Mountains of the Moon (25 page)

HERE WE GO…

Oh.

“Hi. Quentin,” I yells.

Quentin? Fat lips, red like he’s wearing lipstick. Socks. No trousers. Where’s the lion? Gwen jigs to turn the stereo down, always turns it up for an hour first. Uh-huh. Dog has stuffed its head under a cushion, can’t listen or look. I grims. Quentin takes his glasses off, dries them on the bottom of his shirt. Reckon he’s made of pure fat, int got no actual bones. Gwen changes the record, ripping into “Jolene.”

Oh fuck, now she’s rumpelling me.

Stereo tower. Calor gas fire. Paris painting. Sewing box. Wing chair. Plain navy sofa. Where’s all the stuff? I swim off long the landing, vaults down the stairs in my new fleet-flying shoes. Fucking Quentin? I make a coffee, sees how my bedroom is, sactly. Peach. Never been a bed or pajama person. I just nap in my coat, dreams up my fluted cuffs. Pale. Spects it’s a guest bedroom but nobody came. It int for long, it just needs something.
Like a screwdriver so I can prize the hardboard off the fireplace, reckon there’s a grate behind it. The wall lights work. The French doors bash open onto broken paving. I duck out, smell the lilac and it int even opened yet. There’s a shed around the corner, dry, nothing in it. I sit under the lilac on an upturned bucket, smoke a cigarette with tweezers. Gwen’s turned the stereo up. Listen.

…YOU MUST BE MISTAKEN, I’M SURE THAT YOU ARE,

THERE’S MORE THAN ONE CAR—WITH STICKERS ON…

Gwen’s ex-fiancé, Ian, that took her to Paris the one time, is probably using a similar line to the new woman he wants to marry. Is there more than one redhead in a gray Audi Quattro with a kicked-in nearside wing and loads of straw in the back? Last week Gwen went to meet him at a service station on the M5. Rendezvous, she called it. The lengths she had to go to, to get Ian to agree, and then she wore a black basque and stockings under her mac. I get up and pick about in bricks and couch grass. We’ve got a washing-up bowl for a pond, bright with beads of duckweed. Pretty. We’ve got early rhubarb; I tug at a few young stems. Stand in the kitchen looking at the rhubarb on the counter, the ruby rub on the stems, the heavy veins in the flop of the leaves, the waxy shine on the white root cuffs, the fine lacy membrane.

The bed can go in the shed for starters and all the furniture. Or I can? I take my time thinking about it and then roll the bed base out the back, nice to think of something that int numbers and odds. When I’ve got my room empty I clean the glass in the French doors and run the Hoover around. Then go hunting, in the front dining room. Still int friendly. Something crashes upstairs; hear Gwen running long the landing from her bedroom to change the record in the lounge.

“Louder! Louder-louder!” Quentin begs from the bedroom.

At work they say his dad is so rich he goes about in a helicopter.

“Louder-louder!”

“How loud can you take it, boyo?” Gwen shouts from the lounge.

Where’s all the stuff? Cupboard under the stairs? Uh-huh. Drums is piled, drums on drums. I get the lion by its ruff.

It’s real.

And other skins.

And spears.

Brings back my kills.

…THE PHANT-TOM OF THE OP-ERA IS HERE…

Hang masks over the wall lights.

…INSIDE YOUR MIND

Red Roofs Detention Center

Dingles Farm

Dingles Lane

Egham

Surrey

Surprises me, Miss Connor is coming to see me at two o’clock. Don’t spect she’ll like Red Roofs much. Sarah from Social Services brung me a pair of sneakers and a brown skirt and a brown top. Sneakers is both left feets. Sarah said make do for now, next week she’ll buy the two right feets and then I’ll have two pairs. Everybody else is over in the classrooms cept me. Even though the boys int here the noise they made still is and the mess. I go in the dinner room so I can see Miss Connor coming. I hope she don’t tell my mum where I is, wonders if it’s a trap, that’s how come
I get the drumming and my hands start sweating. I sit up on the windersill to watch and wait.

She’s still got her blue Morris Minor. It stops at the gates. She gets out to ring the buzzer and talk to Mr. Jim and he presses for the gates to open and closes them up gain behind her. It’s just Miss Connor on her own; she’s got a greyhound dog in the back. She sits in the car with the winder open finishing her cigarette. When she gets out her skirts gets caught and then she drops her bag. Everything has fallen out, files and papers. Quick she sprays some odorant under her arms. And a different spray on her tongue. She don’t like smelling of cigarettes, flaps her hands around her head. Then tucks her blouse back in and pulls up her socks. Then she goes back in the car for a tissue and blows her nose and makes sure her nostils is clean. Then she shuts her skirt in the door and when she opens it gain, the dog jumps out and runs around the garden. She whistles it loud with two fingers and it comes straight back, that’s how come I love Miss Connor and she still int got no ears. I wishes the boys don’t come and smash her car up. She rings the doorbell. Mr. Jim lets her in.

“Lulu!” she says. “Class hasn’t been the same without you!”

“Hello, Miss Connor.” Words is thin, squeezed out past my tonsils.

I spects us to go in a visitors’ room but stead we sit in the kitchen, long as Miss Joyce don’t find out. Mr. Jim makes us a pot of tea cos there int no boys to piss in it. I want to drink mine quick, but can’t cos it is too hot. My tongue is furry. Shivers run up the back of my legs. My hands is trembly on my lap.

“What’s your dog called, Miss Connor?” I arsts.

“Thomas Hardy,” she says.

I reckon it’s a good name.

“Do you remember this?” She gets a folder out of her bag. She’s got mud under her nails and the polish is all chipped off. Then I see it writ:
mountins of the moon–part two
.

“Have you written any more?” she arsts.

I shake my head.

“What you need to do is write down what happens next. What happens next?”

“Don’t know, Miss Connor,” I says. Wonders if she thinks this place is Butlins.

“Just make it up.” She minds me of my grandad. Don’t spect he knows nothing, even where I is. Don’t want him to be upset case it gives him headache. I look at my words:
mountins of the moon
. Grandad invented the whole world.

I don’t feel proper, got snot. My head does a swirl. I bite my lip hard and sit on my fingers, sees the kitchen cupboards coming in and out and Mr. Jim itching his head cos everybody got the fleas.

“She’s under a lot of stress,” he says. “No one gets any sleep; she’s got a bit of a fever.”

Things is trembly, don’t know how come. Miss Connor puts her cardigan around my shoulders. Wonders if you can die from tired. Fleas. I has to sits on my hands case I scratches, they makes me worster than a nutter. The telephone rings in the office and Mr. Jim goes to answer it.

“Would you write to me, Lulu?” Miss Connor arsts. “And I’ll write back, letters are the best thing ever.”

She does her address on a bit of paper with a swirly pen. It int her house cos it’s St. Paul’s School.

“I saw Mr. Draper in town the other day,” she says.

“Is he a teacher?” I arsts.

“No,” she says. “I thought he was a friend of yours, he asked me if I’d seen you, wondered if you’d moved or if you were still at school. I told him I was coming to see you today and he sends his love. He says he’ll see you soon.”

“Mr. Draper?” I says.

“He said you were good friends?”

My hearts start beating backward. My fingers make me a prayer. It’s the Sandwich Man. It’s the Sandwich Man.

Ten. Nine. Eight.
Mr. Jim comes in the kitchen.

“I has to go to the toilet,” I says.

Seven. Six.
I run up the stairs quick. From the winder on the top landing I look out cross the road. He’s in the black Capri; his arm comes out the winder and waves. Then I knows. He int never going to stop cos now I is too good, like a game.

Sporting chance.
I hang on to the wall and follow it back long to my room.
Coming—ready or not.

“Catherine?” Mr. Jim comes in my room. “What’s the matter?”

I can’t say nothing, all these peoples is killing me.

“I’ll tell Miss Connor that you don’t feel well, she can come another time.”

I try to say sorry but it won’t come out, gets tangled around my tonsils and down in my guts. Mr. Jim grabs at me and I flaps like a bird in the corner.

“It’s all right, Catherine,” he says. “It’s all right.”

It int all right. Int nothing all right. He’s got me clamped, walking up and down. I got Mr. Jim inside my face. He looks like terrified.

“I can’t read your mind,” he says. “Can’t read your mind.”

I kick hard and he drops me.

“Stay way from me,” I says, “cos I’ll kick your teef in.”

Mr. Jim looks stonished. Like I done a disappointment. He goes out of my room, looks back like a naughty dog. Int proper, he’s more scareder than me. I slam my door and rip the picture off the wall, this int fairy tales and horses int never got a horn. Don’t want sneakers cos I slings them off. I get the drumming and start to run, til stitches on both sides is killing. Come on. Sweat drips off my fringe, makes me blind. Ha-ha-ha!

“Come on, then!” I yells up at the ceiling and the gods. The drumming comes together like the sound of people clapping. Then Miss Joyce turn the keys in the door, locks me in case I kill her.

Bed has moved all wonky cross. We been in a fight. Eyes can’t get open proper, feels like a fat lip and hair pulled. It’s early, mist and birds lifting. I got blood on my fingers, some of my nails is off. Got blood all on the skirting boards. Around the winder. Poured down the door. Got crusty
under my nose and on my chin. Got lumps of hair on the bed. I careful touches my head. Uh-huh.

Keys turn in the lock. My door squeaks open wide as a yawn. It’s Miss Joyce.

“Mr. Lawson is here with Detective Cooper to—”

She can’t come in, table from sides my bed is upside down and in the way, from where I smashed the ceiling down. Wires from the light dangle down and fizz where they touches together. The wardrobe int a wardrobe no more. We listens to the small sounds of rubble trying to get comfortable. Miss Joyce shifts. A piece of broken glass from the bulb breaks smaller under her shoe. I done a shit on a bit of plaster and left it by the door, balancing nice on a table leg.

Miss Joyce looks at it.

I look at Miss Joyce.

“Have you got anything to say for yourself?”

“Fuck you,” I says. But my voice int there, total gone, from all night screaming, screaming, screaming,
Miss Joyce, I needs the toilet
.

“Fuck you.”

“No need to thank me,” she says. “Let’s have you downstairs. Put your shoes on first because of the glass.”

She int real. I walk over a piece of the wardrobe to get my sneakers. I pick one up and pour the piss out like from a teapot. We watch it splash on the broken drawers and soak up in the plaster dust. I sit down on my bed and put the sneakers on. In the corridor I stop at the bathroom door, spects I can wash the blood off my face.

“No time for that,” she says. “They’re waiting for you.”

I follow Miss Joyce. Walking rips the scab on my knee and a line of blood trickles down, sounds is squelching out footprints. Boys is like wallpaper waiting to watch me coming. Night staffs and day staffs. Nobody don’t say nothing. Even Liam don’t say nothing. Boys all follow us down the stairs. Mr. Jim tends he don’t know me.

“Does it hurt, Catherine?” Toby is running long sides. “Does it, does it hurt, Catherine, does it?”

They stand up when I come in. I has to lock my knees case they does
a dip. Detective Cooper’s a sausage, cooked in the sun yesterday. Mr. Lawson is being my barrister, he always is brand new. Words is scared to come on their lips, case they would arst me how I is. Mr. Lawson looks at his watch and his cufflinks shine two suns on the ceiling.

“Sit down, Catherine,” Detective Cooper says.

Mr. Lawson pulls a chair out for me but my knees is locked, that’s how come I stay where I is. They looks at each other. They looks at me. They looks at their fingernails, sees if they got any dirt. Mr. Lawson looks at his watch. Detective Cooper looks for clues up Mr. Lawson’s sleeve. We all look up at the two suns. We all looks down at my bits of knees and two left feets. I got a flicker in one eyelid and blood pumping a lump of lip.

“We wanted to ask you about this, Catherine.” Detective Cooper puts my scrapbook on the table, fat with leaves and pressed flowers.

Housemistress Julie is on duty tonight. Mr. Jim is with her, lucky he int my friend no more. Noise is worster than hell on earth, that’s what Miss Julie reckons. Boys don’t want to go to bed, bashing and shouting til they get locked in. Then they yell out through the spyholes a game called Who’s a Twat, and anybody can join in. They gave me this room now cos mine int no good. Toby is next door. Crying gain. Sounds like stuck.