Charlotte (3 page)

"Yeah. It just feels iffy. I shit myself earlier when Amy said she was in the backseat."

"Who, Charlotte?"

"Yeah."

"You need to stop watching those dumb horror movies. That'll make you paranoid. And if you really shit yourself, I ain't washing your panties."

Patricia grinned and slapped her husband's arm playfully. She felt the slap reverberate through her waist as his arms hugged her tightly. "I'm just worried, that's all."

"We'll see a doctor as soon as we can. Better safe than sorry."

"That’s what I'm worried about."

Patricia looked at her husband to ensure he was paying attention. Bruce Brunswick shuffled uncomfortably in his leather chair. He answered for the couple. "Nine."

"Uh huh." The psychologist scribbled a note on his pad. "How is her home life?"

"How do you mean?" Patricia took a sip of water.

"To be blunt, do you bring her up well, nurture her, and pay her ample attention?"

Patricia nodded. "As much as we can. We both work, but we do okay."

Bruce rubbed his neck. "I spend a lot of time away on business. Pat here works from home a lot. Amy goes to school as normal, she's a normal kid."

"We don’t hit her if that's what you mean? We don’t neglect her." Patricia looked down as the words escaped her lips, ashamed she'd even mentioned them.

Bruce sat up, shocked. His eyes burned a hole through the doctor opposite him. "You're not insinuating that, are you?"

"Not at all. I just need some background. Several things normally bring on this condition. I just need to rule things out." He scribbled once more. "Does Amy have any medical conditions, anything that may affect the brain?"

Bruce said nothing. Patricia nodded slowly. "She has weak lungs, due to asthma. It's calmed down in recent years. We didn’t know how severe it was until…"

"What, Mrs. Brunswick?"

"She was playing on a swing in a playground and she fell, hit her chin and then her chest. She was unconscious for several minutes. I've never been so frightened in all my life. When we got her checked out, we found out she has weak lungs. Winding her pretty much renders her unconscious. I'm a little protective because of this…no playgrounds, no physical activities. I don’t want her getting winded and falling on her neck or something."

"Understandable," the doctor said as he scribbled some more.

Patricia sighed. "Dr. Barden, is this normal behaviour? The friend thing, I mean."

"Depends on your view. Kids develop in different ways. Some have actual friends, some are outgoing and normal. Others don't, they become secluded. That sometimes means imaginary friends or total isolation from social contact."

Bruce retorted, "She had friends. She goes out and stuff...used to. The boy next door is her best friend and they always hang out together."

"Not always, Bruce. I don’t think they've spoken in months."

"Well, I don’t know. I'm never there."

Dr. Barden, sensing a conflict, coughed. Both parents looked towards him. "Let's focus on Amy for now, she's our main concern."

Both parents nodded in silence.

A soft knock on the door caught Dr. Barden's attention. "Excuse me." He stood up, taking his notepad with him. He reached the door and opened it. A few words exchanged; he nodded, and closed the door. He returned to his seat. "Sorry about that, my cleaner."

"Problem?" Patricia asked, sipping her water.

"No, I'm a bit of a germaphobe. She blitzes my office on a daily basis. After each shift, she comes in and works her magic. I couldn’t work here without her, she keeps it spotless."

"Nice."

"It's a little extreme and obsessive but, hey, it keeps my office clean and I know I can relax. However, I'm sorry to interrupt your time for this."

Both parents nodded, accepting the mild interruption.

Dr. Barden nodded. "So, let's continue. Now, what's the boy's name? The boy next door?"

"Mike. Mike King."

"Uh huh." The doctor made a note. "How long have they known one another?"

"Couple of years. We sometimes have him over to the house for dinner. His parents too."

"See, this is good. She has normal friends, normal contact. Or did. This can all help in the long term." Dr. Barden placed his hands on the notepad. He laced his fingers together.

Both of the parents smiled. Bruce placed his hand on Patricia's trembling palm.

"How long has she been exhibiting this…friendship?"

"A week, maybe two. Maybe longer that we don’t know of," Patricia answered, swallowing. Bruce gripped the back of her hand.

"And the friend's name?"

"Charlotte."

"Charlotte?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anyone called Charlotte? Anyone in your family or anyone related to you?"

"No."

"Are there any friends at Amy's school called Charlotte?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"How about anyone who…" Dr. Barden pushed his glasses up his nose. "…passed away?"

"No. Is this important?"

"Could be." Dr. Barden smiled. "It's better to have all the facts before making a diagnosis. Sometimes, it's a phase and passes quite quickly."

"Good to hear. She's been…brighter since it happened."

"Brighter?" Dr. Barden picked up his pen.

"Yes, more outgoing, confident. I've never seen her so happy."

Dr. Barden made a note. "Has she changed in a negative way?"

"No, not that I'm aware of."

Bruce stood up, pushing his chair back. "Doctor, I feel you're wasting our time…"

"Sit down, Bruce," Patricia growled.

"Please sit down, Mr. Brunswick. I just need the facts. Without the facts, I can't help you."

"You're being very blasé." Bruce lowered back into his seat.

"I am?" Dr. Barden set his notepad down on the table beside him and removed his glasses. "Okay. It's your child so I can understand your concern. Fire away. Ask me anything."

Silence filled the room.

Patricia cleared her throat. "What
is
an imaginary friend…I know that sounds daft."

"Not at all. There are no daft questions, only daft answers. Which I aim to avoid. Let me lay it out to you. For various reasons, about seventy percent of children have an imaginary friend at some time in their life. Age varies too. I'll admit, nine is a little old for such a thing but then again, adults have them too so it's not that unusual. Each case is different. The good news is that imaginary friends can help a child develop, increase their social development, and it has been documented that some children with such a friend are more intelligent. How is Amy on an educational level?"

Patricia sat forward. "An excellent student, her grades are very high, consistent."

"So there you go, it's not uncommon. At the moment; it seems harmless and will remain that way. Some imaginary friends exist in a tutelary capacity and I believe Charlotte is acting in this way for Amy. Based on what you've told me."

"Tutelary? Quit with the medical jargon, Doctor." Bruce stroked his chin.

"A guardian or protector. From the Latin definition. Charlotte protects Amy. That much is clear. You said yourself that she's been brighter, more confident since Charlotte appeared. The evidence speaks for itself. Amy feels safe around Charlotte."

Both parents remained silent.

"You may find that, in secret, Amy shares her anxieties and goals with Charlotte, sees her as a companion to struggle through childhood. For some, it's all rainbows and unicorns, but some children mature faster and life starts to test them sooner. I'm not saying you neglect Amy, but you spend a lot of time involved in your careers. Children notice this sort of thing."

"We don’t neglect her. We spend… well, Pat spends time with her. I do on weekends."

"And that's good, don’t get me wrong. You have to remember though, Amy will see her friends at school getting more attention from teachers and parents and she wonders where hers is, subconsciously. Charlotte could be born out of that alone, providing her companionship because, in her mind, she doesn’t get it at home. To a degree that she craves."

"So we spend more time with her. Simple."

"Yes, in theory that's great. Remember this, though; Charlotte is here to stay for now. She's in her head. Just because you spend more time with Amy, you shouldn’t expect Charlotte to leave. It won't happen overnight. Amy has already confided in her. You can't push her out. Amy won't react well to it."

Patricia looked at Bruce.

Bruce looked at his wife. He turned to Dr. Barden. "Can we bring her in, to see you?"

The doctor opened a small black diary. "Of course. I can speak to Amy. I do insist we do it alone, though. No parents allowed. If I'm to help Amy, I need to do it one on one."

"When can you see her?"

Dr. Barden checked his schedule. After a moment, he looked up. "How's Wednesday at one?"

Bruce groaned. "I'm working. I might be able to get it off though."

Patricia nodded. "I'll bring her in. We need to get this looked into."

"I'll still see if I can book holiday, it's important," Bruce uttered.

"I don’t mind coming alone, Bruce," Patricia said wearily.

"I want to be here. For once."

Patricia nodded, saying nothing.

Dr. Barden nodded. "Excellent, I'll schedule you in. Remember; don’t try to force Charlotte out. If you start bonding with Amy, she'll fade gradually. Don’t force it."

"Of course not," said Bruce.

"One more thing, Doctor?" Patricia scratched her cheek. "Does Charlotte appear when Amy is asleep?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Curious is all. It sounds pathetic, but it creeps me out if I go into her room at night now. I'm scared to go and see my little girl. Is that weird?"

Dr. Barden smiled. "Not at all. Parents are usually sceptical about this condition. As long as Amy is asleep or her brain is not functioning—sleep or otherwise—Charlotte will retreat. Amy's brain generates Charlotte, nothing more."

"That's good then." Patricia didn’t seem happy with the answer.

A silence settled between them.

Dr. Barden checked his watch and stood up. "It was nice to meet you. I can’t wait to meet Amy; she seems like a great kid." He handed them a business card. "My information…should you need it."

Both parents nodded. Patricia accepted the card and left the room.

Bruce turned to Dr. Barden. "Doctor…level with me. Can imaginary friends hurt their companions…I mean, can Charlotte hurt Amy or anyone around her?"

"Of course not. It's all in her head. Charlotte is completely harmless."

In the car, Patricia lit a cigarette and toked on it. Bruce climbed in a moment later. He inhaled the smoke. "That smells good."

"Our kid is damaged, isn't she?"

Bruce nodded. "Dr. Barden will make her better."

Patricia frowned and passed the cigarette to her husband. "What about Charlotte?"

"She's gone. We get rid of her. Whatever it takes."

Amy was standing by the counter, taking in the sights, literally like a kid in a candy store. Her last class had let out two minutes earlier; in a rare occurrence, she'd made it to the canteen with little or minimal interaction with other children, meaning she'd got there first. As she stood, marvelling at the delicacies on display, kids were slowly filtering through the door.

The three pounds in her closed fist felt like gold, both in weight and rarity.

Her mother discouraged her from doughnuts and chips and cookies and anything likely to rot her teeth. She understood why, her mother had taught her well in regards to eating properly and maintaining a diet, which wasn’t that difficult considering. 

Today, she didn’t care.

She was going to get the sweetest, most glorious food, and no one was going to stop her.

Not even Ted fucking Fox.

She knew he would show his fat face at some point, as sure as the clock struck twelve twice a day. Until then, she would plan the best lunch she'd had since a Burger King two weeks ago. The thought of a chicken burger made her search the hot food selection. They had two trays of them, glowing under the yellow heat lamps, looking delicious and tempting. As she gazed across the canteen, her mouth opened in awe.

Her eyes were wide with wonder at the selection on display.

Monster Munch, Pringles, Frazzles, Transform-A-Snack, Walkers, Wotsits, Doritos, Quavers and Space Raiders for the crisps. Pepsi, Coke, Tango, Lilt, 7-UP, and Panda Pops—green cola, cherryade, dandelion and burdock, and lemonade—for the fizzy drinks, as well as water, Ribena and Hi Juice. Homemade doughnuts, chips, sausage rolls, cream cakes, bacon sandwiches, waffles, croissants, as well as normal meals like spaghetti bolognese, jacket potatoes, burgers both cheese and chicken, and pizza. To Amy's left, shelved by the till, was a variety of chocolate bars, chewing gum, mints, and confectionary.

Amy flicked her eyes over the menu once more and made her decision. She grabbed a damp tray from the pile and walked towards the queue, which was only three kids long.

"There she is!"

Ted walked over with two new cronies in tow, Sanjay and Lennie. Amy didn’t know either of them; she only knew that Sanjay had transferred recently and was susceptible to bad influence—maybe Ted threatened to sit on him—and Lennie was nobody, a glory hunter. He'd hang around with whoever wanted to kick his arse and be his lapdog, to prevent a pounding. Amy smiled inside, half expecting him to drop to his knees and start panting.

Ted wobbled as he walked over, his mottled belly protruding from beneath his too-tight grey jumper. His face was pink and sweating as he grinned, exposing his badly kept, yellow fangs. Amy wondered how much food passed through those a day.

He pushed a smaller boy, two grades below, out of the way and came face to face with Amy. She didn’t back down or try to run away. She stood her ground.

"Well, well, we meet again, Brunswick."

Amy said nothing. Didn’t react.

"I think you have something for me?"

Again, she didn’t respond. Her eyes roamed from Ted to Sanjay, to Lennie, and back to Ted again. Ted laughed nervously, fazed by the lack of fear from his prey.

"I said…"

"I heard what you said, Ted. No, I don’t have anything for you."

"Really? We’ll see about that."

Ted didn’t do anything. Amy didn’t flinch. Stalemate.

"Will we? Go on then."

Ted laughed nervously and swiped the sweat from his greasy brow. His jowls jiggled with his laughter. He looked to his cronies for confidence and lunged towards Amy, without warning.

Amy was ready for it, and sidestepped.

Ted missed Amy, tripped, and fell forward. His overweight frame slapped the tiled floor with a resounding splat. The slap of fat, sweaty flesh on shiny tiles filled the air. Ted slid for an inch or two with a squeak before coming to a rest. Amy smiled.

Behind her, Lennie and Sanjay stifled a laugh. She turned to them, glared, and turned back to Ted. A second later, Lennie and Sanjay left, walking out of the canteen. A small congregation of nosy children—both boys and girls—replaced them. A few slipped their mobile phones from their pockets.

Ted rolled over, stranded, like a turtle lying on its shell. He managed to balance himself on the self-serve shelf and struggled to his feet, panting and perspiring. Two girls walked past him, chatting and giggling, and shot him a disparaging look as they joined the small queue behind him. Ted looked down and noticed his shirt had ridden up his chest, exposing his fat belly. The first scar-like signs of stretch marks decorated his sides. He quickly hustled the material down, covering his modesty. His embarrassed eyes filled with rage.

"You'll pay for this, Brunswick."

He stormed forward, eyes on Amy. As he neared, Amy shot her foot out and kicked him in the balls. The solid thud of leather shoe on squashed genitals was sudden, forceful, and loud. An uncomfortable
thunk
filled the air. A chorus of 'Ohhhh' erupted throughout the canteen as a couple of onlookers witnessed it. Two held out expensive mobile phones and started recording.

"Someone kicked Lead Ted in the nuts!"

"Amy Brunswick, you leg-end!"

"Woot! I didn’t know he had balls!"

Ted whimpered, his pre-pubescent voice emitting a girlish squeal of anguish as he fell to his knees and started to cry. A low, whining mewl escaped his lips as he bowed forward. As he did, Amy reached in and placed a palm on his shoulder, stopping him mid keel. "If you ever,
ever
, touch me again, you fat piece of shit, I will cut your fucking tongue out, do you hear me?"

Ted's eyes widened and he squealed again, petrified.

"Do you
hear
me?"

Ted nodded slowly, confused. Amy released him and he fell to the ground in a blubbering pile. She tossed a fifty pence piece at him. "Get yourself an oatmeal bar or something healthy, looks like you need it. Fat fuck."

Amy smiled, stepped over him, and joined the queue, collecting her tray as before. Eyes watched her as she went. A mixture of awe, pride and amazement flashed between the students. No one came near her, respecting her space. Amy smiled again and looked at the elderly dinner lady behind the counter, who eyed her nervously.

"Yes, dear?"

"Can I get some chips, a sausage roll, and a green Panda Pop please?"

Amy closed the door and dropped her bag on the floor. She walked to the stairs and took them two at a time. After a moment, she entered her bedroom and closed it behind her. Then, all was silent.

Bruce awoke on his couch, aware of some commotion in the household. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and lit a cigarette, toked a lungful of it and held it in. A huge plume of smoke escaped his lungs and lips and he sighed in pleasure.

"Fantastic. Just what I needed."

He stood up, arched his back with a crack, and walked into the empty kitchen. Peering at the clock on the wall, he noticed the time. Pat wouldn’t be home yet, Amy was probably on her way. He opened the fridge and removed a carton of orange juice. Popping the lid, he swallowed a huge mouthful. He put the carton back and sighed.

His bare feet padded the tiles and moved to carpet as he walked into the hallway, beside the stairs. Glancing up and down the hallway, making sure the coast was clear, he opened the liquor cabinet and removed a half empty bottle of Jim Beam. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. He hissed, feeling the amber liquid burn its way to his stomach. He coughed and smiled. "Shit, that never gets old." He took a second swig, screwed the lid back on, returned the bottle, and walked back to the kitchen.

A creak on the stairs froze him in his tracks.

Bruce didn’t move. He listened, straining his ears in the infinite silence. "Who's there?"

No answer.

Did Amy come home yet?

Bruce turned and walked into the hallway, passed the liquor cabinet and reached the foot of the stairs. He glanced upwards into the darkness of the upstairs landing. The low sound of music, from one of Amy's shows—the title escaped him—was playing from her room. He spun around and spotted her shoes and bag and smiled, relieved. The creak could have come from upstairs.

Bruce, a smile back on his face, walked into the dining room and cut back to the kitchen. He whistled as he went.

Upstairs, Amy's bedroom door opened. Amy looked up. "Where have you been, Charlotte?"

The bedroom door then closed.