The Three (20 page)

Goes without saying that all of us parents at Roberto Hernandes were super-shocked when we heard about Lori. We just couldn’t believe something like that could happen to someone we knew. Not that Lori and I were close or anything. My wife, Ana, isn’t jealous, but she had an issue with Lori’s behaviour at a couple of PTA meetings. Ana said she was flirty, called her a grade-A flake. I wouldn’t have gone that far. Lori was okay. Most of the kids at Roberto Hernandes are Hispanic–but it’s got this integration and diversity ethos thing going on–and Lori was never like, hey, look at me, sending my kid to a public school so that he can get real with the kids from the neighbourhood. A few of the white parents whose kids go to Magnet schools are like that, you know, smug. And Lori could easily have sent Bobby to one of the good yeshiva schools in the neighbourhood. I reckon part of Ana’s problem with Lori was Bobby… he wasn’t the easiest kid, if you want to know the truth.

I’m an English major, was planning on teaching before Isobel came along, and Bobby’s behaviour–pre-crash, I mean–and Lori’s attitude to it reminded me of that short story by Shirley Jackson,
Charles
. You know it? About this boy called Laurie who comes home every day from kindergarten with tales about this evil kid called Charles, who’s been acting up in class, bullying the other kids and killing the class hamster and stuff. Laurie’s parents are full of
schadenfreude
, and say things like, ‘Why don’t Charles’s parents discipline the boy?’ Course, when they eventually go to the school for a parent-teacher meeting, they find out that there’s no kid in the class called Charles–the bad kid is actually their own son.

A couple of parents tried to speak to Lori about Bobby, but it never seemed to go in. Ana freaked out last year when Isobel came
home and said that Bobby had tried to bite her. Ana was all for going in to see the principal, but I talked her out of it. Knew it would blow over, or maybe Lori would come to her senses and dose him up with Ritalin or whatever; that kid had serious ADD.

Can I say he was a different child after the crash? There’s a lot of talk about this, what with all that shit the prophecy nut jobs are saying, but because Bobby’s grandmother Lillian decided to put him into the home schooling programme–I guess because of all the attention he was getting from the media and those freaks–it’s hard for me to say. But there was one time I came across him, round about late March. The weather wasn’t great, but Isobel had been on my back about going to the park all day, and in the end I gave in.

When we got there, Isobel was like, ‘Look, Daddy, there’s Bobby.’ And before I could stop her, she ran right over to him. He was wearing a baseball cap and glasses, so I didn’t recognise him straight off, but Isobel saw through that straight away. Bobby was with an elderly woman who introduced herself as Betsy, Lillian’s neighbour. She said that Lillian’s husband, Reuben, was having a bad day, so she’d offered to take Bobby out for a while. Betsy was a real talker!

‘You want to play with me, Bobby?’ Isobel asked. She’s a good little girl. Bobby nodded and held out his hand. Together they went over to the swings. I was watching them closely, giving half an ear to Betsy. You could tell she thought it was weird that I stayed home and looked after Isobel while Ana went out to work. ‘Never would have happened in my day,’ she kept saying. Lots of my buddies in the area are the same. Doesn’t make you less of a man or any of that shit. We don’t get bored. We have a jogging club; meet at the rec centre for racquetball, that kind of thing.

Isobel said something to Bobby and he laughed. I started to relax. There they were, heads together, chattering away. They seemed to be having a great time.

‘He doesn’t see enough of other children,’ Betsy was going on. ‘I don’t blame Lillian, she has her hands full.’

On our way home, I asked Isobel what she and Bobby had talked about. I was worried that maybe Bobby had been telling her
about the crash and his mother dying. I hadn’t broached the death issue yet with Isobel. She had a hamster that was getting more and more sluggish by the day, but I was planning to just replace it without her knowing. I’m a coward like that. Ana’s different. ‘Death is a fact of life.’ But you don’t want kids to grow up too quickly, do you?

‘I was telling him about the lady,’ she said. I knew exactly what she meant. Since she was three, Isobel had suffered from night terrors. A specific hallucination where she’d see a terrifying image of a hunched old woman whirling in front of her eyes. Part of the problem is that my mother-in-law fills Isobel’s head with all kinds of stories, superstitious stuff like El Chupacabra and all kinds of other bullshit. Ana and I used to fight about that a lot.

Isobel’s condition had gotten so bad last year that I’d shelled out for a psychologist. She said that Isobel would eventually get over it, and I prayed this would be the case.

‘Bobby is like the lady,’ Isobel said. I asked her what she meant, but all she said was, ‘He just is.’ Freaked me out a bit.

This doesn’t mean anything, but… after she saw Bobby that day, Isobel hasn’t woken up screaming once or complained about ‘the lady’ visiting her. Weeks later I asked her again what she meant–that thing about Bobby being like the lady–but she acted like she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

12 March, 5.30 a.m.

It was just one drink, Mandi. Just one… I had another one of those nights, Stephen came again, but this time he didn’t speak, he just…

(Sound of a thump, followed by a toilet flushing)

Never again. Never fucking again. Darren–you remember, from social services–is going to be here in a few hours and I can’t let him smell the stale booze on me. But it helps. I can’t deny that.

Oh God.

12 March, 11.30 a.m.

Think I got away with it. Was careful not to reek of mouthwash, which is a dead giveaway. Found one of those cheap spray-on deodorants at the back of the bathroom cupboard, which made me stink of manufactured musk instead. But it’s the last time I’m going to take a chance like that.

Not that I spent much time with Darren in any case. Jess had him wrapped around her little finger as usual. ‘Darren, do you want to come and watch
My Little Pony
with me? Uncle Paul bought me the whole series.’ She definitely wasn’t this outgoing before the crash. I’m certain of that now. She and Polly were never what you’d call precocious. They were always shy around strangers, but I guess a slight change in behaviour is to be expected. Darren says we should think about putting her back in school after the Easter hols. We’ll see what Dr K says.

Thanks for being so understanding about me not sending you the recordings for a while. It’s just… talking it out like this… it really does help, you know? I’ll get back to the proper stuff soon, I
promise. It has to be grief, doesn’t it? Denial or whatever. Isn’t that one of the stages everyone goes through when they’re in mourning? Thank fuck Jess isn’t going through any of this. She seems to have accepted everything, hasn’t even cried yet–not even when the dressings came off her face that first time and she saw her scars. They’re not bad; nothing that a little bit of make-up won’t fix when she’s older. And her hair is starting to grow back. We had some fun the other day choosing hats on the Internet. She picked out a black trilby that was remarkably stylish. Can’t imagine pre-crash Jess going for that kind of thing. It wasn’t very Missy K, who has the dress sense of a retarded, colour-blind drag-queen.

But still… accepting everything like she has… that can’t be normal, can it? I’m almost tempted to show her the family photographs I put away before she came home, see if I can jump-start some sort of emotional response, but I’m not ready to look at them yet and I’m careful not to get too upset around her. Now they’ve released what they call their preliminary crash findings, I hope to Christ this is going to mean I get some closure. And 277 Together is helping. I haven’t told them about the nightmares. No way am I going to do that. I trust them, specially Mel and Geoff, but you never know. The fucking papers will print anything, won’t they? Did you see that whole sob-story thing in the
Daily Mail–
the
Daily Heil
, Stephen used to call it–about Marilyn? She says she’s been diagnosed with emphysema, ‘And all I want is to see little Jessie before I die, boo hoo.’ Pure emotional blackmail. I keep expecting to see Fester and Gomez skulking outside the house. But I suppose even the Addams Family aren’t stupid enough to risk a restraining order. And I can always call Mel’s hardcore geezer son Gavin to come over and put the fear of God into them if they do show up, can’t I?

Christ, listen to me. Babbling like an idiot. It’s the stress. Not getting enough sleep. No wonder those American Gitmo bastards used sleep deprivation as a torture tool.

(The sound of a ring tone–the theme to
Dr Zhivago
)

Hang on. Phone.

11.45 a.m.

Lovely. Well, that was nice. A hack as usual, from the
Independent
this time. Isn’t that supposed to be a rational paper? Wanted to know how I was feeling about the rumours that one of those religious pricks is going to start searching for the fourth horseman, if you can believe
that
.

What the fuck has it got to do with me? Jesus. The fourth kid? It’s such bollocks. He even had the gall to ask me if I’d noticed any change in Jess’s behaviour. Seriously? Is this what the press is up to now? Believing in snake charmers and religious freaks? Are the nutters running the asylum? Oooh, that’s not bad. Must remember to keep this in when I delete all the dream stuff.

Right. Coffee, get Jess dressed and then off to Waitrose. Only two paparazzi Neanderthals out there today; should be able to slip out no problem.

15 March, 11.25 p.m.

Hmmm… not sure what to say about this. Weird day.

This morning, paparazzi or not, I decided we needed to get some fresh air. I was going stir-crazy and Jess has been watching way too much TV. But we can’t go out most of the time, not if we don’t want to be papped to death. Thank Christ she has no interest in the news channels, but there’s only so many times I can hear the
My Little Pony
theme tune without my brain exploding. We walked down the lane to the stables at the end of the street, trailed by a group of greasy hacks with comb-overs.

‘Smile for the camera, Jess!’ they were crowing, panting round her like a posse of paedos on a day-trip out of Broadmoor.

It took all my strength not to tell them to go fuck themselves, but I put on my ‘good uncle’ face and Jess played up to them as usual, posing with the horses and holding my hand while we made our way back home.

As we were due to meet with Dr K the next day, I thought it might be an idea to try again to get Jess to open up about Polly,
Stephen and Shelly. It’s worrying me, her being so self-contained and… happy, I guess. Because that’s what she is. All the fucking time, like a kid from a 1980s cheesy American sitcom. She’s even stopped using bad language.

As usual, she listened to me calmly, that slightly patronising expression on her face.

I gestured at the
My Little Pony
episode playing on repeat–I have to admit, despite the godawful theme track, the show is weirdly addictive. By now, I pretty much know every episode off by heart. ‘Remember when Applejack refuses to accept any help from her friends and she ends up getting herself into trouble, Jess?’ I wittered on in my Cheery Uncle voice. ‘In the end Twilight Sparkle and the others help her out and she realises that sometimes the only way to deal with difficult issues is to share them with her friends.’

Jess didn’t say anything. She looked at me as if I was completely bonkers.

‘I’m saying, you can lean on me whenever you want to, Jess. And it’s fine to cry when you’re sad. I know you must miss Polly and Mummy and Daddy terribly. I know I can’t replace them.’

‘I’m not sad,’ she said.

Maybe she’s blocked them out of her mind. Maybe she’s pretending that they never existed.

For the thousandth time I asked her, ‘Shall I see if any of your friends want to come over and play tomorrow?’

She yawned, said, ‘No thanks,’ and went back to watching those bloody ponies.

3.30 a.m.

(Sobbing)

Mandi. Mandi. I can’t take it any more. He was here… Couldn’t see his face. Said that thing again, which is all he says:

‘Why did you let that thing in here?’

Oh God, oh fuck.

4.30 a.m.

There’s no way I can go back to sleep. No fucking way.

They’re so real. The dreams. Incredibly real. And… shit. This is beyond mental… But this time I was sure I could smell something–a faint odour of decaying fish. As if, over time, Stephen’s body is rotting. And I still can’t see his face…

Right. That’s enough.

I have to stop this.

It’s absolutely insane.

But… I’m thinking maybe all this stems from guilt. Maybe that’s what my subconscious needs me to deal with.

I’m doing my best for Jess, of course I am. But I can’t help but feel I’m missing something. That I should be doing more.

Like when Mum and Dad died. I left it all up to Stephen. Let him do all the arrangements for the funeral. I was touring at the time, doing an Alan Bennett in Exeter. Thought my career was more important; convinced myself that Mum and Dad wouldn’t want me messing up my big break ha ha. Some break. We were lucky if the house was half full most nights. I suppose I was still angry at them. I never came out to them, but they knew. They made it clear that I was the black sheep of the family and Stephen was their golden boy. I know what I told you before, Mandi, but me and Stephen weren’t close as kids. We never fought or anything, but… Everyone liked him. I wasn’t jealous, but it was easy for him. It wasn’t easy for me. Thank God for Shelly. If it wasn’t for her, we would never have re-connected.

But I knew… I’ve always known… He was too good, Stephen was. Better than me.

(
a sob
)

Even stood up for me when I didn’t deserve it.

And I knew in my heart, deep down, that he knew I wasn’t good enough to look after Jess.

Him and Shelly… they were successful, weren’t they? And here’s me…

(
a loud sniff
)

Listen to me. Poor little miss self-pity.

It’s just guilt. That’s all it is. Guilt and regret. But I’ll do better with Jess. I’ll prove to Stephen that he and Shelly were right to give me custody. Then maybe he’ll leave me alone.

21 March, 11.30 p.m.

I gave in and asked Mrs Ellington-Burn to look after Jess while I went to the 277 Together meeting tonight. I usually take Jess with me, and she always behaves like a little angel. Mel sets her up with something to do in the community centre foyer, colouring-in or whatever, and I bring Stephen’s Mac along so that she can watch Rainbow Dash and the girls on repeat, but a few of the 277s… I don’t know, I get the impression that it’s awkward for them if she comes along. They’re all lovely to her of course, it’s just… well, I can’t blame them. It’s a blatant reminder that their relatives didn’t survive, isn’t it? Must feel unfair to some of them. And I know they must want to ask her what those last seconds before the plane went down were like. She says she doesn’t remember anything, and why would she? She was knocked unconscious when it happened. The AAIB investigator who came to talk to her before they had that press conference did his best to nudge her memory, but she was adamant that the last thing she remembered was being in the pool at the hotel in Tenerife.

Mrs E-B practically threw me out of the door, couldn’t wait to hang out with Jess. Maybe she’s lonely. I’ve never seen anyone apart from the Jehovahs visiting her, but then she is such a miserable old cow most of the time. Thankfully she left her yappy dog at home, so at least I didn’t have to worry about its vile poodle hair getting all over the covers. I don’t think her sniffiness towards me is personal. Geoff said she looks at him as if he’s got shit on his shoe (a typical Geoffism), so I think it’s just her monumental snobbishness at play. I was nervous about leaving Jess with her, but Jess just cheerfully waved me off. I haven’t said this out loud
before, but… sometimes I can’t tell if she really gives a shit if I’m around or not.

Anyway… where was I?… Oh yeah. 277 Together. I almost blurted the whole thing out. Told them about Stephen. Told them about the nightmares. Christ. Instead, I rattled on and on about all the press attention, how it was getting me down. I knew I was eating into everyone’s time, but I couldn’t stop.

Finally Mel had to interrupt me as it was getting late. While we were having tea, Kelvin and Kylie stood up and said they had an announcement. Kylie turned bright red and twisted her hands, and then Kelvin told us that they’d started seeing each other and were planning on getting engaged. We all started crying and clapping. I was a bit jealous, to be honest. It’s been months since I’ve even had a drink with anyone I’d remotely like to shag, and there’s not much chance of that now, is there? I can just imagine what the
Sun
would say. ‘Jess’s Nutty Uncle Turns Home into Perverted Sex Den’ or something. I told them I was happy for them, although he’s way older than she is, and the whole thing seemed a bit hasty–it’s only been a month since they started going out.

Still, he’s a good bloke. Kylie’s lucky to have him. Really sensitive underneath all those muscles and that ‘yeah man, innit’ attitude. I started developing a bit of a thing for him myself after I heard him read that poem at the memorial service. Knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Kelvin’s as straight as they come. They all are. I’m the only gay in the meeting, ha fucking ha. After everyone had congratulated them, Kelvin said his folks–he lost both of them in the crash–would have loved meeting Kylie; they’d been on at him for decades to get married. That set us all off again. Geoff was practically bawling. We all knew that Kelvin had given his parents the trip to Tenerife for their ruby wedding anniversary. It must be bloody awful to deal with that. It reminded me of Bobby Small’s mum. The reason she was in Florida was to look for a place where her parents could settle down, wasn’t it? Horrendous. So much for fucking karma.

A group of 277s were going to the pub afterwards for a few drinks to celebrate, but I decided it wasn’t a good idea to tag along.
The temptation to have a stiff drink would have been too much. I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but several of them seemed relieved when I turned them down. Probably just my old friend paranoia rearing its ugly head again.

When I got back, Mrs Ellington-Burn was slouched on the couch reading a Patricia Cornwell novel. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get home, so I decided to ask her if she’d noticed anything different about Jess–appearance aside of course–since the crash. I wanted to see if it was just me who thought Jess’s personality had undergone a
Doctor Who
ish transformation.

She thought about the question long and hard, then she shook her head, said she couldn’t be sure. Still, she said that Jess had been ‘an absolute treasure’ that evening, although surprisingly, Jess had asked to watch something other than
My Little Pony
. Mrs E-B rather testily admitted they’d gone through a marathon of reality shows–everything from
Britain’s Got Talent
to
America’s Next Top Model
. Then Jess had gone to bed without being prompted.