The First Day of Spring

by Nancy Tucker

  “Come on. Walk,” I said again when he landed on the ground for the third time. He shook his head, and his chin dimpled, and he put his fists over his eyes.

  “Linda,” he said.

  “She’s coming,” I said. “She’s going to meet us there. Come on.”

  We were nearly at the end of the street. All that was left between us and the blue house was the stretch of scrubby land leading up to the alleys, but as we passed the church hall a policeman got out of his car and stood in the middle of the pavement, blocking our way.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, in a voice that meant, “Everything is clearly not all right.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re fine.”

  “Where are you off to?” he asked. I had to think very quickly. We were right at the end of the road, and the only places the road led to were the alleys and church.

  “Church,” I said.

  “You’re on the wrong side of the road,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “We were just going to cross. You disturbed us.”

  “Funny time for church,” he said. “Not Sunday.”

  “Our mammy’s there,” I said. “She’s helping the vicar get ready for Sunday school. She told us to come when we finished playing in the playground.”

  He nodded the way people nod when they are wondering whether to believe you. “You weren’t thinking of going up there, by any chance?” he said, pointing to the alleys.

  “No,” I said. “We’re not allowed. It’s not safe.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Not safe at all.”

  “No. Not at all,” I said. My belly clenched, and I wondered whether we could still get to the blue house before Linda finished counting. I wouldn’t need long. It didn’t take long. The policeman bent down to look at Pete. He had stopped crying and was staring.

  “You all right, son?” he said. “What the tears for, eh?”

  “That’s my brother,” I said. “He always cries. And he smells.”

  The policeman laughed. “Your brother, is he? What did you say your name was?”

  “Linda,” I said. “Linda Moore. This is Pete.”

  He looked from me to Pete and pushed out his lips in a kissing shape. “You don’t look much the same, do you?”

  I stepped toward him and cupped my hands around my mouth. He bent down slowly, so my hands could make a tunnel between us.

  “He’s not my real brother,” I whispered. “My mammy and da adopted him. That’s why they love me more than him. But he’s not supposed to know.”

  I stepped back and the policeman straightened. He nodded in a “Your secret is safe with me” sort of way, and smiled at Pete.

  “All right, kids,” he said. “Well, I’ll take you across to your mammy now. Make sure you get there safe and sound.”

  “What’s the time, sir?” I asked. I didn’t like having to call him sir, because I didn’t like him, but I thought it would help. He looked at his wristwatch.

  “Just gone quarter past twelve,” he said.

  “Mammy won’t be at church anymore,” I said.

  “Oh?” he said. “Thought you said that’s where you were heading.”

  “Yes. We were. But you’ve held us up,” I said. “She said if we didn’t finish in the playground before twelve we should go home. I just didn’t know the time. She’ll have our dinner waiting. We’d better hurry.”

  I began to pull Pete back down the street, but the policeman took my shoulder. “Where is it you live?” he asked.

  “Selton Street,” I said. “Number a hundred fifty-six. Right at the end.”

  I could see him thinking about how long the streets were, and how if he came with us it would be uphill all the way back to his car. He was quite a tubby policeman. “All right,” he said. “Well, you go straight home now. But best not to be playing round here. Especially with a little one.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell Mammy. Good-bye.”

  I took Pete’s arm and we walked back toward the playground.

  “Baby?” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I haven’t got any,” I said.

  We heard Linda crying before we turned the corner. She was standing next to the roundabout with her hands over her eyes, looking the same as Pete had looked when he had cried in the street. Donna and Betty were running through the bushes, calling, “Pete! Pete!” When we got to the gate Betty saw us, shouted, “Linda, there!” and Linda took her hands away from her face. She didn’t move. She looked like she was going to be sick. Pete pushed open the gate and ran toward her, and she picked him up and started crying all over again. Only someone really thick would do that. Thick to cry when you were pleased about something.

  Donna thumped me on the arm. “Where did you take him?” she asked. “Linda was so worried she nearly died.”

  “You don’t die from being worried,” I said.

  “Well you do because Linda just nearly did,” she said. “Where did you go?”

  “To find a good hiding place,” I said.

  “But you went out of the playground,” said Betty. “That’s against the rules.”

  “No it’s not,” I said. “I’m in charge of rules. I never made that a rule.”

  “You’re in charge of everything,” said Donna.

  “Yes. Obviously,” I said.

  Linda had slithered down onto the ground with her face buried in Pete’s shoulder. She was sniffing and gulping and saying, “Pete, Pete, Pete.” She didn’t once look up to make sure I was safe too. She didn’t once say, “Chrissie, Chrissie, Chrissie.” I went over and stood right in front of her, and I was about to give her a little kick, just to remind her I was there, when she said, “Why—did—you—take—him?” Her voice sounded like that, like each word was a different sentence, because the crying meant she only had enough breath to say one word at a time. She sounded so stupid.

  “We were doing hide-and-seek,” I said. “I was taking him to hide.”

  “But—you—took—him—out—of—the—”

  “We were just going to find a really good hiding place. That’s why I told you to count to a hundred. So we could find really good places.”

  “But—we’re—not—meant—to—go—out—of—the—play—ground—in—hide—and—”

  “You didn’t even want him anymore,” I said. She looked up at me properly then, and she stopped making the silly gulping sounds. Pete wriggled off her lap and toddled to the roundabout. Betty went to push him but Donna stayed watching us because she was nosy.

  “What?” said Linda.

  “You said. On your birthday. You said.”

  “Said what?”

  “You wanted another baby. You said Pete was big and you didn’t want him anymore.”

  “I never said I didn’t want him.”

  “You said you wanted a new baby. That’s the same as not wanting the old one.”

  “No it’s not. It’s not even nearly the same,” said Donna.

  “Shut your mouth, potato face,” I said.

  “I love Pete. He’s my brother,” said Linda. “You know you shouldn’t have taken him.”

  “I can do whatever I want,” I said. “I’m the bad seed.”

  “You’re what?” said Linda.

  “I’m fed up of this,” I said. I went out of the playground, clanged the gate shut behind me, and walked down the street. I knew Linda and Donna were watching me. I didn’t feel special. I felt like I was getting a rash.

  I wandered around the streets being cross for a long time. I didn’t want to go back to the house because I was still pretending to be lost forever, to teach Mam a lesson, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go because no one liked me anymore. When it started to go dark I went to the handstand wall. I didn’t see Susan until I was nearly on top of her. She had a scrubby
square of muslin wrapped around her hand, which she was stroking against her face. Her hair was cut to her chin.

  “What happened to your hair?” I asked.

  “Cut it off,” she said.

  “Did the hairdresser?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Me.”

  “You never,” I said.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Did you have nits?” I asked. She shook her head. “Why did you, then?” I asked. She shrugged. The ends of her hair came all at different places, wonky and uneven. I thought of her snipping it away with kitchen scissors. I didn’t understand. She must have known it was the best thing about her.

  “Did you get in loads of trouble?” I asked.

  “Who from?”

  “Your mammy.”

  “She didn’t really notice.”

  “But she’s always fussing with your hair.”

  “Always used to.”

  “What did you do with it?” I asked. I was wondering if I could have it.

  “Just chucked it away,” she said.

  I kicked the wall next to her back. “Stupid waste,” I said.

  “Don’t really care,” she said. She flattened out the muslin and held it to her cheek with her palm.

  “What’s that?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

  “Steven’s.” She took a corner in her mouth and sucked. Up close I could see it was the kind of gray that white things go when they’ve been dropped and sucked and cried on a lot, the washed-out gray of grimy water.

  “It’s gross,” I said.

  “No it’s not,” she said. “I like it. Smells nice.”

  The air was cooler now the sun had gone in. The sweat that had stuck my dress to my back had dried, making my skin tight and itchy, as if I was crusted in a layer of salt. I scratched myself against the wall.

  “Do you miss him?” I asked.

  “I miss my mammy.”

  “Has she died too?”

  “Nah. She’s just in bed all the time.”

  “Still?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Well, she’ll probably get up soon. It’s been ages.”

  “I did ask her. I asked her when she was going to go back to normal. She just rolled over. And then I said I was fed up of her crying all the time and being in bed all the time and not being a proper mammy anymore. She told me to go away.”

  “Bit mean.”

  “She’s quite mean now.”

  “Maybe she deserved for Steven to get dead.”

  “Don’t really think so.”

  The dark had come quickly, like a black glove clamped over our heads. I couldn’t see much of Susan or the muslin anymore, even though I was sitting close to both of them. I only knew she was still there because I could still hear her sucking. I had a hard feeling in my belly, like my guts weren’t guts at all anymore, just one big lump of cold, rough stone. Since I had killed Steven I had had lots of time to think about doing it again, and most of the time I felt like I wanted to do it lots and lots more. I wanted the fizzing in my hands and the ticking in my head, the feeling of being a little piece of God. Listening to Susan sniffing and sucking, I didn’t want to do it so much anymore. Not so many more times. Maybe just three times, or two times, or even one time more might be enough. If I did it one more time everything would probably be better. I’d probably feel good enough if I just did it one more time.

  “Why are you always out?” Susan asked.

  “Because I want to be,” I said.

  “Does your mammy not make you go home?”

  “No.”

  “Does she not care?”

  “Do you sometimes think your mammy must have loved Steven more than you?” I said. “Because that’s what I would think. I would think, ‘She’s so sad all the time now, and she’s still got me, she just hasn’t got Steven. So she must have only loved Steven, not me at all.’ Don’t you think that if she loved you a bit more she wouldn’t be so sad all the time? Don’t you think?”

  I said it all in a rush, like throwing up. The words tasted like throw-up too—sour and pink.

  Susan stood. “I’m going home,” she said. “Mammy will want me back.”

  “She won’t,” I said. “She doesn’t care. She only cares about Steven. He’s the only one she wants back.”

  I thought she would turn around and yell at me, or at least run off crying, but she just walked away.

  “She doesn’t care about you,” I shouted. I didn’t know if she heard me or not.

  When I had been walking to the alleys with Pete my fizzing had rumbled and roared, but now it was gone and I couldn’t get it back. I thought of what Donna had said. Steven died ages ago. No one even cares anymore. I thought of Linda holding Pete’s little body with both her arms, as if I wasn’t even there. I moved my bottom away from the wall, wrapped my dress around my legs, and lay down on my side. The night felt loose and vast around me. My spine rubbed against the bricks. I closed my eyes.

  “Mam will probably come looking for me soon,” I thought. “I’ll probably hear her going up and down all the streets and calling for me. Probably any minute now. Probably.”

  Julia

  When we came out of the graveyard I turned toward town. I knew Mam lived in a block of apartments, and there weren’t any apartments in the streets, just matchbox houses. I couldn’t risk telling Molly I didn’t know exactly where we were going. I was already on thin ice.

  “Does Grandma live in a house or an apartment?” she asked.

  “Apartment.”

  “Like ours?”

  “It’s not above a shop. I think it’s in a block. It’ll be a tall building. It’s called Parkhill. Keep an eye out.”

  “I thought you knew where it was.”

  “I do. But just keep an eye out anyway.”

  We started up the steep bit of hill that branched at the end, to town in one direction and the alleys in the other.

  “Is she nice?” Molly asked.

  “Mam?”

  “Grandma.”

  “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  “Was she nice when you did see her?”

  I thought of Mam, sitting in the Haverleigh visiting room. She had liked me better as a killer. None of the psychologists or psychiatrists or psychotherapists had told me that. I had worked it out for myself. Before I was a killer, I was good and she was bad, because I was her kid and she should have liked me but she didn’t. When I killed, the balance shifted. I was a kid no one should like, and she was the person who’d known it all along. I made her into a psychic, and she repaid me by visiting in messy gluts. Sometimes she was at Haverleigh every day, sitting in the foyer on the dot of six o’clock visiting hour. She would keep it up for a week or two, then I wouldn’t see her for months. In another phase she arrived each day at six forty-five and made a scene when they asked her to leave after fifteen minutes. Sometimes she only visited on weekdays, sometimes only on Saturdays, sometimes only when it was sunny.

  When she was there, she spent most of our time together telling me all the things that were wrong in her life. The new apartment had damp in the bathroom. Her throat hurt. She had an ulcer on her lip. A neighbor had spray-painted a pitchfork on her garden wall. If I did or said something she didn’t like she stormed out, shouting, “I’m never coming to visit you again,” and stayed away for so long I believed her. But it was never forever. She always came back. We were bonded by something thicker than water, thicker than blood: a tar-dark soup of hate-want-need.

  “Was she nice?” Molly asked.

  “She was just like other people,” I said. “Nice sometimes and not-nice other times.”

  “Will she be nice to me?” she asked.

  “I expect so,” I said. “And if she’s not we’ll leave.”

  At the top
of the hill I learned two things: that they had made the land that used to be the alleys into the Parkhill development, and that Mam was living on the land that used to be the alleys. Walking onto the estate, I could almost forget that the same path used to take me to the blue house. The apartments were split into two tower blocks, and the ground between them had been made into a basketball court. Three skinny boys were riding bikes around the edge, demonstrably not at school. They looked at us with hooded, wary eyes.

  The lift was out of order, and when I opened the door to the stairwell the smell of dirt and pee was like a plastic bag clamped over my head. Molly pressed her fingers to her nose.

  “Ewwww,” she said. “It stinks.”

  “Breathe through your mouth,” I said.

  “I don’t want to go in there. It really smells,” she said.

  “I know. But we have to,” I said.

  “Why can’t we go in the lift?” she asked.

  “It’s broken.”

  “Isn’t there another lift?”

  “No, that’s the only one. Come on.”

  “Can’t we go and see if there’s another lift?”

  “There won’t be. And even if there was one it would probably smell just as bad as this.”

  “But I don’t want to—”

  “Molly!”

  It wasn’t a loud shout, but I was standing in the stairwell, surrounded by hard surfaces. A hundred half-formed echoes of Molly’s name came back to meet us. I walked past her, all the way up to the sixth floor, without stopping to catch my breath. By the time I reached the balcony I was dizzy. Molly was still only halfway up the steps, taking the time to ensure each stomp conveyed sufficient rage.

  “Come on,” I said, holding open the door at the top. “Hurry up.” I felt my voice fit the words like a foot slipped into a second-day sock, and wondered how many times I had said them before. “Hurry up, we’ll be late for school,” “Hurry up, it’s nearly bedtime,” “Hurry up, this is taking too long.” It seemed suddenly, explosively cruel that I had spent so much time rushing Molly away.