Wilderness (7 page)

 

 

She sat on the bed with her back against the wall. She
cut pictures from magazines. From
Kerrang!
, the
NME
, and
Girl Metal
. The bed and her legs were
covered with pieces of paper. The pictures she wanted
to keep, she had in a pile on her thigh. She would put
them up on her wall. Her father had asked her not to
use Blu-tack, because it took off the paint and plaster.
But she didn't care. She put up new pictures to cover
where the paint was gone. And, anyway, it was her
wall. It was her room.

He was good that way, her father. He always
knocked. He never just came in. He never had, even
when she was small. Not since the night she told him
that she wanted to go to sleep with the door closed.
She remembered that.

Eight years ago.

It was her room.

But it wasn't. Nothing here was hers. She didn't belong here. And now she knew – she was certain of
it; it was a feeling, like being cold – she didn't belong
anywhere.

It was dark outside. She was the only one in the
house. Her mobile phone was off, deep inside her
bag. Her father thought she was with her mother. The
others were in Finland, or wherever – somewhere
stupid with snow.

She had her headphones on. Punk was the best. It
was angry. It was funny. It was honest. And most of
them were dead. Like most of the Ramones. And Joe
Strummer and Sid Vicious. They were dead too.

She cut out a small picture of Joe Strummer. It was
exactly like twenty pictures of Joe Strummer already
on the wall, behind her head. She'd stick it up with
the others and go over his face with a highlighter
marker – yellow, or pink, or light blue, or even red.
She'd already done it with different pictures of
Marilyn Manson. The pictures of Joe Strummer were
beginning to look like one big picture. Exactly what
Gráinne wanted. Work in progress. That was what her
art teacher had called whatever picture they were
doing but hadn't finished. Gráinne had liked that.
Work in progress. She'd liked the art teacher as well –
the only one she'd liked.

She knew she was alone. The headphones were on,
and she couldn't hear anything else. But she knew.
She felt it in the wall. The front door being slammed, even being quietly closed; footsteps in the hall,
someone coming up the stairs. When Gráinne was
leaning against the wall, she'd feel it all in her back.
The house moved when anyone moved. She could tell
who it was, one of her brothers, or her father, her
stepmother. She knew the way they moved, how
heavy they were. The vibrations worked their way up
the wall, to her back.

She was alone.

The way she liked it.

But she didn't. She didn't like it.

Sometimes, it was cool. When the rest of them
were at work and school, she didn't feel left out or
invisible. And later, when they all came home, she'd
always sit on the bed and feel the house vibrate. Her
back felt the movements – the messages. They were
all watching telly; one of them was in the kitchen; her
brothers were crawling up the stairs. Gráinne could
read the house, even when the music was loud
enough to hurt.

She could feel the cold pressing against the
bedroom window, to the right of her face. She was
alone. It was how she always felt. But it was different
this time.

The future had been her mother. The things
Gráinne had thought of; the things she'd dreamed,
happening in New York, or even here in Dublin – they
were all going to be with her mother. That was how Gráinne had made it, for years, ever since she'd
known she had a mother who was somewhere else.
Waiting. Then her father had told her that her mother
was coming home, and Gráinne had started to make
the things really precise. Where they'd live in New
York; how they'd live; why they'd laugh; what they
were going to say to make sense of the years in
between. They'd drink wine. Gráinne didn't really like
it, but she'd sip. They wouldn't go for walks. Her
mother would know that walks were stupid, even
walks in Central Park, or on Rockaway Beach. The
Ramones had a song called “Rockaway Beach”. She'd
play it for her mother, and she wouldn't look
embarrassed. Gráinne wouldn't wear headphones.
She'd be at home there. She'd fit in.

But it wasn't going to be like that. It wasn't going to
be anything.

She didn't like her mother. Just that. She didn't
even hate her.

She hated her father – but she liked him. She liked
feeling his steps through the wall. She liked
remembering when she was smaller and holding his
hand; sometimes, she still felt it. She liked that he was
always the same, that she could throw things and
scream and get drunk and be brought home in a
police car, and he'd always look the same way at her,
and he'd always want to hold her hand. She liked
hearing his car, knowing he was home. Knowing she could hurt him, and he wouldn't hurt her back. He
was an idiot. But that wasn't his fault. Because –
Gráinne knew this – the only adults who made real
sense were dead.

The wall was still. There weren't even any cars or
trucks going past. There were no neighbours
slamming doors, no kids hitting balls against the front
gates of their stupid houses. There was nothing. It was
like her bed was the only thing in the world. She was
a bit frightened now. She was too alone. She thought
about taking the headphones off. But she wouldn't.

She didn't want to feel her mother in the wall. She
didn't ever want to feel her steps, or hear her climb
the stairs.

Her eyes were closed. She was alone. There was no
one and nothing. Only Gráinne.

She opened her eyes.

Her father was there. Standing in front of her. The
bedroom door was open, behind him.

She'd felt nothing in the wall. Maybe she'd been
asleep. But she hadn't. The Ramones were still
playing; there'd been no break in the song. But it was
like waking up. She should have felt his car, his key in
the front door, his big feet on the stairs. And her own
door – it was open behind him.

He looked worried.

She took off her headphones.

He saw her looking at the door.

“I knocked,” he said.

She said nothing. The wall had never let her down
before. Everything was going wrong.

“You didn't answer,” said her father. “I wasn't sure
you'd be here.”

“Well, I am,” said Gráinne.

“I was worried,” he said.

She picked up the headphones.

“Can I sit down?” he said.

“No,” she said.

He smiled.

“What's so funny?” she said.

“It's kind of reassuring,” he said.

“What is?”

“Your rudeness,” he said. “I'd have been more
worried if you'd said yes.”

She said nothing. He stood there, looking – she
knew the word – indecisive. He couldn't make his mind
up. He didn't know whether to go or stay, say something
or not. It was always the same. She liked the idea of
him. But she hated it when he was there, like he was
now. He'd told her once that he'd been into the Sex
Pistols. That was a joke. And he'd told her that he'd
seen The Clash, in 1982. But she hadn't believed him,
and she hadn't asked him about it. There was no way.

“It's freezing in here,” he said.

He leaned over and felt the radiator. He looked at
the dial.

“It's on,” he said. “But it's cold. It needs bleeding.”

She didn't ask him what that meant. She didn't
want to hear him explaining how the radiator worked.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he said.

She sighed.

“Tell you what?” she said.

“That was the radiator wasn't working.”

She shrugged.

“Didn't notice,” she said.

He sat down – on the chair at her old desk.

“Your granny phoned me,” he said.

He meant her mother's mother; she knew that.

“She told me,” he said. “A bit.”

She stared at him, and away.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What?”

“Ah look,” he said. “I'm sorry it isn't working with
your mother. I don't know how to express it properly.
But I'm sorry.”

“I don't need your sympathy,” she said.

She wondered why she'd said that.

“Well,” he said. “I'm just saying. And I mean it. I'd
love it to go well for you.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Your mother?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” he said. “No. I didn't. She wants to come
over.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Ish. Whenever. But, yeah. Tonight.”

He was looking straight at her.

“I can get out of your way,” he said.

“No.”

“No, which?”

“I don't want her to come here,” said Gráinne.

“All right,” he said.

He didn't move.

“Can I say something?” he said.

He waited. She shrugged.

“It's a free country,” she said.

He smiled – then stopped. She hadn't seen him like
this before; she didn't think she had. He didn't look
uncomfortable, or like he wanted to get away. But it
reminded her of something.

“Give her more time,” he said.

“What about you?” said Gráinne.

“She's your mother,” he said. “I was only her
husband.”

He smiled.

“I'm happy,” he said.

“So am I,” said Gráinne.

He'd caught her out; he didn't disagree with her. He
was still looking straight at her.

“But I bet she isn't,” he said.

“What?”

“Happy.”

“That's her problem,” said Gráinne.

“That's right,” he said. “But it would probably be
nice if she was.”

“Happy?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugged. She looked away.

He didn't move. He was letting her think. And she
knew now what it reminded her of – or,
who
he
reminded her of. He reminded her of her father, the
way he used to be. The man who'd held her hand.

He stood up.

He sat down again.

“Can I say something else?” he said. “D'you mind?”

She shrugged again. It annoyed her. She hadn't
meant to do that.

“Is that a yes?” he said.

He wasn't being sarcastic.

She nodded.

“Well,” he said. “I love you.”

He stood up.

“OK?”

She nodded.

“That never, ever changes,” he said. “OK?”

She nodded.

“Will you talk to her tomorrow?” he said.

She looked at him. She nodded.

“Grand,” he said. “I'll tell your granny. She'll be
delighted. Is the morning OK for you, not too early? Or the afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” she said.

“Grand.”

He went to the door.

“I'll leave you to it,” he said. “They're having a great
time, by the way.”

She looked at him.

“The boys and Sandra,” he said. “They phoned me
earlier. They're having a great time.”

“Big deal,” said Gráinne.

 

 

They were on a lake again, but it wasn't the same lake
as before. It was a different lake.

But it wasn't. Johnny could see that now. He saw
the wooden house he'd seen the day before, the one
that looked like it came from a story. He saw the
house, and he suddenly knew the lake.

The day before. That was only yesterday, but it
seemed much longer, even weeks ago. He'd slept for
ten hours. His mother had had to wake him. She'd
kept at him, and Tom.

“Come on, boys. Up, lads!”

He'd kept his eyes shut. It was too hard to open
them, even though he knew she'd probably tickle him.
But she didn't. She went away. He heard the door
being closed softly. He must have slept again; he must
have. The next thing he knew, there was something on
his lip, right under his nose. Something warm, and
wet, and smelly. And then something warm dribbled into his nose. He sat up. It was a rasher, a slice of
bacon. His mother had put one under his nose.

“I knew that would wake you,” she said.

“Breakfast in bed,” said Johnny.

And he ate it.

Yesterday felt like weeks ago.

Yesterday they'd gone past the story house. Now,
the house was straight ahead, right in front of them.
The dogs had dragged them on to the same lake, but
from a different place. Johnny and Tom both felt the
same way; they were getting to know the wilderness.

“Wilder-ness!”

“Wilder-nesssss!”

It still sounded great, their voices spreading out,
filling the world.

This was the real safari. Last night Johnny had slept
in the hotel. Tonight he wouldn't. He'd be going
further, and further. Further north, and further into
the forest.

“Wilder-ness!”

In the brochure it was called a hut. That was where
they were going. They were going deep into the forest,
until it was too dark. Then they'd be staying in the
hut. They'd be staying all night. There was no
electricity and no hot water. It was made of wood and
nothing else.

It was cold. It was starting to snow. The flakes
whacked Tom's face. The sled was going fast, and the snow was getting thicker very quickly. He heard the
hiss of the other sleds behind him, the runners going
over the ice. His mother was on one of them. He
hadn't seen her in a while. They'd had the morning
break, the coffee and apple juice, about an hour ago.
It was midday now, as bright and silvery as it would
get. The snow was pouring down, sheets of white. It
was covering the blanket that covered them. Tom
pushed the snow off, and there was more snow there
before he'd finished.

He heard Aki's snowmobile. He saw the headlights
on the snow, two triangles that got bigger and sharper
as the snowmobile came nearer.

Tom leaned out and looked behind. Just for a
second – it was kind of scary.

Aki was side by side with Kalle. They shouted to
each other, Aki first, then Kalle, then Aki again. They
spoke in Finnish, but Tom and Johnny could tell; they
were deciding what to do, maybe which way to go.
They'd done it a couple of times before. Then Aki
turned the snowmobile. He swerved away from their
sled, on to the lake, and Tom watched as he kept
turning and drove back to the other sleds behind
them.

The snow wasn't as thick now. They didn't have to
rub it off their faces. They watched the dogs. They
loved watching the dogs. The way they trotted along,
the way they seemed so happy. Eight dogs, in two rows of four. It looked so easy, and yet it was amazing.
Tom couldn't imagine other dogs doing this. All dogs
had a special skill. There were runners, or hunters, or
pointers; they could all do one great thing. Their
mother had told them that if they ever found a dog
that cooked the dinner, they could keep it.

Tom turned a bit, so he could see Johnny better.

“Will we get a dog this Christmas?” he said.

The snow was getting heavy again. They were still
going over the lake.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“Between us.”

“Yeah.”

“A husky,” said Tom.

“Yeah.”

“Can you get huskies in Ireland?”

“Don't know,” said Johnny. “I'd say so.”

“Yeah.”

Tom sat back again. Then he sat up again.

“He could pull us on my skateboard,” he said.

“Cool,” said Johnny.

He rubbed the snow off his face.

“To school even,” said Tom.

“Yeah.”

They laughed. They saw themselves, charging into
the schoolyard behind their husky.

Then the dogs were changing direction. They were
turning, towards the far bank. The snow was thick and fat again, like someone above them was dropping it off
a shovel. Tom could hardly see Rock, the leader, and
Hupö, at the front. He looked up, and back, at Kalle.

He nudged Johnny.

“Look.”

“What?” said Johnny.

He looked, and saw. Kalle was wearing his hat.

“That means it's minus thirty,” said Tom.

“Cool,” said Johnny.

He didn't feel any colder. He was very cold already.

The trees got closer. They saw the gap. They saw,
and felt, the dogs run off the ice, and up on to solid
ground, then snow. The lake was gone, and so was the
falling snow. They were in the trees. It was darker, but
they could still see better because they didn't have
snow in their eyes. It was quieter too, and it didn't
seem as cold. Aki was behind them, somewhere.
Johnny saw the snowmobile lights break the dark in
front of them. It was scary and great. The lights
jumped and turned, and went and came back, as the
snowmobile went over humps and around the corners
made by the trees. And when they came out of the
trees the snow battered them – they laughed.

“Agon-eee!'

The dogs never slowed, not even when Pomp did
another poo. His bum was just off the snow, and it
looked like the other dogs were laughing as the
harness held him up.

The sled went over the poo.

“Yeuk!”

The snow was really thick, on the ground and in the
air. And the dogs finally slowed down. They were like
dogs the boys had seen in the water, swimming, fetching
sticks and balls in the sea at Dollymount, near where
they lived. The huskies' backs went up and down in the
same way, like they were bounding through the waves.

Johnny felt the sled shift suddenly. He looked
behind, and Kalle was in the snow. He was pushing
the sled, and the snow was over his knees. But they
were still moving. And, soon – it took only a few
pushes from Kalle – they were going properly again,
back in among the trees, where the snow wasn't as
deep and the dogs were back to normal.

But then they slowed down again.

Tom looked, and saw a sled beside them, empty, no
one on it. Someone behind them had fallen off.

“I wonder was it Mam.”

“Hope so.”

“Hope not.”

“So.”

“Not.”

“Eejit.”

“Not.”

Kalle stood on the brake, and they stopped, and it
felt weird because they weren't moving. The silence
filled their ears. They heard the other dogs behind them, and Aki's snowmobile. The light went over their
heads and lit the trees and made them disappear, and
then lit them again.

Kalle held the dogs from the other sled. The
snowmobile was close now. Aki stopped, and the boys
saw someone climb off it, behind Aki. It wasn't their
mother. It was the man from Belgium. They knew his
hat – it had a smiling deer on it – and his glasses were
covered in snow and ice. He took them off and tried
to wipe them clean. He smiled at the boys.

“Did you fall off?” said Tom.

“No,” said the man. “The sleigh did not move in the
snow.”

He looked down at the snow.

“I removed my feet from the brake.”

He lifted his boots, one at a time, to show them
what he'd done. He grinned.

“And the sleigh was there no longer.”

Kalle was waiting for the man from Belgium. Kalle's
hat was skinny yellow and red stripes, with a floppy
point at the top and flaps for over his ears. He hadn't
tied the earflaps. The strings dangled on his snowy
shoulders.

They heard Aki.

“And so! We go!”

The man from Belgium stood on the brake of his
sled, and Kalle got back behind the boys. They could
see all the other sleds behind them.

They heard their mother.

“All right, lads?”

“Yeah!”

“Bored yet?”

“No!”

“Not nearly!”

Kalle lifted his feet off the brake. And they felt it,
from the front of the sled to the back; they heard the
groan of the wood, as the dogs realized they were free
to go. They were moving again. But they weren't as
fast as usual. They had to bound through the snow.
Then they were moving properly, and Aki's lights were
far behind them.

It was dark. It was night now, even though it would
have still been daylight in Dublin. It was much colder.
Tom couldn't see clearly – he could hardly see
anything. There were trees suddenly there, then gone.
The sled jumped, went over a buried rock. But Tom
couldn't really see. He began to wish they were at the
hut.

The dogs ran out of the trees, into a clearing, and
that was good because the boys could see a bit ahead,
and the jumps and swerves made sense. But the snow
was falling heavily again, and they had to keep getting
it out of their eyes.

They heard Kalle behind them.

“Not – far.”

He didn't shout but they heard him clearly. It was windy now and, right beside them, near enough to
touch, Johnny could see solid waves of snow. And he
could feel the waves now too, because the dogs were
going over them.

It was even darker now. There was no silver left in
the air. They couldn't see anything ahead of them.
There were no tree outlines, and no moon or stars, or
anything else that would help them know where they
were. Tom was glad they were squashed together,
under the rug. They had Kalle too, behind them. He'd
done this millions of times, and the dogs were his and
they did everything for him.

But Tom was scared – a bit. He couldn't even see
the snow falling on his face. He could only feel it. But
he knew too, that this was great. This was something
that might not ever happen again. It was absolutely
amazing.

The boys tried to stay on the sled; they leaned back
as far as they could. It wasn't the speed; it wasn't the
swerves and jumps. It was the fact that they couldn't
see. The dogs seemed even faster in the dark, and the
speed seemed dangerous. But the quicker they went,
the sooner they'd get to the hut. They could laugh
then, and say it had been great. And it wouldn't be a
lie, because it was great. Tom still thought that; he felt
it. Kalle was behind them. They were charging into
blackness, but they were safe.

Then they were flying – the sled was gone from under them. The dogs were near. Tom heard them,
and he saw a dark line – he thought it was one of the
sled's runners – very close to his eyes. And he hit the
snow. His face, his chin, his stomach – his breath was
gone. His face was in the snow.

He got up quickly. He wasn't hurt; he wasn't sore.
He didn't stand yet. He knelt in the snow and tried to
see around him.

Johnny wasn't hurt either. He'd landed close to a
tree, and there were rocks jutting around the trunk.
He could see the rocks because the snowmobile was
approaching and the lights came across the snow, like
a fast, slithering animal. They lit the rocks, shining
black and green. He turned, and saw Tom kneeling,
his back to the lights. The sled was on its side. The
blanket was on the snow, humped, like there was a
body or something else quite big beneath it. He
watched Kalle stand up slowly. Kalle picked up the
blanket and shook it. He picked up the sled and put it
back on its runners. The sled looked fine. Johnny
could see nothing broken or damaged.

Tom watched the sled lifted out of the snow. He
saw Kalle's hand, and then he saw the rest of Kalle.
The lights from the snowmobile sprayed across
everything, and Tom saw something that made him
laugh.

“You are OK?”

It was Aki who spoke. He was walking up to Tom. He'd left the engine running, so they could all see
what was happening.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “That was cool.”

“And Johnny? You?” said Aki.

“I'm grand,” said Johnny.

He stood up. His boots were deep in the snow. He
looked across the sled at Tom.

“What are you laughing for?” he said.

“Look,” said Tom.

He pointed.

“What?” said Johnny.

“Look at Rock,” said Tom.

Johnny looked, and saw what Tom was laughing at. The dog was standing quietly, with Kalle's hat in his
mouth. He laughed, and watched Rock wag his tail.

“He knows it's Kalle's hat,” he said.

“Kalle's smell,” said Aki. “His scent.”

Kalle walked across to Rock and took the hat. He
put it back on his head.

“You are cold, Kalle?” said Aki.

“Yes,” said Kalle.

“Kalle is cold; it must be cold,” said Aki.

“I'm cold,” said Tom.

“It must be very cold,” said Aki.

Kalle shook the blanket again. He tilted the sled, to
get the snow off it. He shook it, then he let it drop.

“And so,” said Aki. “Again we go.”

He walked back to the snowmobile.

“How far?” they heard a voice.

It was a man, but the boys couldn't tell which one.
They couldn't see him, behind the snowmobile lights.