Disappearing Home (24 page)

N
ext morning while it's still dark, I get dressed. I gather my clothes together, stuff them in two carrier bags, put on my coat and shoes. Outside, I sit on the step. Dab a finger onto my tongue. Draw a smiley face on a tile without needing any new spit. I dab the finger back onto my tongue. I shudder. It makes me think of the back of a skirt sucked too high up chocolate brown tights. I spit the taste out and it splatters onto the landing.

Walking down the steps in the darkness I look up at the oval light shades on the brick walls, bulbs still lit. I follow them down the steps; trace my shadow on the wall with a finger. I feel lighter in a good way like I am stepping away from a terrible accident. The air smells different and it tastes different when I swallow it. Once I reach the bottom of the block I run and run and run. Take in gulps of this new air until it fills me up, fills me right up to the top.

I run all the way down St Domingo Road towards my school. A bus stops right by me so I get on it. I ride around on buses all day to keep warm; see kids walking to school in their uniforms like it's an easy thing to do. I watch them walk towards what I used to have. At night I sleep on the stairs of a block next door
to Nan's. It's cold on the stone steps and the light above me stays on all night, making my head ache. I can feel pain at the top of my leg, a bruise I think. I poke it with my finger. From the other side of the doors I can hear televisions, coughs and sneezes and later, much later, the whimpers and screeches I think come from nightmares.

I can't sleep. Every creak or bang of a door makes me think they've found me. I pretend I don't have anybody in the world. I have left everything behind. I need to forget I was ever in Tommy Whites. I don't need anybody's help. I can take care of myself.

One night, I crouch down where the bins are kept because I think I hear Mum's voice calling me. All I want is to wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night without feeling this scared.

I see Chris, tap, tapping the side of his nose. He's covered in light, like an angel or a ghost. If he could give me one wish I'd go back in time. Make sure I was there before it all began, before she decided to marry. Show Mum something else.

Chris disappears too soon and I try to get him back, but it's no use. This is silly. I have to look forward not back. Where can I go? How long have I been away from Tommy Whites? My mind's not working straight.

I fasten my duffel coat over my face to keep out the smells, hide inside the hood of my coat. There are red itchy lumps all over my legs. At night I scratch them and they've started to bleed. My throat aches. The only place I don't shiver is on a bus. Sometimes I steal a bottle of milk off a cart outside Nan's block, drink it down in three goes. It fills up my belly with cold. One morning, my legs walk back towards Tommy Whites.

Bernie is running down St Domingo Road. ‘Want to bunk off school today?' I ask.

He smiles. ‘Let's walk down to the park.'

While we walk I let my feet fall in time with his. I feel safe. We sit on a cold bench. I look down at my dirty nails. Hide them under my legs.

‘Can you smell anything on me?' I ask.

Bernie doesn't answer. ‘What's in the bags?'

‘Clothes. I've left home.'

‘Why?'

I think about what he said about throwing Bernie over the landing. ‘Fed up living there, that's all.'

‘Have you had a row?'

‘Yes, with my dad.'

‘Where will you stay?'

‘Don't know. Don't care.'

‘I know somewhere.'

‘Where?'

‘Our Jackie's.'

‘Will she let me stay?'

‘She might.'

‘We can't tell her I've run away.'

‘No.'

We sit quiet for a few minutes. Bernie bounces his knee up and down. Takes off his tie and stuffs it inside his pocket, unfastens his top button. ‘I hate school,' he says. ‘I'm going away to sea when I leave, like my dad. He's told me I can. I'm gonna see the other side of the world, Australia.' He takes a photograph from his pocket. Three men in white shorts and no shirts sit on a wall, faces scrunched up in the sun. ‘Bet you can't find my dad,' he says.

I take a look and point to the man in the middle.

He nods. ‘That was taken in Sydney, Australia. My dad says some parts of Australia haven't been found yet.'

‘That's mad,' I say. ‘If they haven't been found then how do they know about them?'

‘Dunno. What are you gonna do when you leave school?'

‘Dunno,' I say, thinking about Mrs O'Connor's class. I want to say how much I love school and wish I was there right now. They are probably reading another book.

We sit for a while without speaking, then Bernie jumps up. ‘I know,' he says, ‘we'll say your mum has to go into hospital and there's nobody to look after you, because all of your family live in Australia.'

I shrug. ‘Okay.' Not believing for a minute that Jackie'll say yes.

‘And I'll say my mum sent us down to ask because we've got no room. Jackie'll do anything for my mum.'

‘Won't she check up?'

‘Nah. It'll be fine.'

‘If she lets me stay, promise you won't tell anybody where I am?'

‘Not even your mum?'

‘No. Tell nobody, Bernie. Promise?'

‘Okay.'

Even if Jackie says no, this is the best thing anyone's done for me in ages. Tears fill up my eyes. I lean over and kiss Bernie on the cheek. ‘Thanks,' I say. ‘Thanks loads.'

‘No worries,' he says, then goes all red and grins.

What I'd really like a go at with Bernie right now is holding hands. I look down at my dirty nails again and curl them away inside my palms.

We walk past the swings where Bernie fought those two lads. I remember his face all bloody when we got back and think about Sylvia and the way seeing Bernie was a fighter made her happy. In my mind I can see Sylvia before Bernie's dad came home, locking the windows and doors when it got dark. Checking in
on her kids in the middle of the night when she heard a bang, or a cry, or the creak of a floorboard. And I understand why Sylvia loved what Bernie did that day, loved him right then more than anything else in the world.

Jackie is going out on a date. She shows me around, tells me I should use the place like it's my own. She opens a cupboard in the bathroom. ‘Palmolive or Lux?' she says. I smell them both through the packaging. ‘Palmolive,' I say. She hands me the block.

When Jackie goes out, I take a bath. The water ends up brown. There's a thick black ring around the bath that I have to scrub with Vim. I wash my hair in the sink, iron my clean clothes. Bernie has gone home. I push two chairs together and fall asleep. When I wake up the chairs have parted and I'm on the floor. I try to go back to sleep but I can't get comfortable. The blanket doesn't keep me warm. I get up, look out of the window, press my nose against my arm and smell soap. Jackie gave me cream to put on my legs and they've stopped itching. She told me there's only one rule in her flat. She has going-out dates and staying-in dates and when she has a staying-in date I can't come out of the living room. And I said all right.

It's dark. Below me car headlights rush by. There's nobody about. Somewhere out there I have a brother and a sister I've never met, might not ever meet. I wonder if they know about me. What their names are. My finger squeaks an R across the pane of glass, then again in the opposite direction where it can be seen from the outside.

I play out the scene in my head for the hundredth time, the scene where I get to meet them all and they invite me to live with them. My dad tells me how it had all been a big mistake, how I'd been born just a little bit too soon and ended up in the wrong place
with the wrong dad, how it was all right now, how everything was going to be all right now.

I shudder with the cold, lift the cushions off the chairs and lay them down on the floor in the airing cupboard. I get the blanket, close the cupboard doors over and try to get some sleep. Every thud of every front door closing echoes around the block like thunder. The lift creaks up and down and when it stops the two doors rumble open. I get up, open the front door. The air in the block is dry and thick and smelly. There's nobody around. When Nan first moved from her house to Tommy Whites she said it was like somebody had put her away on a shelf and forgot about her and she knew what a jar of lemon curd felt like. At least in Tommy Whites you can stand on the landing and see people in the square, meet them as you cross on the stairs or the landing. You could die here and nobody would miss you.

I can hear the hum from Jackie's small fridge in the kitchen. I get up, stand in a puddle that sits at its edge. My feet are wet and cold so I get another pair of socks from a carrier bag, look out of the window again and see a plane blink across the sky. Back in the cupboard I trace stains on the walls with my fingers, look down at the lines on my palms where Carol saw the planes, lots and lots of planes. Only for me taking the vanity case, we would've been friends. In my mind I can see Angela's mum talking to Carol's mum, calling at me over the landing,
robbing little cow.
I blink away the hot tears inside my eyes. I don't care about any of them. I have this now. A place to sleep where nobody wants to harm me, or call me names.

Next morning I get up, wash my hands and face, wait for Jackie to get up. I open all of the windows. Walk around in bare feet. My soles can feel the warmth from a patch of sunlight that slants in through the window. The sun lights up patterns in the floorboards.
Layers and layers moulded into circles with bits sticking out. Soft bits, that don't hurt. The broken arm on a chair that lifts up like revealing a secret, slot it back down as if it never happened. No clock on the fireplace, no clock in the kitchen. Her living room is empty of cupboards filled with junk. Everything is so simple here, two chairs, a telly, a table and a record player. No holy pictures on the wall, no mats on the floor. In the bathroom I fix the cream fluffy towels back to the way they were before I used them.

These days my worries come in packs, like cigarettes. I worry about Jackie finding out about my lies and asking me to leave. I like it here. I don't want to leave, don't want Mum or Dad to find me. It's late afternoon before I see her. She opens the living-room door in her underwear. ‘Shit,' she says when she sees me. ‘I forgot about you.' She comes back in the room wearing a man's baggy shirt. She looks around the flat. ‘Hey, you like all of the windows open like I do,' she says. ‘And you've tidied around. That's great. Shouldn't you be in school or something?'

‘What day is it?' I ask.

‘Dunno, Friday?'

I shrug.

‘Shit, no it's Saturday.'

I hear hurried voices from the bedroom. The toilet flushes. Jackie says bye to somebody, the front door closes.

‘I've got to go and see Dave.'

‘Who is Dave?'

‘My dad.'

After she gets back, Jackie doesn't speak for ages. She unties her shoes, steps out of them and walks into the kitchen. She makes us spaghetti on toast. We eat it on our lap in front of the telly; Jackie sits with one foot tucked under her leg.

‘Dave's sick,' she says when we've finished. ‘Won't let me get a doctor. He says they killed Mum, botched up her operation.' Tears fall down Jackie's face. I don't know what to do.

I take our plates out into the kitchen, think of Nan and her bad leg. Fill the bowl with soapy water and let them soak.

‘How come your mum's in hospital?'

I hate lying to her. ‘An operation, I think.'

‘Your dad?'

‘Dead.'

‘No aunties or uncles?'

I shake my head. That bit's true.

‘Isn't life crap?'

I don't answer. ‘I'll wash the dishes.'

‘There's only two plates and a pan. Let them soak until tomorrow. Sorry it's just spaghetti, I'm hopeless at cooking.'

‘I can cook,' I say.

‘Really?'

‘I worked in a café in St Michael's. I know how to make sausage on toast, bacon, eggs, a pan of scouse.'

‘Dave loves scouse.'

‘Have you got a big pan?'

‘No.'

‘Get the stuff and I'll make a pan for all of us. We can take some to Dave next time.'

‘Okay. Crusty bread and butter?'

‘Crusty bread and butter. And beetroot?'

She goes into the kitchen, comes back with an empty envelope and a pen. ‘Write a list,' she says.

Over the next couple of days I look through the gap in the living-room door. I see Jackie let in a bald man wearing blue jeans too tight for him, a man with bushy red hair and brown
lace-up shoes. A younger man, with a slicked up collar and cream trousers. I think about what would happen if they all turned up together. What would they say and which one would Jackie choose that night?

One night, after we have had our tea, I ask her if she loves them.

‘Who?'

‘Your dates.'

‘Dave thought he loved my mum more than his own life. She put up with him. He was propped up against a bar most nights, went with women behind her back. He was lucky she didn't kill him. And Sylvia, left with the kids while Bernie ran away to sea. All I've seen is what's not love. I made up my mind years ago. I want no part of that. It doesn't mean a thing.'

That night Jackie wakes me up. She wanders around the flat, lifting up the chairs, rooting in the kitchen drawers, tips everything to the floor. She is looking for something. I feel around the wall for a light switch, follow her into the bathroom. She flings the dirty washing out of the basket onto the floor. ‘What are you looking for?' I ask.

She doesn't answer. I watch her in her underwear filling the dark places in the flat with her search. In the end I take her hand and lead her back towards the bedroom. I don't want her to see the mess in the morning so I pick everything up; put it back where it's meant to be. Next day she remembers nothing except that she woke up in bed when it was still dark, and she was shivering, her cheeks wet with tears. I want to put my arms around her, but don't.