Skellig (16 page)

He ate again, sighed with contentment.

“Pair of angels,” he said. “That’s what you are.”

We watched him eat and drink, saw him gathering his strength.

“You went to my sister,” I said.

He laughed.

“Hm! Pretty little thing.”

“You made her strong.”

“That one’s glittering with life. Heart like fire. It was her that gave the strength to me.”

He sipped at the beer again.

“But worn out now,” he said. “Exhausted.”

Then he reached out and touched Mina’s face, then mine.

“But I’m getting strong, thanks to the angels and the owls.”

He put the food and drink aside and leaned against the wall.

We sat in a tiny circle, the three of us, and for minutes we just watched each other and smiled.

“You’re going away,” I said at last.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Where will you go?” I said.

He shrugged, pointed out to the sky.

“Somewhere,” he said.

I touched his dry, cold hand.

“What are you?” I whispered.

He shrugged again.

“Something,” he said. “Something like you, something like a beast, something like a bird, something like an angel.” He laughed. “Something like that.”

He smiled.

“Let’s stand up,” he said.

We made our circle and we held each other tight. We looked deep into each other’s eyes. We began to turn. Our hearts and breath were together. We turned and turned until the ghostly wings rose from Mina’s back and mine, until we felt ourselves being raised, until we seemed to turn and dance in the empty air.

And then it ended and we came to earth again.

“We’ll remember forever,” said Mina.

Skellig leaned forward and hugged us both.

He licked a drop of red sauce from his lips.

“Thank you for 27 and 53,” he said. “Thank you for giving me my life again. Now you have to go home.”

We watched him as we walked toward the door and as we pulled it open. We peered through as we slowly pulled it closed. He gazed back at us with his tender eyes. Then we went silently down through the house and we stepped out with Whisper into the astounding night.

I WAS BRILLIANT AT SCHOOL NEXT
day. Nobody could get the ball away from me. I did body swerves and dribbles and flicks. I skipped over tackles, back-heeled the ball to my teammates, scored with diving headers and with long shots curled into the corners of the net.

After the bell rang and we were trailing back to the school across the field, Leakey ran after me.

“Lucky dog,” he said. “You’ll never play like that again.”

I laughed.

“Luck? What about this, then?”

I dropped the ball and dribbled it round him. I flicked it between his legs and ran on with it. Then he got me with a thumping tackle into the back of my legs that sent us both sprawling.

“Foul!” I shouted. “Foul!”

We started wrestling, rolling over and over on the grass. He was bigger than me and he pinned me
down, sat over me, pressed my shoulders into the ground.

He was grinning.

“Say it again,” he said.

“Foul! Bloody foul!”

He lifted his fist like he was going to smash me in the face but then he just laughed and flopped down and lay beside me.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “You were brilliant.”

We lay there laughing; then Mrs. Dando started yelling.

“Get in, you two! You’re going to be late!”

We walked together toward school.

“It’s like you’ve been miles and miles away,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Would you tell me about it?” he said.

We paused and I looked at him and I knew he really wanted to know.

“Someday I’ll tell you everything,” I said.

We saw Coot in the school doorway waiting for us.

“Might even tell that crazy nut,” I said. “If I think he might believe it.”

Then Mrs. Dando was yelling again.

“Come on, you two! Come on! Get in!”

THAT EVENING AND THE EVENINGS
that followed, I helped Dad in the house. I mixed wallpaper paste for him and carefully painted door frames and window frames with him. We went to see Mum and the baby in the hospital. The baby soon came out of her long sleep and she got stronger and stronger. They took the wires and tubes out of her and they switched off the machine. The bandages on her chest were smaller and smaller. Every evening she sat in my lap, twisting and turning and gurgling. She learned how to stick out her tongue at us, and her mouth and eyes started to smile.

“Look at her,” we’d say. “Little devil.”

And Mum would laugh and say, “Watch out. We’re coming home soon.”

I used to look for Dr. MacNabola, but I never saw him again.

We had lots of Chinese take-out. Dad winked and
said we had to keep it quiet or Mum would have us on salad for a month. I poked his stomach.

“Mightn’t be a bad idea, Fatso.”

“You don’t want them, then?” he said. “No more 27 and 53, then?”

“That’s right, Fatso,” I said. “I’ll have … 19 and 42 instead.”

“Ha! A bit of imagination, eh?”

After we’d eaten, I’d go to Mina’s. We drew and painted on her kitchen table. We read William Blake and we wrote stories about adventures in old houses and journeys to far-off imaginary places.

Each evening, Mina used to ask, “When’s she coming home, Michael? I can hardly wait. I haven’t even seen her yet.”

We went one more time to the attic before the baby came home. The sun was still shining. It hung low and red and huge over the city.

The attic was empty and silent. She pointed to the heap of owl pellets beneath the nest.

“Don’t go near,” she said. “They’ll defend their chicks to the death.”

We stood at the center, remembering Skellig.

“Someone else might find him now,” said Mina.

“Yes,” I said. “I hope they do.”

Then we saw the outline of a heart scratched into the floorboards beneath the arched window. Just outside the heart was scratched,
Thank you
. S., and inside were three small white feathers.

We picked up the feathers and smiled.

“Three,” said Mina.

“One for the baby as well,” I said.

As we crouched there, the owls flew out into the room and perched on the frame above us. Then two fledglings appeared, tottering in the shadows by the far wall. They were round and almost naked. Little cheeps came from their wide open beaks. We gasped at how beautiful they were, how delicate. Then the owls went out hunting. We stayed for a while. We watched the owls flying back in with the meat from tiny animals they’d killed. We watched the fledglings gorge themselves.

“Little savages,” I said.

“That’s right,” said Mina. “Beautiful tender savages.”

We smiled and prepared to tiptoe away. Then the owls flew back in and came to us. They laid something on the floor in front of us. A dead mouse, a tiny dead baby bird. Blood was still trickling through the ripped fur, through the young feathers. The owls flew quickly away again, and we heard them hooting in the thickening night.

“Savages,” I whispered.

“Killers,” said Mina. “Extraordinary presents, eh?”

“They think we’re something like them,” I said.

“Perhaps we are,” said Mina.

We lifted the creatures and tiptoed out.

“Goodnight, little chicks,” we whispered.

Outside, we buried the mouse and the fledgling
in a border in the garden. We stared up toward the attic and saw the owls, lit by moonlight now, flying in with more meat for their young.

“The builders’ll be coming soon,” said Mina. “I’ll make sure they do nothing until the chicks have flown.”

THAT SATURDAY THE BUILDERS CAME
to sort the garage out. There were three of them, an old man in a cap, Mr. Batley, and his two sons, Nick and Gus. They thumped the walls and watched them sway and tremble. They heard the roof creaking and sagging. They scratched the bricks and watched them flake easily away. They yanked Dad’s planks off and peered inside.

Mr. Batley took his cap off and scratched his bald head.

“Wouldn’t get me in there even for extra money,” he said.

He pondered. He shrugged and twisted his mouth and looked at Dad.

“Know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he said.

“Suppose so,” said Dad.

“Nothing else for it. Knock it down and start again.”

Dad looked at me.

“What d’you think?” he said.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Easy choice,” said Mr. Batley. “Knock it down or sit and watch it fall down.”

Dad laughed.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Get the stuff out from inside and knock it down.”

They put steel props up to keep the roof from falling in while they worked inside. They brought the junk out and laid it around Ernie’s toilet in the backyard: all the ancient chests of drawers, the broken washbasins, the bags of cement, the broken doors, the tattered deck chairs, rotted carpets, the ropes, the pipes, the newspapers and magazines, the coils of cable, the bags of nails. Dad and I went through it all as they brought it out. We kept saying, “This’ll come in useful,” then saying, “No, it won’t, it’s just a piece of junk.” A truck came and left a huge Dumpster in the back lane. We chucked in everything. We were all covered in dead bluebottles, dead spiders, brick and mortar dust. When it was empty, we stood around drinking tea and laughing at the mess.

I went to the door alone and stared in.

“Michael!” said Dad.

“Yes,” I said. “I know. I won’t go in.”

He told the builders about how desperate I’d been to get in there after we’d moved in.

“Just like these two used to be,” said Mr. Batley.
“Show them something dark and dangerous and it was the devil’s own work to keep them out.”

I kept on staring. Just rubble and dust and broken pottery, and in the far corner a couple of take-out trays, some brown ale bottles, a scattered handful of feathers, the pellets. I sighed and whispered, “Goodbye, Skellig.”

Then the builders and Dad were at my back.

“See,” said Mr. Batley, pointing past me. “Looks like you’ve had a vagrant spending a night or two in there. Lucky the whole lot didn’t come down on his head.”

Then we finished the tea. Mr. Batley rubbed his hands.

“Right, then, lads,” he said. “Time for a bit of knocky down.”

It only took an hour or two. We stood in the kitchen and watched them work with crowbars and sledgehammers and saws. We bit our lips and shook our heads each time a bit of roof or a bit of wall fell with a massive thump. Soon the garage was just a great pile of bricks and timber and dust.

“Bloody hell,” said Dad.

“Least we’ll have a nice long garden for the baby to play in,” I said.

He nodded and started talking about the lawn he’d lay, and the pond he’d dig, and the shrubs he’d plant for the birds to build their nests in.

“Ha!” he said. “A little paradise for us all.”

When it was over, Gus and Nick stood proud and
happy with their hands on their hips. Mr. Batley, white as death with dust, gave us the thumbs-up and we went out with more tea.

“Bloody lovely, that was,” he said.