Retard (11 page)

For a second he strained against the tight coils of string about his wrists. “If you just—”

They stopped.

“If I just what?” she said.

What what what? his mind roared. Just what, Welsey? What what what?

What are you going to do now?

“If…you just took away this string, I could go to the toilet on my own. You wouldn’t have to carry me anywhere.”

His mother’s fingers tightened, digging into the sensitive skin under his arms.

He thought of Miss. Griffith, telling him that there was no such thing as a wrong answer providing you did your best to learn from it.

“That would really help me out, wouldn’t it, eh?” said his mother. “No more carrying you. No more helping you squat over that bucket, having to watch and listen and smell you shit and piss. A massive favour. How much of a favour when you’re scurrying around at night like one of the fucking mice? How much of a favour when everything ends up in one of your damn potions, eh Wesley?”

Even with his wrists lashed together, his right hand still managed to flap back and forth.

She laid him back on the bed face down, gentler than he expected.

“No, Mum. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry!”

“I didn’t think we had to do this anymore,” she said, sounding full of regret.

Wesley thought of another old saying used by parents: This will hurt me more than it hurts you.

The last time he’d visited the doctor for his last batch of vaccinations, he’d fought, kicked and screamed. It had taken two assistant nurses to pin him down, allowing the doctor to slide that first needle into his arm. The same with the second. Things had changed come the third; his energy, and resilience, spent. He lay on the bed, crying while they stabbed.

The pain was telegraphed but not its location. That always broke through his mental readiness.

The back of his right leg, just above the knee hollow.

Wesley howled, gripping the blankets beneath him.

The cigarette didn’t burn, that came later as he lay crying in the dark, more it ate, a voracious worm burrowing into his quivering muscle. The stink from the bucket mingled with that of dry ash. His brain was tuned to one station and could barely contain the agony. He kicked, his body bucking on the mattress.

His mother held him down, leaning across the small of his back.

“I’m sorry!” he blasted again. “Sorry sorry sorry!”

Even after she stood and crossed the small bedroom to the open door, the dead cigarette in her hand, its phantom remained embedded in Wesley’s leg. His tears seeped and cascaded down his cheeks.

“Please, Mum!” he wailed. “Please!”

“Tomorrow,” she said, eyes downcast. “Christmas Day. You’d better get some sleep, Wesley.”

She clicked off the light, leaving him alone once more to enjoy the latest addition to his growing collection.

Extract from telephone interview between Dr. Graham Burns and Sally Fielding, fifty-six. Conducted September 19
^th
.

GB: Good morning. Am I speaking to a Mrs. Fielding?

SF: This is she.

GB: Apologies for calling out of the blue, Mrs. Fielding. My assistant has tried on several occasions to contact via post and email but has not yet received any reply. I can understand any misgivings you may have in my work, so thought it might be prudent to speak to you in person, to let you know exactly what I’m trying to achieve.

SF: (sighs)

GB: Mrs. Fielding?

SF: It’s been nearly thirty years, and still the phone calls. When will you people leave me and my family alone?

GB: Please, Mrs. Fielding. Sally. Just ten minutes of your time. You were closest to Christine Stephenson and your insights—

SF: (Hangs up)

13.

Christine used to go to church, not that she had any real inclination towards religion. This was the eighties. People should throw away the old hat. She’d spent many an insipid Sunday morning at the local church years ago, just playing the game, getting Wesley in under that particular umbrella. The school linked to that church was the closest by far. It would be worth the weeks of torturous sermons and frowns from the rest of the flock if the school accepted him. Even then she knew there was something very different about Wesley.

Still, on this fine, crisp, Christmas morning, the Stephenson house was filled with carols and hymns, sung by the angelic choir at Canterbury Cathedral, from the television.

Christine had risen early, dressed in a clean white blouse and squeezed into her black trousers saved from her last job. Fitting inside was a Christmas miracle in itself. With a brush through her hair and appropriate earrings, dangling golden snowflakes, saved from last year, her reflection smiled back at her in the bathroom mirror. It didn’t matter. None of it. Here was a mother, just like the others at the school, the Birthday party, even at the church. A good mother. A mother who had the prefect present for her boy under the Christmas tree.

And he’s earned it this time, she thought, fussing around the lounge and cleaning up, singing along with the odd line she knew. He might have slipped up a few times, but there’s been no running around at night, no backchat, no fucking potions.

The cartoon was to blame. With his head empty, the show put silly ideas into it. She glanced at the wrapped present, doubt nibbling at her. Would the gift renew his interest in the show and start the bad behaviour all over again?

No. She’d been through too much to get her hands on that figure. It was her shining sword, the point to drive them through to the future. Wesley would see, he would learn. Behave and life rewards you.

Through the window, while the world was still sharp and grey without a single kiss of snow, the grimy clouds were bright. Nearly eight ’o’clock.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Wesley!” She pranced to the bottom of the stairs. “Wesley! It’s Christmas!”

She paused to listen. Over the last few years, she’d been woken in the darkness of the early hours, her son bouncing on the mattress beside her tired, foggy head. She at least expected him to come barrelling down the stairs like an eager dog when its lead is rattled.

“Wesley!”

She’d snuck into his room before she turned in for the night, clutching a steak knife from the kitchen drawer. With little effort, she’d cut the string around his wrists and ankles, an early present for doing so well. In his sleep, Wesley had taken advantage, stretching out and breathing deeper.

She’d even left the door open.

“Wesley!”

She started up the stairs, frustration just starting to take root. This isn’t how the magical Christmas morning was supposed to go. It had all been planned.

She stepped onto the landing. Wesley’s door was still open.

“Come on, sleepyhead! I think we had a special visitor in the night…”

Christine stopped in his doorway, her fingernails scratching into the frame.

The room still stank from the bucket in the corner, and Wesley’s bed sheets were twisted and tangled. Spots the colour of rust dotted the white sheet covering the mattress.

“Wesley?”

His room had precious little places to hide. After a quick check, Christine moved on to the bathroom, grateful at least for the change in freshness. Wesley wasn’t sitting on the toilet or hiding in the bath.

Shit, she thought. Shit shit shit.

The next door along belonged to the airing cupboard, where she stored the spare blankets, towels and clothing. She reached for the handle.

What did you do with the knife?

He
wouldn’t
.

Christine froze, pulled two ways and stuck in the middle. Had her son somehow snuck past her? Got to the phone or out the front door?

Wouldn’t put it past him, the devious little fuck.

She started to turn, intending to check the lock on the front door. Feeling an imaginary knife slip into her very real kidney, she stared back at the cupboard door.

No… He’s still up here.

She’d been half-asleep and sluggish by the time she’d gone to bed, helped by the remainder of Sally’s Spanish shit mixed with a new bottle of lemonade. She only had one more bottle left, the green drink she hoped was Absinthe and not Midori. Hard to tell with the Asian writing on the label.

I didn’t take the knife back, she vaguely recalled, but I didn’t leave it in his room.

She frowned.

I must have carried it on to my room…

The times she had needed to cover her face from Wesley’s slaps and wild swings, the scratches aimed at her eyes. Her son was certainly a rabid little beast during one of his little turns. She pictured the damage he could achieve with the serrated blade.

He couldn’t. Not in his state.

She almost laughed, amazed at her own naivety. To think she had changed him!

Christine backed away from the closed cupboard and keeping to the far side of the narrow landing, crept to the door of her bedroom that stood ajar. She brought her face closer to the gap and peered inside, searching for the knife.

It still rested on her bedside table, with Wesley sleeping softly in the bed inches away.

***

“Happy Christmas!”

Wesley returned the hug, though considerably weaker. “Happy Christmas, Mum.”

He sounded better. Christine had been right not to take him to the hospital with his broken cheek. It was already starting to heal. The swellings on his face had also gone down. Once she’d dealt with the bright red marks around his wrists and ankles that had bled here and there, he’d be right as rain.

A good mother
and
a great nurse.

The choir sang on.

They shared the sofa, their small pile of presents by Christine’s feet. She had tenderly woken her son, helped him wash his hands and face, and dressed him in his school uniform. While she still hated the school for what they’d put him through, the trousers, shirt and tie were the most presentable clothes he owned, despite the scuffs on the knees.

She had insisted they eat first. Not only did this teach Wesley patience, he was already eying the gifts, but helped her stomach and head ready for the morning’s festivities. She couldn’t remember exactly how many mixes she’d had the night before, but an empty bottle stood by the bin. After orange juice and a bit of toast, mother and son had returned to the lounge and plugged in the lights of the Christmas tree.

Wesley sat back, wincing.

“You okay?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He quickly shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Do you want your first present?”

“Yeah!”

“Excuse me?”

His disfigured face seemed to suck in his smile and grow tight. “Yes, please.”

Christine beamed. “That’s better! Here.” She passed him the smallest present. You always have to build up.

Wesley tore into the wrapping paper, freeing the rather flat box inside. He held it up and excitedly studied the picture on the front. “What is it?”

“It’s a magic kit. You like magicians, right?”

He gazed up at her. “Wizards?”

“Yes,” she said, growing impatient. Would they need to have a discussion over each and every present? “Just like wizards. There’s a magic wand in there. Card tricks, little…balls and cups and things. I don’t know. You’ll have to open it later and see. Now, one for me.” Even though she’d bought and wrapped them herself, Christine made a show of hesitancy, playing the role. “Santa brought me a few things. I’ll go with…this one.”

She picked up a small box and unwrapped it.

“Is it perfume?” asked Wesley.

“I don’t think so. It’s pretty light.”

“Is it…jewellery?”

She wished she could afford jewellery. “No… It’s…” She held up the box of golden cardboard. “Twenty Benson and Hedges! Fancy, eh? Santa must know I smoke, right?”

Wesley looked away. “I guess so.”

“Here,” said Christine and tossed him a larger gift to cheer him up. “That’s from Aunt Sally.”

“Awesome,” he said, tearing into the paper. “Will she come and visit today?”

She smiled and ruffled his hair. Never.

“Probably not, sweetie. She’ll probably be having a nice quiet Christmas with Jason. What did she get you?”

Wesley ripped a gap in the paper. “It’s…it’s… Mum! Look!”

Like a footballer lifting the World Cup, he hoisted the box over his head. Christine squinted at the glossy picture on the side.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Fabled Four Dragon Rider!”

She snatched the box from him and saw for herself.

The bitch. The fucking bitch!

In the picture, the character with the bow and arrows and the hood sat in a cross between a green, scaly dragon and assault vehicle. She’d seen it in the cartoon, but then again they used so many vehicles, a different one each episode pretty much. They cost twice as much as the figures themselves.

“Isn’t that nice of her,” she said, nearly bending the box between her hands, “but Aunt Sally hasn’t quite thought about this, has she?”

She pitched the toy aside. Wesley grabbed it again and continued to gush over the picture.

“What do you mean, Mum?”

“Well,” said Christine with a sneer. “You have a Fabled Four Dragon Rider, but
no
Fabled Four to ride in it.”

Wesley ran a hand over the image of the happy-as-shit young man playing with his new Dragon Rider. “I guess.”

“You guess right.” Christine peeled the cellophane from her Christmas present from
Santa
and plucked out a cigarette. “But I’ll let you call her later. To tell her thank you.”

“But you said I’m naughty if I ever use the phone.”

“True. Here.” She passed him another gift.

Wesley accepted his next few presents gracefully, using his manners and almost hiding his disappointment. The rest of his gifts were what her own mother used to call stocking fillers. A few chocolate bars, a few packs of Fabled Four stickers, a new toothbrush, socks. Christine continued her charade and opened her own presents from Santa: another bottle of lemonade, which she aimed to crack open straight after this, a three pack of underwear and a Hits ’87 tape. Not bad.