I come back to myself then, I see things like they’re happening to someone else, a teenage boy grappling with an old woman in her kitchen, and I feel the shame spreading through me like a blush.
‘I’m sorry, Nan,’ I say. I rub my cheek where she got me. I don’t know where to look, what to do with myself.
‘Should think so,’ she says, and she turns to put the kettle on. ‘If you’ve calmed down, if you’ll listen, then we can talk about it.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘In fact you make the tea. I need a fag.’
She sits down and reaches for her packet, and her hand is shaking, just a little, as she draws a cigarette out and lights it.
When the tea’s ready I sit down opposite her.
‘Tell me, Nan,’ I say. ‘Tell me everything you know. About me and Mum and Dad. I’ve got a right …’
She’s studying the table top or pretending to. She brushes a little bit of ash onto the floor, and then she looks up at me, blows a long trail of smoke out of the corner of her mouth and says, ‘Yeah, you do have a right, and I s’pose now’s the time.’
And she tells me.
Chapter 6: Sarah
He’s trying the door.
I hold my breath.
In the darkness, I can hear the handle turn, the scraping of metal on wood as the door pushes against the chair I left tipped up against it. There’s a scuffling sound as He moves the door backwards and forwards, gently at first, then with more force. I can picture His face – confusion turning to anger – and I shift up further on the bed, sitting upright, knees up to my chin and I cross both sets of fingers.
The room falls quiet for a few seconds, and then He’s there again. He can’t believe it. He needs to check.
Then footsteps, and silence.
It worked! It fucking worked!
I hug my knees in closer and rock from side to side. I want to shout out, scream, dance, but I can’t break the silence. I can’t wake the others; Marty and Luke in the room next door, my mum further down the landing.
I should sleep now. It’s safe to sleep. I uncurl my legs and slide them down under the duvet. I’m tired, but not sleepy, and I lie there for ages, triumphant and scared at the same time. I’ve won a battle, but the war’s not over yet. Rain starts battering against the window.
I ache for sleep, eight hours of blankness, but when I do drift off there’s no rest. I’m back in the nightmare that waits for me every night.
The flames are orange.
I’m being burnt alive. I’m trapped, penned in by rubble.
The flames are yellow.
The baby’s screaming. We’ll die here, me and her. The boy with the scarred face is here too. He’s fire and flame himself, scarred, burnt, a dark shape in the thundering, crackling, spitting heat.
The flames are white.
And he grabs the baby, my baby, and he walks away and is consumed.
The room’s still dark when I force myself awake. The back of my T-shirt and my sheets are drenched. There’s a date in my head, neon-bright, dazzling my eyes from the inside. The first of January 2027. I’ve never dreamt that before. It’s new. He’s brought it to me. The boy.
The boy at school is the boy in my nightmare. It’s him. I know it is. He’s found his way out of my head and into my life. How? How has he done that? It’s bullshit. It’s not real. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.
I reach out next to me and switch on the light. I screw up my eyes until they adjust and then I see the chair wedged up against the door handle.
Of course stuff happens, I think, dully. Stuff happens all the time.
Chapter 7: Adam
They were famous! My mum and dad. I never knew they were famous. For a couple of weeks in 2009 everyone in the country knew about them, was looking for them. ‘Most wanted.’ For something they didn’t do – just wrong place, wrong time. And all because Mum could see the numbers, like me.
Nan’s kept some of the cuttings from the papers – gives me chills looking at them. My mum and dad, so young, younger than me now, staring out of the front page. They were only kids when they had me. Well, Dad never even knew about me. He died before Mum knew she was pregnant.
If only I’d known about all this. I could’ve asked Mum, we could’ve talked about it … all she ever said to me about the numbers was that they were secret. I could never tell anyone their number. And the only person I ever did tell was her in that picture at school.
What the hell did that do to her? What must her last few years have been like, knowing? I’ve got part of the answer now. Next to my notebook, there’s an envelope folded in half. When she’s finished telling me Mum and Dad’s story, Nan gives it me.
‘She wanted you to have this. When the time was right. I reckon that’s now.’
My name’s written on the front in Mum’s writing – I’d know it anywhere. I swear my heart stops for a second when I see it. I can’t believe it’s real. Something from Mum. Something for me.
And Nan’s been holding on to it. What right had she …? The anger sparks up again.
‘How long have you had this?’ I say.
‘She gave it to me a few weeks before she went.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to me? It’s mine. It’s got my name on it.’
‘I told you,’ she says slowly, like she’s explaining something to an idiot, ‘she asked me to keep it for you. For when you was ready.’
‘And you’d know, would you? You’d know what was best?’
She looks me straight in the eye. She can feel the tension as much as I can and she’s not backing down.
‘Yeah, at least your mum thought so. She trusted me.’
I snort.
‘I’m sixteen. I don’t need you making decisions for me. You don’t know nothing about me.’
‘I know more than you think, son. Now, why don’t you calm down for a minute and open that envelope?’
The envelope. I’ve almost forgotten that’s what we’re arguing about.
‘I’m gonna read it on my own,’ I say and I hold it up to my chest. Mine, not hers. She’s disappointed, I can see that – she wants to know what’s in it, nosy old cow. Then she sniffs loudly and reaches for another fag.
‘Course,’ she says. ‘Course you do. Come and talk to me when you’ve done. I’ll be right here.’
I take it up to my room and sit on the bed. My private space, a room of my own, except that it’s not mine. I’ve only got a handful of my things with me. Everything else here is my dad’s: a boy younger than me, a boy I never knew and who never knew about me. I’m inside a shrine, surrounded by his stuff. Nan never moved a thing when he died, and you could tell it hurt her to put me in here, but there was nowhere else I could go.
I put the envelope on my lap and stare at it. Mum’s writing. Her hand held this envelope. Is there any of her left on it? I smooth my fingers across it. I want to read whatever’s inside, but I also know that once I’ve read it, that’ll be it. There’ll be nothing else from her. It’ll be like saying goodbye all over again.
I don’t want it to end. I know it has already. I know she’s gone, but I’ve got a little bit of her back now.
‘Mum,’ I say. My voice sounds strange, like it belongs to someone else.
I want her to be here, with me, so much.
And I open the envelope, and she is.
The instant I start reading, I can hear her voice, see her sitting propped up in bed, writing. Her hair’s gone, and there’s no weight on her at all any more. She’s so thin you can’t hardly recognise her face. But it’s still her. It’s still Mum.
‘Dear Adam,
I’m writing this knowing you won’t read it until after I’ve gone. I want to tell you so much, but it all comes down to the same thing. I love you. Always have, always will.
I hope you remember me, but if you start to forget what I looked like, or sounded like, or anything, don’t worry. Just remember the love. That’s what matters.
I
wish I was there to see you grow up, but I can’t be, so I’ve asked Nan to look after you. She’s a diamond, your Nan, so you be good for her, don’t cheek her or nothing.
Adam, I need you to do something. I can’t be there to keep you safe, so I’m telling you this now. Stay in Weston, or somewhere like that. Don’t go to London, Adam. I seen the numbers when I was growing up. We’re the same you and me – we see things that no-one should ever know. I told people, I broke my own rule and it was nothing but trouble. You mustn’t tell. Not anyone. Not ever. It’s trouble, Adam, trust me, I know.
London isn’t safe. 112027. I seen it in tons of people when I was growing up. Find somewhere where the people have good numbers, Adam, and stay there. Don’t go to London. Don’t let Nan take you there, and keep her out too. Keep her safe.
I’m going to go now. I can’t hardly bear to stop writing, to say goodbye. There aren’t enough words in the world to tell you how much I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. The best. Don’t forget,
Love always,
Mum
xxxxxx’
A tear drips off the end of my chin and splashes onto the paper. The ink spreads out like a firework turning her kisses all blurry.
‘No!’
I wipe the paper with my thumb, but that just makes it worse. I find an old tissue in my pocket and dab it dry, and all the time the tears keep pouring down my face. Then I put the letter on the end of the bed, out of harm’s way, and I let go.
I haven’t cried for a long time, not since before she died. Now I can’t stop. It’s like a dam bursting – something bigger than me sweeping me away. My whole body’s crying, out of control; great heaving sobs; tears and snot; noises I never knew I had in me. And then I curl up in a ball and I rock backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, for I don’t know how long ’til I slowly come to a stop. And there’s nothing left. No more tears.
I look around me like I’m seeing the room for the first time, and I feel the anger back again, tingling in the tips of my fingers, pulsing right through me.
Don’t go to London. Don’t let Nan take you there.
I knew this was a bad place. I knew we shouldn’t have come.
I slam out of the room and down the stairs. Nan’s still in the kitchen. Cup of tea in front of her and a fag on.
‘She never wanted us to come to London! She wanted us to stay in Weston! Did you know that? Did you? Did you?’
I’m leaning on the other side of the table, gripping it with both hands, gripping so hard my knuckles are white.
Nan puts her hand up across her forehead and rubs it. She shuts her eyes for a second, but when she opens them, they’re defiant.
‘She said something, yes.’
‘She said something, and you still brought us here?’
‘I did, but …’ She thinks she can argue with me, justify herself. She’s got to be kidding. Nothing she can say will make this better. She’s been found out for the lying, selfish cow she is.
‘When I said I didn’t want to go! When Mum had said not to come!’
‘Adam …’
‘She trusted you!’
‘I know, but …’ She reaches her hand out towards the ashtray. Her fingers are trembling as she stubs out her fag. The dish is overflowing – stale, disgusting, like her. I reach forward too, pick the vile thing up and hurl it against the wall. It smashes when it hits the floor. Glass and ash spray out.
‘Adam!’ she screams. ‘That’s enough!’
But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I tighten my grip on the table and heave it over, sending it crashing down on its side by the sink, broken china and tea mixing with ash and glass.
‘Jesus Christ! Stop it, Adam!’
‘Shut up. Shut the fuck up!’
‘Don’t you dare …’
The ashtray’s not enough. The table’s not enough. It’s not their fault anyway. It’s hers.
And now I’ve got to get out of here. ‘Cause I know what I want to do next and that’s crossing a line. It’s wrong. And I want to so much, but if I start … if I start, I might not stop.
‘I hate you! I hate you!’
I’m out of the kitchen and through the lounge and out the front door before I can change my mind. The cold air hits me, and I stop for a minute to suck it in. But standing still’s no good. There’s too much energy charging through me, I’m too wound up, so I walk and then I run. And as I run it starts raining, icy drops stinging my face.
I’m not running away from her. I’m running away from what I might have done to her. It’s better this way. Better for both of us if I keep on running and never go back.
Chapter 8: Sarah
I won’t be able to take much. He always gives me a lift to school, and He’ll notice any extra bags. So it’s only what I can get in my normal bag, and money. If I’ve got enough money with me, I can buy anything else I need.
They’ll look at my account when I go. Ask the police or someone to see what I’ve been spending, where I’ve been. So cash is the thing. As much cash as I can find.
I’ve been pinching tenners out of my mum’s purse for weeks now. One at a time, so she won’t notice. I know Dad keeps cash in His study. I haven’t had the nerve to go in there – it’s His room, it smells of Him. Even when I know He’s not in the house, won’t be back for ages, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Now, it’s different. I’m going to go tomorrow. I take all the books out of my schoolbag – I’ll manage without them – then I carefully fold up some underwear, my favourite T-shirts, some trackie bottoms. I look at my jeans in the drawer. I really want to take a pair – they’re all I wear normally, but even my favourites, the ones I’ve worn and washed ’til they’ve gone soft and floppy, won’t do up now. No point taking things I can’t wear.
I count up the cash I’ve got stashed away: eighty-five Euros, not enough. I know Marty and Luke have got some money. Can I steal from my brothers? I could – if they weren’t in their rooms right now. I need more. It’s going to have to be Dad’s money.
He’s out for the evening, entertaining some clients at dinner. Mum’s watching TV in the sitting room. I pass by the doorway, and hesitate. There’s another way, isn’t there? I don’t have to leave. I could go in there now, sit down next to her and tell her. She’d have to do something then, wouldn’t she? Ring the police? Throw Him out? Or gather all our things up and take us somewhere, me and the boys?
Or would she tell me to shut up? Send me to my room for telling such wicked lies? Or shrug her shoulders, say that’s just the way things are, the way He is?
At the back of my mind, I know that she already knows. How can she not know? But she doesn’t know about the baby. Nobody does. And that’s why I’m getting out. This baby’s mine. He’s never going to see it. He’s never going to get His hands on it. It’s mine, growing inside me. I’m going to keep it safe.
I’m not sure how far gone I am. My periods had been up the creek for ages, so I didn’t notice that they’d stopped altogether. But all my clothes are so tight now I won’t be able to go on hiding it for much longer. It’s time to go.
I’m expecting the door to His study to be locked, but it isn’t. The handle turns and the door opens smoothly. I take a step into the room and start to gag. Everything about the room speaks of Him: golfing prints on the wall, mahogany desk and chair. I almost lose my nerve, but I make myself go over to the desk. I try the drawers. They’re all locked. Shit! He’s probably got the key on Him, so that’s that. If I tried to break the locks, He’d notice and the game would be up.
There’s a fireplace in the study with a mantelpiece over the top. He’s got family photos in frames arranged along it; happy smiling faces, the perfect family. The camera never lies. Does it?
There’s one of me on my own, taken on holiday somewhere. The beach in Cornwall. I’m in a stripy swimming costume, blonde hair tumbling down onto my shoulders. I’m squinting at the camera because the sun??
?s so bright, smiling straight at the lens. I loved my dad. He was my hero – a big man, strong, funny. He knew everything, could do everything. And I was His princess. I was seven in that picture, and I was twelve when He started visiting me at night.
What happened? Why did He start? Why couldn’t life stay like it was in the picture – golden, sunny, innocent?
I reach forward and pick up the picture. It’s a long time since I felt like the girl in the photo: we could be different people. I look into her eyes for a few seconds then hold her close, hugging the frame into my chest. I want to mother her. I want to keep her safe. It’s too late for me, I think to myself, but not too late for the child inside me. We can start again – we can live life how it’s meant to be.
Ahead of me, at eye level on the mantelpiece, there’s a key. He keeps it behind my picture. I pick it up and put my photo back. I want to hang on to that picture desperately, want to take it with me, but if anything is different, if anything’s out of place, He’ll notice and He’ll start asking questions. I can’t risk it. I’ve got to be careful.
The key fits the desk drawers. His money’s in the top one.
There are three rolls of notes, done up with rubber bands. Do I take them all and hope He doesn’t look there later tonight or in the morning? My hand hovers over the open drawer. In the end, I just take one, the one at the back, so if He opens it, everything’ll look just as it should be. He’ll only find out something’s wrong if He pulls the whole thing out.
I put the roll in my pocket, close the drawer, lock it and replace the key behind my photo.
‘Goodbye,’ I say to the girl in the photo. I close the study door behind me, and go upstairs. I put the money in the zipped pocket in my bag, and check through my things again.
Yes, it’s all there. I’m ready.
Chapter 9: Adam
‘Find a partner and sit either side of a desk, facing each other. We’re doing sixty-minute portraits. Come on, partner up!’