What I Did (27 page)

Dad does some of-course nodding at Mum, and says, — Come with me, Son. Let's find something interesting to watch on TV. But although when he says that it's normally yes-yes-yes time, today the words make me feel like I've just landed slap in the hot bath again, all instantly no-no-no NO. My leg actually begins to throb. Has he forgotten what he said last time? These people are here because making me sad is what they do. It concerns me! I can't do anything about it, though, because there's a man on television who can bend spoons with his eyes, and it feels like every eye in the room is powerfully saying the same thing to me now: go and watch something that isn't as amazing as it sounds, like spoon-bending, on TV. It's just metal fatigue.

I don't even look at Dad as he switches the boxes on. Doesn't he realize I can do it myself?

— What do you want to watch?

— I don't care.

— Come on, Billy.

— Anything.

— Anything it is, he says, pushing buttons.

I nearly say, — Anything but that, when he finally chooses, but his fingers are all twitchy with the mote control so I don't.

 

He pulls the door to as he leaves, and I hear the kitchen door shut beyond it. Pulling the door to is a stupid saying. To where? To not quite shut. I stand up and open it again. The TV shows a stupid boy who is probably only five, with blue hair and a water pistol. I have a better water pistol than that. He can't even aim his straight. Last time Butterfly and Giraffe were here Dad said fucking because the situation must have called for it: he was incredibly cross with them. Why? Because they wanted to take me away. On cat-feet, very stealthy, I run upstairs to my bedroom to find my water pistol. It's not actually a water pistol at all: it's a pump-action water shotgun. In the olden days people were killed for things like setting off fireworks beneath the House of Parliament, and they went to prison for tiny things like borrowing bread without asking. Nowadays we actually give it to pigeons. Some of them roast in Big Ben. I haven't stolen anybody's bread, but that's not the point. The point is that the people who can't cope with their children aren't allowed to keep them in case somebody gets hurt. And what have I done? I've run away across the playing pitches and hurt myself on a wall without railings and nearly had a fight with Fraser at school and weed in my trousers afterward. Then I didn't go to school even though I wasn't ill and Miss Hart saw. And after that I jumped into a stupid hot bath and stayed away from school again until I nearly got cross about losing at chess. I've already had one smack which made Butterfly cross. But it wasn't enough because since I had it I've done more bad things anyway. And now they think I can't cope, so Grandma Lynne had to stay outside in her car and Mum came home early and Butterfly and Giraffe are here to do what people like them always do, Son: take people away. I fill up my water shotgun in the bathroom and take it downstairs.

 

I know exactly how the TV mote control works. On and Off are the same button, but I'm not even going to press it. I'm going to press this one instead: Mute.

I creep up to the kitchen door and listen at the crack, very stealthy.

— But I was just outside, says Grandma Lynne again. — In the car, right in front of the house.

— That's not what the child protection plan says, though, is it? Supervised contact means supervised contact. Mr. Wright isn't supposed to be alone with Billy . . . for now.

My shotgun is dripping slightly. It's one of the rules: I'm not allowed to use it inside. I take my sock off the foot attached to my unburned leg and wrap it round the end of the barrel to catch the drips.

— And the very fact that Grandma was in the car at all is evidence that the plan isn't working. Mrs. Wright hasn't been able, as she hoped, to persuade Mr. Wright to do as we agreed, have you?

Mum: — No.

— Listen. It's not her fault, says Dad. — It's mine, of course. I've been an idiot. I
am
an idiot. But I'm sorry. I'll . . . comply from now on. I promise. It's just been hard to take in. But I've got it, now. I'll do what it takes. I'm sorry, I'm . . .

Butterfly: — I understand.

 

There are lots of shotgun rules. Dad made them up quite quickly on the barbecue day when he bought it. I was looking at it in the huge supermarket we went to for charcoal and beer. There was a whole wall of water toys and Dad saw me looking at them and said, — Cheer up, it may never happen.

— What won't?

— I don't know. But in case it does, we should probably be armed.

— What's
armed
?

— Tooled up.

— What's—

— Never mind. Look . . . He leaned into the trolley, took out a box of beer, and put it on the floor. — Choose one, he said. — I've made room.

— That didn't make sense because there was enough room anyway, but I didn't argue. I chose the orange one nearest me very quickly instead.

 

Giraffe: — But the next step may well be out of our hands. We have a duty to report what's happened, just as we must let the team know about Billy's accident. These things are material.

— What does material mean? Dad asks quietly.

Mum, loud: — For Christ's sake, Jim. What do you think it means? I told you. Ignore the child protection plan and they'll get a court order to stop you seeing him entirely.

— That may not happen, says Butterfly swiftly.

Dad, almost too quietly to hear: —
May not?

 

Dad put a hand on my shoulder when I chose the orange water pistol and said, — Are you sure?

— Yes.

— You'll be filling it up faster than you can shoot it, though.

— What?

— Look at this one.

— But it's . . . massive!

— So what? I've made room in the trolley.

We bought the big one. I was pleased and so was Dad, and Mum thought it was excessive, too.

 

— What Sheila is saying is technically correct, Giraffe begins, — but—

Mum: — But it
may not
matter. Christ, they spelled it out in the meeting. If you'd only deigned to come . . .

Dad: — I've done nothing wrong.

Mum: — Oh my God.

— Nothing, Dad repeats.

Mum: — The broken record again. It. Doesn't. Matter. What part of that don't you understand? Forget them banning you from seeing him; now you've fucked this up they're likely to take him away entirely. But that's probably what you wanted you selfish—

— Tessa! says Grandma Lynne.

Mum, still loud: — Well I just don't know anymore. It's probably true.

 

By the time the barbecue started, Dad was less massively happy about my shotgun. It fires a jet of water as thick as a reasonably fat carrot, and when it hits you it makes you immediately completely wet.

I hit Dad in the back when he was setting up the charcoal and he yelled, — Jesus! quite loudly which made Mum laugh.

By the time he'd changed his shirt he was smiling again, but he still said, — Okay. We need some rules for that thing.

 

— Come on now, says Grandma Lynne. — Tessa's exhausted. We're all very, very upset. Listen, Ms. Godwin — Rommi —what can we do to minimize the impact of this . . . unfortunate . . . setback?

— Well, I—

Dad: — I—

Have you ever tried to talk when you're just about to be sick? I did, once. I'd gone all gray and shivery and Mum kept saying What's the matter, and I didn't want to say anything at all but in the end she was sounding so worried that I forced myself to say I think I'm going to be sick and then Whoa! I
was
sick. Dad sounds similar now.

—
I'll go
.

Grandma Lynne: — Jim, be careful what you—

— No. I'll go. Tessa's right. It's . . . all I can do. I'll go, and I'll stay away until everyone's convinced I . . . until I can come back.

Grandma Lynne: — Don't offer what you're not willing to—

— I am willing. She says they might take him away. If it's the only way of stopping that, I'll go.

 

By the time the burgers were done I was not allowed to fire the shotgun indoors or at the windows or at cars or over the neighbors' walls or our cat Richard or at people wearing clothes or anyone who said stop or looked annoyed. Mum laughed at Dad when he made up that last rule and said, — Lighten up. What did you expect?

— Okay, okay. Why not shoot . . . insects . . . off the plants, Dad suggested.

I did. It was excellent, until I decided to have a go at a bee on the lavender even though I didn't really want to because I like them. I was so cross I'd squirted it I did it some more.

The bee drowned.

 

Butterfly: — Hold on, hold on. Nobody's asking anyone to make decisions here and now.

After a pause, Dad replies, — No, but what's the point of delaying the inevitable?

Butterfly: — Nothing is inevitable.

— Will they or will they not take Billy away from us?

— Nobody has said that's going to happen. What we want . . . what everybody concerned wants, is what's best for Billy. That is all we've said all along, and it hasn't changed.

— But it's a possibility, isn't it?

Mum, sobbing: — It was a possibility from the moment you belted him!

Pause.

— It's one of a number of possibilities, says Giraffe. — But it's by no means a foregone conclusion.

Butterfly: — By no means at all. There are many avenues open to us. And if you're willing to help with the process now, and we can demonstrate that, then despite this setback, the prognosis will be so much better.

 

After I drowned the bee I was angry so I walked up to Dad and blasted his back at point-plank range, soaking another shirt. This one was checkered, with rolled-up sleeves. He didn't say anything. He just spun around and ripped the gun from my hands quite harshly in front of everyone and threw it on top of the shed. Then he asked if anyone wanted another drink. I could have got it down if I wanted to, because of the branch on the tree at the back, but I didn't. I went inside instead.

At bedtime that night he brought the gun up to my room with a many-beer sad grin. — Look, I'm sorry. I was a prick.

— What's a—

— I wasn't nice. I was nice to buy the damned . . . blunderbuss, but I didn't think it through. Then I wasn't nice.

— It's a pump-action water shotgun. I like it.

— I know you do. And I like that you like . . . Anyway, what shall we do with it?

— Not fire it.

— Not for now, no. But tell you what. Next hot day we have, we'll have a proper shoot-out. I'll use the hose. Unlimited bullets.

— Can I keep it, then?

— Of course.

— Where?

He scratched his iron-filings chin. — There's only one place to keep a shotgun, he said.

 

There are scraping-chair noises from the kitchen. My scaldy leg aches and my sock is wet. The hand muffling it round the gun barrel has already started dripping. I need a wee. I need a wee and I know what they said in there. I know what
I'll go
means. I mustn't fire the water shotgun inside, but Son, rules are there to be broken. The difficult thing is knowing when and where to break them. You mustn't wee in the street, for example, but it's okay to wee if you're desperate . . . behind a car in the street. I grip the door handle. I could charge in and wet Giraffe and Butterfly. Drenching is the same as soaking. They would have to leave to fetch dry clothes, and then we could not let them back in again. It's a rubbish plan, I know, because I've only got water. If I had time I could empty out the water and wee into the shotgun instead, and then they really would have to leave because of germs. But I don't have time. Butterfly is going on about nobody jumping to conclusions or taking brash decisions, and saying how great it is that everybody will be keeping in touch, and there are more footsteps, and sooner or later somebody is going to open the door and find me there.

No they won't.

The boring thing about Enid Blyton is that everything in her stories turns out like you expect. Dad doesn't like reading them to me because of that. But confusingly if there's a shotgun up against the wall in act one, Son, it better go off by the end. Unless that's one of the rules it's okay to break.

The door handle quivers.

De-frying expectations, I run upstairs and slide the shotgun back under the bed.

 

And I lie on the bed well after the grown-ups have walked about downstairs opening and shutting doors and eventually saying good bye. It takes ages. I wait for somebody to come up and see me afterward, but nobody does, only our cat Richard, and even he hasn't brought anything interesting to show me. Nothing dead or wounded. Just his normal belly fur, which is at least quite warm if you stick your fingers into it when he's lying purring on his side. I stroke him quite carefully for a bit. Not backward.

Then I jump up, fetch my swimming bag from the hook on the bathroom door, empty it out in the corner, and pack it again. Not with the same stuff. More useful things. My ammonite, some pants, a jumper with a hood and a pocket your hands can feel each other in, four pieces of paper for drawing on, a sharp pencil, and my snow leopard, Philip. When it's full I hide the bag in my bed. It's quite bulgy, but when I runkle up the duvet the bed looks almost normal.

If he's going, I'm going with him. To help cope.

And he definitely is going. I know, because when I go downstairs he is making tea quite slowly and when he's made it he gives a cup to Mum and a cup to Grandma Lynne, saying, —Here you are, I've made us all a cup of tea. But we've all been watching, Dad! It's not news. And even though we all knew what he was doing because we saw it happen ever — so — slowly, Grandma Lynne still says, — Great. That hits the spot. A cup of tea!