‘Mamma, sheep, sheep!’
‘Well done, Mary, sweetheart. That’s right. It’s a sheep.’
I glanced from Mary to Mother, my fingers prickling. Then I snatched the hammer from her hand and slammed it against the nail of her finger.
She screamed and spluttered. And when she looked up at my face, her mouth cracked open, just wide enough for a letter to slot through, and her eyes turned to angry blue discs.
‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to help. I’m really, really, really sorry, Mummy.’
She gave me a tight nod. ‘It’s… OK. It’s OK. Now, off you go, son.’ No darling, no sweetheart, no honey. Nothing.
I went back upstairs then and laid my head back on the pillow and smiled.
*
I swing my legs back and forth under the dining table, pencil lolling between my fingers as I ponder my homework. Mother sat me down here and told me to ‘be good’ while she ‘weeds the garden’ with Father. I scratch the pencil across the paper as I listen to them outside. Through the window, they look up in unison when Mrs Taylor across the street hails them and wags her finger, the wart on her face jigging as she talks. How is Mary? How is that delicious daughter of yours? Oh my, I could just eat her up. She’s just so scrummy! Her flow of words shoots across the street to the elated expressions of Mother and Father. They brush down their clothes and walk over, lured by the promise of conversation.
I drop the pencil onto the paper, an itch in the tips of my fingers inching its way up my palms. I look out of the window, then make my way to the stairs, hearing the bubbly sound of her laughter. It beckons me, as it beckons everyone. I take the stairs one at a time, wondering if Mother’s long, lacquered fingernails will scratch me for what I am about to do. Or if Father will look at me with fury in his face. I wonder if the eyes that seek out Mary will turn to me and know. If Mrs Taylor will bolt her door and close her curtains should I walk past. If Mr Terry next door will turn the wheels on his wheelchair a little faster when he sees me. I wonder all of this as I go to her room, thoughts marking off the moments like the hands of a clock ticking by. Tick. Will they know? Tock. Will they smell what I have done on my skin like a dog? Tick. Will they be able to see it written into my hands? Tock. Will they feel it? Tick. I bet they will. Tock.
The sound of her laughter fills my ears, consuming my mind like the music Mother always turns off when it comes on the radio. When she does this I turn it back on, brushing her arm with my hand as I go by. It always makes her jump and always makes me smile. She’ll watch me switch the dial back, my eyes glued to hers, unblinking as the song fills the room. She’ll stare at me, biting her lip, then shrug and carry on. But I see the looks Mother and Father share afterwards. Looks of anger and denial. Then I will go back to my game with Mary and they’ll study us, feet tapping the floor, eyes shooting from Mary to me. Mary to me. Back again, fingers fiddling with the sofa, legs prepped to pounce. I think they know I only play with her to worry them. I’m such a naughty little boy. How could they possibly have had such a naughty little boy?
I can hear the music now, the squeaky tone of the band she hates – what is it? The Bugs? The Flies? The Beetles?
Mary sits on the floor, braids pushed back, legs kicking, arms flying about the air. In her hands are the prince and princess dolls she lavishes with love. Her laughter penetrates the room and I wonder if the whole street can hear it.
‘Mary?’ I say, kneeling down and picking up the plastic carrier bag she keeps her toys in.
She turns and smiles, the biggest smile I have ever seen stretching across her lips. ‘Hummy!’ she squeals, dropping her dolls and grabbing me. I shake my head and put my finger to my lips. She nods and giggles, copying me, her sweet, trusting eyes peering up. Then, as that itch buries itself into my arms, I think that surely Mother and Father must hear me breathing. It comes out hard and hurried, as if I have been running. Surely they must know. Surely they will come flying up the stairs, feet hammering the floor in a frantic drum, and grab me by the hair and pull me away from her. Surely. But do you want to know something, Blue-Eyes?
They don’t.
With a gentleness that could almost be love, I slip the bag over her head and squeeze it to a close. Her hands find my chest and her legs jump up and down like they are puppets dancing to their master’s strings. But she doesn’t fight. Her loyalty and love and trust in brother Hummy do not falter.
They don’t falter as I pull her close and squeeze tighter. They don’t falter as the last morsels of strength, which were only ever feeble to begin with, drift from her limbs. She trusts me as her lungs cry for air, as her fingers search for my face, as her eyes blink and blink behind the bag. She trusts me even as her body withers and slips to the floor, among the scattered shrapnel of a life suddenly departed.
Saturday 19 July, 1986
They throng to the centre of the cemetery, the women clutching their husbands’ arms, faces suitably aggrieved, and in return the husbands pat their wives’ hands, like mothers mollifying their children. When the time comes, they stand round Mother and Father, a circle of black outfits and blacker expressions staring down at the mound of earth. A small mound for a small coffin. A small coffin for a small child. A child’s death they believe was an accident. Just a game gone wrong. After all, how could she have known the danger in a bit of plastic?
They rub Father’s shoulders and stroke Mother’s hands, those who are more consumed with their façade, swiftly wiping a tear from her cheek or kissing her head. She doesn’t seem to notice them. Her face is tear-stained and blank. She is hovering on the periphery of her grief, between shock and agony. But soon it will come. She will follow in Father’s wake; she too will sob and scream into the comfort of her pillow at night. They will do it together.
The mourners cluster together and peck and prod at them, and I wonder how they bear it. Then they move to the mound of earth to lay down their flowers, closing their eyes, making their faces solemn, imparting a silent message they make sure is noticed by Mother and Father. How they act and deceive. It is almost natural. But the truth of the matter, Blue-Eyes, is that people are actors, the small roles they play applauded and replayed in their minds later on. They think to themselves, ‘I hope I looked sad enough’, ‘I hope she didn’t see me yawn’, ‘Oh, God, please don’t let them have seen me get that bit of carrot out of my teeth’. Everyone does it, even if they don’t realise it. Everyone except you. And Mary. You both are (were) special. You don’t act. Your intentions and emotions are not something you have ever had to hide or modify for the sake of appearances. You are honest and true. You are both so good. I smile. The Good Ones.
Once the crowd finally disperses, retreating forms already visualising the cup of tea and tin of biscuits awaiting them at home, Mother and Father stand by her grave, unmoving. And then, as if they have shared the same thought, they look at me, heads turning sideways in unison to where I stand. They look at me; I smile. And suddenly a new flavour of grief finds its way into their eyes, like a thundercloud creeping across the gaze of the sun. Now they are no longer thinking of Mary. They are no longer mourning the loss of her; they are mourning the loss of one life and the beginning of another. A life with me. Only me.
John
Thursday 3 December, 2015
John counts to five before he swings his legs over the bed and shuffles onto the landing. The screams grow in volume then and he ignores the urge to cover his ears. They penetrate the walls of the house and make his