Retard (4 page)

“Why?” said Sally, grinning. “Is there some lucky lady at school? This Kelsey chick I’ve heard about?”

“Nah,” he said. “Sasha. Sasha’s cool.”

“Is that the teacher?” said Sally, and the women erupted once more.

Christine took a drag from her cigarette.

Why, when they had someone call around, did her son change? They never saw the bad side, the times he never listened or roared through the house in a destructive storm. They didn’t know he screamed, had never seen him throw a kick or punch at her.

Despite all this, Christine enjoyed it. Wesley was still her son, and in these short periods, she saw the boy she wanted, not her monster.

Her smile fell.

“Wesley.” Sometimes that monster slipped through. “Wesley!”

He ignored her, too busy squeezing Sally with his eyes closed and a smile. His left arm was curled round her body, his hand resting on her breast.

“Wesley!” Christine yelled.

Sally followed her friends gaze, rolled her eyes and moved the boy’s hand lower until it rested on her middle. “Oh leave him, Chrissie. It was an accident. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

You’d be surprised, thought Christine.

Sally patted him on the bare skin of his leg, just below his shorts.

Still smiling and trying to snuggle his way into her, Wesley flinched.

“You okay, fella?” asked Sally and leaned forwards, pulling up his shorts to expose a further inch of skin. She glared back at Christine. “Have you seen this?”

Christine turned back to the television. “Seen what?”

“These bruises. What have you been up to, Wesley? Come here. Stand up so I can have a proper look at you.”

She grabbed the boy under the armpits, making him giggle anew, and lifted him from the sofa. Opening her legs, she stood him in between, his feet finding the carpet.

“Here.” Sally turned him, facing his right-hand side to Christine, and lifted the frayed hem of his small shorts.

Christine glanced aside. “You know boys.”

A welt, wide and thankfully vague in shape, stretched from the back of Wesley’s thigh to his hip. Islands of purple, just starting to darken, floated in an angry red sea.

“How did you do his?” pressed Sally. “Someone at school do this?”

Christine stubbed out her cigarette. “You know schools today, Sal. Kids can barely play without being accused of some form of antisocial behaviour. Do you know how many games they’ve banned? Just you watch, kids will be obese in a decade because the schools won’t let them run around. If someone was picking on Wesley at school I’d know about it. I’m in there often enough with the shit he does. Have another parent teacher meeting tomorrow over…” Christine stopped. Sally might be here best friend, but no one need know
everything
. “He probably just bumped it playing. He’s a clumsy one, aren’t you Wesley? Probably something out in the yard. I keep on to the landlord about moving his crap. It’s like living on a building site, and Wesley thinks it’s a fucking playground.”

Sally winced from the f word. Another annoyance. People without kids tended to frown on swearing around them and seemed able to filter it out quite easily.

“You know I’m not having a go,” said Sally, “but did
you
do this?”

Christine licked her lips, mind racing. Wesley was her son.
Hers
. The world had taken everything away from her and he was all she had left. Her son. To be raised as she saw fit.

“You know I smack him when he’s being particularly bad,” she said. “It’s the only way to get through to him. I send him to his room, I take his toys away. Minutes later and he’s getting into all kinds of shit again. Sometimes it’s required. I never hit him that hard though. He copped a couple of good ones last night when he wouldn’t go to bed but not enough to leave a bruise like that.”

“You smacked him because he wouldn’t go to bed? Bit harsh, Chrissie.”

Sally would never know the torment. Lying on the sofa, eyelids so heavy but forbidden to close because Wesley was out of bed. Again. And
again
. Finally, after the screaming matches and the threats, feeling so exhausted from him that you could fall and sleep where you landed, you can lie down and listen to the quiet house…suddenly interrupted by Wesley’s footsteps. Out of bed again: to play, to trash his room. Time to drag your weary body up once more and plod upstairs for another round, the stakes higher, ever higher.

She would never know.

“I’m making a cuppa,” said Christine, standing. “Fancy one?”

“Yeah, go on.”

Christine walked to the kitchen in no great hurry, turned on the electric kettle and placed two mugs beside it. Using the sound of the heating water as cover, she snuck back and leaned against the door frame, listening.

“Those look pretty bad,” said Sally. “Going to ripen up dark as plums. At least you can show them off at school, eh? Impress the ladies?”

Wesley chuckled.

“What did you do?”

Christine could talk around it. Wesley had quite the imagination, and his tales were never to be believed the whole way. Plus she’d admitted she’d smacked him last night. Why was she so worried?

It was just a little smack.

“You can tell your Aunt Sally. Come on, Wes, how did you hurt your leg?”

Christine closed her eyes. This was the Birthday party all over again. Just because you’re a single mother living on benefits, everyone assumes you’re some kind of outcast, a criminal at times. Sally had been known to do the odd line in club toilets and wasn’t exactly the most faithful of girlfriends. Anyone who had the slightest resemblance to Simon Le Bon could get her knickers around her ankles.

Who’s she to frown on me for smacking Wesley? I should take her up on the offer to babysit, see how many hours she’d last before she cracked.

“Did you bang it? You can tell me, Wesley.”

5.

He wanted to tell her.

Aunt Sally had a way about her that his mother lacked. She was soft and cuddly while his mum was hard and sharp, a warm pillow versus a jagged rock. Plus she smelled nice; dark and fruity perfume over her vanilla scented skin. Most of the time, Wesley wished he could leave his shitty house and move in with Aunt Sally…except that Jason would be there too. He didn’t like Jason much. He always stank of beer and cigarettes, and insisted on kicking a ball around every time they visited. Once he’d even said The Fabled Four were for girls and queers, because of the outfits they wore. The Fabled Fags.

“I…I tripped on the stairs,” he said. “Honestly, Aunt Sally, I did.”

“Love your mum?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

He gave her another hug, this time around the neck so he could smell her hair. Sally rubbed his back before easing him away.

“Go on. Go and play.”

Aware that his performance had reached its conclusion, Wesley plodded across the living room, swaying his arms. At the foot of the stairs, he peeked in on his mum in the kitchen.

She’d lit another cigarette and stood by the steaming kettle, gazing out of the window.

Why can’t you be more like Aunt Sally?

Wesley knew he’d absorbed some of his mother’s spite; the jealously that came with having little in a world where everyone seemed to get everything. Kids at school always talked about their new toys, or parents’ bigger car, or holidays to Spain if you had a bit of money, south of France if you thought yourself posh. Why couldn’t they go on holiday? Just to the beach for a weekend?

Because they keep you down, she’d said. If your kid doesn’t have a dad you became a prisoner. Slave to the bills, the rent. Stuck inside because you never had the money to go anywhere, to do anything. Just the television for company, with a pack of smokes and a bottle of plonk if you could scrape enough together.

The pale light from the glass reflected in his mother’s dulled eyes, set within a pasty, blotched face. She hadn’t bothered to wash or brush her hair again. Even her t-shirts, which had always been baggy, had started to tighten around her waist.

Could the world be against them? Or had his mother simply given up the fight once she’d squeezed him out?

Wesley turned and dashed up the stairs, so frantic he used hands and feet to propel himself up each step. On the landing, he ran inside the bathroom and closed the door with a bang, pressing his back against the wood.

“Wesley!” came the cry from downstairs. “Knock it off!”

He ignored it and approached the sink.

They had no shower, and the bath sported a long, zigzagged crack down its plastic casing. Mildew sat grey and green between the tiles and speckled black on the ceiling.

Wesley stared at his reflection in the dingy medicine cabinet over the sink. He was prone to cleaning his teeth a little too close to the glass, and he smiled through a light smattering of toothpaste. It hung about him like snowflakes frozen in time.

Let’s see what we have in here…

He grabbed the underside of the mirror and swung it open, revealing the contents of the compartment hidden behind. Grinning, Wesley ran a finger over each bottle, can and tube. He plunged the plug into the sink and ran a half-inch of cold water into the basin.

Globin made potions to get The Fabled Four out of any scrape. Wesley believed that with the right components, he might concoct something to make his mother look and feel better.

He grabbed the toothpaste, twisted off the cap, pointed the nozzle down and squeezed long minty worms into the shallow pool beneath. Once the tube was curled and empty, he dropped it to the floor and delved into cabinet again for his second ingredient.

Hair gel. They always had a tub, even though it was rarely used. Mum would spike his hair for special occasions, like David’s party the day before.

Wesley unscrewed the wide cap and sank his fingers into the cold, clear jelly.

“Eugh,” he groaned and started to pound his hand in and out, laughing at the sucking and rude noises the gel made. He grabbed a handful and flung it into the sink, giving the potion a rapid stir for good measure.

Jumping away from the sink, Wesley ransacked the bottles lined up around the edge of the bath. Shampoo, conditioner and Mr. Matey bubble bath were all added to the mix, which had now formed a white cream with bubbles on top. He lowered his head to the surface and breathed deep.

It needs more. It needs…something.

He spied the delicate glass bottle inside the cabinet, the dark sphere faceted, a sweet smelling grenade.

In his hand, the bottle felt heavy, full of liquid hidden inside. He sniffed the golden nozzle on top and wrinkled his nose. Too powerful. Not as nice as Aunt Sally’s perfume.

He started to spray the foul liquid into his potion, but with his pumping thumb starting to ache, he opted for a quicker route, unscrewing the nozzle and pouring the perfume in directly. Curious, he dunked a hand beneath the stream and giggled at its coolness, watching the liquid dry on his hand.

His mum’s toothbrush made for a handy spoon, and he whisked the mixture, frothing it.

What now?

He had no way to get his mum’s deodorant from the can, and gave up after a few sprays that made his eyes burn. The same went for the cheap can of hairspray.

He spied something new and grabbed the handle of his mum’s disposable razor.

Thick, short hairs sprouted from under the blade like the mould between the tiles, and the metal had started to rust at the centre. Even the handle felt grimy, like wet dust coated the hollow white plastic.

Wesley ran the pad of his thumb over the metal, and for a moment, wondered why his mum warned him about its sharpness. A smile of pain spread across his thumb pad, and the boy winced, staring at the thin strip of bright blood that started to swell on his skin. He dropped the razor into the sink and plunged his hand beneath the layer of foam. The anaemic blend drank his blood, turning a light pink around his thumb before returning to perfect white.

He scooped a handful of his work and flung it at the mirror. It splashed against the glass and ran in creamy rivulets. Wesley whooped with joy and threw more at the walls, the windows and back of the door. Milky puddles formed on the floor, refreshing in the dankness of the bathroom.

Wesley lifted his arms over his head and spun around on the spot until, dizzy, he gripped the edge of the sink. Movement fluttered all around him, and he leaned over the bath for a closer look.

The black speckles of mildew on the magnolia paint milled around each other, forming an ever-moving collage.

Wesley watched in awe as the tiny, furry flecks came together to form larger shapes only to burst apart, the members scattering to dance again and find new partners. A kaleidoscope of mould.

He raised his hand, realising a few of the scuttling spots had made it onto him. They chased each other around his forearm, meeting on the back of his knuckles. Bringing his hand closer to his face, Wesley finally saw the miniscule legs and twitching antennae. He’d never seen bugs so small.

An echo gurgled from the plughole of the bath tub.

Wesley laughed, enjoying the company of his new friends. The funny bugs on the back of his hand continued their games and darted away, the chase resumed. They tickled like ants on their way.

The boy splashed more of his potion around the bathroom, as if cleansing it with holy water.

A few more of the miniscule insects scampered out of the dark plug hole, having no trouble climbing the sides, unlike so many spiders that had been washed away. It proved that the handful of individuals was just the vanguard, and with another burble from the drain, the main body burst forth. Thousands of tiny bodies flowed from the circular hole, surging from the drain like a thick sludge.

Wesley stared at the black tide that spread across the bottom of the bath, already reaching the gentle slope at the end. The bugs bustled over and under each other, some weaving up the sides to join their friends on the walls, while others flitted over the edge and out, free to glide wavy paths across the linoleum and over Wesley’s bare feet.

Giggling, he hopped from foot to foot.