Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  Early Nineties

  When something traumatic happens to a child, memories divide into two camps: the before and the after. If childhood is a pie, the something traumatic is the knife slicing through. It’s the writing of a word and crossing it out. A young brain can’t understand the heinous. It makes sense through metaphor.

  This is how it was for me.

  A girl at primary school sent me a love letter just after it happened. Her name was Tammy and she wore tiny star-shaped studs in her ears that had to be taped for PE. She wrote me a note on pink paper that smelled of strawberries, and she dotted her ‘i’s with flowers. Tammy loves Nick. Does Nick love Tammy? Don’t break my heart. And then she’d drawn a heart with a crack to show it breaking.

  Joanne Butler handed me the note in the playground and walked off to stand with Tammy and the other girls. They watched me slowly open the folded paper and read the words, and I remember getting to the drawing of the heart and staring at it for several seconds longer than I should have. Something about that lightning strike down the middle, wrenching it in two. After a minute or so, I looked up and saw the girls laughing, all except Tammy, and although I didn’t love Tammy, I gave her a smile as if I did, and she smiled back and looked happy. It felt like I did a nice thing. Then the bell rang, and I crumpled the note into a tiny ball and let it drop to the ground.

  I have a memory that belongs in both camps.

  My childhood obsession with the circus stemmed from repeat viewings of Bronco Billy, in which Clint Eastwood threw knives at his girlfriend as she lay strapped to a spinning wheel. The toy I chose for my ninth birthday was a Playmobil circus act of performing monkeys, and I spent hours organising them on their little bench and swing, attaching their hands to the trapeze and spinning them over and over. I can’t tell you what it was I loved about the circus. I just did.

  I would daydream about us all going together, but we weren’t the kind of family who went on days out. You know the type – the ones with annual passes to Thorpe Park or Legoland, who make arrangements to go with other families, who don’t take a packed lunch but eat in the on-site restaurant and choose whatever they want from a laminated menu. They get together often at these expensive places of fun, to laugh together, or make regular pilgrimages to Disney, go for a Sunday roast or kick a ball around the local park. We were not one of those families.

  Dad once drove down to Devon to collect a golf club he’d purchased from a dealer. Apparently it was very rare, with the pound signs to go with it, and Dad didn’t trust the dealer or had suspicions about the postal service so drove the two hundred miles to get it himself. Somehow, Mum convinced him to take me and we spent eight hours in the car together. I rode up front next to him, and at one point on the journey home, he even let me put on a cassette of my own. I was telling him about the group and what I’d read about how they wrote the song, and he actually seemed to be listening. The golf club rested on the back seat – apparently it was very, very good – and he was smiling and in that mood where he’d ruffle my hair.

  At a set of traffic lights, I looked out the window at a huge poster pasted on to a wooden billboard. I don’t know where I found the courage, but I said, ‘Will you take me to the circus, Dad?’

  ‘Eh?’

  I pointed at the sign, at the lion with its mouth wide open, at the ringmaster and his curled, exaggerated moustache. He had his arms outstretched, inviting us in. ‘Will you take me?’

  Dad said nothing for a minute. He did the grimace that he makes when he’s thinking of what to say and stalling for time. ‘Would you like that then? The circus?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘Have you?’ He stroked his chin. ‘Okay, son. Tell you what. When a circus comes to town, I’ll take you.’

  I was so happy that I couldn’t even say thank you.

  Six months later, everything happened.

  The crack through the heart.

  One day, about nine months after that, I ran in from school and threw down my bag.

  ‘Dad!’

  He was in the lounge with his feet on the footstool, his nose deep in the sports pages.

  ‘It’s coming next month, Dad,’ I said, out of breath, feeling like I was going to die.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The circus. Remember? There’s one coming to town next month.’

  He half put down the paper, confused. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Remember when we went to Devon last year to get your golf club? We saw the poster? You said you’d take me?’ I couldn’t hide my frustration.

  I watched his face change. Sal was half in the room, holding the door, his expression one of pity at the way I was falling over myself. He always knew more than me. But he said he’d take me, I’d insisted in the car. He always says that he never goes back on his word. Right, Aunty Stel?

  She had gripped the steering wheel and kept her eyes fixed ahead.

  Now I waited for Dad to confirm what I knew, that he’d simply forgotten. He scratched his chin and finally said, ‘Of course I remember. Leave it with me, son. I’ll talk it over with Stella and get the tickets.’ And he went back behind the paper.

  I threw Sal a triumphant smile. See, it said. Told you.

  He just rolled his eyes and disappeared through the door.

  Every day for the next few weeks, I’d come home and search through the pile of papers living on the desk, waiting for the evidence to appear. Finally, one afternoon, atop a stack of bills, three tickets poked out from a white envelope. The Saturday-afternoon show. Cheap seats, but who the hell cared. The rich red-and-gold foil border looked a million dollars to me.

  Saturday arrived. Sal and I got up an hour early, dressed and went down to the kitchen, where Stella was at the hob stirring the porridge.

  ‘Hello, Aunty Stel,’ I said, taking a seat and grabbing a spoon. ‘What are you doing here on a weekend?’

  She turned slowly towards our confused faces, then swore under her breath. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’ She said it like she already knew.

  ‘Tell us what?’ said Sal as Dad walked in, cradling a golf club.

  ‘All right, Stel,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  I began to understand.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve, Paul.’ She took off her apron and waved it in my direction. ‘Look at his face.’

  ‘But Dad, you’re taking me.’

  He grimaced. ‘I’ve got a tournament, son. Been arranged for months. They asked me to organise it and I don’t like to go back on my word. You don’t mind, do you? Besides, you’ll have much more fun with your Aunty Stella.’ He ruffled my hair.

  I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at Stella or Sal. My face began to burn and I rubbed my sleeve across my eyes. The chair made a scraping sound on the lino.

  ‘Nick,’ said Stella, but I ducked under her arm and ran to my room.

  I pushed my hot face into the cold pillow, into the familiar place where everything went black.

  There are less than two years between Sal and me, so even in my earliest memories, we formed a sort of trio with Mum. But I remember one time when I was eight or so, we went out for the day, just Mum and I. She did that sometimes. She’d ask one of us – the ‘chosen one’, we’d call it – to stick our tongue out and she’d frown and say, Hmm, looks a bit ropey in there. I think you’re too ill for school. How about it? And then we’d hang out at home watching a video or eat chips in the park or go to Whitstable and throw stones in the sea. I don’t know why she did it. I guess she missed us when we weren’t there.

  We dropped Sal off at school and went to the cinema, where they were showing Back to the Future II. She’d made peanut-butter-and-cucumber sandwiches cut into quarters, and I unwrapped the foil and ate them while she took sips from a hip flask of the home-made cocktail she’d smuggled in. The sandwiches tasted good as we smiled at each other in the dark, and we sat and watched Marty McFly as he tried to prevent everything from falling apart, as he d
efended his mum against Biff and as he travelled through time to save his family and stop his future from unravelling.

  Fuck. I wish I had a time machine.

  Summer 2003

  ‘Is it a spaceship?’ said Anna, her eyes bright.

  We were standing in the corner of my garden. Before us was a silver dome, like a giant Christmas bauble, set on top of a circular brick base. A small, low door led inside. In the garden of a Victorian rectory, it did indeed look like something from another world.

  ‘It’s an observatory,’ I said, ‘for looking at the stars. A scientist lived here before and would sit out at night with a telescope. The roof opens and spins. I haven’t been inside since I was a kid.’

  ‘Will you show me?’

  ‘It’s probably full of cobwebs.’

  She reached up and pulled her hair on top of her head, fastening it with the elastic she’d been wearing on her wrist. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  I gave the door a slight push and the hinges made a jarring noise as the rotten wood splintered open. I bent down and peered into the darkness.

  ‘It’s a portal into another dimension,’ Anna said, crouching down next to me. Her bare arm brushed mine and I noticed on her wrist the imprint of the band now in her hair.

  ‘Wait.’ I jogged up the garden to the veranda stretching along the back of the house. I threw open the lid to a tatty wooden chest and took out the cushions and seat pads, giving them a whack against the box to release several years of dust.

  Anna had crawled inside by the time I returned. I slid the cushions through the door and followed them in on my knees.

  I stood next to her in the dark. The crack of light coming through the door cast an eerie brightness on her face.

  ‘They’d better not be for a mattress, Nicolas,’ she said, looking down at the cushions.

  Her saying my name did strange things to me.

  The space inside the observatory was cramped, with just enough headroom for two people. Something about the darkness made me brave, and I leant in a few inches and kissed her.

  She drew back so our noses were touching. ‘I love it when you put your teeth around my tongue.’

  I pulled her close.

  ‘Stop,’ she said, pushing me off. ‘The roof, remember?’

  I took the lighter from my pocket and a flick of ignition bathed the inside in an orange glow. I waved it around until I found the bolt that slid across, and pushed with all my strength until it gave way. The light poured in.

  ‘If this is a time machine, is there room for me?’

  We looked down at a pair of skinny legs and flip-flops outside the door. Anna turned.

  ‘My brother,’ I said.

  Sal was already ducking through the door and Anna pressed herself against me to make room for him.

  ‘You must be Sal,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘I’m Anna.’

  Sal’s face was one huge smile. ‘Oh, I know who you are.’

  She looked at me and I looked at him. Don’t you dare, I said in my head.

  ‘Listen up, Anna,’ said Sal, sitting back on a cushion against the wall. ‘I’ve just scored some spectacular weed from a mate and it would be my absolute pleasure to share it with you.’

  We followed his lead and sat down to form the three points of a triangle. She stretched out her legs and let her feet rest on my lap. I lit a cigarette.

  ‘I’m good, but you go right ahead.’

  ‘You’re missing out,’ said Sal. ‘It’s quality stuff. Pure.’

  ‘Anna doesn’t like smoking,’ I said, taking a drag of my own.

  ‘It’s not really smoking,’ Sal said, taking out his Rizlas and a bag of green weed. ‘That shit’ll kill you.’ He nods at my hand. ‘This is just like cracking open a beer at the end of the day.’

  ‘Sal’s a walking contradiction,’ I said to her. ‘He’s anti-smoking, won’t touch processed food and plays football twice a week, but he takes every drug going and sees zero conflict in any of that.’

  ‘Not heroin, though, surely?’ said Anna.

  Sal licked the paper and shook his head. ‘I’m not brave enough for needles.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ said Anna. ‘I mean, when you smoke it. What does it do?’

  He lit the end of the spliff and took a long drag. The end pulsed bright.

  ‘It makes the world beautiful.’

  He blew the smoke upwards and we watched it pass through the roof towards the sky.

  ‘Pass it over,’ she said, extending a hand.

  I raised my eyebrows as Sal gave it to her and she put it to her lips. She coughed and laughed as she handed it back.

  ‘Well, look at you,’ I said.

  She smiled at me. ‘Have I shocked you, old man?’

  ‘I never know which Anna I’m going to get when I’m with you.’

  ‘I never know which Anna I’m going to be.’

  She gestured to Sal and leant forward for another drag, a deeper one. It must have been good stuff because it already seemed to be working. She kicked off her sandals and nudged me with her toes.

  ‘I don’t know how you got here,’ said Sal, ‘but you won’t be able to drive after this.’

  She shrugged and closed her eyes. ‘Then I’ll just have to stay the night.’

  Sal gave me a wink. ‘You’re welcome.’

  There was a long, low rumble in the distance and we looked at each other, then through the open roof. The sky was a pale blue, but the sound was unmistakable. ‘They did say rain,’ said Sal.

  We listened, and a few seconds later, it came again. ‘A few miles off yet,’ he said.

  Anna, still looking at the sky:

  ‘“You will hear thunder and remember me,

  And think: she wanted storms.”’

  ‘Did you just make that up?’ said Sal, spliff in mid-air.

  ‘God, no,’ she said. ‘It’s by a Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova. I’ve always loved it.’

  Sal exhaled towards the sky. ‘Always been more of a maths bod, myself.’

  Anna made a face. ‘Words are so much more flexible. The answer can be whatever you like as long as you argue it well enough. Numbers are so cold and exact. There’s no bending their truth.’

  ‘That’s why they’re beautiful,’ I said. ‘They’re unchanging.’

  ‘You have something in common then,’ Anna said as she crawled across to sit next to me. ‘I’ve never met two brothers more different. Are you really related?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said.

  She picked up my arm and draped it around her. ‘Look at you both. Even your names are night and day.’

  ‘Our dad picked mine,’ I said, ignoring the thud in my chest. ‘He wanted us to have typically British names, but Mum insisted with Sal. She wanted to work in Dad’s Italian heritage. I think they agreed a different name at first, but Mum went alone to register the birth and changed it to Salvatore. Brave, really.’

  ‘I doubt he even noticed,’ said Sal.

  ‘It’s a beautiful name,’ said Anna. ‘Salvatore. Saviour.’

  ‘The irony, eh,’ said Sal, stubbing out the joint and sealing it away in the plastic bag. ‘Right. I’ll love you and leave you.’

  Anna slid her hand into my pocket and the hairs on my arm stood up.

  ‘Anna,’ said Sal, putting out his fist for her to bump. ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘I like Salvatore already,’ she said when he’d gone.

  ‘He’s a beauty.’

  ‘Why does he do all that?’ she said, stroking the flesh on the underside of my arm. ‘The drugs.’

  ‘He’s done it for years,’ I said, tapping my leg to distract the fire in my body. ‘I think it started as a way of getting away from himself, not being alone with his thoughts. Some people are like that, I guess. They want to crowd out the noise in their heads. Now it’s just habit.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll take it up.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  Anna turned and straddled me, pulling he
r top over her head. I reached up and unclipped her hair and it fell over her shoulders, brushing my cheek as she cradled my face and pushed down on my body. I slid my hand up her bare leg and pushed hard against her through her shorts. She was shaking.

  ‘Do you know how much I want you?’ she said in my ear.

  It sounded like something she thought she should say, and I took hold of her wrists and said, ‘No.’

  ‘You make me so wet,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, Anna. Stop.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, and I saw the high in her eyes.

  I stroked her cheek. ‘I don’t want you this way.’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ She climbed off my lap and bent over away from me. She looked at me over her shoulder. ‘You want it like this?’

  I took hold of her pocket and pulled her on to my lap. ‘Just kiss me.’

  She pulled back. ‘Are you gay or something?’

  ‘What? No. I think that was clear when you were on top of me.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  I sighed. ‘Come on. You’re high.’

  ‘Don’t be a prick.’

  ‘I don’t mean to patronise you,’ I said, remembering from past experience how this would go. ‘I don’t want you that way, that’s all.’

  She laughed and tried to edge off my lap. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I forgot about these games you like to play. Of course, you have to be in control. Never mind what I want or when I want it.’

  I let go and she moved away. ‘There are no games,’ I said. ‘There’s just you and me.’

  She sat back and pulled her top on, then put her hands to her face and made a sound between a laugh and sob. ‘God, what an idiot.’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to touch her. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you. Actually, it’s got everything to do with you.’