,’ David called. It was more difficult now to keep his voice even. ‘You do notice it; you just start it again, every time. You’re doing it on purpose.’
‘It’s a beautiful piece. You’re just a philistine!’ Tony called cheerfully.
David took a deep breath. ‘Tony. I have a headache. I’m still not well. Do you want me to tell Mum that you made me feel worse?’
Tony smirked a little, but said nothing. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Tony went back into the summer house, and David returned to his task. The fresh air from the window somehow made the stink in the room worse, he had to breathe through his mouth because of the smell. The wire was sharp against his fingertips; the smell of peroxide made his eyes sting. It had been an… unpleasant task. Unpleasant, but necessary. If he got this right, then Marc’s face, with its cheekbone smashed and his eyes – surprised, strangely innocent as he slipped, finally, into the
cold water – might leave him alone. No, not might, would. Any ghost conjured can be conjured away. You just need the right charm, and he knew that this was the right charm.
After ten minutes of calm, though, the music started again. The same side with the same skip, and no, don’t let it get to you, don’t let it – concentrate! Concentrate! ‘Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime’ and for the love of God turn it down turn it off turn it down turn it off.
He didn’t hear Tony jogging up the stairs and opening his bedroom door.
‘You’ve been shouting? What’s happened?’
And David, stunned, looked up at Tony’s reddened, droopy face, and he scrambled backwards, his toe catching the bowl of peroxide, tipping it over onto the carpet. Tinker’s broken jaw, those carefully prised out, polished teeth, scattered across the carpet. ‘You’re in my room!’ David gasped. ‘You can’t be in my room!’
But Tony, now pale, stayed. He even tottered in further. ‘What’s that?’ he asked stupidly, pointing at the cat’s skull, the partially skinned paws. ‘Jesus, David, what’ve you done?’ and David had no answer. His only thought was to somehow get Tony out of the room.
‘Get OUT!’ he scuttled back on his backside and got up on numb legs. In one hand he held the pliers, and he made an ineffectual launch at Tony with them ‘GET OUT OF MY ROOM!’
And Tony did, running back down the stairs, his silly little oriental sandals flapping on each step.
When Tinker had died (when Tony had murdered her), David had genuinely intended to bury her. He dug the hole and everything, but then she spoke to him – not actually spoke to him, he wasn’t crazy – but she… somehow… let him know that even in death she could help. And so he’d filled in the grave, and kept her in his room. When she started to smell, he bought the pliers, peroxide and citric acid online, and read about taxidermy, about witchcraft and lucky charms. He wrapped her in silver foil and put her in a pillowcase when he wasn’t working on her, thinking dimly that this would stop the smell from spreading. It wouldn’t take long now, anyway. All he had to do was take out her claws, wire everything together to make his gleaming, rattling bracelet – a totem he could secretly wear at night to fend off Marc.
Now David spent long minutes looking for Tinker’s teeth in the carpet. In his shaken mind, he thought that if he found them all, and arranged them just as they’d been before, then he could start over. It could still work. Tinker wouldn’t let him down, would she?
‘Would you darling?’ he asked her. ‘You’re OK, aren’t you darling?’
But poor Tinker, stinking and desiccated on the plastic sheeting he’d put down to protect the carpet, was not OK. Poor Tinker. Poor, dead Tinker, who’d wanted to help, who’d given her life to help, had been thwarted once again by Tony.
He picked up each tooth, stuck them in order on a piece of tape, and wrapped them in a piece of foil, placed it in her mouth, and wrapped her half-denuded torso in the pillowcase. Then he said a prayer. He told her how sorry he was, and he began to cry, feeling like a baby, but unable to stop. He cried for a long time, until his despair morphed into anger, which in turn became an implacable, calm rage. Tony. That fucker Tony. He’d ruined everything, he was doing Marc’s bidding for him. The two of them were in it together.
Perhaps if he buried Tinker now? If she wasn’t in the house when Mother and Father came back, David could just say that Tony was lying, couldn’t he? This could still be turned around. Also, if he buried her next to the kitten box, she could work her charm still? It was worth trying. So, for the first time since Tinker died, David left the house.
47
David dug beneath the cross, placed her in her grave, then backed away. In the garden, the doors to the summer house were wide open, but Tony wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The music was still playing, but quieter. David abandoned the idea of calm. He was tired of being calm. Where had being calm got him? He thrust his hand through the open window and dragged the needle off the record with a nasty ripping sound, pulled the record off the turntable and threw the entire thing across the garden into the bushes. That felt good. He picked up a palette knife from the grass, crossed to the stack of self-portraits on the lawn, and began gouging into one of Tony’s eyes, put the knife in and pulled down until the canvas flapped open, just like Marc’s skin.
Then he went to the shed for supplies. Lighter fuel, matches, a screwdriver; from the kitchen he could hear Tony on the phone, presumably to Catherine. His voice was urgent, scared. An emergency, yes, an emergency—
Scared? You should be. If Tony brought chaos, David could counter with rage. Emergency? OK. You’ll have an emergency. A Grand Old Emergency. That will be my gift to you, Tony. Old chum.
David walked slowly back to the summer house, taking time to drag the screw driver against another one of Tony’s half-finished oils scarring the yellow skin, the foggy pools of eyes. Humming, tuneless as an insect, he sprayed another with lighter fuel and threw a match at it, watching, with great satisfaction, the flames melting his face off. He tried to imagine that the fire was eating through Tony’s real face. He sprayed the fuel in joyful zigzags over everything else – Tony’s dusty, brittle canvases in the plywood frames, over his cheap, veneered occasional tables, over the piles of receipts, the old newspapers, the records, the radio, everything, and threw a match. Now for the summer house itself; he splashed the doorway, dripped a careful line of fuel in a line back out onto the lawn. Then, taking a deep breath, he struck one match, set alight all the rest of the matches in the box, waited until the box was aflame, and tossed it.
The small flame ran, thin, towards the doorway, caught and rushed inside and soon David heard the pop pop pop of Tony’s scattered cigarette lighters, exploding like little fireworks inside the summer house, saw the smoke boiling out of the open window. Such an exciting noise! So thrilling, so definite. He closed his eyes, smiled, and thought to himself, I should have done this years ago. The flames rose, thrillingly immense. I did this, he thought I did this. This is what happens when I get pushed too far… This should teach them. He closed his eyes, grinned. He felt very calm, very powerful. He hadn’t felt this good since stabbing Francis Brennan…
But when he opened his eyes, his smile faltered. The fire was… large, getting larger every second. Already it was between him and the house. He could faintly see the outline of his window before the black smoke billowed towards him, smarting his eyes. He heard Tony calling him from behind the wall of flame: ‘David! David!’ in a panicked bellow, and David felt fear then. All he could see was flame, and all he could smell was black, choking smoke. All he could hear was fire and his own name, and something awful, something shameful – small whimpering animal sounds that he dimly understood were coming from him, which he despised even as they got louder. Smoke had now completely obscured his view of his bedroom window – that neat, empty, fire-less sanctuary that he wished to God he’d never left, and then he tripped over something and landed spreadeagled on the ashy grass, one palm on a melting record, the vinyl burning like napalm. The smoke was thick with all the varnish and dirt burning off the furniture, and David retched and screamed, retched and screamed – screamed in pain and fury because he’d messed this up. He’d made a fool of himself. He’d done it all wrong.
Then Tony swam through the smoke. He was shouting and his eyes were red slits. ‘David! David, grab my hand! David!’
But David, confused now, stayed still. His instincts told him to hunker down like an animal.
‘David!’
And Tony gripped him by the hand and pulled, pulled him with surprising strength along the burning grass to the oak tree. Tony’s hair was on fire, and his grip was slippery and burning hot, and David saw, with horror, that Tony’s hand was melting, and he pulled away then, screaming, and kicked Tony away, back into the flames. He crawled backwards, heard Tony shouting, screaming. ‘SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!’ David screamed back, and then something exploded and he lost consciousness.
The fire brigade found him curled up by Tinker’s grave, with Tony’s sloughed-off palm still in his.
He was in the hospital for three days. His burns, aside from the one to his hand, were not serious. However, the fact that he didn’t talk or open his eyes, suggested that smoke inhalation had affected him in some way the doctors couldn’t be sure of. They had to sedate him to check his airways; he fought them too much when he was conscious.
Eventually he was referred to a psychiatrist, who succeeded in getting him to open his eyes, but couldn’t get him to talk in either of their meetings. David did nothing but stare furiously at her. Shock. Trauma affects people in different ways… and did he have trouble communicating his feelings usually?
‘He can be withdrawn,’ his mother admitted. ‘I try to get him out and about – you know, friends, girlfriends and things like that, but he’s never been one for… he’s more of a loner, I’d say.’
‘Is there any chance that he had something to do with the fire?’ The psychiatrist’s tired eyes rested on hers.
Catherine kept her voice calm. ‘It was all just a terrible accident. I’m sure he’ll tell you that when he feels better.’
Later, Piers stopped the psychiatrist in the corridor. Suppose, just suppose, the boy didn’t recover his speech? Suppose the trauma was such that he might need specialist care? No, no, I understand that the NHS is too stretched… Home care? Well, it’s still all a bit of a muddle at home – fire damage and everything… not a quiet environment… And the stress on his mother would be… a more private environment? Where he’d have access to doctors, like yourself, to help him get over this… this phase?