The Dead I Know (12 page)

‘You don’t understand. I have to—’

‘She’s okay,’ he said again.

‘I can’t explain. I have to—’

‘STOP!’ John bellowed.

I stopped, just for a moment. Just long enough for my eyes to focus – on John Barton, red-faced and stern.

‘Mam is okay. She couldn’t be in safer hands. Safer there than at home, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘But . . .’

‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now take a big breath.’

I took a breath but it wasn’t big.

‘Good. Now hold it. That’s it. Now exhale.’

‘There are things I haven’t explained. She—’

He raised a finger. ‘Another deep breath. Fill your lungs. All the way. More. Hold it.’

I felt light-headed. My heart thumped a death-metal groove into my temples.

‘Hold it.’

Somehow the breathing and the holding short-circuited my fright. When I exhaled the next time I felt my shoulders relaxing and rational thought returning.

‘Well done. As soon as I’m finished here . . . one phone call . . . we’ll get into the Merc and pay Mam a visit. Okay?’

‘Can I come, too?’ Skye asked. She stood behind me in the doorway, apparently unscathed.

‘If it’s all right with Aaron,’ John said.

I nodded, then turned and put the nod into words. ‘Of course, Skye. Sorry I bowled you over.’

She shrugged. ‘Any time.’

John laughed and shook his head. ‘Give me five minutes.’

I opened the garage door and sat on the curb. Skye propped beside me.

‘Was that a panic attack?’ she asked. ‘It was, wasn’t it? My mum has them. Usually about stupid things like forgetting
to top up the water in the vase or leaving the cat inside when she goes shopping. What was yours about? Your mum or your mam or whatever you call her?’

‘Mam. Just Mam.’

‘Why Mam?’

‘That’s her name.’

‘I call my mum Delia sometimes. Usually when she calls me Skye Rose Barton. Two seconds before she whacks me with whatever she has in her hand. Does Mam belt you? Not now, but when you were little?’

I shook my head. Not when I was little. She’d never even raised her voice at me. Never needed to. It wasn’t that I was an angel; anger never seemed to find purchase in Mam.

‘Did she hit you in the lip? Why would you have a panic attack about her? She’s at the hospital, isn’t she? It’s supposed to be the mum worrying about the kid, not the other way around. I couldn’t think of a safer—’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Why not? She allergic to hospitals? Scared she might fall in love with a doctor and leave you?’

‘You ask so many questions.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m a kid. It’s my job.’

‘And you have a theory about everything.’

‘Inquiring mind. Is that a crime?’

‘Yes.’

She was silent for a brief moment and I thought I’d found her Pause button.

‘Why isn’t it simple?’ she said. ‘Is it the drugs? Is she an addict like you? Oh, she’s your supplier and you’ll go crazy if she’s locked up in hospital. You’ll get withdrawals and
start seeing pink elephants and have imaginary creatures crawling under your skin.’

‘You watch way too much television.’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t stop me wanting to know.’

She looked at me, through me, her eyes like those of a predator with prey in sight.

‘I have this dream. Recurrent. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Nightmare, really. Lately I have it every time I go to sleep and every morning I . . .’

The sound of jingling keys in the garage.

‘Right, you two,’ John said. ‘Let’s go.’

‘You can sit in the front,’ I said to Skye.

She sighed. ‘I’m not allowed.’

‘You can sit in the back.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not a word,’ I whispered.

‘About what?’ she hissed. ‘You didn’t tell me anything. You have nightmares. Whoo!’

21

M
AM CALLED ME
A
ARON
. She clunked my head with her cast as she hugged me from her bed and laughed an apology.

I introduced the Bartons and she said she remembered John from somewhere. I told her about the mercy dash he’d done.

‘That’s right!’ she sang. ‘Of course.’

She didn’t remember, but the act was flawless.

‘How are you?’ John asked.

‘Oh, you know, up and down. Down and up.’

John laughed kindly.

‘You’ve come to take me home then?’ Mam asked.

‘I think the doctor wants to keep you in one more night, just to make sure everything is okay,’ I said.

‘Does he now?’ Mam said, suddenly indignant. ‘We’ll see about that!’

She swung her legs to the side of the bed.

I grabbed her knees. ‘You wait here, I’ll go and discuss it with him.’

‘You’re a good boy, David. I’ll wait here then.’

‘David?’ Skye chuckled. ‘Who’s David?’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘Aaron David Rowe.’

Skye looked at her father. ‘You start calling me Rose and I’ll put salt in your sugar bowl.’

‘Can’t have that,’ John said. ‘Better watch my tongue.’

‘Rose is a pretty name,’ Mam said. She reached for Skye’s hand. Skye let her have it but didn’t step any closer to the bed.

A nurse paged Doctor Chandra. Apparently he hadn’t gone home after all, or perhaps he was back in already. He arrived in a coat-flapping jog two minutes later, shook my hand limply and led me by the elbow into a small room with a sink and a fridge.

‘Cup of tea?’

I shook my head, looked him in the eyes.

He straightened his tie.

I brushed mine flat, instinctively.

‘Your mother is in good physical health. I have no reason to doubt she will regain the use of her arm completely.’

There was an unspoken ‘but’ at the end of the sentence and I held his gaze.

‘I think there may be some impairment to her cognitive functioning. Do you understand—’

‘Yes.’

‘All I’m asking is that you approve some non-invasive testing of her perception and memory. It’s a courtesy, really. Mrs Rowe has already expressed her consent.’

‘Mam’s already said yes?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘But she doesn’t know . . .’

It was too late. Of course she’d say yes. She’d say yes to toilet paper if they offered, too. Protesting on the grounds that she didn’t know what she was agreeing to would be admitting the truth – she really didn’t know what she was agreeing to.

Steam hissed in my veins. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I wasn’t ready for them to be poking and prodding Mam. I needed more time. Mam needed more time. She could wake up tomorrow and everything would be the way it used to be.

Doctor Chandra must have felt the steam. He took half a step back.

‘No,’ I said through my teeth. ‘No tests. I told you, I’ll get her assessed myself when she’s back on her feet.’

Both his hands came up. ‘Okay. Fine. I can only offer my recommendations.’

‘Then she’s free to go?’

‘I would like to keep her in for one more night. Without injected pain medication she will be uncomfortable. She’ll sleep better here.’

‘But no tests.’

‘No tests.’

I wondered if I could get some injected pain drugs for myself. Anything to make sleeping easier. Anything to stop the film running night after night in my head. I considered taking Skye up on her offer of period-pain medication and a smile tugged on my lips.

Doctor Chandra leaned in. ‘It is possible for you to sleep
here,’ he whispered. ‘To put your mind at ease. Not policy, but possible in certain special situations.’

‘No,’ I said. It came out like a hammer blow. ‘Thank you, but I have things to attend to.’

He inclined his head politely.

‘Thank you,’ I said again, the steam now safely contained.

Skye and John were a little wide-eyed when I returned. John took his car keys from his pocket.

‘One more night of pampering for you, Mam,’ I said.

She slapped her thigh and grinned. ‘Where did you put the TV remote, Aaron?’

I was about to protest until I spotted it on her bedside table. I pointed instead, kissed her grey curls and left her to poke buttons.

Skye held her father’s hand as we threaded our way through the maze of corridors. I walked beside her and when I paused to take stock of the signs overhead, she grabbed my fingers with her free hand and tugged me into motion.

‘This way, Robot,’ she said. ‘Car park.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I knew that. I was just computing the possibilities.’

She chuckled but didn’t let go.

Mrs Barton’s soup was more of a stew, and for some reason the smell reminded me of candlewax. I had to force the last ten spoonfuls down out of respect for the feelings of the chef, but I got there in the end. Even managed to politely refuse a second helping.

I cleared the plates and Mrs Barton berated me for attempting to wash the dishes in her own house.

‘Don’t do the dishes if you don’t have to,’ Skye said. ‘That’s just stupid. Besides, you have to help me with my homework, remember?’

‘You’re incredible,’ John laughed.

I sat with Skye and she opened her book but didn’t look at the page. She looked at me, eyes brimming with curiosity.

‘How come she’s so old?’ she whispered.

‘Homework,’ I chided.

‘She’s older than my grandma. She’s old enough to be
your
grandma.’

I tapped the page and she picked up a pencil.

‘What is your dream about?’

‘Nothing,’ I snarled. ‘Concentrate.’

‘I am concentrating. What’s it about?’

‘Skye, stop it.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I’m not sharing my dreams with you.’

‘What’s it about?’

I faked a yawn. ‘Goodness, is that the right time?’

She grabbed my sleeve. ‘No, sorry. Don’t go.’

I stared at her fingers and she smoothed and patted my shirt. She read maths questions aloud in her best robot voice, pecked at the problems and eventually finished the page.

‘We’re done?’ I asked.

‘No! There’s English. I need help with . . . I need help with a story. Tell me one.’

‘You make one up.’

‘Okay, you give me ideas and I’ll make one up.’

‘I’m supposed to be helping, not doing it for you.’

She tapped the pencil on her chin and stared at the ceiling.

‘There was this boy, right,’ she began. ‘He was born in another country. Maybe America. Yes, America. But his mum and dad didn’t want him any more so they sent him to live with this old witch in another country. She gave him drugs and turned him into a robot, then the boy . . .’

‘Enough!’ I cried. I stood up, knocking Skye’s books to the floor.

She shrank, her eyes wide. ‘Sorry.’

‘Enough.’

John appeared at my side. ‘How about I run you home, Aaron? It’s been a big week. Nice lazy weekend will do you wonders.’

I collected my jacket as he ushered me to the door. I didn’t say goodbye.

22

‘S
ORRY,’
J
OHN SAID
, as he pulled up in front of the caravan park. ‘Skye can be a handful at times.’

I’d made some sort of recovery from the shock of having a cartoon of my life story plucked from my head. ‘It wasn’t her, it was me.’

I thanked him for the lift and closed the door as quietly as I could.

I’d given her snippets of my world and she’d done no more than paste them together. I’d underestimated her powers of perception. I wouldn’t be doing that again.

I found the sliding door of the annex open. I remembered the morning’s fracas and thought I might have left it that way, but Mam’s chair had been overturned and my mattress was on the floor. I didn’t remember that.

Movement in the van caught my eye and stalled my pulse.

Curtain in the breeze.

Westy had definitely been back. The contents of every cupboard, every drawer, every shelf in the van had been methodically emptied onto the floor. Dried herbs mixed with broken eggshell on a bundle of Mam’s undershirts. The fridge door had been propped open by an upturned milk carton. A charred mess on the stove turned out to be a pair of my boxers.

I cleaned. I started at one end and scooped and washed and scrubbed and wiped until the bins were full and the entire place sparkled. No hint of burnt beetroot or underwear, just the fake pine of surface spray.

I threw myself – fully clothed, sans shoes – into the crushing cold of the ocean. I panted at the surface and ducked under the feeble waves. My lip stung but I convinced myself that it was a pain of healing, that – like the cold needling the rest of my body – it was a rite of purification.

I slept in Mam’s bed the way I’d done when I was little. I locked the annex and the door of the van and hid the keys in the grill. I tied one end of my JKB tie to my wrist and the other to the bedside lamp, which was screwed to the wall. I breathed and turned and waited for sleep as if I was waiting for a punch.

23

The pink sheet doesn’t rise or fall. It almost covers the head. A curl of dark hair lies flat on the pillow. I see parted lips and they are full and womanly, slack with sleep or death. A nostril haloed in blood.

I woke as if I’d come up from beneath the earth, puffing and shaking and gulping for air. It was still dark. I’d slept three, perhaps four, hours. My tie had cut the blood flow to my fingers and my hand had turned a deathly blue. I tore at the knot, managed to reef the light fitting from the wall and made my wrist bleed with the chicken scissors cutting myself free.

My tie was ruined.

The keys were gone.

The door of the van opened when I tried it. The sliding door was off its runner. The keys were in the lock.

*

I punched the tiled wall of the shower, trying to restore feeling to my fat fingers and banish the desire to kill something. Anything. I punched until my knuckles bled and the exasperation flowed from my eyes as mute, salty tears.

Any trap my conscious mind set, my subconscious could avoid. I don’t know why that surprised me – we were the same person. Weren’t we? Zombie, Westy had said. A zombie aware enough to untie and retie knots, search out keys, uproot doors and have less than a blink of memory of the proceedings.