The Shock of the Fall (Special edition) (21 page)

SCHIZOPHRENIA n. a severe mental disorder characterized by a disintegration in the process of thinking, of contact with reality, and of emotional responsiveness. Etymology: From the Greek Skhizein (‘to split’) and Phren (‘mind’).

When I look at the photograph of Simon and me at Bristol Zoo, with our faces painted like tigers, I look at myself, but do not see myself.

I know that he is me because I am told he is me, but I do not remember turning six years old, going to Bristol Zoo, having my face painted like a tiger, and smiling into the lens of a camera. I do not remember my brother’s face pressed against my face, the black stripes smudging into the orange on our cheeks.

If I look closely I can see we have the same colour eyes, not me and Simon, but me and the boy who is also me, the boy who I can no longer recognize, with whom I no longer share a single thought, worry, or hope.

We are the same person, all that separates us is the passing of time. There is an unbreakable thread connecting us, but I do not know him any more.

I am me. I am in my flat, sitting on the chair with the blistered arms. I have a cigarette between my lips, and this typewriter balanced on my lap. It’s heavy. I can feel the weight of it, it’s uncomfortable, and soon I may move position, or place the typewriter on my table, and sit on the wooden chair. This is me, this is what is happening right now, but in the place in my head where pictures form, I am seeing another me.

It’s a bright afternoon, the first taste of spring. I felt safer outdoors, off the train. It wasn’t the noise of the baby so much, but when a baby cries on a train other passengers share irritated glances. Too much small print. I’d stayed in the space between two carriages for most of the journey, occasionally going into the toilet to smoke.

‘Are you lost, young man?’

I had been following road signs, but at the mini roundabout by the furthest edge of the marina, a sign was missing. There were roadworks; traffic cones, men with hard hats and yellow jackets, a pillar drill making it impossible to think. I hadn’t noticed the white-haired lady, waiting patiently for the green man to flash so she could safely cross. She smelled of perfumed soap. I could smell her through the oily stink of fresh tarmac.

I was looking at the grainy map that the ward secretary had printed for me, trying to make sense of it. I tried to sound normal and relaxed. ‘Um, yeah. I’m heading to Portland. Do you know the way?’

She held a walking stick, pinned with silver badges from places like Land's End and The Lake District. She leant closer and the stick wobbled, ‘You’ll have to speak up, I’m afraid.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not lost.’

‘It’s a lovely afternoon, isn’t it?’ It was still cold enough to wear a pullover, but the sky was as clear as the water. That’s the way she put it, anyway. Along the harbour wall fishermen stood as still as statues, bait writhing in the dirty Tupperware at their feet.

‘Did you say Portland?’ the lady asked suddenly, in that way people do when actually they had heard all along.

I nodded, yes.

I’ve always written stories, right back from when I was really little. My first attempts were terrible, but when I got a bit older, and was imprisoned at the kitchen table, with a stack of Key-Stage English workbooks, a word processor, and a mad mother, they started getting better. I wrote about magic and monsters and mysterious lands where adventures happen.

I’ve never stopped.

The old lady’s face wrinkled in thought. There’s a coastal footpath from Weymouth to Portland, she explained. Along the Rodwell Trail. It’s a Dead Railway. The tracks were pulled up years ago, but the platforms remain, overgrown with weeds and brambles. She gave me directions, explaining with a wave of her stick that I could join the path a short way along from the Asda Petrol Station. ‘It’s a beautiful walk,’ she said. ‘And Portland, it’s so lovely. May I ask what’s taking you?’

‘No. Thanks for the directions.’

It was a beautiful walk. I bought a cheese and ham sandwich and a packet of Skittles from the Asda garage, and ate them on Chesil Beach.

I thought of Simon’s keepsake box, how his pebbles clattered at the bottom. He would collect the shiniest stones and pieces of eroded glass from shallow waters. Dad told him it was best to leave them, they never look half as impressive when they’re dry, but Simon could never resist.

I searched through my pockets and rolled a cigarette. I can’t blow smoke rings, but I can do something much better. I took a deep lungful, holding my breath as long as I could. Then I slowly blew it out and watched his face appear. ‘Alright, Si.’

‘Hi Matthew.’

He wasn’t a tiger this time. He was older, his hair combed neatly for a school photo day. This was around the time I’d called him a baby for having a comfort blanket. He was pretending to still be cross.

‘Give me a break, Simon. I’m coming, aren’t I?’

‘Are you, Matt? Are you coming to play with me?’

I picked up a pebble and skimmed it into the sea. The cloud of smoke dispersed. ‘Yeah, I’m coming. We’re going to play forever.’

Chesil Beach curves like a spine from the Dorset mainland to the west coast of Portland. Ocean Cove is on the east coast. I still had a way to go, but my brother carried me.

In the window of Portland Tophill library, a book caught my eye. It was in the children’s section, where there is a miniature plastic table and chairs. How can I deal with … WHEN PEOPLE DIE?

The librarian told me they were about to close. I said I wouldn’t be long. I sat on the Space Rocket carpet and read about what death is. When someone’s body stops working and can’t be made better, the book explained. Dead people can’t feel pain or know what’s going on. I read about Wes who is angry with his brother Denny for leaving him on his own, and making his mum and dad unhappy. It had pictures and everything.

Shadows crept slowly across the bookshelves. The weather was turning; drizzly raindrops slapped at the window. I might have outstayed my welcome. The librarian appeared, raising a hand to her mouth, letting out two polite coughs. I asked how far it was to Ocean Cove. ‘About twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Maybe twenty-five. It’s easy enough though, straight along the coastal road. Pity it’s raining. Did you want to take the book out?’

‘It’s for kids,’ I said.

‘We’re closing,’ she said.

WELCOME TO OCEAN COVE

HOLIDAY PARK, the sign said.
      

There were no tents pitched, and the caravans stood empty, silently awaiting the arrival of the season’s first holidaymakers. It was unnervingly quiet. In the whole park, only a single caravan showed any sign of life – a warm glow behind closed curtains. It was a way along the path, towards the top end of the site.

I felt myself drawn towards it, moving quietly, keeping to the edge of the footpath, where I wouldn’t be seen.

Up close, I could hear a murmur of voices coming from inside. Then I started to imagine something. It was only my imagination, but in some ways it was more like a dream because I couldn’t control it, or choose to stop thinking it: This was the caravan that we had stayed in, and the people who I could hear talking were my mum and dad. We were still on our holiday, like time had somehow got trapped. The whole rest of the world had moved on, but here it couldn’t let go. In the warm light, in the murmured voices, the past was repeating itself.

Simon and I were tucked up in our beds, Mum and Dad were settling into their evening. Dad was reading out crossword clues, then they would both fall silent, thinking, until Mum got distracted and said, ‘Matthew wasn’t himself today.’

‘No?’

‘This afternoon, he was white as a sheet.’

‘I didn’t notice anything.’

‘You weren’t here. You were flying the kite with Simon, I tried to persuade him to join you, but he wouldn’t. And, oh I don’t know. He said he was playing hide-and-seek but—’

A tightness knotted in my chest, dropping into the pit of my tummy. This is the night it happens, this is our last night. Dad folds away the paper, placing down his wine glass. Mum leans into him, draping an arm across his chest. One of them says, ‘Do you think we were too hard on him?’

‘When?’

‘The other day. It was a nasty fall. I wouldn’t be surprised if that knee scars. He didn’t need us to tell him off too.’

‘He should know better—’

‘But they’re boys. Aren’t they supposed to misbehave a bit? Besides, they both knew they weren’t allowed down there. We can’t keep putting all the blame on Matt.’

This wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t a conversation I’d ever overheard. This was plain wishful thinking. ‘He still feels terrible that Simon had to carry him,’ Mum was saying. ‘He mentioned that too. You know how he can be, when he blames himself for things. He goes around in circles. It breaks my heart.’

‘Let’s have a nice day with them both tomorrow. We’ll let Matt decide what we do. I’ll have a chat with him at some point, see if there’s anything on his mind.’

‘Honestly, Richard. He was ashen.’

The rain was soaking to my skin. It was getting darker. I stepped around the side of the caravan, towards our bedroom.

I tapped on the window.

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

They were different voices now, clearer voices.

‘I’m sure I heard something.’

The curtains twitched, I turned quickly away. It wasn’t Mum and Dad in there. It wasn’t us. I rushed past the shower blocks, the recycling bins, the water tap.

It was all so familiar.

I pushed my hands deep into my pockets and strode up the narrow path, out of the side gate, then along the short stretch of main road and down onto the winding cliff path. The wind was picking up, it was getting colder. Branches rustled noisily over my head. I looked up and nearly slipped on some wet leaves. I guess that was important; it kept him near.

With each careful step I felt him more closely. Everything was exactly as I remembered, until I turned the corner, to where it had actually happened, and here it was different. The rusting handrail, the weather-beaten sign. This was his legacy:

Children must be accompanied by an adult

AT ALL TIMES

The handrail felt cold to the touch. I ducked beneath it, scrambling through a patch of damp nettles, up the steep dirt bank. Then I took shuffling sideways steps, until I reached the very edge of the cliff.

The edge of my world.

Somewhere the last of the evening sun was dropping into the sea. But not here. There are no sunsets in the east. No spectacular endings alight with colour. In the east, day simply fades into unremarkable blackness. That felt right. He’d been lonely long enough. I closed my eyes, and summoned the courage to take my final step.

But in the place in my head where pictures form I was seeing another me, a nine-year-old boy who was now opening his eyes, who had woken in the dead of night with thoughts, worries, and hopes I no longer shared.

Perhaps my nine-year-old self could remember the six-year-old, perhaps he could still remember how the tiger paints smelled, and the smiling face of Nanny Noo, half obscured behind her camera.

I do not have a split mind. I am not different people. I am myself, the same self I have always been, the one person I can never escape. I am sitting in my living room, tugging at the thread of time, so that I am standing on the cliff edge and tugging at the thread of time, so that I am waking up in our caravan, my thoughts moving in circles around the little girl with her cloth doll, the way she shouted at me, telling me I’d ruined everything, even though I only wanted to help.

‘Wake up, Simon. Wake up.’ I was speaking in a whisper, so as not to wake my parents through the thin walls. ‘Wake up.’

I reached across the short void between our two beds and prodded him, my fingers sinking into the soft fat of his belly. He blinked twice, then opened his eyes wide.

‘What is it Matt? Is it morning?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you awake?’

‘I can’t sleep. Do you want to see something?’

‘What?’

‘Do you want to see a dead body?’

‘What? Yeah!’

‘I’m serious.’

He shuffled to the edge of his bed and thrust his head across the gap, towards me. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Yes I am.’

At that, he let out a yelp of laughter and threw his head back onto his pillow.

‘Shut up, Si. You’ll wake ’em up. Why do you have to be so noisy all the time?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t—’

‘Keep your voice down. Get dressed.’

Mum or Dad coughed in their sleep, and we both froze. Simon made a show of it, making his whole body rigid, only his eyes moving from side to side, grinning at me.

‘Stop being stupid. Here, put this on.’

I threw him a handful of clothes, and his raincoat with the toggles.

‘It’s not raining out, Matt.’

‘No, but it might. And it’s cold. Where’s the torch?’

‘It’s in your bag, not my bag.’

‘Oh yeah. Shhh.’

We dressed, and he put on his raincoat, then started fumbling with the toggles. He was always fumbling with the toggles when he got nervous or excited about something. He hated it if anyone tried to help, so I watched him, flicking the torch on and off whilst he put his toggles in the wrong holes, and started again.