Breaking Light (2 page)

‘Ah, well,' the tall man muttered to himself. He bit at his moustache and pulled down his cap, hoping it would hide his inadequacies.

*

They had seen him, although he was so insignificant against the bleak air, and now Billy Dunford and Jim of Blackaton were leading the chase. Normally, he would escape quickly – or hang back at the end of the lessons and wait until the others had left the classroom, then he would saunter down the hill and sit on the riverbank where he could be alone, concealed by willows and alder. As the river whispered to him, he imagined other children like himself – ones that were
different
. The ones who, as Uncle Gerry would put it, were not to everyone's taste. The wrong kind. He would speak to these playmates as softly as the rustle in the leaves and he would use all the words that did not fit into his normal talk: cheerful words like ‘want', ‘pretty' and ‘party', and more complicated and brittle ones like ‘me' and ‘father'. Once, after having looked around to make sure no one else was there, he said the word ‘love'.

But today, as Miss Simmons rang the hand bell, the underside
of her large arm swinging like an udder with each flick of the hand, he had not been fast enough. Thoughtless, he had stopped in the middle of the yard as a flock of geese sculled north over his head.

‘Jump, Bunny-boy! Go on, you ugly freak. I said, “jump”!'

He looked around in panic and knew what was by now inevitable. Going back into the schoolhouse was impossible – it would only make it worse if they thought he was running to Miss Simmons for help. There was a gnarled oak by the furthest wall. He took a deep breath and started towards it. But his legs were not moving as fast as they should. It was like running in a dream, when you run and run until you're exhausted but your legs do not follow your brain and you realise you're still in the same place. He could hear them closing in. Part of him just wanted to lie down right there on the tarmac in the yard and let them gather around him. Let their winter boots thump into his flesh and smash his teeth until the pain was so intense it would block out the fear.
To be rid of the fear
. But he was not brave enough and so he ran. He stumbled once, grazing his bare knees and the heels of his hands against the loose gravel on the tarmac, but he was soon up again and the tree was getting closer.

‘Look at him run, the ugly shit! We are the foxes, coming to get you, Bunny-boy.'

He reached the tree and stretched to grab hold of the lowest branch but his hands were shaking badly. He was sobbing and wiped his wet face on his sleeve as he looked over his shoulder to see his pursuers closing on him. Whimpering with his mouth open, he managed to gather enough strength to swing himself on to the branch, hanging like a koala with his arms and legs clutching the limb of the oak. It made him feel even more
exposed and, with a last, desperate effort, he managed to sit up and pull himself, hand by hand, towards the trunk. From there it was easier, so that, when the first of the boys reached the tree, he was already out of reach. Tears and mucus ran into his mouth through the open gap under his nose. It was appalling and made him want to throw up. He knew he was disgusting.

‘Look, he's crying,' he heard from below. ‘Bunny-boy is drinking his own snot again. What's the matter with you? Why don't you close your mouth like normal people?'

He hugged the tree, his cheek pressing against the bark, which smelt of lichen and dog shit. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine another place – a place where someone would keep him safe.

‘He's so horrid, his own father couldn't stand him – he just stayed away when the war was over so that he wouldn't have to see his freak-boy again.'

Where was the whisper of the river?

‘Why don't you stay up there until your face grows human?'

‘He'll stay for the rest of his life, then!'

‘Yeah, that's right. Let him stay there until he learns to speak properly.'

They all laughed at that and pinched their noses with their fingers, mimicking his voice, their tongues pressed to the roofs of their mouths: ‘Ga, ga, ga.'

‘Hey, gimp, tell us something funny. Ga, ga!'

They were looking up at him, the discs of their awful faces grinning. He might have thrown something at them, an old acorn perhaps, or one of his boots. He could have taken off one of his boots and thrown it down into one of those faces, smashing it so that there was blood everywhere and teeth and pulpy flesh. He would have, if it hadn't been for Jim of Blackaton,
bigger than the others, blond, handsome, holding back, watching over their heads, staring silently with that smile. Looking straight at him and yet somehow avoiding meeting his eyes. It made his skin creep, as if little black beetles with curly legs were walking all over it. What did Jim of Blackaton
see
when he stared like that? He whimpered again, although he had decided not to, and hit his head against the tree to make it stop making those revolting, vile noises.

‘Well, do you want to say something, eh? Ah, go
ooon
.'

There was the bell again, and the sound of the boys departing, their laughter and their feet kicking at stones and dry leaves. But he could no longer hear the river. He let himself down from the tree.

*

There was a chill in the air, as if winter had turned on its heels and come back, when he walked down the lane towards the cottage. The façade had been pebble-dashed to give it a durable finish. It made it look harsh and uninviting – like the kind of surface that would rasp your knees if you were pushed on to it. He would have found it less threatening if it had been washed in lime, like the other cottages along the street. He could see the light from behind the drawn curtain in the front room and knew that somehow he would be in trouble. Carefully, hoping to curtail whatever was in store, he pulled down the brass handle and pushed open the door.

Uncle Gerry was smoking in the armchair by the peat fire, a glass at his hand, his long legs stretched out towards the grate.

‘Hello, Uncle Gerry,' he said with relief.

‘Evening, lad.' His uncle sounded cheerful. ‘Lost track of time?'

The boy shrugged and dumped his satchel by the door.

‘Good day at school?'

He shrugged again.

‘Hungry?'

He couldn't say.

‘Isn't this music sublime?'

He listened to the voice on the wireless. It was a big band and an American woman singing; she sounded beautiful and jolly. Every now and again she repeated, ‘Put the blame on Mame, boys.'

‘Perfection!' sighed Uncle Gerry and leant back his head so that the lank hair stuck to the antimacassar. The boy's hair was thick and dark, not fair like Uncle Gerry's.

He nodded; he trusted Uncle Gerry to know about good and bad.

Then Mother was at the door. ‘Look at you. Do you
have
to get yourself into such a state every bloody day?'

He sighed.

‘Well?' Mother sounded tired and he knew it was because of him.

Reluctantly, he turned his attention away from the American lady's singing and back into the confined room. ‘Sorry.' He tried to smile at her with his eyes, as his mouth was no good for it.

‘You fell out of a tree again, right?' Uncle Gerry suggested.

He nodded again, too vigorously. There was blood, he could taste it but wasn't sure whether it was coming from his nose or his mouth.

‘Aw, don't let it drip on the floor,' Mother wailed. She left the room but returned a moment later with the dishcloth. ‘Here,' she said, thrusting it into his hands. ‘And look at those clothes
– do you expect me to mend and clean them every night?' She did look tired; her eyelids were pink but there was something disturbingly colourful about her too, something to do with the lips and the cheeks.

Holding the vile cloth over the hole in his face, he looked down at his clothes. He couldn't see anything immediately wrong with them, but the wool of his socks had dark patches where his scabbed knee had bled through the yarn, and the bark of the oak tree had settled like dust over his shorts and school blazer. Mother took a step towards him; for a moment he thought she was about to stroke his hair but her hand took hold of his shoulder and turned him this way and that. She pulled the cloth from his face and scrutinised the damage. She avoided looking into his eyes. He let his own eyes drop to her feet. Her ankles in the beige stockings had swollen and bulged over the side of her courts. He felt very tired suddenly and wished he could have rested his head.

‘Filthy!'

The force of her remark made him blink.

‘For pity's sake. Can't you see that the lad's hurting?' Uncle Gerry's face looked scrubbed and his eyes did not quite seem to have the room in their sights. It was like that sometimes in the evening. ‘You're a bloody bitter bitch these days, do you know that? Where's the old Celia I used to know? She was a really nice girl, and it wasn't that long ago …' he faltered.

‘Finished?' She turned her back to them, smelling perhaps of rose water.

Uncle Gerry sighed and pulled a face; the boy smiled quickly, to make him feel better.

‘Right,' she said, briskly, over her shoulder, ‘take those rags off and put on your pyjamas. There's some stew on the stove.'

*

He ate his bowl of stew standing by the stove, his bare feet aching against the flagstones. The memory of blood in his mouth made the lamb taste of rusty bog water, of dark caves, perhaps of death. He shuddered every time he swallowed a mouthful.

Afterwards, he returned to the front room. Uncle Gerry's chin had slipped on to his chest, but he recovered it as his nephew knelt to put some more peat on the hearth. The fire glowed and glowed, smelling of earth scorched in battle.

The boy spoke first: ‘Uncle Gerry, trees are good, aren't they?'

‘Yeah, they are good, all right,' said Uncle Gerry.

‘Nothing bad about them?'

‘No, not that I know of.'

They were quiet for a while as they pondered this; the only sounds the breathing of the peat, the wind in the chimney and the subtle wash as Uncle Gerry sipped his Bell's. Mother's resentment persisted in the scullery, as quiet and dense as packed snow. The boy moved closer to the armchair, cautiously resting his head against the older man's leg.

‘Hey, lad.'

The boy looked up at his uncle, whose face had grown vague in the dull light.

‘You must learn to stand up for yourself, you know.'

Whatever could he mean? The boy was stunned and stared in disbelief. ‘What?'

The uncle cleared his throat and looked deep into his glass. ‘You know what I mean – not take any rubbish from them.'

‘Who?' Suddenly he felt the old anxiety rising inside him,
tightening its grip around his throat. It wasn't meant to come in here, not into this room where he sat with Uncle Gerry by the fire, where sounds were low and words were soft.

‘Don't play the fool; you're a smart boy – the other kids, of course. Don't give them any opportunity to be nasty to you.'

He felt hot behind the eyes. Was he about to cry? What a freak he was. Repulsive. How much did Uncle Gerry know? Had he guessed at something? Somehow this made it all worse and he wished he were back in the tree. He was choking and stared hard into the fire. He must be better; he must try harder to be normal. Don't give them any opportunity. He could feel Uncle Gerry looking down at him and shifted away from the armchair.

‘I saw a lot worse in the war, you know,' Uncle Gerry muttered. ‘At least you have never known another way.'

Never known another way? He had heard them talk about him when they thought he wasn't listening. ‘Poor kid, used to be so carefree,' they would say. ‘So anxious and withdrawn lately. Stiffening like a cat when you walk past.' Stiffening? No, I'm just vigilant. Mustn't let the guard down. Not now. Not ever.

*

A few weeks later, he was eating grass again. This was one of their favourite games. Billy came up from behind on the playing fields and tripped him so that he fell on to all fours. Jim then put his boot on the back of his head and hissed, ‘Go on, Bunny-boy, eat your grass, it's the only dinner you'll get today.'

From where he lay, his cheek pushed hard into the grass, he could see the new boy in the class below his own, watching from a few yards away. There was nothing unusual about this – their play often attracted an audience – but the look on the new boy's face was different. There was no smirk; instead, his features were
closed and unflinching. His eyes were dark, which made his face look very pale. Suddenly, he started forward. He was quite a small boy but his feet were fast and he reached Jim and Billy in a few steps. They were both taller and much bigger. The new boy pushed Jim of Blackaton hard in the side. ‘What are you doing?' he shouted. ‘Let him go!'

They were all stunned but there was something about the new boy's gaze at that moment which made Jim of Blackaton lift his foot from his head. Jim spat on the grass, only just missing the new boy's polished boots, and muttered some obscenities. ‘Ah, how cute. Look at them, Billy. Bunny-boy has got himself a fluffy little friend,' he leered, but he was more uncertain now and, when the new boy continued to glare at him, he spat again – the corner of his mouth was a bit unsteady – and motioned to Billy. Together, they moved off towards the other boys who were playing football nearby.

During all this, he had stayed as he was, flat on the ground, but now the new boy bent over him and pulled him up by the arm. The new boy looked at him, intrigued rather than accusing. ‘Why did you just take it? Why didn't you try to get away?'

He shrugged and shook the new boy's hand off his arm. He looked around quickly. The others would not approve; they must not see.

‘Why were they trying to make you eat grass? It's disgusting, I tell you. Even my dog wouldn't eat it – he tried once, but it made him throw up. You should have seen the colour of the puke. He's dead now.'