The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (10 page)

23

(Bristol, England - 2013)

I wandered out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Chrissie joined me. She sat in silence, unable to find any words to console me. I appreciated the company anyway.

‘Shall we go out?’ she asked after I finished a second cigarette.

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere. Just out.’

‘Why not? Let me go and take a piss first.’

‘No problem, Crow. I’ll just wash up a bit while I wait.’

‘You’re too good. You’d make someone a lovely wife ...’

‘Fuck off!’

I giggled as I walked out of the room. I mounted the stairs slowly, my head full of questions. They swirled around me like a dense fog, making it hard to navigate. As I stepped onto the landing I heard a voice.

‘Gramps, Gramps.’

My stomach felt like lead. I breathed deeply trying to shut out the sound. Not again. I shook my head and tried to walk away, but the voice dragged me back. The sound was coming from the attic. I peered up the shadow filled staircase. The door at its apex stood ajar. I stood at the bottom, straining my ears, wondering whether my imagination was playing tricks on me until I heard it again. Shaking, I climbed the steep, narrow stairs, my heart shuddering with every fall of my feet onto the treads, thud, thud, thud. Memories flooded into me as I felt the stairs getting steeper, or rather my legs shrinking.

‘No! Not again,’ I whispered in a voice too low to be heard, but I couldn’t stop climbing.

When I reached the top I pushed the door fully open and looked into the attic room. At its centre I saw a boy, a youth, no older than thirteen. His dark brown hair curled slightly out at the ends. His feet shuffled then he started to turn around. In mere seconds I would be able to see his face. I felt my throat constrict as though a hand was squeezing my windpipe. I tried to turn away, avoid his gaze, but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even cover my eyes. I saw the tip on his nose and the cleft of his chin then his hazel eyes stared at me; they were full of fear and confusion.

‘Gramps?’ he said again, looking at me for an answer.

‘What is it, Tommy? What’s wrong?’

He pointed to his right, to something beyond my field of vision. I swallowed painfully as I took a final step into the attic.

A large figure stood in the corner of the room, his head almost touching the ceiling. No, he wasn’t standing, he was swaying. A rope stretched above him, fastened to the roof.

‘Grampy,’ I called, rushing towards him then, as I saw his face, I screamed.

Wrapping my arms around me for comfort, I fell to the floor, remembering every detail, the bloated face, the bulging eyes, the horror of it. Vivienne had rushed up the stairs and taken each of us under her arms and ushered us away before phoning the police. She left in a police van and one of my friends’ mums looked after us. We were never told what had happened. Grampy was simply there one day and then he wasn’t and eventually the memory had become a shadow like a forgotten nightmare. If there had been a funeral, I didn’t go. I never got to say goodbye. Life returned to normal and the horror, the bloated face and the bulging eyes, seemed like a dream, until I forgot it completely. Now I remembered again and it was time to grieve.

I remembered his huge hands. He always gave us sweets and told us stories in hushed whispers so no one would overhear, sitting in a battered armchair, reading or smiling. I couldn’t remember him ever frowning or angry, but I recalled being afraid of him sometimes. Maybe they were scary stories.

‘Crow, are you up there?’ Chrissie yelled from the landing.

‘Sorry. I’ll come down.’ I stood up, slowly, my legs shaking and wiped the tears from my face with dusty hands, leaving dark streaks down both cheeks.

‘You’re filthy.’

Filthy, filthy!
‘What?’

‘Your face is covered in dirt, Crow. What happened? Are you okay?’

I shook my head and lurched towards the bathroom, the word “filthy” echoing around my brain. My reflection looked as though I was in full camo-gear. I imagined myself by my father’s side, winding our way through trees or jungle, guerrillas and outlaws, then I wondered whether that was really my father or just another lie.
Who am I? I’m filthy.
I washed my hands and face. The water gurgled around me as I leant, nose mere inches from the plughole. When I glanced back in the mirror I jumped, startled by the reflection of my friend looking over my shoulder, frowning.

‘What happened?’ Chrissie touched my shoulder.

I shuddered, too many memories beating against my skull, demanding to be set free.

‘Grampy hung himself in the attic. I just saw him.’

Chrissie’s frown deepened. Our reflections made eye contact. Her wide eyes stared through mine and into my soul. ‘Hanged himself? Why?’

‘Don’t know.’ Abruptly, I turned away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom, leaving my friend behind.

I expected Chrissie to follow me and I sat at the kitchen table and waited. When she didn’t appear, I rolled and lit a cigarette. It seemed like ages passed before Chrissie entered the kitchen and sat down. She looked pale and frightened.

‘Nanny died when I was ten,’ I explained between puffs. ‘That was when we moved here.’

‘Was your grampy living here too?’

‘Yeah, Vivienne said we needed to take care of him.’ I paused, twisting a hoop in my ear.

Chrissie waited for a moment then spoke. ‘How was he?’

‘He used to give us sweets ... He’d always sit in his huge, green chair ... We didn’t see him that much I guess. I remember now, he always smelt funny. Gin, I think.’

‘Why do you think he killed himself?’

I leaned forwards across the table, pressing my fists into my cheeks. My shoulders and torso swayed forwards and back. The rocking motion felt comforting, familiar. I realised I hadn’t answered Chrissie’s question and sat up straight to look at her and recall what she had asked.
Ahh yes, why did he kill himself?
I rubbed my forehead roughly upwards, stretching the skin above my eyes, trying to retrieve the memory. It felt ironic, considering the times I had pushed memories like this one away. I needn’t have worried; the memory wasn’t really there, only the shadow of it. ‘Maybe he just couldn’t stand living with Vivienne anymore. Maybe it was because he missed Nanny.’

‘Do you remember when it happened?’

‘Not really. I think he died pretty soon after we moved in, but it’s all a blur. Maybe his death certificate will be here somewhere?’

I headed into the dining room and looked at the mountains of paperwork. Rifling aimlessly through the piles of paper, I created chaos across the table, searching without direction. Chrissie pulled me back and held me tight in her arms, rocking gently and cooing like a mother settling her upset child. My sobs were guttural, deep and uncontrolled. Rolling my head around, I started to wail. Pain radiated from me, the force of it physical. Waves of sound and energy bounced around me, crashing against the walls of the room like waves against a ship’s hull. I wanted to cut through the water. It felt too deep, like I was drowning.

Chrissie clung to me as my body shook violently. Together we sank to the floor and Chrissie’s mouth found my lips, wet and slippery with tears and mucus. Her kiss silenced me. Hair brushed against my throat, the smell of patchouli oil and fresh sweat covered me. Opening my eyes, I saw Chrissie’s blurred cheek and soft ear.

‘No!’ I screamed, pushing Chrissie away.

‘What?’

‘We can’t do this. I don’t want this.’ One step forward, two steps back.

24

Chrissie backed away, hiding her scarlet face with her hands. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled out of the door. I watched her leave, my head spinning with a thousand feelings and sat dumb. I sniffed my sweaty palms and realised I smelled of Chrissie. Closing my eyes, I felt my friend’s hands again, stroking my skin, wanting me, needing me. My stomach somersaulted and I felt queasy, empty and alone. I squeezed my eyes shut and saw Grandfather’s purple face, staring at me through milky eyes. It was too much, too vivid. I focused on the doorway, drinking in reality, the here and now, Chrissie stood before me, her face awash with tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

I could not answer. Instead I crouched silently, watching my friend’s face.

‘Mitch and me, we’ve been having problems.’ Her explanation pained me.

I shrugged, the old cliché “she doesn’t understand me” rose from my stomach as I tried to think of words to say, to erase the embarrassment and shame and repair the friendship, but I could find none. Chrissie knelt in front of me, offering a cigarette and a timid smile. I accepted the cigarette and left the smile unreturned.

‘It’s just that ... you need me, Crow, and I guess, at some level, I need that. Mitch doesn’t need me, she never did. I’m sorry. I really am. It wasn’t the time or the place. I’ve made a terrible mistake ...’

We looked at each other; Chrissie’s eyes seemed desperate, searching them I sighed.

‘I don’t need you, Chrissie. Having you here has been great ‘n’ all, but I don’t need you. Don’t look to me to complete you. I’m not that person.’

Chrissie cocked her head and wrinkled her nose. I turned away from her. My crouched position offered me an unobstructed view of the underside of the dining table. I saw forester’s marks on the unfinished wood, rough knots and childhood graffiti and there, just visible, I could also see a tightly folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the table. I felt Chrissie’s stare and forced myself to stay still rather than crawl straight over to the folded note, unwilling to investigate until Chrissie’s scene was over, but I couldn’t drag my attention away from the paper. I didn’t hear what Chrissie told me and only noticed her absence when the room had been empty for some time.

The room felt cooler now I was alone. I crawled under the table. The piece of paper was wedged firm under a support. Gripping it with my fingertips, I gently wiggled its corner, trying to work it free. The edge started to fray and the paper threatened to tear. Letting go, I crawled further under the table and studied the support, trying to see whether there was a safer way to release the paper. There was no paper protruding from the other side. As I scrambled out from under the table, I knocked my head on the wood and sat for a moment until the dizziness subsided. I lifted the edge of the table top, but I couldn’t reach the paper from that position.
Chrissie.
She was in the kitchen, holding a cigarette in one hand and lifting a bottle of bourbon to her lips with the other.

‘I’m sorry,’ I offered.

‘Me too. You’re right.’

‘What you gonna do?’

‘About Mitch? I dunno. Probably carry on as normal. I don’t want to be alone.’

I slid onto the chair, next to my friend and hugged her. ‘You sound like Vivienne.’

‘Do I? People do things for all sorts of reasons.’ Chrissie shrugged and looked away. ‘I’ve done things ... No-one’s perfect. But we all want to be loved.’

‘I don’t.’ Even as I said the words I wondered whether they were true.

‘Yes, you do. You just don’t believe anyone does love you, but you’re wrong, so wrong.’

I stood up. ‘I need your help with something - the table.’

‘Huh?’

‘Something’s stuck. I need you to lift the table so I can get at it.’

‘Okay.’

Chrissie lifted the table top while I worked the paper loose. When, at last, I had it in the palm of my hand I stared at it reverently, hardly daring to breathe.

‘What is it?’ Chrissie asked.

The folded paper was only an inch wide by less than two inches long, folded so tightly that it felt like a tiny paper box. Hooking my finger under the first layer, I pulled it back. The closely-packed fibres tried to cling to each other and with every movement they threatened to tear.

Chrissie bent down to look under the table, but I was as aware of my friend as I might have been of a fly buzzing against a window pane, trying to get in. Licking my lips, I pulled back another layer and another. The paper guarded its secret until the very last fold was opened outwards. Across and down the page, in tiny yet elegant, black-inked script, two words were written over and over again. “Help me, help me, help me,” was the whispered plea. I stared at the message, knowing it was not an accidental discovery. The message was meant for me. I focused on the tiny letters. Who needed my help? Folding the paper once, I passed it to Chrissie who took it eagerly. I watched her read it, shocked to see her face crumple and a flood of unsuppressed tears fall from her tightly shuttered eyes. I was unable to help, not knowing whether I should touch her arm or hug her while feeling unable to do either.

At last Chrissie passed the paper back and wiped her cheeks with both hands. Her bloodshot eyes stared at my face as if she wanted to say something, share some secret, but she didn’t say anything and I did not to ask. Minutes passed in silence, as I turned the paper over and over in the palm of my hand and Chrissie stared at the floor, absorbed in her misery.

‘It could have been me,’ she said without warning. ‘Remember when we met, how lost I was? Someone here was hurt, just like I was. Someone had their childhood stolen away.’

My mouth felt dry. I balled my hands into fists, crumpling the paper, concentrating on my breath - in out, in out. I sucked in air through my nostrils and blew it out through my mouth as goose-bumps prickled my legs and arms. I didn’t know how to respond. Not only did I know that someone, probably Vivienne, had suffered deep and lasting wounds here in this house, I also felt a burden of responsibility towards Chrissie to help her make sense of everything. If I managed to put things right for Vivienne and Chrissie could I also heal myself?

‘Tell me ... what happened to you?’

‘My stepfather happened. I couldn’t stand it, the way he looked at me, the way he ... I left when I was twelve. Younger than you ... I ... No ... Not yet ...’

‘When you want to talk, I’ll listen, Chrissie,’ I said. ‘Always.’

She smiled and mouthed the words, “thank you”, then sank to the floor. I left her alone in the room, embraced by her sorrow. I switched on the kettle and placed my mobile phone on the kitchen table. Between the hissing of the kettle and Chrissie’s distress I couldn’t think. I closed the kitchen door against the sound of sobbing and picked up my phone.

‘Tomas Nightingale,’ my brother’s confident voice announced.

‘Hi, Bro.’ As I spoke I twisted the hoops in my right ear. My breath felt ragged.

‘Giz,’ he said. ‘I mean, Crow.’

I strained to understand the tone of his voice. Was it loving, excited to hear from me, or cold and distant?

‘I’ve found some stuff. I think you need to see it.’

Tomas didn’t answer.

‘Did you know you have a twin, another sister?’

‘W-w-w-hat?’

I bit my lip, forcing back my tears. ‘Did you know?’

‘What the f ...?’ I heard the mouthpiece being muffled and urgent whispering. ‘Look, Giz, I’m in work. What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘Can you come over? I’ve got so much to tell you.’

‘Look Giz, I’m sorry. I think I made a mistake letting you stay there.’

‘What do you mean a mistake? What’s going on? You didn’t let me stay here, you forced me ... Come over, Tom. This is important, to you as well as me ... unless you don’t want to hear anything about your precious mummy, is that it? Or ... what, do you think I’m crazy, as mad as her? No, you’re jealous, that’s it isn’t it. You wanna be here, lookin’ through her stuff, sniffin’ her panties.’ I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. Pent up rage exploded into the mobile handset, I didn’t mean a word of it, I had no idea where the words were coming from, but they kept flowing. By the time I stopped for breath I realised the line was dead and my brother had hung up. ‘Shit!’ I growled. My tears flowed freely and I stood there sobbing wildly, an echo of the sounds nudging through the hallway.