Tell the Story to Its End (13 page)

Mum's voice was almost a whisper. I held my breath to listen. ‘Oli adores his father. I couldn't cope with him hearing such horrible things. Did you read what that nasty little woman said? The lawyer, the one with the cheap blue suit. Said that he had stolen from the very heart of the country itself! She said that.'

‘I heard,' said Rob.

‘How can she say that? How can that be allowed?'

‘It's an accusation,' said Rob. ‘Not a fact.'

‘They're making him a monster, Rob. They're making him into a monster. I can't – I can't—'

‘Shh, Judy. We won't say anything to Oli. Not me or Bekah, not George, not anyone.'

I backed away from the door, my mind numb, and moved silently back upstairs. Counting five minutes, I came bounding down the stairs, noisy as I could be, calling out to Jasper as I saw him, and stroking his belly as he flopped onto his side. ‘Good dog!' I said, making my voice sound happy. ‘Yeah, yeah, you are!'

‘Oli! Morning!' said Uncle Rob, appearing from behind the kitchen door. ‘Come on, lad. Have some toast.'

I let him ruffle my hair as I went past, and went to give Mum a hug.

 

FIFTEEN

Eren grins at me, leers at me, and then, like a clucking hen, pushes his chest out. ‘Haven't felt this good in many a year, my boy.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Course you don't. I'd call you a liar if you said you did! Anyway, what is there to understand?'

Everything is hazy. Nothing seems important. Where's Eren gone? I've lost him. I turn my head around, looking for him, calling out his … he's standing right in front of me, eyes flashing like steel blades in the dark.

‘Hey up,' he says.

‘I'm caught in a web. You're the spider. This is wrong.'

He looks bored, almost, and picks at his teeth with a long, sharp finger. ‘Aye, well, there's nothing doing being all complainy. You can't really do much more now.'

He's right, I know – more than I've known anything else. Pain is bad, food is good, and I am here, and Eren is right. I try to cry, to kneel down and hide my head, but I just stare at him.

‘Tell me,' he says, in a high, put-on voice, like a man acting as a king, ‘what stories are.'

‘They're just … no, they're not
just
anything, are they? They're everything.'

‘Oh, yes, you're very good. What is the end of a story?'

I manage a dry laugh. ‘A beginning?' I ask. I've started to understand his games, at least. He's singing to himself, over in the corner, a song I can hear but a song not for me.

‘A tale I know, de dum, de dum, I know of many a tale! To catch a boy, a cunning ploy, and one that never does fail!'

I wonder how long I've been here. I really, really don't know.

I
MET UP
with Em with the idea in my head. She was wearing a green straw hat, faded and crooked, and she beamed when she saw me and jumped down from the wall. ‘Hey, stranger!'

‘Morning.'

‘Busy days, eh?'

‘Yeah. How was that apple pie?'

‘Tasty! You should come to mine and try some…' She looked down, awkward for just a moment. ‘But maybe when my dad's not around. He … doesn't like the smell,' she lied. I scuffed the heel of my shoe on the pavement. I knew her dad wasn't a big fan of mine. He probably didn't think much of me, either.

‘Listen, Em,
is there, like, a library around here?'

She looked at me and scratched her chin. ‘Uh, yeah, sure. Local library? How come?'

‘I want to find some stuff. About stories.'

‘I could lend you some books I have. I just finished this one about a secret group of—'

‘No,' I cut her off. ‘No, not
a
story. More like … them all. How they work. What makes them.'

‘Ri-i-ght,' she said, uncertain. ‘Well, we can go to the library down by the council house. It's not great from the outside, but it's fine inside. I've been loads. We had a school trip when I was younger, and you had to find out about your own road using the histories and stuff.'

‘Can you show me?' I asked, and she smiled and nodded. We caught a bus into the centre of town, a place I'd never been before, and all the while Em chatted and joked about nothing and everything. The clouds overhead turned darker, people around us got on, got off, read papers, chatted, sat and stared out of the windows at the passing world. It was good, I thought. It was
normal
, like a distant memory of a life I'd had. It made me think more of London, of getting the bus to school, being around my mates, being dumb and free and happy. Em kept prattling on and I laughed at her stupid jokes, not because I found them funny but because I wanted her to know how glad I was that this was normal, that this was safe. We got off at one end of a bustling high street. Em shot a dark look at the sky. ‘Going to rain,' she said. ‘Ah well! Come on, it's this building here.'

She pushed open a glass door built into an older stone frame. ‘They did it all up new last year,' she said. ‘Actually, I preferred the older library. It had cool corners to crouch in and books that never ever moved. They made it lighter, more fancy and electronic, but it's not as nice as the old one.'

‘Shame.'

‘Maybe. But now there's a wheelchair ramp. Swings and roundabouts, eh? 'Mazing.'

Behind the reception desk, with a smart, white computer screen pointing up at her, an older lady was typing, grey-streaked hair pulled back into a bun, a huge, soft-looking cardigan pulled high up to her neck. She smiled at us and looked back down at whatever she was writing. ‘So,' said Em, letting the word trail off. ‘Where shall we start?'

I walked over to the librarian. Why be shy? I figured. ‘Excuse me.'

‘Yes, dear?'

‘I was wondering … I'm doing some research on stories. Like, the ideas behind them, what they mean to people. I wondered, do you know any books about that? Like, writing, maybe. About telling stories.'

She looked at me with expressionless eyes for just a few seconds, searching for something. Her gaze flicked up to Em. ‘Nothing more specific, dear?'

‘You mean, like, quotes from authors?' said Em.

‘Maybe. Their thoughts about stories,' I said. ‘Story
telling.
'

‘Ah!' said the librarian, her gentle smile returning. ‘I can do that – that's my domain! Here, follow me, I actually have just the thing…'

She shuffled out from behind the desk and called us over to a bright paper display propped up against a wall.
WRITERS ON WRITING
, it said in cut-out sugar paper, with black-and-white photocopies of old, grizzly men, young smiling women, and all sorts of other faces stuck on around it.

‘Here, have a read,' she said, pointing to a piece of text typed in deep black letters.

The universe is made of stories, not of atoms

Muriel Rukeyser

The librarian sighed happily and pointed to another.

To be a person is to have a story to tell

Isak Dinesen

‘They're collected from all around,' she said, ‘and I can point you to a few of the books themselves, if you'd like. Ah, how about this one? “The truth is in the tale. The world is in the words.”' She read in a soft, distant voice that made me think, somehow, of rain falling on a garden.

‘Beautiful,' said Em quietly. We were alone in the library, the three of us, but we were talking as if there were others to disturb. Ghosts, perhaps, I thought.

‘Yes,' said the librarian, ‘wonderful sentiments, aren't they? So many people write books just so they can understand the things that happen in real life.'

‘And it works?' I asked.

She looked down at me curiously. ‘It's not quite so simple, I think. The world turns, and there are new horrors and terrors every day. But it's like … like there is something deeper, something truer, going on. And if we can just tell the right story, we might all work it out. Poets and writers have tried for thousands of years to capture in words that spark of humanity that makes us what we are.'

Em pointed to another of the printouts.

The shortest distance between a human being and Truth is a story

Anthony de Mello

‘Is that what you mean?'

‘Hmm,' said the librarian. ‘I suppose it is. But what did you want to know, specifically?' she asked me. I thought hard, staring at the display in front of me.

‘What does it mean, all this?' I asked.

‘I'm afraid I don't quite follow…' said the librarian.

I sighed, feeling them both watching me. ‘I have a friend,' I said, ‘who likes stories, a lot. I think he needs them more than anything else. And I wanted to find out what that meant – to only want stories, nothing more.'

‘Ah, a bookworm!' said the librarian, moving slightly away, keeping an eye on the desk and the entrance. ‘Oh yes, oh yes – there's always another story to explore!'

‘What friend?' asked Em. ‘Back home?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You tell your friend from me,' said the librarian, ‘that there's no need to worry about the books running out. As long as there's people, there's tales. Always has been, and touch wood, always will be!'

She walked back to her desk to sort through some papers, the sound of her flat shoes slapping on the floor. ‘You're a weird one,' said Em. ‘What friend is this, who
needs
stories? Sounds barmy to me.'

‘Maybe it's like an addiction,' I said. ‘Some people need attention, don't they? Some people drink. Maybe it could be like that, for a good story.'

Em sucked at her lip.

Raindrops started hitting the windows high above us, slowly filling the room with noise. Em clicked her tongue and asked if she should call her dad to pick us up. ‘Sure,' I said, ‘we can wait here, right?'

‘Payphone's just over there, I'll be right back.' Left alone, I looked up at the surly faces of the writers again, reading their thoughts and one-liners, and tried to understand. What was Eren doing? What did he want me to know?

*   *   *

The ride back home was awkward and strange. Em's dad didn't seem to like me, Em didn't want to talk, and we all sat silently as he drove. At my house, he stopped near the kerb. The rain was still falling, grey and dull, and I pushed open the car door ready to run for the porch.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘For this.'

‘Yeah,' said Em. She smiled. Her dad was staring ahead, both hands gripping the wheel.

‘Thanks, again' I said.

He craned his head round to look at me and nodded, just once. ‘Sure,' he said.

Em shook her head and glared at him. ‘Bye,' she whispered. I shut the door and stood back, letting the car pull away.

*   *   *

I went in, dripping, kicked off my shoes and climbed the stairs. Nobody else was home. I wondered, briefly, where Mum was. ‘Eren!' I called before I was even in my room. He could hear everything in the house, even if he wouldn't leave that attic. ‘Eren!' I shouted. I was angry and my voice came in deep, short bursts. In the air around me something shivered, like heat haze, or falling dust. I yanked at the ladder and didn't care when it crashed down noisily, hitting the floor with a bang. A tiny, distant chuckle sounded in the chimney. ‘Eren, now!' I shouted again, and climbed up. He stood close to the hatch, staring down at me with a calm, fixed smile.

‘You'd be better watching your manners,' he said, simply. I was panting slightly as I stood up and looked into his eyes.

‘That cat,' I said.

‘Yes?'

‘What was … how did you…?'

‘Your friend Em told a lovely tale. It's a truth that's been twisted to magic. The best kind.'

‘You can
do
stuff like that?'

‘Make the cat real? Is that what you think happened?'

I hesitated, trying to understand. Everything he said sounded too certain, too complete. He smiled at me, then grinned, and sat down, patting the floor.

‘I wanted to show you a wonder. Didn't you enjoy it?'

‘What does that mean?'

‘He was for you alone, boy. A gift, from me. Wasn't it nice? Fun? A talking cat! How many others could know what that's like?'

‘You made him,' I said.

‘Hm?'

‘He was a story and—'

‘
Is
a story,' said Eren, raising a finger. ‘Is a story. They don't end, poppet.'

‘But he's a story, and you made him.'

Eren nodded, closing his eyes, smiling smugly. ‘Links and threads,' he said. ‘Words and worlds.'

‘So he was real?'

‘It seems to me,' said Eren, ‘that you are more than naturally bothered by what is real and what is not.'