Rocks in the Belly (10 page)

After a while Mum says, ‘You.' She's looking at me, her lips stammering, summoning up a word, as if willing it, tugging at it.

Then it erupts. ‘Robert.' And she gives a mad little laugh at what she's done to my face with that word.

‘Not a good time, Mum.'

‘Robert Robert ROBERT!' She brings her face in close to me, saying it and
saying
it. I correct our position on the road, an oncoming car flashing its lights at me. ‘ROBERT!' And she hits the side of my head with the tips of her fingers, the beauty receipt still in her hand.

‘
Don't
, Mum. I'm
warning
you.'

‘You!'

The blood is sticking my hands to the steering wheel. I try to focus on my breathing or my feet, something to ground me while the bruising spreads through my body, leeching under the skin, branching out all over me, creeping over the collar of my t-shirt and on up my neck — blues and greens and purple darkness infiltrating out from my centre so that everyone will be able to tell. A purple and green monster. Cars moving everywhere, too many, changing lanes — a white van close up behind us and I think it's the police, unmarked. People using mobile phones in the street, talking about me. Heads following our slow progress along the road. This madwoman wedged in here with me, squealing. Make-up all over her face.

This is the bruising I went overseas to avoid.

‘Robert.' And she pushes my head again, her hands flailing at me, tugging my hair.

‘
Get off!
STOPPIT!'

She's knocked the rear-view mirror and it's showing me my face. I straighten it, the road reappearing.

‘Don't push me, Mum.' But the shake in my voice betrays me. She grabs the handle and opens the door to get out, the sound of the rushing road, the tyres and the street coming in at us. I lean over and yank the door shut but it catches her ankle in the gap, her head throwing back and emitting such an enormous wail like a hole wrenched in her, letting out a bit of her soul.

I release the door in order to right our position on the road,
slowing down, Mum clutching her already repeatedly sprained ankle, the door swinging right out into a parked car and slamming back so hard, window glass erupting over us.

Now we're both crying, my foot going down on the accelerator, the engine lifting, more and more street noise and wind coming in through the broken window.

I swerve into a side street and take a series of lefts and rights. The white van gone now and Mum covered in perfect little glass squares, sobbing and unpicking them from herself. Reaching occasionally down to nurse her ankle. More bruising.

‘I'm sorry, Mum. I'M SORRY OK!
Please
stop crying.' She isn't listening, her belly moving in and out under her clothes. ‘You're messing up your nice hairdo, eh Mum? Please?'

I turn down another street towards home, slowing down, breathing through the tears, wiping them away on my forearm because my hands hurt from punching.

‘Robert,' she says in an aching lament.

That's it. I pull over, the wheels squealing to a stop, her face going forward, no seatbelt to restrain her, her hands coming out to the dashboard, still holding that receipt. I yank up the handbrake.

‘Put your seatbelt on and shut up!'

She doesn't look at me, just flails hysterically for the door handle. I slap her hands away from it, holding on to her wrists, her mouth arcing open at my
grip
.

She stops crying, just like that. Something in her reconfiguring itself. I let go of her and she wipes her face. A long breath coming out of her.

I take a similar breath. ‘You have to calm down.' I reach out to unpick some of the glass from her clothes but she shoves my hand away.

‘No.' Tears threatening again but she sucks them back. ‘NO!' She roars it out, right up close to me. Her face that angry shape.

I feel my teeth nibbling at my own bottom lip, that anger coming up, both of us mirroring the same angry face to one another.

‘We're going home and we're going to talk about this. And you're going to
shut up
about Robert. He shouldn't have been using them anyway.'

I sit here beside her, hands on the wheel, engine running, my gaze looking straight ahead, staring into the distance and wondering, if I drove fast enough towards those houses at the end, whether the flux capacitor would kick in and we could both go back in time. Or just smash into the shops and stop time altogether.

Anything but the present.

Robert wants to go out to dinner for his birthday. Then his parents are going to come and have an access visit for the first time since he invaded our house. They have to have a social worker with them though cos they can't be trusted.

It's me and Robert at breakfast. I eat slower than him so he's already washing up his bowl and putting away the breakfast things. I've got my eye on him.

‘Why aren't we going ice-skating, Robert?' He shrugs and puts the sugar away. ‘Still need the sugar.'

He comes back with it but he's looking up at the ceiling like I'm tiring him out. ‘I just changed my mind, I suppose,' he says, ‘about the ice-skating.' He shrugs again, standing there holding on to the back of Mum's chair and waiting to see if I'm going to say anything else. He swallows. ‘You don't want to go out for dinner?'

‘Boorrring!'

‘It'll be fun.'

After he's said this he gets ants in his pants. I think birthdays make him nervous, maybe because he did lie about when his birthdate is so him and his folks could get some free presents out of us good people.

‘Then your real parents are going to pick you up, Robot?'

He stops fidgeting. I put a bucketload of sugar on my Krispies. I like it when you get to the bottom and there's just the milk left and it's crunchy with the sugar sort of half dissolving inside it. You don't even really need the Krispies.

‘Try and smile a lot when you see your parents, Robot. And you might maybe want to think about being less nerdy or something. Then they'll like you more and want you back. There's a good lad.' I feel like Three Lips Macavoy. Like I could put the moves on him. Meanwhile Robert looks like he's trying to push out a sideways poo.

‘You looking forward to seeing your bad parents, Robot?'

‘Don't call me that!'

‘What, Robot? What?'

He has white fists on instead of hands now. Plus his face is red. Red and white Robot. White and red monster. He's standing there like the chemical plant, steam coming out of him.

‘It's your birthday, Robot, you should be happy.'

‘I'd be happier if you were dead, crazy brain.'

‘Telling Mum you said that.'

‘She won't believe you she always believes me.'

‘SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU SHE LOVES ME. NOBODY LOVES YOU!'

Feelings haunt you like you've got ghosts. Feelings are supposed to belong to you but they don't and I've gone and said it too loud and Mum comes in behind me and tugs me from my sugar milk and her finger is right up close to my face and I can't hear what she's saying cos I'm concentrating on not crying, which means thinking about my feet and wiggling my toes like Dad taught me.

Robot is watching, this look on his face.

‘Say sorry to Robert!'

I look at his shoes. The front of them are pointing in towards
each other like they're having a chat.

‘
1
'

‘He says things too!'

Robert puts on a wounded innocent face.

‘
2
'

I say it.

‘So he can hear it!'

‘Sorry.' Robot.

‘That's better. Now upstairs with you.'

I walk away, Mum right behind me and Robert smirking at the table, clearing my sugary milk away.

She follows me all the way upstairs and I'm waiting for the spanking but she stops outside my room, me inside, the temperature gauge on my window looking at me.

‘No more nasty comments to Robert, he doesn't deserve it. He's here as long as he needs us, just like you are. Get used to it.'

‘He says things too, only QUIETER!'

‘I'll have a word with him as well.'

She shuts the door and I don't know what to do with the snake inside wanting me to do horrible things to my room. To Robert. And today's his 13th birthday so he'll probably ride in the front on the way to some boring prawn cocktail elbows off the table evening, rather than ice-skating and burgers! And I bet his parents aren't better or off the stuff.

I bet I'll be stuck with Robert until I'm 99.

I creep back down to hear what Mum might be saying about me. Alfie is curled up in front of the empty fire as if he's waiting for it to be lit. He doesn't know we don't ever light it anymore. The vase of walking sticks is guarding it now.

Robert's reading his homework out to her. A project on clouds. Snore. When I have to do a project it'll be on spies or private detectives or blood. I listen to a bit of it and Mum is encouraging
him with mhmms and yes's and very goods.

If Mum is the top dog at home then Alfie is bottom dog, even though he's a cat. He normally keeps away from me but he's asleep so isn't expecting it when I pick him up and carry him up the stairs.

Cats always land on their feet. This is their amazing fact. All animals have one. Like fleas can leap loads of times longer than their bodies and dogs have antiseptic tongues. All animals have one superpower. Flies can walk on the ceiling. Elephants can remember. Bears can hug. Rabbits can stare.

There are twelve stairs on the staircase but I usually test Alfie's superpower from the sixth one. I just dangle him in thin air, do a countdown like at Cape Canaveral, then let him go. He always manages to land on his feet.

Today is Robert's birthday and there were flowers on the table this morning for him. Plus Mum's been shopping for presents. That's why she was late to get me from school yesterday.

Alfie made it from the ninth step yesterday but today's his big day, like Robert. I carry him right up to the twelfth step and squeeze him between the railings, dangle him out above the ground. I like how his claws hang on to my arms and hurt. Then I turn him so his back is facing the ground to make it more impressive. Plus I decide to throw him down rather than just drop him.

He makes a really big THUD. His superpower worked but he walks away a bit wobbly cos he used up one of his lives.

I run down and catch him again, stroke him cos I love him. I like how warm and fat he feels. Sometimes he sleeps on my bed if I make him, and stroking him always makes my heart feel softer.

Mum comes in and asks me what I'm doing out of my room and am I ready for school and I say yes even though my bag isn't packed and I have swimming today (drowning). I pretend to kick her once her back's turned.

She goes out to the kitchen and says something happy to Robert and he has his voice on too and I don't recognise him saying such long sentences as he does to Mum. He doesn't need to breathe when he's talking to her.

I bury my face in Alfie's fur but he smells a bit bad and his body is all stiff like my insides. I carry him into the bathroom and lock the door.

‘You smell, Alfie. You need a shower.' I put him down in the shower and it's still a bit wet from earlier. I close the glass door, Alfie trying not to walk on the water in there. Cats hate water. It's their Kryptonite.

I turn on the hot tap but the water comes out cold at first and gets my arm wet. Hate that. I shut the door again and watch through the glass. Cats must REALLY not like water.

Before the hot comes there has to be exactly as much cold water come through as the length of pipe between the shower and the water heater. I love things like that. The way the world never forgets to do what it does. Like a bike doesn't forget to rust or a ball to fall. Meanwhile Alfie is running on the wet shower floor and it makes me feel sad but better too. And anyway, he's a cat and can land on his feet.

Now the water is starting to steam and Alfie is getting very wet, making quiet little noises and looking up at me but I'm holding the door shut, misting up the window a bit on my side. Except the inside is steaming up too now but higher, not down where Alfie is. Heat rises.

Wow. Cats hate hate HATE water. I flush the toilet so Mum doesn't worry about the noise. She'll be glad he's getting a wash. She likes things clean.

The toilet is filling up again, hissing. Alfie looks funny with all his fur flatted down and making a fuss about the heat. He even looks skinny now he's washed. All little. His ears flattened too and his tail.

Mum calls me so I reach in and nearly burn my hand off from shutting off the tap. I look at my scarred for life hand with the water on it, the layers of sort of melted skin there. I hate it and like it, my scarred for life hand.

I dry it off with a towel. Meanwhile Alfie is panting like a dog and still trying to get his feet out of the hot water. There's steam coming off him.

He meows at me, a really big beggy meow.

‘You're clean now, Alfie, you dirty little boy. Nobody loves you do they, little boy. Why don't you go play with the traffic or something.'

He shakes all the water off and I didn't think cats could do that, only dogs and beavers and tigers. I open the shower door for him and carry him to the front door and put him outside so he can dry in peace. Then I go wash all his fur off the shower tiles so Mum won't worry.

I'm whistling while I pack my bag. I learnt to whistle last Christmas. Soon I'll be able to raise one eyebrow like Dad can. I've been practising in the mirror. Three Lips Macavoy would be able to whistle and raise one eyebrow during a fight.

I feel a bit better now. And a bit worse too. Like I've got elevators passing each other in opposite directions in my chest.

I come downstairs and Mum is mixing a cake for Robert's birthday. She looks at me like she's measuring me. I keep my face very still. Robert stops reading to her, shuts his school project and gets up from the table.