The Boy Who Lived With Ghosts: A Memoir (27 page)

We looked at the thin, piss-filled mattress and decided to let it air out before we fold up the bed and close the doors. The door has a lock but we’ve never had a key so we can’t lock the bed away. We’ll use the bed for guests who come to stay in the summer or at Christmas.

And he wouldn’t eat his Farley’s Rusks and warm milk for breakfast. He pushed the dish away until it fell on the kitchen floor, and Mum never said anything. He drinks weak tea with milk, but he isn’t thirsty today. He knows what’s happening—the same as we all know. We all know what’s happening today.

It didn’t seem so long ago that we had his birthday party and his sister came and we put “Puff the Magic Dragon” on the record player and danced with our hands in the air like boys from far away would dance. It was soon after that he asked about being white and why and when and why again.

He thinks I am his real brother and he said he wants to be white like me now or when he grows up and I told him that’s not possible and he asked me how I got so white and was I white when I was little like him or was I black? We’re all white around here. So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t understand why he’s black. Then he goes back to asking why. Always why.

They’re here now. They came in a Ford Anglia. It’s pale blue and has silver chrome down the side like a rocket ship and hubcaps like flying saucers. Rockets and flying saucers.

“This is a handwoven
asho oke
cloth from my tribe. It’s for very special occasions and ceremonies.”

“I know. You wore it for the tea party. Don’t you remember?” Mum replied.

“Oh. Yes.”

“What happened to you?” Mum asked Akanni’s father.

“I was walking home from night school. There were six white men across the road, and they shouted, ‘Get the nigger!’ I tried to run but they were too quick for me.”

“But your face…”

“They grabbed me and beat me with their fists. And one kicked me in the groin, and I went down.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Yes. And I curled into a ball as they kicked me. But one of them held my arms back so that they could get their boots into my face. They rubbed the soles of their big boots into my mouth and kicked my head. And another one took my hand and bent the fingers back until they snapped like twigs.”

“Oh my God.”

“They told me to get back to the jungle where I belonged.”

“We’re not all like that.”

“I don’t belong in a jungle. I didn’t come down from a tree. Lagos is a city. They wiped the blood off their boots on my jacket. It was my blood. I heard them laughing while they walked away.”

“What happened?”

“I thought I would die, and I became unconscious. I woke up in hospital.”

“This is terrible.”

“They broke three of my fingers. And four ribs. And fractured my jaw.”

“Did they catch them?”

“No. The police don’t have time for that. It happens all the time in Stockwell.”

Akanni can sing the alphabet and he can count to ten. He does wet the bed occasionally but he’s dry during the day and he likes to play with his Lego. He has his bear in bed with him at night and he calls him Little Bear but sometimes he creeps into bed with his big brother and takes Little Bear with him. Everything is in the bags; he doesn’t have much, God Bless him.

He’s a brave little boy. He will stop crying soon, stop begging soon through his desperate tears for his mummy, soon down the road and into the distance in the blue Ford Anglia with the silver rockets and the flying saucers, he will stop crying. Soon, when he forgets all about his mummy and his big brother, he will stop the crying and the begging to be back home. Yes, he will stop soon enough when he forgets.

He’s got a bear. He calls him Little Bear.

They peeled his fingers away from Mum and pulled his arms to his side as they ran down the garden path to the car, all in tears, with the Co-op bags and Little Bear. They never finished their tea. And I never heard his screams after they slammed the car door.

I only heard the screams from my mum in the evening and in the dark, dark night.

And the blanket smelled musty from the wet of my tears.

74

N
o one knows why Margueretta was on our porch roof, screaming. It doesn’t really matter. Everyone screams in our house, and you don’t even need a reason. But if anyone needed a reason, we had tinned sardines on toast for tea. And everyone hates tinned sardines because you have to eat the whole slimy fish with its scales and head and eyes and tail and bones. And then it’s Sunday and anyone would scream on a Sunday because we always have to watch
Songs of Praise
on the old telly. Mum sings along to most of the hymns, especially “What A Friend We Have In Jesus.” But I think it was the sardines.

Margueretta climbed out of her bedroom window onto the porch roof, which anyone could do. And it was Joan Housecoat, coming back from the fish and chip shop with Fred’s supper, who saw her there and heard her screaming in the dark. Joan couldn’t stay because Fred’s supper would get cold, but she thought it would be a good idea to call the police or the fire brigade or the doctor.

She wouldn’t die if she fell off the roof. It’s not high enough and there are bramble bushes on one side but there’s a hydrangea bush on the other side and it would be upsetting if she fell on that bush because Mum planted it in the summer and put an old pan in the roots to make the flowers grow blue. She said it was from Japan and was a symbol of calm and tranquility. It will bring peace to the refuge-for-troubled-children, like a guardian angel.

“A guardian angel is sent from God to protect you and to listen to your prayers and whisper them back to the ear of God. It’s really good if you’ve got a guardian angel because God is very busy,” she said.

And when Margueretta wouldn’t come down off the roof and wouldn’t stop screaming, Mum went up to her bedroom to drag her back in through the window before one of our neighbors called the police. I ran after her, of course, because I wanted to see inside Margueretta’s bedroom again. But the only thing that was different in there was the empty bottles lying on the floor. Bulmer’s Strongbow apple cider. And Cliff Richard was gone from the wall.

Mum managed to get hold of her by the arm and the hair and dragged her back into the room and Margueretta made sounds like she was a dog growling at someone trying to steal its bone, which made Emily gasp a little bit standing there in the bedroom door.

“Let go of me, you fucking witch!”

“Get in here and stop this nonsense!”

“You’re one of them! You witch! You sent them here! You fucking sent them here!”

“Get off the floor. Stand up!”

“You know what they’re doing. You fucking know! Witch! Witch!”

“You filthy-mouthed little trollop. Stand up!”

“You’re a fucking witch!”

She spat in Mum’s face. Mum slapped her for that and I’m surprised she didn’t slap her sooner but she still didn’t stand up. She started growling like a dog again and rolling around the bedroom floor, scattering the cider bottles. And Mum told Emily and me to get out of the room but I stayed in the doorway and watched and Emily looked over my shoulder and gasped again like girls do.

I stared at Margueretta’s face as she writhed around on the floor. If I stare at the mirror for long enough, my face changes into someone else’s face. It’s a much older face and it looks back at me like it is not me. So I don’t stare at the mirror any more. That’s what happened when I stared at Margueretta’s face tonight, writhing around on the floor, groaning like a dog. Her face was old and angry and it wasn’t her—it didn’t look like her face at all. I think it was the Devil. Yes, I’m sure it was the Devil’s face, staring back at me.

Now I know. Now I know what the Devil looks like. He’s inside her.

And Mum got down on the floor to sit on her because it looked like she was going to hit her head on something or smash the glass cider bottles as she rolled around. And the growling sound changed into a gurgling, choking sound like a dog that’s got a bone stuck in its throat.

Then she was sick and the vomit spewed out of her mouth in a small orange fountain and fell back onto her face and hair and eyes. It smelled sweet and sickly, not like the sick when Gary Gibly puked up his Weetabix at school. And Margueretta’s sick didn’t have any bits in it. But that’s probably because she didn’t eat her sardines on toast for tea or else I suppose it would have been full of bones and scales and bread and smelled more like fish than something sweet.

You shouldn’t mix Valium and alcohol, even cider. That’s what Dr. Wilmot said when he came round later. And it could cause liver failure and violence or a coma or something worse. Mum said she doesn’t know where the cider came from. We never have alcohol in the house except for a bottle of Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine that Mum won at the Methodist Church Summer Fête. It’s right at the back of the larder, unopened. She won first prize in the fancy dress competition by pinning Heinz baby food labels all over Akanni when he was nine months old. She entered him as a Heinz Chocolate Pudding.

Margueretta’s sleeping now. I think they gave her another sleeping pill. Mum had to clean up the sick with the old mop and bucket but Margueretta had to clean off the sick on her face and hair herself. Serves her right.

We need to get the reverend round to say some prayers with us. That’s what Mum says. But it won’t be an exorcism because we aren’t being haunted by an evil spirit.

So we just need to say some prayers.

75

S
he came to tell us she was dead. We were the first people she told. Mum asked her how she knew, and she said she knew because she asked her to put her teeth in earlier in the day. No one wants to die without their teeth. That’s how she knew her mother was dead. That’s how we all knew that Joan’s mother was dead.

I’m not going to tell them again about her coming into the backyard in her nightshirt and scaring me half to death. Joan said her mother could never leave her bedroom because she always locks the door, so there is no way she could have been in the backyard. But I know what I saw.

“Are you sure she’s not sleeping? Sometimes people are just sleeping. I should know,” Mum asked.

“Ooo-er, no. She’s not sleeping. She’s as cold as ice, and she’s not moving or breathing. I’m sure she’s dead. And her face is different.”

“Peaceful?”

“Yes, that’s right! Peaceful.”

“Do you know what to do?”

“I said the Lord’s Prayer. That’s the only one I know.”

“Well, that’s right enough. But, after that.”

“I was going to call the doctor. Or the Co-op. I’ve never done this before. It’s all too much.”

“You should call the doctor. But you only have a short time. Have you folded her arms across her chest?”

“Across her chest?”

“Yes. Like this. And make sure her legs are straight. And put two pennies on her eyes.”

“Ooo-er! I’d better go. I haven’t done anything like that.”

“Well, go now. And make sure her legs are straight before the rigor mortis sets in. That’s a terrible thing. Or they’ll be breaking your mother’s legs to get her out the door. You don’t have much time. Believe me, you don’t want someone from the Co-op breaking your mother’s legs.”

“Ooo-er! No! I…I…”

“What?”

“I haven’t cried yet.”

“Cried? You will. It’s the shock. You will.”

“I’ll go now. Yes, I’ll go now.”

“I’ve got to go myself. It’s Local History classes tonight. Yes, I really need to leave.”

I don’t like this feeling. A dead person is just the other side of our wall. A dead person who came into our backyard even though Joan said she could never leave her bedroom. It would feel better if Mum was here but she’s away learning about John of Gisors. He founded Portsmouth. But she prefers the foxtrot or a good waltz.

Margueretta’s in her bedroom and I hope she stays there. We haven’t seen much of her after she tried to jump off the porch. Well, she didn’t actually try to jump but she wouldn’t go back into her room because something was in there waiting to kill her. It will kill her one day, I hope. Doctor Wilmot said she should take up a hobby. It will help her to relax. So Mum bought her some oil paints and brushes and some canvases. We have more money, now that Mum has a job.

Margueretta says she is painting two pictures. One is a picture of good. And the other is a picture of evil. She wants to paint good and evil because it’s all she knows. Mum says it’s all nonsense and she should paint some flowers or a tree like anyone else would. But Margueretta says she’s seen things that other people haven’t seen and she knows things that we don’t know and it all comes down to good and evil.

And even though everyone tells her that it’s all in her mind, she says that’s just the way some people see things and that terrible thing, that thing that talks to her, can even come into her mind and control her thoughts if it wants to. So saying it’s all in her mind doesn’t make it better because sometimes the thing is in her mind. And sometimes it’s in her room.

I’m sure it’s the thing from the cellar. Margueretta was the first one to tell me about it. Now it’s here, like she said. It followed us here. It lives in the attic or the toilet and it goes into her room in the night. It will kill her first. But that won’t be the end of it.

He hasn’t been here yet but the reverend has agreed to come round to our house. He will say prayers but he won’t do an exorcism, even though Mum didn’t ask for one, because he says that’s not something that he could do without permission even if we wanted one. And if Margueretta is possessed by an evil spirit then we should join hands and say prayers together and that should help but only if she joins in with us. But Margueretta still doesn’t believe in God. She says God was invented to make us feel better and Jesus was just a man in sandals with long hair. I told her she’s wrong but she says I’m just a stupid little boy who only believes what I’m told. And she said when we die we just rot in the grave and maggots will eat our eyes and swarms of flies will be all that’s left and nothing more. I think that’s why Mum wants to be cremated.