Wilderness

by Roddy Doyle

  It was dark outside. She was the only one in the house. Her mobile phone was off, deep inside her bag. Her father thought she was with her mother. The others were in Finland, or wherever – somewhere stupid with snow.

  She had her headphones on. Punk was the best. It was angry. It was funny. It was honest. And most of them were dead. Like most of the Ramones. And Joe Strummer and Sid Vicious. They were dead too.

  She cut out a small picture of Joe Strummer. It was exactly like twenty pictures of Joe Strummer already on the wall, behind her head. She’d stick it up with the others and go over his face with a highlighter marker – yellow, or pink, or light blue, or even red. She’d already done it with different pictures of Marilyn Manson. The pictures of Joe Strummer were beginning to look like one big picture. Exactly what Gráinne wanted. Work in progress. That was what her art teacher had called whatever picture they were doing but hadn’t finished. Gráinne had liked that. Work in progress. She’d liked the art teacher as well – the only one she’d liked.

  She knew she was alone. The headphones were on, and she couldn’t hear anything else. But she knew. She felt it in the wall. The front door being slammed, even being quietly closed; footsteps in the hall, someone coming up the stairs. When Gráinne was leaning against the wall, she’d feel it all in her back. The house moved when anyone moved. She could tell who it was, one of her brothers, or her father, her stepmother. She knew the way they moved, how heavy they were. The vibrations worked their way up the wall, to her back.

  She was alone.

  The way she liked it.

  But she didn’t. She didn’t like it.

  Sometimes, it was cool. When the rest of them were at work and school, she didn’t feel left out or invisible. And later, when they all came home, she’d always sit on the bed and feel the house vibrate. Her back felt the movements – the messages. They were all watching telly; one of them was in the kitchen; her brothers were crawling up the stairs. Gráinne could read the house, even when the music was loud enough to hurt.

  She could feel the cold pressing against the bedroom window, to the right of her face. She was alone. It was how she always felt. But it was different this time.

  The future had been her mother. The things Gráinne had thought of; the things she’d dreamed, happening in New York, or even here in Dublin – they were all going to be with her mother. That was how Gráinne had made it, for years, ever since she’d known she had a mother who was somewhere else. Waiting. Then her father had told her that her mother was coming home, and Gráinne had started to make the things really precise. Where they’d live in New York; how they’d live; why they’d laugh; what they were going to say to make sense of the years in between. They’d drink wine. Gráinne didn’t really like it, but she’d sip. They wouldn’t go for walks. Her mother would know that walks were stupid, even walks in Central Park, or on Rockaway Beach. The Ramones had a song called “Rockaway Beach”. She’d play it for her mother, and she wouldn’t look embarrassed. Gráinne wouldn’t wear headphones. She’d be at home there. She’d fit in.

  But it wasn’t going to be like that. It wasn’t going to be anything.

  She didn’t like her mother. Just that. She didn’t even hate her.

  She hated her father – but she liked him. She liked feeling his steps through the wall. She liked remembering when she was smaller and holding his hand; sometimes, she still felt it. She liked that he was always the same, that she could throw things and scream and get drunk and be brought home in a police car, and he’d always look the same way at her, and he’d always want to hold her hand. She liked hearing his car, knowing he was home. Knowing she could hurt him, and he wouldn’t hurt her back. He was an idiot. But that wasn’t his fault. Because – Gráinne knew this – the only adults who made real sense were dead.

  The wall was still. There weren’t even any cars or trucks going past. There were no neighbours slamming doors, no kids hitting balls against the front gates of their stupid houses. There was nothing. It was like her bed was the only thing in the world. She was a bit frightened now. She was too alone. She thought about taking the headphones off. But she wouldn’t.

  She didn’t want to feel her mother in the wall. She didn’t ever want to feel her steps, or hear her climb the stairs.

  Her eyes were closed. She was alone. There was no one and nothing. Only Gráinne.

  She opened her eyes.

  Her father was there. Standing in front of her. The bedroom door was open, behind him.

  She’d felt nothing in the wall. Maybe she’d been asleep. But she hadn’t. The Ramones were still playing; there’d been no break in the song. But it was like waking up. She should have felt his car, his key in the front door, his big feet on the stairs. And her own door – it was open behind him.

  He looked worried.

  She took off her headphones.

  He saw her looking at the door.

  “I knocked,” he said.

  She said nothing. The wall had never let her down before. Everything was going wrong.

  “You didn’t answer,” said her father. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

  “Well, I am,” said Gráinne.

  “I was worried,” he said.

  She picked up the headphones.

  “Can I sit down?” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” she said.

  “It’s kind of reassuring,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Your rudeness,” he said. “I’d have been more worried if you’d said yes.”

  She said nothing. He stood there, looking – she knew the word – indecisive. He couldn’t make his mind up. He didn’t know whether to go or stay, say something or not. It was always the same. She liked the idea of him. But she hated it when he was there, like he was now. He’d told her once that he’d been into the Sex Pistols. That was a joke. And he’d told her that he’d seen The Clash, in 1982. But she hadn’t believed him, and she hadn’t asked him about it. There was no way.

  “It’s freezing in here,” he said.

  He leaned over and felt the radiator. He looked at the dial.

  “It’s on,” he said. “But it’s cold. It needs bleeding.”

  She didn’t ask him what that meant. She didn’t want to hear him explaining how the radiator worked.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

  She sighed.

  “Tell you what?” she said.

  “That was the radiator wasn’t working.”

  She shrugged.

  “Didn’t notice,” she said.

  He sat down – on the chair at her old desk.

  “Your granny phoned me,” he said.

  He meant her mother’s mother; she knew that.

  “She told me,” he said. “A bit.”

  She stared at him, and away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Ah look,” he said. “I’m sorry it isn’t working with your mother. I don’t know how to express it properly. But I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t need your sympathy,” she said.

  She wondered why she’d said that.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m just saying. And I mean it. I’d love it to go well for you.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No,” he said. “No. I didn’t. She wants to come over.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”<
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  “Ish. Whenever. But, yeah. Tonight.”

  He was looking straight at her.

  “I can get out of your way,” he said.

  “No.”

  “No, which?”

  “I don’t want her to come here,” said Gráinne.

  “All right,” he said.

  He didn’t move.

  “Can I say something?” he said.

  He waited. She shrugged.

  “It’s a free country,” she said.

  He smiled – then stopped. She hadn’t seen him like this before; she didn’t think she had. He didn’t look uncomfortable, or like he wanted to get away. But it reminded her of something.

  “Give her more time,” he said.

  “What about you?” said Gráinne.

  “She’s your mother,” he said. “I was only her husband.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m happy,” he said.

  “So am I,” said Gráinne.

  He’d caught her out; he didn’t disagree with her. He was still looking straight at her.

  “But I bet she isn’t,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Happy.”

  “That’s her problem,” said Gráinne.

  “That’s right,” he said. “But it would probably be nice if she was.”

  “Happy?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shrugged. She looked away.

  He didn’t move. He was letting her think. And she knew now what it reminded her of – or, who he reminded her of. He reminded her of her father, the way he used to be. The man who’d held her hand.

  He stood up.

  He sat down again.

  “Can I say something else?” he said. “D’you mind?”

  She shrugged again. It annoyed her. She hadn’t meant to do that.

  “Is that a yes?” he said.

  He wasn’t being sarcastic.

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he said. “I love you.”

  He stood up.

  “OK?”

  She nodded.

  “That never, ever changes,” he said. “OK?”

  She nodded.

  “Will you talk to her tomorrow?” he said.

  She looked at him. She nodded.

  “Grand,” he said. “I’ll tell your granny. She’ll be delighted. Is the morning OK for you, not too early? Or the afternoon.”

  “Afternoon,” she said.

  “Grand.”

  He went to the door.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “They’re having a great time, by the way.”

  She looked at him.

  “The boys and Sandra,” he said. “They phoned me earlier. They’re having a great time.”

  “Big deal,” said Gráinne.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They were on a lake again, but it wasn’t the same lake as before. It was a different lake.

  But it wasn’t. Johnny could see that now. He saw the wooden house he’d seen the day before, the one that looked like it came from a story. He saw the house, and he suddenly knew the lake.

  The day before. That was only yesterday, but it seemed much longer, even weeks ago. He’d slept for ten hours. His mother had had to wake him. She’d kept at him, and Tom.

  “Come on, boys. Up, lads!”

  He’d kept his eyes shut. It was too hard to open them, even though he knew she’d probably tickle him. But she didn’t. She went away. He heard the door being closed softly. He must have slept again; he must have. The next thing he knew, there was something on his lip, right under his nose. Something warm, and wet, and smelly. And then something warm dribbled into his nose. He sat up. It was a rasher, a slice of bacon. His mother had put one under his nose.

  “I knew that would wake you,” she said.

  “Breakfast in bed,” said Johnny.

  And he ate it.

  Yesterday felt like weeks ago.

  Yesterday they’d gone past the story house. Now, the house was straight ahead, right in front of them. The dogs had dragged them on to the same lake, but from a different place. Johnny and Tom both felt the same way; they were getting to know the wilderness.

  “Wilder-ness!”

  “Wilder-nesssss!”

  It still sounded great, their voices spreading out, filling the world.

  This was the real safari. Last night Johnny had slept in the hotel. Tonight he wouldn’t. He’d be going further, and further. Further north, and further into the forest.

  “Wilder-ness!”

  In the brochure it was called a hut. That was where they were going. They were going deep into the forest, until it was too dark. Then they’d be staying in the hut. They’d be staying all night. There was no electricity and no hot water. It was made of wood and nothing else.

  It was cold. It was starting to snow. The flakes whacked Tom’s face. The sled was going fast, and the snow was getting thicker very quickly. He heard the hiss of the other sleds behind him, the runners going over the ice. His mother was on one of them. He hadn’t seen her in a while. They’d had the morning break, the coffee and apple juice, about an hour ago. It was midday now, as bright and silvery as it would get. The snow was pouring down, sheets of white. It was covering the blanket that covered them. Tom pushed the snow off, and there was more snow there before he’d finished.

  He heard Aki’s snowmobile. He saw the headlights on the snow, two triangles that got bigger and sharper as the snowmobile came nearer.

  Tom leaned out and looked behind. Just for a second – it was kind of scary.

  Aki was side by side with Kalle. They shouted to each other, Aki first, then Kalle, then Aki again. They spoke in Finnish, but Tom and Johnny could tell; they were deciding what to do, maybe which way to go. They’d done it a couple of times before. Then Aki turned the snowmobile. He swerved away from their sled, on to the lake, and Tom watched as he kept turning and drove back to the other sleds behind them.

  The snow wasn’t as thick now. They didn’t have to rub it off their faces. They watched the dogs. They loved watching the dogs. The way they trotted along, the way they seemed so happy. Eight dogs, in two rows of four. It looked so easy, and yet it was amazing. Tom couldn’t imagine other dogs doing this. All dogs had a special skill. There were runners, or hunters, or pointers; they could all do one great thing. Their mother had told them that if they ever found a dog that cooked the dinner, they could keep it.

  Tom turned a bit, so he could see Johnny better.

  “Will we get a dog this Christmas?” he said.

  The snow was getting heavy again. They were still going over the lake.

  “Yeah,” said Johnny.

  “Between us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “A husky,” said Tom.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you get huskies in Ireland?”

  “Don’t know,” said Johnny. “I’d say so.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom sat back again. Then he sat up again.

  “He could pull us on my skateboard,” he said.

  “Cool,” said Johnny.

  He rubbed the snow off his face.

  “To school even,” said Tom.

  “Yeah.”

  They laughed. They saw themselves, charging into the schoolyard behind their husky.

  Then the dogs were changing direction. They were turning, towards the far bank. The snow was thick and fat again, like someone above them was dropping it off a shovel. Tom could hardly see Rock, the leader, and Hupö, at the front. He looked up, and back, at Kalle.


  He nudged Johnny.

  “Look.”

  “What?” said Johnny.

  He looked, and saw. Kalle was wearing his hat.

  “That means it’s minus thirty,” said Tom.

  “Cool,” said Johnny.

  He didn’t feel any colder. He was very cold already.

  The trees got closer. They saw the gap. They saw, and felt, the dogs run off the ice, and up on to solid ground, then snow. The lake was gone, and so was the falling snow. They were in the trees. It was darker, but they could still see better because they didn’t have snow in their eyes. It was quieter too, and it didn’t seem as cold. Aki was behind them, somewhere. Johnny saw the snowmobile lights break the dark in front of them. It was scary and great. The lights jumped and turned, and went and came back, as the snowmobile went over humps and around the corners made by the trees. And when they came out of the trees the snow battered them – they laughed.

  “Agon-eee!’

  The dogs never slowed, not even when Pomp did another poo. His bum was just off the snow, and it looked like the other dogs were laughing as the harness held him up.

  The sled went over the poo.

  “Yeuk!”

  The snow was really thick, on the ground and in the air. And the dogs finally slowed down. They were like dogs the boys had seen in the water, swimming, fetching sticks and balls in the sea at Dollymount, near where they lived. The huskies’ backs went up and down in the same way, like they were bounding through the waves.

  Johnny felt the sled shift suddenly. He looked behind, and Kalle was in the snow. He was pushing the sled, and the snow was over his knees. But they were still moving. And, soon – it took only a few pushes from Kalle – they were going properly again, back in among the trees, where the snow wasn’t as deep and the dogs were back to normal.

  But then they slowed down again.

  Tom looked, and saw a sled beside them, empty, no one on it. Someone behind them had fallen off.

  “I wonder was it Mam.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Hope not.”

  “So.”

  “Not.”

  “Eejit.”

  “Not.”