by C. J. Tudor
In my fifteen-year-old opinion, you could just as easily have told the story with people instead of dressing it up with animals. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t like the conceit. It was like the author thought he was being clever and no one could see through his book pretending to be one thing when it wasn’t. But you could. And it wasn’t clever. It was like a magic act, where you could see the trick but the magician still thought they were all that.
Orwell wasn’t all that. But Nineteen Eighty-Four was good. It didn’t pretend. It was just harsh and scary and brutal.
To be fair, I wasn’t thinking much about the book during this particular lesson. I was distracted. I’d been distracted a lot over the previous few weeks.
Annie had been back for almost a month. The initial euphoria and attention had faded. But it still should have been a happy time. Things should have been getting back to normal. But they weren’t. I wasn’t even sure I knew what normal was any more.
For the first few days I tried to talk to Annie. To coax out of her what had happened that night. But she just stared at me with eyes that were muddy with incomprehension. Occasionally, she smiled or giggled for no reason. The sound of her laughter, which had always made me feel warm inside, now set my teeth on edge like nails down a blackboard.
Mum still wasn’t around much because she was spending most of her time caring for Nan, who ‘wasn’t doing so well’ after the fall. Dad had taken leave from work to help look after Annie until she was ready to go back to school. Or so he said. It wasn’t true. I had seen a letter sticking out of his jacket pocket one evening. At the top, it read: ‘P45’. I knew what that meant. That he had left his job or been sacked. I tucked the letter further into his pocket and didn’t say a word to Mum.
There were a lot of things I wasn’t telling Mum. Couldn’t tell her. Because I didn’t want to worry her. Because I didn’t want to make her unhappy. Because I was scared she wouldn’t believe me.
I didn’t tell her that I had started to dread going home after school because Dad would already be drunk and the house would stink. Not just of booze. Of something worse. Something fetid and sour. The sort of smell you might get when something has crawled under the floorboards to die. Mum even sent Dad and me looking for a dead mouse one night. When we couldn’t find anything she rolled her eyes and said, ‘I’m sure it will pass.’
I didn’t tell her she was wrong. That the smell wasn’t a dead mouse. It was something else that had come to nest in our home.
I didn’t tell her that I lay awake most nights listening to the noises from Annie’s room next door. Sometimes it would be the same song, over and over:
‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes, She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.’
Other nights, there would be terrible shouts and screams. I would put my Walkman headphones on or jam my pillow over my head, anything to muffle the sounds. In the morning I would go into Annie’s room, pull the urine-soaked sheets off her bed and stuff them in the washing machine, sticking it on before I went to school. Mum probably thought I was trying to help Dad. And to be fair, if I hadn’t done the washing, it wouldn’t have got done. But that wasn’t the real reason.
I did it because I felt responsible. This was my lot. Penitence. Punishment for what I had done. Or what I hadn’t done. I hadn’t saved her.
I didn’t tell anyone that sometimes I changed my own sheets too. That I twitched at every creak in the house because I might turn and find Annie standing there, clutching Abbie-Eyes; not speaking, just smiling and staring at me with those eyes that were too dark and old for an eight-year-old.
I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that sometimes I was scared to death of my own little sister.
The bell rang for the end of lesson. I stuffed my books into my bag and scraped my chair back. The seat next to me was empty. Chris used to sit there. But now he had taken to sitting on his own, at a spare desk near the back.
I was relieved. Not just because I didn’t want to speak to him, didn’t want to hear him make excuses or give apologies for what they did that night. But also because something was going on with Chris. And it wasn’t good. His appearance was more unkempt than ever. His stutter was worse. He had taken to humming and murmuring to himself. Sometimes he would suddenly stop and brush manically at his arms, like he was brushing off invisible dirt. Or insects.
Normally, he scuttled out of class first. That way he could avoid the name-calling, the deliberate tripping and shoving. Now he wasn’t hanging around with Hurst any more (neither of us was), he was devoid of his invisible shield.
I didn’t stick up for him. I had my own problems. My own worries. So, when I saw that this afternoon he had lingered behind, and when he fell into a shambling step beside me as I hurried down the stairs, I was pissed off.
‘What is it?’
‘I–I n–n–need to sh–sh–sh–show you s–s–something.’
His breath smelled stale, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth. His shirt stank of BO.
‘What?’
‘C–c–can’t t–t–tell you here.’
‘Why?’
‘T–t–too many p–p–people.’
We reached the ground floor. I pushed open the door to the courtyard outside. Other pupils thronged around us, the usual hustle and bustle of hometime. Chris’s face was flushed. I could see him trying to force the words out. I felt bad for him, despite myself.
‘Just try and breathe, okay?’
He nodded and took several deep breaths. I waited.
‘The g–graveyard. M–m–m–meet me there. Six p.m. Important.’
I wanted to come up with an excuse. But what was the alternative? Make sure Dad hadn’t set the house on fire after falling asleep with a cigarette? Check my sister was still there? Still not being Annie?
‘Okay.’ I sighed. ‘It better be good.’
Chris nodded, put his head down like he was running for cover and scurried around the corner.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and heard laughter behind me. I glanced around. Hurst had emerged from the English-block doors, Fletch following him like a greasy shadow. Hurst looked over, smirked then whispered something to him. I saw them both chortle.
I clenched my fists, dug my nails into my palms and forced myself to turn away. I’d just get into more trouble. Mum would be upset. Dad would belt me. Hurst would win. Again. What was the point? I put my head down and marched resolutely towards the gates.
I didn’t head straight back home. I never did now. I walked the streets, ate chips in the bus shelter, hung out in the playground (if Hurst and Fletch weren’t there), anything to delay the moment I would have to push open the door and be confronted by the smell, the cloying darkness, the creeping cold that would wrap itself around me …
I only had a few pence in my pocket today. I couldn’t go to the chippy or the sweetshop, so I dawdled along the high street, kicking at an empty pop bottle. I wandered past the small patch of grass where the brass statue of a miner stood. There was a bench beside it. Usually it was empty. Today, a solitary figure sat there, hunched over in an oversized army jacket, head down, dark hair falling over her face. Marie.
We hadn’t spoken since the night down the pit. To be honest, I wasn’t sure she remembered a lot of it. I’d like to say this made me think less of her. That she had slipped from the pedestal I’d put her upon. But that wasn’t true. The sight of her still tugged at my heart, and other places.
I hovered awkwardly.
‘Are you okay?’
She looked up through her hair. ‘Joe?’
She sniffed and rubbed at her nose. I realized she was crying. I hesitated and then I slung my bag off my shoulders and sat down next to her.
‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head, voice clogged by tears and snot. ‘I’ve been an idiot.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry. About what happened, with your sister.’
‘It’s o
kay,’ I said, even though it wasn’t.
‘It was so crazy down there. I mean, I can’t believe we thought she was, y’know –’
I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. ‘I know.’
She shook her head again. ‘You don’t know how much I wanted to talk to you, but I was scared.’
‘Scared? Of what?’
She pulled her hair across her face self-consciously. ‘Nothing.’
But it didn’t seem like nothing. The tremor in her voice. The way she was shielding her face with her hair. I suddenly had a feeling:
‘Is something the matter with your eye?’
‘No, it’s –’
I leaned forward and brushed her hair behind her ear. She didn’t stop me. Her right eye was blue-black and swollen.
‘What happened?’
‘We argued. He didn’t mean it.’
Anger swelled into a hot ball in my throat. ‘Hurst did this?’
Hurst was a bastard, but I’d never known him to use his fists on a girl.
‘Just leave it.’
‘He hit you. You have to tell someone.’
‘Please, Joe. You mustn’t say anything.’ She grabbed my hands. ‘Promise.’
I didn’t have much choice. ‘Okay. But promise me you won’t let it happen again.’
‘Okay.’
‘Why were you arguing?’
‘It was about Chris.’
‘Chris?’
‘Steve is scared he’s going to say something about the pit. He’s acting so weird. Steve said he’s got something he shouldn’t and he needs to be sorted. I told him to leave Chris alone. And then I said I wanted to split up and that’s when –’
‘When he hit you?’
‘He called me a bitch and said no one leaves him, ever.’
Fresh tears welled in her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. Her hair was scratchy; it smelled of hairspray and smoke.
‘Joe,’ she whispered, ‘what do we do?’
‘I’ll sort it,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting Chris at six in the graveyard. I can warn him.’
She pulled away a little. ‘Maybe you could talk to him. Tell him not to say anything. Stop with all the crazy shit.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re good at talking to people.’
‘Okay, I’ll try.’
‘Thank you.’ She leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine. Then she hopped up. ‘I should go.’
I nodded, numb with shock.
‘D’you want to walk back with me?’ I asked.
‘I can’t. I have to get some shopping for my mum.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘I’ll see you later.’
‘See you.’
I watched her go, the memory of her kiss tingling on my lips, thinking about what I’d like to do to Hurst.
Perhaps that’s why I never thought about what I had just said.
Dad was semi-conscious in front of the TV when I got back. Annie must have been in her room. Mum had left some meals in the freezer. I got one out and stuck it in the microwave. I wasn’t that hungry but I forced myself to eat a bit of the lasagne, downed a Coke then shouted to Dad that there was food in the kitchen and headed upstairs to change.
At the door to Annie’s room, I paused. I used to like hovering at her door sometimes, watching her unawares as she engaged in some imaginary play with her Barbie dolls and my old Action Men, putting on different voices. Now, her door was always closed and the voices inside were different.
This evening I couldn’t hear anything. The silence was worse. I hesitated. But it was teatime, Annie must be hungry. I couldn’t rely upon Dad to feed her.
I raised my hand and knocked on the door. ‘Annie?’
No reply.
‘Annie?’
The door opened a couple of inches. I pushed it further, trying not to recoil at the smell. Annie stood on the far side of the room, staring out of the window. She must have run over to the door, opened it and run back. But I couldn’t be sure of that. I couldn’t be sure of anything any more.
I stepped into the bedroom.
‘I’ve just heated up some lasagne.’
She remained still. I suddenly realized that she had on an old sweatshirt but no jeans or knickers.
‘Well, let me know if you want some –’
She turned. I flushed. Annie was still only a kid, but I hadn’t seen her naked since she was a baby. As if sensing my awkwardness, she smiled. A sly, dreadful thing. She took a step forward, parted her feet and a stream of hot yellow urine gushed from between her legs and on to the carpet.
I felt bile rise in my throat. She started to laugh. I bolted from her room, slammed the door behind me and ran down the stairs. I didn’t care about changing. I just wanted to get away, away from my little sister.
Her laughter chased me out of the house, but now it sounded more like screams, snapping at my heels.
Chris wasn’t in the graveyard. I pushed open the gate and walked down the overgrown path. I wandered around the church in a circle, in case he was hiding somewhere, which would be weird but not unthinkable.
No Chris. No sign of any living soul. I sighed. Typical. He was losing it. Seriously losing it. But then, I wasn’t exactly coasting along on an even keel at the moment.
I couldn’t get the image of Annie out of my mind. Her nakedness. The urine streaming between her skinny legs. I couldn’t go back. Not tonight. The thought of ever going back seemed beyond comprehension.
Maybe she needed to see a doctor again. Maybe the blow to her head – and there had been a blow to her head, I was sure – had done something to her brain. I mean, she had lost her memory. She couldn’t remember where she had been for those forty-eight hours. Maybe there was something else wrong. Something that was making her act so weird. I should try and talk to Mum. She could take her to the hospital. Maybe they could fix her. Make her better. Make her Annie again.
The thought gave me some comfort, even though I’m not sure I really believed it. But then, maybe that’s what churches are for. To give comfort even when, deep down, you know it’s just a pack of lies.
I sat on the rickety bench in the graveyard and stared out over the lopsided grey headstones. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, tucking my feet beneath me. That’s when I realized that there was something under the bench. I bent over and hauled it out. A bag. I knew straightaway it was Chris’s. While the rest of us had Adidas or Puma, Chris had an old, unbranded holdall covered with Doctor Who and Star Trek stickers.
This evening there was something else stuck on it. An envelope, taped to the top, with my name scrawled on the front. I ripped it off and opened it. Inside, a torn-off sheet of textbook paper was covered in Chris’s straggly scrawl:
Joe, the stuff in this bag is for you. You’ll know what to do. The other things – I think you might need them sometime. I’m not sure why. Just in case.
This is all my fault. I wish I had never found it. That place is bad. I know that now. Maybe you do too.
I’m sorry. About Annie. About everything.
I stared at the note, like the words would rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Something that didn’t sound bat-shit crazy. Why had he left it for me? Why wasn’t he here himself?
I unzipped the holdall. The first thing I saw was a stack of fireworks, big fuck-off ones. The sort you needed ID to buy. Unless you were good at finding a way to get stuff.
I frowned and delved deeper. Underneath was something else. Something heavier, wrapped carefully in a clear plastic bag. I took it out and my stomach flipped. I knew what this was straightaway. I stared at the two items inside. Then I carefully put the bag back and zipped the holdall up.
Chris’s house was the other side of the village. I slung the holdall over my shoulder and started to walk. I needed to talk to him. For some reason, it felt urgent. I had this weird, jittery feeling in my stomach, like I was already late for something important. I pic
ked up my pace. Bits of the note kept fluttering around my mind:
That place is bad.
I walked past the bench where Marie had pressed her lips to mine. Something flared, like a dark shadow on the walls of my mind, and then it was gone again.
Maybe you could talk to him.
I found myself at the gates of the school. They were usually left open back then, until all the after-school clubs had finished and the teachers had gone. It was quicker to cut through the school grounds to Chris’s house and slip out of the fence the other side, so long as the caretaker didn’t catch me.
I hurried across the car park, past the science wing and towards the Block. It rose before me, a dark monolith against the silvery sky. As I rounded the corner a gust of wind slapped me in the face and snatched at my hair. I shivered. And then I paused. I thought I’d heard something. Voices. Carrying on the wind. From the playing fields? No. Closer. I looked around. And then … I looked up.
I saw him. Already falling. I felt the whoosh as he cut through the air. Heard the dull thud as he hit the ground. The distance between, an eternity and the blink of an eye. I wondered if he felt it. The final crunch.
My first instinct was to run. To get the hell away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him, lying there. What if he was still alive?
I walked over on shaking legs. His eyes were open and a small trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. More blood spread out beneath him, forming a crimson halo around his blond head. The weird thing was, for perhaps the first time ever in his short life, he looked calm, like he had finally found the thing he was always looking for.
I let the bag slip from my shoulders and sank to the ground. I stayed there, kneeling beside him on the cold concrete, in the fading warmth of the day. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I gently stroked his soft, shaggy hair. I told him it wasn’t his fault.
Later – because it had always been too late for Chris. Perhaps, for some kids, it always is – I got up, brushed the dirt from my trousers and walked down the road to a phone box. I called an ambulance. I told them a kid had fallen. I didn’t tell them who. I didn’t tell them my name.