Rocks in the Belly (21 page)

Meanwhile the snake is so big it's about to split my stomach open and all the Krispies will splatter out onto the pavement.

‘That's a fine job of work you've done,' Dad will tell Robert when they get home, and Mum will be impressed too about how grown up and good Robert is.

Robert is up the ladder while I'm up the hill with my mouth open like somebody just died. Like Grandma is down there bleeding to death in our bathroom with her teeth smashed out and Dad mopping and mopping.

‘You're not allowed to, Robot,' I say.

They're Dad's hedges and he'll come home and Mum will be right there and Dad'll say that's a fine job of work. Like he says about my painting or gear changing, or making a mess. The stepladder looks shiny like this is an advert for stepladders.

‘YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED!'

I let my brakes go and pedal like mad, the monster digging into
me and lots of wind like I've got a hundred conch shells strapped to my ears, all the oceans in the world. I'm flying so totally lightning down the hill that my tummy goes tight and I can't breathe when it gets like that. I just go red and stiff, the speed making the tarmac blurry, the hedge-trimmer sound getting louder in my head like the wasps in the plum tree.

I leave the pavement where the kerb goes down low to the road like a monster came and stood on it in the night. All towns have flattened kerb lips where the monsters walk through in the nighttime stealing bad children.

I even forget to look for cars because I'm not in my body but up in a helicopter filming myself. Like the pictures they beam from right above the stadium on the big sports days. I like that but one day I want them to drop the camera so everyone gets to fall all the way and thud into the football pitch.

I'm holding on tight flying through the gate and I'm angry with the ladder legs and shutting my eyes, the hedge-trimmer going and going and me not stopping.

Then BANG I stop dead, my front wheel buckling a bit wonky against the ladder and I'm nearly over the handlebars. The hedge-trimmer is so loud up close, teeth eating the air and Robert swimming up there, the ladder wobbling like a great big steel tree. His face.

TIIMMMMMBERRRRRRRRRR!

I don't like it.

He drops the trimmer and it hits the ground with this expensive cracking sound but its teeth keep going like a barracuda. Barracudas even have teeth on their tongue.

Robert's face is open wide. It takes forever. Then there's all this other noise as the stepladder makes its clattering hitting the ground sound and Robert makes his head hitting the ground sound.

Now there's just the hedge-trimmer noise.

I don't look at Robert but lay my bike down and go press the orange lock button on the trimmers and they stop. Dad would be proud. I've got my hands over my eyes and it's very quiet apart from my panting.

‘Robert?'

I peek a look and Robert has his eyes open, looking up at the clouds. His leg looks uncomfortable bent underneath him like that. But he looks very calm. Not angry with me at all. He never really gets angry with me. He's quite nice really.

I leave him to rest while I go and pick up the ladder but it's very difficult and I'm making noises so he'll hear how hard I'm trying to be good.

‘Dad is going to be very mad with you, Robert. This is his job, not yours. You shouldn't be out here playing with these things even though you are thirteen. You're only just thirteen.'

I get the ladder to stand up but one of the legs is a bit drunk from where my bike … In a minute Robert is going to stop looking at the clouds and get up and go indoors.

‘Robert.'

Crying would only make everything scarier. Plus I need the toilet badly so I start to walk indoors but the hedge-trimmer has a ginormous earthquake crack running along the plastic red and white stuff around it.

This is when Robert starts breakdancing on the floor like the man in that advert warning about electricity. Dad says the advert is supposed to be scary but we always laugh a lot at it and Mum gets funny with him so he tries to wipe the smile from his face with his hand and I try and put it back there with mine and his face is all crispy from his beard growing all day.

Robert is doing the advert really well, his teeth shut and noises trapped in his neck. He's dribbling. The noises are scary, like he's being strangulated in his throat. The power cord is under him.

‘Robert?'

I hold on to my doodle through my trousers to stop the toilet. He's looking at the clouds. Only his eyes and clothes have any colour in them.

‘Robert?' I whisper it. ‘Robert!' I cry a bit but try to stop, pacing with my hand on my doodle. ‘Mum will be home soon, Robert. You won't tell? I'll stop hiding stuff in your room and let you watch my telly.'

He's really breakdancing and all this dribble foam coming like he's had his mouth washed out with soap. Plus the hedge-trimmer is cracked open broken and maybe the back of Robert's head is like a boiled egg when you dent it with your spoon before you cut the top off and scoop out all the runny stuff inside.

‘I'm just putting my bike away, Robert.'

He's still making those noises! And tensing bits of his body really hard. He hasn't blinked once. I drop my bike and run in, unplug the power from the hedge-trimmer in case he cut the cord. When I come back he's still moving and vibrating like when you lie on the bouncy castle while everyone else is jumping.

I'll never hide stuff in his room again and he never even told on me. He just let them think he was a worse hoarderer than he was.

Then he stops a bit and there's the bubbly water drying on his face and he's wet himself.

Fish and chips smell.

I take out my monster and turn it so fast into the robot and put it down next to him to help. I pick up my bike. ‘Back soon.' He doesn't look like Robert. I think maybe he probably hurt himself in the fall. His leg looks unhappy in that position. He should move it.

‘Stop pretending, Robert. It's not nice to pretend. And you've wet yourself, look. Mum'll be home soon.' I'm holding on tight and dancing a bit from the wee in me. I push my bike down the side of the house and it's rolling a bit funny with the front wheel like that.

I put it in the shed like Mum tells me to but I normally don't bother. I put it right at the back then rush out again cos the shed scares me.

Back round the front I peek at Robert. He's still there. Mum and Dad's car isn't but it will be soon. I run over and loosen the posh shirt collar he put on for Mum specially. I loosen it like they always do on the telly.

I give him a wobble and lean over him to block his view of the clouds, wave a hand in front of his eyes and he doesn't blink. He just looks so happy and calm. His eyes are open, he isn't dead. Except one of his eyes looks funny with the black bit in it all big and open wide like you could see into his brain through it. The other one is really small. I think maybe he broke his eye when he fell.

I lay the ladder down again. It's heavy and difficult but I lay it down where it was when it fell. When Robert fell. I put it how it was when I found him. I was at the park. Then I walk to the far corner of the little garden and crouch under a bush and look at him. I'm holding my wee in just barely. He's still lying there.

Maybe Robert and me have the meningitis. That's why he fell. Maybe I'm ill. I go and get some fruit. Mum says fruit's good for you. I put a banana next to him, along with the robot standing guard, but keep a banana for me, and an apple.

‘Robert, you should eat some fruit!' And I'm dancing the wee wee dance while I'm waiting for him to answer.

I run inside and slam the door, speeding up the stairs and jump inside the lion's den. I forgot my torch so I'm panting in the dark, the sound of my breathing scaring me. Like in the freezer. I cry a bit then stop. I don't feel like eating the fruit but slip some of the banana in and it makes me feel vomity. I can taste Krispies.

I hold my doodle and pray to Grandma and God that Robert didn't hurt himself in the falling over. I pray sorry for wetting the bed and looking at her bloodspot and promise to wipe it off if she
helps us. I'll wipe it off and never do anything bad again.

I concentrate on lying very still cos I've been here the whole time.

Next thing a car door slams and Mum is making this enormous terrible scream noise and I can't help it, it all comes out and if I wasn't so high up above myself in a helicopter, I might cry. The fish and chip smell in here with me and turned up very loud.

I feel tiny.

Mum stops screaming and there's just my panting in here again and the smell of the wet. The front door slams open and Dad is shouting.

I hear the phone get hung up very hard and he's roaring my name.

Feet like thunder.

When he comes in the camera switches to extreme close up and I start crying like I'm letting out a lot of saved up crying. He unzips my lion's den and squashes me close. His face looks very different. He holds me out a bit so he can look at my body and check I'm in one piece. I can feel him shaking, Mum calling and calling Robert as if he has to come in. Dinner's getting cold and school tomorrow.

I wish it was just dinnertime.

Dad undresses me very fast and holds me under the shower, soaping me all over. I can't hear him or say anything. I'm up high with the camera. Then I'm out the shower and my body is wobbling with the towel rubbing me really quickly, then drying my hair and it goes all dark and I wish I could just stay in here.

When the drying stops I can hear the sirens coming.

‘Where's Robert, Dad?'

‘He fell off the ladder. He's had a nasty bang to the head and we're going to take him to hospital so he can get better.'

I nod. Robert will get better.

‘Can you tell me what happened, do you think?' Dad says.

I shake my head. ‘I was at the park.'

The sirens are really, really close and they stop and doors slam and there are voices and Mum is sort of shouty crying. Plus I can hear more sirens in the distance, like we're all going to need an ambulance.

‘Get dressed,' Dad says and I can see his face is the shape it makes when he's going to cry.

Mum comes in with my robot in her hand and she's right up close with her finger almost in my nose and her face like a boxer that lost. ‘What did you
DO
?'

Dad grabs her. ‘GET OUT!' Tree roots sticking up from his neck. ‘GET OUT!' He's really crying now and Mum is walking away sounding like the sirens.

That's when the Krispies come out.

Patricia is late. I like to get to a date first though. Arriving first might give the other person the grand entrance and the sense they've made you wait, which they think is good. But it actually means they're entering my territory.

I usually like to arrive first because however keen that may make me seem, I get to choose the seat that gives me a view of the rest of the bar/restaurant. So all my date will have to look at is me and the wall. I'm the one who summons the waiter, I'm the one in charge. It's so simple when you think about it, and yet I so often see men in the wrong seat.

Here I am then in the date driving seat and Patricia is the late type, that's obvious. How can you be on time when you're too scared to disappoint people. How can you get away? Meaning she probably ends up doing the one thing she's desperate to avoid.

My body is still ringing slightly from the photographer. My brain reeling from the drink and the smokes. Mum still on the phone with me.

I shouldn't even be here, that enormous stupid picture I bought leaning on the wall beside me. I should be with Mum but I promise I'll spend the whole day at home tomorrow and then on Monday
an ambulance will come without siren or lights to take her to that last bed.

I've already had the menu brought, decided what I want, sent the menu back. Patricia will be late and flustered and have to work out what she wants to eat
and
try to settle, but I'll have done both those things already. I'll still take a menu though — make it look as if I'm up against what she's up against, but doing better.

I put my mobile on the table and fish the charger out of my pocket. There's a socket behind me. I plug the phone in so Mum stays charged.

I should be at home but I'm sitting here in my best effortless-looking outfit. Except my outfit doesn't quite look effortless because I've had to wear a shirt done almost all the way up to hide the raspberry stain on my neck from Nursey trying to suck my blood.

My second double vodka is sweating too.

It's a half-nice restaurant Patricia chose, not too posh, not too shabby. Polished floorboards, linen on the table, not fully covering but linen place mats, proper cutlery.

The taste of vodka in my mouth brings me back to the glass, sipping again and again. Putting it down. Moving it away a little, a small sweaty patch on my place setting. I swap my linen with hers. Move the drink away. Wipe my hands off on my trousers again, adjust my collar again.

Sit still! Hands in your lap. Feet on the ground.
Elbows off the table. And we don't want to see what you're chewing, thank you.

I upend my drink and the ice bumps my lips, my head still, the drink airborne, a few more vodka drops oozing round the ice and into my mouth.

I put the glass down harder than planned and eyes turn my way. I signal the waiter that I want a refill — staring down the other people having hushed conversations, drizzled sauce on their plates, knives and forks down while they chew.

The other drink arrives and waiter-man takes the empty and gives me a look then waddles off again in his penguin outfit – takes up residence with the waitress hanging out at the barista machine, looking for a plate or a glass to empty like pickpockets scoping a crowd.

I take a swig and think about the hospice. Despite the glossy pamphlet and its well-chosen adjectives, hospices are like those dirty plates of half-eaten food I can see back there waiting for the dishwasher. Hospices are where the unwanted leftovers sit congealing, until something picks them up and slides them into the bin.