her dull eyes fixed straight ahead.
It’s dark, night-time, the air tastes of salt, and Simon is bleating, begging me not to dig it up, telling me he’s frightened. I lift the doll, she is dirty, sodden. Her arms flop at her sides. I hold her in the air. The rain falls, and Simon is backing away, clutching his chest. She wants to play with you, Simon. She wants to play chase.
I ran, skidding around the side of the bungalow, tumbling over a stone pot, back on my feet, over the lawn – afraid to look back – across the road, through the gates, into school, with trillions of atoms colliding inside me, only atoms, trillions of atoms, and many, many, many of Simon’s atoms. Somewhere in the playground I crumpled. And threw up.
Perhaps we had Geography that same day. Or maybe we didn’t. Maybe it was another day.
The teacher put on a video, about the weather and the climate. Do you remember the difference? The lights were off to help us see the screen better, so I don’t think Jacob noticed me reach into his pencil case and take out the set of compasses. I’ve already said what happened next. Sorry, Jacob.
the watching stair
‘My God, listen to yourself. You sound like your father. So that’s the answer, is it? You’re going to what, Richard? Knock some sense into him?’
‘You think I won’t?’
‘What will that teach him exactly?’
‘That he can’t bloody—’
‘Go on.’
‘Christ, Susan. We can’t do nothing.’
‘I’m not suggesting that.’
They were sitting in the glow of the standing lamp, holding hands, still holding hands even as they fought over what to do about a son like me. Mum’s head resting on Dad’s shoulder, a second bottle of wine nearly drunk.
‘Then what exactly?’
‘He knows what he did was wrong—’
‘That doesn’t cut it.’
‘We’re going to the school—’
‘Yes, because we’ve been summoned.’
‘No, because we offered. He’s a teenage boy. They go through phases. Didn’t you?’
‘Not that phase. Not the phase of assaulting people.’
‘It wasn’t—’
‘Now you listen to yourself . This isn’t normal, it isn’t part of growing up. And do you know what hurts the most?’
‘You’re disappointed, I know. So am I—’
‘No, that isn’t it. I was disappointed when he swore at your mother. I was disappointed when his school marks dropped and he didn’t seem to care. I was disappointed when we caught him smoking, and again when we caught him smoking pot. I’d be hard pushed to recall a day this last year when I haven’t been disappointed in the boy for something. But this?’
‘Let’s not do this now.’
‘I’m ashamed.’
Simon used to stay up half an hour later than me, because he was the eldest. I’d brush my teeth and be tucked into bed, but when I was certain Mum had gone downstairs, I would follow.
On the fourth stair from the top, with your forehead pressed against the banisters, you can spy through a glass panel over the living-room door and see most of the sofa, half the coffee table, and a corner of the fireplace. I would watch until the darkness of the hall closed around the glow from the living room, and the softness of their voices blended with the sound of my own breathing, so that sometimes I wouldn’t even feel myself being lifted, or hear Mum calling me her little rascal. I’d simply wake up the next morning, in the warm comfort of my own bed.
One night Simon was practising his reading. It wasn’t so long before that this had been a shared ritual, the two of us taking turns to read aloud from the same book.
‘It’s my page, Matthew. Not yours.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘I can do it by myself.’
He couldn’t. Not so well. So he practised with Mum after I went to bed, and I’d watch her patiently teach him the same words night after night; she couldn’t have loved him more. Dad would be relegated to the far end of the sofa where I couldn’t see him properly, only his legs
It’s dark, night-time, the air tastes of salt, and Simon is bleating, begging me not to dig it up, telling me he’s frightened. I lift the doll, she is dirty, sodden. Her arms flop at her sides. I hold her in the air. The rain falls, and Simon is backing away, clutching his chest. She wants to play with you, Simon. She wants to play chase.
I ran, skidding around the side of the bungalow, tumbling over a stone pot, back on my feet, over the lawn – afraid to look back – across the road, through the gates, into school, with trillions of atoms colliding inside me, only atoms, trillions of atoms, and many, many, many of Simon’s atoms. Somewhere in the playground I crumpled. And threw up.
Perhaps we had Geography that same day. Or maybe we didn’t. Maybe it was another day.
The teacher put on a video, about the weather and the climate. Do you remember the difference? The lights were off to help us see the screen better, so I don’t think Jacob noticed me reach into his pencil case and take out the set of compasses. I’ve already said what happened next. Sorry, Jacob.
the watching stair
‘My God, listen to yourself. You sound like your father. So that’s the answer, is it? You’re going to what, Richard? Knock some sense into him?’
‘You think I won’t?’
‘What will that teach him exactly?’
‘That he can’t bloody—’
‘Go on.’
‘Christ, Susan. We can’t do nothing.’
‘I’m not suggesting that.’
They were sitting in the glow of the standing lamp, holding hands, still holding hands even as they fought over what to do about a son like me. Mum’s head resting on Dad’s shoulder, a second bottle of wine nearly drunk.
‘Then what exactly?’
‘He knows what he did was wrong—’
‘That doesn’t cut it.’
‘We’re going to the school—’
‘Yes, because we’ve been summoned.’
‘No, because we offered. He’s a teenage boy. They go through phases. Didn’t you?’
‘Not that phase. Not the phase of assaulting people.’
‘It wasn’t—’
‘Now you listen to yourself . This isn’t normal, it isn’t part of growing up. And do you know what hurts the most?’
‘You’re disappointed, I know. So am I—’
‘No, that isn’t it. I was disappointed when he swore at your mother. I was disappointed when his school marks dropped and he didn’t seem to care. I was disappointed when we caught him smoking, and again when we caught him smoking pot. I’d be hard pushed to recall a day this last year when I haven’t been disappointed in the boy for something. But this?’
‘Let’s not do this now.’
‘I’m ashamed.’
Simon used to stay up half an hour later than me, because he was the eldest. I’d brush my teeth and be tucked into bed, but when I was certain Mum had gone downstairs, I would follow.
On the fourth stair from the top, with your forehead pressed against the banisters, you can spy through a glass panel over the living-room door and see most of the sofa, half the coffee table, and a corner of the fireplace. I would watch until the darkness of the hall closed around the glow from the living room, and the softness of their voices blended with the sound of my own breathing, so that sometimes I wouldn’t even feel myself being lifted, or hear Mum calling me her little rascal. I’d simply wake up the next morning, in the warm comfort of my own bed.
One night Simon was practising his reading. It wasn’t so long before that this had been a shared ritual, the two of us taking turns to read aloud from the same book.
‘It’s my page, Matthew. Not yours.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘I can do it by myself.’
He couldn’t. Not so well. So he practised with Mum after I went to bed, and I’d watch her patiently teach him the same words night after night; she couldn’t have loved him more. Dad would be relegated to the far end of the sofa where I couldn’t see him properly, only his legs
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