Retard (7 page)

“Hey,” he called, poking his head from the network of twisted branches. “Kelsey!”

The girl looked back over her shoulder.

“Come here.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” his mother screamed, clamping a hand on the side of his neck, fingers clawing at the collarbone. Her other remained open, palm whipping hard slaps about his cheeks and head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

She threw him back on the bed.

“I’m sorry!” he wailed. “I’m sorry sorry sorry…”

His mother pointed. “Did you? The things your teacher said. Did you?”

Wesley shuffled back until the wall ponded against his head.

“Did you?” she screamed.

He wrapped his arms around her, not knowing how stiff and awkward a girl can be. Weren’t they meant to melt into one’s embrace? In The Fabled Four, it was always Yorin who said to the maiden “Your village is safe now” or “Dragonclaw is finished!” and the girl, always blonde and in white robes, would collapse onto him, burying her face into his bulging shoulder.

“You need to lie down,” he said to Kelsey.

She resisted at first, probably because everyone had gone inside. The deserted playground had fallen deathly silent. The ground was hard and rough. He encouraged her down and with a rapidly weakening defiance, she sank to the ground and lay beside him.

Wesley lay down too.

“You upset because of Lucy and Pete?” he said. “Pete’s a bastard, and Lucy’s a bitch.” He covered his mouth and giggled.

Kelsey stared up at the sky through the thin cover of prickly bush.

He’d seen how to make girls feel better. Sometimes he was awoken by sounds from his mum’s room, the times she had an uncle come to visit. He crept from his bed, sure that the strange man was hurting her, and pushed her door ajar.

Most of the times, they would wrestle, their glistening naked bodies slapping against each other.

The first time he’d screamed and dashed into her bedroom, dead set on making him pay, making him regret he’d ever laid a hand on her. That’s what The Fabled Four would do; they always defended the weak. Yet his mum had jumped up with a yelp, wrapping herself with the duvet and yelling at him to get out. One time he’d been pulled from sleep by the sound of her laughter and contented sighs. Again, sneaking from his bed and down the landing to her bedroom door, he’d peeked inside.

His mother, naked once more, lay on the bed, her feet pointed towards the door, legs apart. He remembered her toes curling, like she was being tickled.

His newest uncle lay beside her, eyes closed and kissing. His arm reached past her stomach, and his hand lay embedded in the triangle of thick hair where her legs met. Wesley had gasped. He thought he’d knew his mother completely but here was something new that caused his insides to squirm.

She had more down there, something folded back by his uncle’s circling finger. Pink folds had swelled, a secret, a horrible sight that twisted his insides tight. His heart choked. Still, he stood transfixed, somehow aware that this would change things, and he could not shy away.

“You like that?” asked his uncle, oblivious to the spectator.

“Mmm,” she moaned. “Yeah…”

Wesley knew how to make a girl feel better.

Her right hand shot at his face, smashing his head back. In the familiar instant, the hot sting of a slap was strangely absent yet lightning seemed to flash through his cheek and eye.

“It’s hard enough!” she roared. “Why do have to pull this kind of shit all the goddamn time?”

Wesley barely heard, the pain surrounding his head like an angry cloud that roiled and churned. Lying back on the bed, he pressed a hand against his face and screamed.

“A little girl,” his mother continued to rave. “This isn’t getting out of bed at night. This isn’t wrecking the fucking bathroom. Do you have any idea what this means? No. Of course you don’t. You’re a fucking retard.” She kicked his leg, which he pulled up onto the bed and tightened into a ball. “Stupid, stupid fucking spastic! You hear me?”

She rained further blows over him, slaps to the head, shoulder and hip, before standing back, gasping.

“What am I going to do?” Her voice quivered. “What
the fuck
am I supposed to do now?

“Please,” he cried but it hurt to speak, sending sharp electric jolts through his face.

He looked up and she had gone. The door slammed, and chair legs rasped against the carpet outside.

9.

Her Cianzano had all but gone, leaving only a trickle, nowhere near enough for a decent drink. Christine reached further into the cupboard, fingers seeking out the smooth neck of another bottle, any bottle.

What did I do to deserve this? she thought. Maybe Mum was right and all whores do go to Hell. What kind of God would condemn a young woman to a life as shitty as this, all because of a one night stand?

She tried to remember the face of Wesley’s father. Time had further clouded her recollection of the drunken night. Wesley shared her own dark blonde hair and narrow features, offering no indication of the shape and colour of his co-creator. You always remembered good sex. No matter how many cocktails you’d drank or how much powder went up your nose, you always remembered the good sex afterwards. All she recalled from the night of Wesley’s inception had been the empty bed come morning.

Aha!

She fished a bottle from the very back of the cupboard. Vodka, cheap, but enough remaining for a few decent-sized drinks. A suitable match for the non-brand lemonade she’d taken from the fridge as a mixer.

A couple of Sally’s presents remained inside, both foreign bottles with unreadable labels, Christine’s emergency spirits.

His father, had he been mental too? Back in your early twenties you thought you were invincible, that the world owed you success and that you could drink until the sun came up. Had she been so smashed as to not notice any weird behaviour? Had he too been standing at the edge of the dance floor in the club, segregated from the rest, sucking his hand?

“Fuck you,” she said, pouring a generous amount of the vodka into a glass. “Where ever you are.”

Wesley could stay in his room another day. Just being around him made her so
angry
. She’d decided the best course of action was for the two of them to stay apart while her blood cooled. But then?

What am I going to do? she thought again.

Returning to school was not an option. They’d already labelled him as some kind of deviant, and she couldn’t stand the thought of yet more accusing glares and whispers behind her back. No. A whole new school come next term; a place where they could start afresh.

No, fuck settling for a new school. A new town, a new life. Nothing kept them in this shithole. They could get out of the city, move to a small town in the country, a place where the people were friendly and kindly neighbours offered to babysit while she worked her new job. Yeah, that was the way.

She took a long gulp of the vodka. The lemonade had been sat in the fridge a while, cold and flat. Perfect.

She swallowed. “And how do you intend to that, eh? Money. Everything needs fucking money.”

She retired to the lounge, kicked off her shoes and lay on the sofa.

Start small, she reasoned. A single aim. Work from there.

“Christ,” she muttered, shaking her hand. The first two knuckles throbbed like she’d bruised the soft flesh in-between. Might have really knocked some sense into the boy this time. She hadn’t heard a peep from upstairs. No creeping around his room. No thuds as thrown toys hit the walls. Nothing.

That’s it. That’s my small start. Wesley. He’s home every day for the next three weeks, with no schoolyard bullies or inept teachers. I could really make a difference.

She sipped from her cool glass.

Christmas is nearly here. To straighten Wesley out and have a nice Christmas, just the two of us, that’s my goal. Might need to find a few quid to fatten out the pile under the tree, but being a good parent costs nothing.

Christine checked her watch. Sally should be home from work, unless she’d decided to go drinking with Jason down at the pub.

She walked into the short hallway, wincing from the cold draught on her toes that seeped from under the front door. Picking up the phone, she dialled Sally’s number, placing her drink on the small table and playing with the cord.

“Come on, Sal.”

Her friend answered after a few rings, sounding impatient. “Yeah?”

“Sally, it’s me. Just wondering if you talked to Jason about The Fabled Four toy for Wes. You know, from that guy.”

“Not yet,” she said, “but we’re heading down the pub now. Jason has a pool comp. I’ll speak to the guy for you, unless you want to come down too?”

Christine circled the rim of her glass with a finger. She’d had a taste now, and nothing would be better than to join her friend for a proper drink. None of this cheap fake shit. A decent cocktail or even an ice cold beer with her friend would hit the spot. And pool! She hadn’t played pool in years. Might even be some nice guys down there if a comp was on.

She gripped the handset tighter.

“Sorry but Wesley’s sick. Only person I’d trust to babysit him is you.”

They had a quick catch up, Christine leaving out the morning’s adventure at the school, before both hung up. Christine prayed that the bloke would be at the pub and still had that action figure for sale.

It can be his reward. Once I can pull his head from the clouds and have him behaving.

***

The bottle certainly did have a few good drinks left. Christine poured the remainder into the glass, her third, and the lemonade was running out quicker than the vodka. This would be a strong one.

Just right, she thought and smiled, feeling the booze rush through her blood, wrapping her body in a cosy, tingling blanket. Just numb enough to deal with him.

Testing the drink with a small sip, and by Christ it
was
strong, she plodded from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. She clicked on the light. Leaving Wesley to think about his actions had swallowed up the day. Night reigned at the windows. Ghostly light flickered from the television screen in the lounge.

Christine had stripped down to her night attire: underwear and a hanging nightie, this one sporting a sleeping dog in a nightcap. She ascended the stairs with her arm outstretched to the side, pressing against the wall for balance while nursing her drink with her free hand.

“Wesleeeeey,” she called and giggled. He’d be so happy to finally be allowed out of his room. “Wesleeeey…”

The chair from the kitchen remained wedged under his doorhandle. Unless he’d somehow slipped out of the window—which wouldn’t surprise her—her son had actually stayed in his room. For once! Is this all it took to outsmart the little shit? Some good ol’ fashioned, Great British discipline?

She approached the chair and gave it and experimental rattle. Still holding fast.

Smiling, Christine pulled it free and placed it to the side. No doubt she would be requiring its loyal service again in the near future. She opened the door, expecting to find Wesley playing at the centre of his brightly lit room or reading on the bed.

The door opened to darkness. Only the streetlight could be seen, lighting the thin curtains in a hazy rectangle.

“Wesley?”

She gripped the door frame and edged inside, hand searching for the light switch.

This was not like her son, not at all. He would barely sleep in a pitch-black room in the middle of the night, let alone a relatively early evening. Not that he was afraid of the dark, just Wesley had more energy than other children, an endless reserve of play that could never be turned off by an exhausted mother. No, this did not sit right one little bit.

“Wes? Sweetie?”

The sudden unease squeezed her heart, and with all the alcohol still swimming through her system, Christine swallowed down her rising nausea. The smell in here didn’t help either. The fresh and soapy scents from Wesley’s fun in the bathroom still filled the landing, but in here it smelled like a zoo. How long had it been? A day? Two? Her vodka-addled head failed to grip the numbers.

“Please.”

Christine froze at the word. It had leaked from the darkness; the croak of a swollen toad in a dank, stinking cave, or the voice of a troll under a bridge, asking for help, deceiving and evil.

“Wesley?”

Silence for a moment, followed by another dry, weak “Please.”

Her fingers had found only smooth wallpaper but now she felt the plastic casing of the light switch and turned it on.

Wesley’s room looked the same as ever: toys scattered about the carpet and brightly painted, mismatched wooden furniture pushed against the walls, his desk piled high with books, paper and pens.

Her son lay in bed on top of his blankets, watching her. He seemed thinner than ever, his eyes small yet sharp. His narrow chest barely rose with each breath, and she heard each one, a pant like a dog trapped in a hot car.

“Drink,” he hissed, staring at the glass in her hand.

“Jesus,” muttered Christine, stepping closer.

His left cheek seemed flatter compared to its counterpart, the eye above it bloodshot and shimmering with tears. It burned a fevered crimson.

“Drink…”

Reacting, she nearly handed him the vodka. “I…I’ll get you one.”

Leaving him delirious on the bed, Christine retreated from the room and staggered onto the landing, the glass to her lips. The vodka was gone in three quick swallows.

***

He lay dozing on the sofa, his head propped up with pillows, his feet resting in her lap. They both stared blankly at the small television screen. To try and make him feel better, Christine had played his Fabled Four video, the one Sally had made him, taping an episode over the last few Saturday mornings. Wesley had watched it over and over again already but never seemed to grow weary of the repeated adventures and quests. In this particular episode, the boy—who she believed to be some kind of shit magician?—had made friends with a race of tiny bug creatures. The swarm followed him around; an obedient pet that looked like an oil spill. Christine couldn’t think of anything creepier.