Taking Flight (22 page)

‘Ouch!' he said and pulled away suddenly.

‘What?'

‘Something sharp just stabbed me!'

I was still clutching Declan's fleece. The something sharp was an envelope poking out of the pocket. I pulled it out. It was grubby and smeared with blood and pebble-dashed with gravel.

It was addressed to me.

Chapter 39

DECLAN

2.35. 2.37. 2.37 still.

I try not to look but the clock's right in front of me and I can't move my head cause it's full of concrete. When I close my eyes the concrete turns to cotton wool and then the film starts up again. The Flight film's all mixed up with Barry and the steps and waiting by the waste ground and Mum. Sometimes I forget I'm here in Colette's house and I'm still at the bottom of the steps, only Flight is there too, bleeding everywhere and I hear footsteps and I think it's Mum but oh, God, it's Barry –

‘Hey.' Something touches my arm and I flinch. ‘It's OK; you're dreaming.' Colette.

I can't be dreaming, I'm not asleep, but it's too hard to try to tell her. I open my eyes. 3.19. Colette's sitting beside me, still holding my arm. My breath pushes out in painful gasps. The sheets are twisted sweatily round my legs and my T-shirt's stuck to me.

‘Sorry,' I whisper.

‘You didn't wake me. I'm meant to be waking
you
, every hour, just to check you haven't gone unconscious.'

‘I haven't.'

‘Good.' She pushes the damp hair back from my forehead, very gently, avoiding the place where the staples are. ‘You feel hot.'

I try to shift but darts of pain from my shoulder stab through me.

‘You can take more painkillers soon,' says Colette. ‘Can I get you anything else?' While she speaks she straightens out the sheets. I can feel her getting ready to go, thinking about her own, nice, quiet room. The only thing I want, apart from the pain to go away, is not to be on my own.

‘No,' I say.
You don't like asking for help, do you
? ‘Uhh – would you stay with me?'

She sits down beside me. ‘Of course I will. It'll seem better in the morning.'

I close my eyes but I'm wide awake.

‘Declan, love,' she whispers. ‘Where's your mum?'

‘Barry's.'

‘Drinking?'

I can't nod, it hurts my head too much, but for some reason I don't want to say yes.

But she knows. ‘Oh, Declan.' She sounds sad. ‘Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you phone?'

‘You know why.' I bite my lip.

‘Because of Flight?'

‘Uh-huh.' I'm not hot now. I'm shivering.

‘That wouldn't have made any difference.'

‘You couldn't have done anything.'

‘I could have … oh, I don't know. How long has she been at Barry's? I thought they split up ages ago?'

I wish. ‘Dunno.' When I try to think my head throbs. ‘Wednesday.'

‘Wednesday!'

‘It's OK. I don't mind. It was just –' I remember the cold seeping through the house like despair. ‘The electric ran out and there was no food. That's why I went round there.'

Colette sighs. ‘I've always known she drank. But not like
that
.'

What does she mean
always
? Mum only started drinking – really drinking – when I got into trouble. If my head wasn't so sore I'd ask her but the effort of thinking up the words is too much.

When Colette speaks again it's her remembering voice. ‘I suppose she always drank too much, even when we were kids. She and your dad used to get carry-outs and drink in the park. Everyone did. Well, except me. I was the goody-goody.'

‘She drank
then
?'

‘Oh yes. They always said there was nothing else to do. I used to worry because your mum's mum died young – when we were eighteen. And
she
was an alcoholic. But Theresa always told me to lighten up, that I was just
boring
. She calmed down when she got married. Then when Gerard died I suppose it was one of the ways she coped.'

My head tries to adjust to this new idea of Mum drinking before I was born. Drinking when I was a kid. When
she
was a kid. A bit of a laugh down the park. I remember my birthday. The smash of the empty bottle. Puking in an alley. That hadn't been a laugh.

‘But it got worse when Gran died.'

‘Maybe. And you probably started to notice more then, because your gran wasn't around any more.'

I shiver.

‘Declan, you do know Gran had a bad heart, don't you? She didn't … it wasn't anything to do with you, her dying. I mean, just in case you ever worried about that.'

The pain in my arm's clutching me tight. I don't want to cry but the pressure's building up behind my eyes.

‘OK,' Colette says. ‘More painkillers, I think.' She pats my good arm. ‘I won't be a minute.'

She comes back with two cups of tea, the tablets and a hot water bottle, and helps me to sit up. My whole body feels like someone jumped on it wearing hobnailed boots. I wonder where I'd be now if I'd fallen down the whole flight of steps. Or if I hadn't phoned Colette's number. Or if Vicky had told me to piss off.

* * *

I stretch out my foot and wiggle the tap for more hot water. It gushes out in a lovely swirl. My bruises look darker under the water and the cuts stung when I first got in but now they've stopped. Colette put some sort of smelly stuff in the water – lavender or something. ‘It'll help your aches and pains.'

I close my eyes and think about washing myself but if I just lie here the dirt'll melt away in the hot water.

‘Declan!' I must have been half-asleep because I jolt and splash at Colette's voice. ‘I've left you some clothes on your bed.'

I remember what my own clothes were like last night – bloody and torn. I can't put them on again. Does that mean I'll have to wear girls' clothes? Vicky's
knickers
? But the trackie bottoms and sweatshirt neatly folded on the bed look like boys' all right and the boxers definitely are.

‘Rory left them in for you,' Colette explained.

My head's OK but the rest of me is one huge ache. I lie on the sofa with a duvet, sometimes watching TV, mostly half-dozy. Colette footers about, in and out of the room, but dead quietly. It feels unreal. I just lie there in Rory's too-big old clothes and concentrate on not thinking.

I jerk out of sleep to find Vicky sitting beside me reading a horsey magazine. When she sees I'm awake she chews her lips and says, ‘Um, hello.'

‘I thought you'd be at your Dad's,' I say. ‘Is it not Saturday?'

‘I'm going in a while,' she says. ‘I wanted to see you first. I got your letter.'

For a few seconds I don't know what she means. Then I remember. ‘Oh.'

There's an embarrassed silence; I feel crap and I suppose she does too.

‘I wanted to say sorry,' I say at last. ‘Like, right from the start. I just didn't know how to.' She doesn't reply; she's not going to make it easy. I swallow. ‘I know sorry's not enough, and I know a letter's a bit … but anyway, I … you know…'

She looks at her magazine. ‘I know it was partly my fault. But I honestly
didn't
tell Cam. I wouldn't have done that. I was just … I was jealous of you. The way you were with Flight. It seems so stupid now. And last night …' She looks like she's going to cry.

I don't know what to say. I never thought for a second that she didn't tell Cam. My head's throbbing again. I lean back against the arm of the sofa and close my eyes.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yeah.' I try to keep my eyes open.

‘Will I get you a cup of tea?'

‘OK, thanks.'

I kind of know she doesn't want to say any more for now and that suits me. I drink the tea and she goes to her dad's and I ride out the afternoon on a fuzz of painkillers. I'm never really asleep but I'm not awake either.

But when the doorbell goes it makes me jump. Rory? But the voice that's following Colette's down the hall, getting louder, isn't Rory's. It's Mum's.

She pushes in, in front of Colette. ‘Oh, my baby!' Her face is blotchy and puffy. She looks wrong in this room. ‘Oh, Christ, look at the state of you.'

I struggle to sit up. ‘I'm OK.'

Colette's eyes suddenly blaze. ‘No, he is
not
OK,' she says. She turns to me. ‘Don't you dare pretend everything's OK!'

Mum's eyes, huge in her thin face, dart from me to Colette.

‘You weren't so worried about him when you let that … that
animal
throw him down the stairs and leave him. God, Theresa, you're lucky he wasn't killed!'

‘I know, I know, you don't have to tell me!' she sobs.

‘
Someone
has to tell you! You do know you left him on his own with no electric, no heating, no
food
– God, Theresa, I know you have a problem but that's just –'

‘Don't you dare tell me how –'

I leap up. ‘STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!'

There's a stunned silence. The only thing I can hear is my own harsh breathing and somewhere outside a car starting. The shouting and jumping make my head swim and I slump back down on to the sofa. Mum plonks herself down beside me. She reeks of smoke and drink and too much perfume and under that, stale sweat. She's my
mother and the smell of her makes me heave. She tries to put her arm round me, wrecking my shoulder, and I flinch away with a yell.

‘Oh, baby, I'm so sorry.' She explodes into hideous, snotty crying. ‘I never knew. God's my judge, I never knew.'

I hunch over and try to block her out.

Colette folds her arms and looks at Mum like she's disgusted. ‘Theresa, have you
any
idea what would have happened if he hadn't had the sense to phone us?'

‘I know, I know.' Her mood does that sudden flip that makes her so hard to keep up with. ‘I was asleep, I never even heard the door. And then when I was heading out this morning I found this at the bottom of the steps.' She pulls my beanie hat out of her pocket. ‘And … and bloodstains.' She shudders.

I wish she would shut up. I don't want all this drama. I want everyone to leave me alone. But no chance.

‘I done no good till I found you, son! None! And when you weren't at home I was heart-scared.' She fumbles for her cigarettes and then catches Colette's eye. ‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Colette. I suppose you don't even let people smoke in your precious mansion.'

‘It's her house,' I find myself bursting out and she and Mum both give me funny looks.

‘Come on.' Colette suddenly takes charge. ‘I think you and I need to have a chat, Theresa. I'll put the kettle on and find you an ashtray. Declan,' she turns to me, ‘just give me a bit of time with your mum, OK?'

You're welcome to her, I feel like saying, but I don't. I'm just glad Vicky isn't here to see my mum like this. I switch the football on and leave them to it. I don't care what they're saying.

Mum's eyes are red when she comes back in but she's calmer. ‘I'm sorry, son.'

‘You always say that.' I press my lips together so tight that I'm biting them. I've always made it too easy for her. I always let on to believe her because I've always
wanted
to believe her, but not this time. I worked it out while I was half-watching Newcastle hammer Liverpool – this time she went too far. Nothing has ever been as bad as waking up at the bottom of those steps, watching my blood seep into the concrete and knowing that my mum was upstairs, hammered, letting it happen. Nothing. Not Gran – and God knows I felt bad enough about that, I know what everyone was saying. Not being sent away; not even finding her unconscious the day all this started.

‘I know.' She tries to take my hand but I fold my arms even though it wrecks my shoulder. ‘Look, I … I've got a drink problem.' She looks down at her hands.

‘I kind of noticed.'

‘Come on,' she wheedles. ‘Don't make this harder for me. I've been telling myself it wasn't too bad, I could handle it. I wasn't drinking in the mornings; I was keeping the house clean, but …' Her chin wobbles and I dig my nails into my arms. If I press hard enough will I draw blood? Probably not; my nails are pretty bitten. ‘It was getting worse, wasn't it?'

I shrug, then decide to answer for once. ‘It's not just the drinking.' I spin round to look her straight in the face. ‘Look at me, Mum. This is what that psycho did to me. Just for asking to speak to you! He's always hated me; he blames me for Emmet getting in trouble. But this is …'

I give up.

Now she's the silent one. She picks at the skin on her
hand. It reminds me of when she was in the hospital and I know what I have to say.

‘I'm not coming home. Not if he's still going to be around and not if you're drinking. I can't take any more.'

I'm ready for her to argue but to my amazement she looks me in the eye and says, ‘I know, son; I don't blame you. I'm … I'm going back to the unit. Today, if they'll take me. I have to get off the drink. And this time I'm going to do it properly, I swear. I
swear
, son, whatever it takes. And you're going to stay here – Colette wants you to.'

‘And Barry?'

‘I'm finished with him. No, I mean it, Declan. I mean it. Seeing what he did to you…' She reaches out a shaking hand to touch the cut on my head. I try not to flinch from her touch and instead, my eyes fill with tears. At first I try to stop them, like I always do, cause Mum hasn't seen me cry for years, and then I think, well, maybe it's time she did, and I let them roll down my face.

Chapter 40

VICKY

‘Here. Take her while I do some lunch, will you?' Fiona dumped a wriggling Molly in my lap and my sister's little hand grabbed for one of my plaits. Dad had gone straight to golf after dropping me off.

‘Ouch! Molly-moo, you little devil,' I said, tickling her tummy.

She shrieked with laughter and so did Fiona.
What
did you just call her?'

‘Moll – oh, right. That's your fault. It's infectious.'

Fiona hovered in the doorway. ‘She loves you. Look at how excited she is to see you. I think she missed you last night.'

I looked at Molly's fat red cheeks. ‘God, last night. I hope I never have to do anything like that again.'

‘Your mum said you and Rory were fantastic – by the time she got there you'd dealt with it all.'

‘Well, not really. I mean, we took him to get patched up but there's still loads to sort out. Mum was trying to get in touch with his mum when Dad picked me up this
morning. Theresa's been drinking for days.' I smoothed Molly's thin blonde fuzz over her pink scalp and thought of the gash on Declan's forehead, the staples stabbing in to close the wound. ‘Fi?'

‘What?'

‘Just … well, I'm glad Dad married you.'

‘Where did that come from?'

‘Instead of some psycho stepmother from hell.' I shivered at the thought of Barry, even though I'd never met him and hopefully never would. But I'd seen what he could do, all right.

‘Well, thank you.' She mock-bowed but I could tell she was pleased. ‘I suppose I'd better make you a nice lunch for that.'

‘Ga!' said Molly.

I pulled the end of my plait out of her mouth and followed Fiona into the kitchen, Molly on my hip, her fat little legs clinging round my waist. ‘Fi, I have this letter I found in Declan's pocket.' I took it out of my jeans pocket, a thin, crumpled, grubby envelope. ‘It's addressed to Cam. I think it's an apology. D'you reckon I should give it to her?'

‘Let's see.' She dried her hands on a tea towel and picked it up. ‘Been in the wars a bit, hasn't it?'

‘You should have seen Declan.' I wondered if this was the time to tell her there was blood on her coat but decided not to. Mum would leave it into the cleaners. ‘He wrote me one, too. I read it. He said … well, about the accident and stuff, that he was sorry.'

‘And you think this is the same sort of thing?'

‘Must be. I'm just worried if I give it back to him he might change his mind and not give it to her.'

‘And why would that matter to you?' She narrowed her eyes and gave me one of her very straight looks.

‘Well –' I ran my finger over the name and address. ‘Look, I … I haven't told you everything. About the accident. It was my fault, too.'

‘I guessed.'

I heaved Molly higher up and searched for the right words. It was a pretty incoherent explanation but it was honest.

Fiona poured soup into a pan and set it on the Aga before she replied. ‘I knew you must have done
something
– or more likely said something – to make him kick off like that. And I knew how jealous you were. You do have a very hurtful tongue when you want to, Vicky.'

‘I know. Rory guessed too – that's why … Well, anyway, I know it was my fault too and if Flight doesn't get better I'll never forgive myself.' I struggled not to cry.

‘But you've forgiven Declan?'

‘Yes, I've forgiven
him
.' The words felt strange in my mouth.
I've forgiven him
. But I had.

‘Does he know?'

‘Yes. I wish I'd told him ages ago. I felt
so
much better after I talked to him.' And I realised, as I said it, that telling Fiona was a huge relief as well, even though I hated admitting to having been such a bitch. I'd already had a bit of a confession session with Mum the night before. We'd stayed up for ages, talking. ‘I want to tell Cam now, and then … yes, I will give her this. D'you think
she'll
forgive him?'

Fiona pursed her lips. ‘He abused her trust. I think she's pretty sore about that.'

‘But if I tell her what I said? I was
really
nasty, Fi. He told me about Mum having this new boyfriend and I just … God, I don't even want to think about it.'

Fiona stirred the soup. ‘Tell her what you told me. Give her the letter. It's all you can do.'

‘I just feel I want to make up to him for being so horrible. And I kind of realised last night – I mean Mum's always tried to tell me but I wouldn't listen – he has a pretty crap time at home. He loved it at the yard – I think he was even hoping to work with horses properly – and I did my best to wreck it. Deliberately.' It sounded so horrible.

‘Have some lunch and then we'll head up there together, OK? I'll take Molly in the pram and show her the horses while you speak to Cam.'

‘Thanks, Fi. Then I want to stay for a bit and spend some time with Flight. Cam said I could start leading him out in hand to graze a bit.'

‘Good idea. Put that monster in her high chair and we'll have some soup.'

* * *

‘Look: he's definitely putting weight on that leg.' Flight pulled at his head-collar rope and moved his teeth over to a juicier-looking patch of grass.

Cam, walking past on her way to the tack room, arms full of tack, smiled. ‘He's enjoying getting out for a graze, anyway. And the swelling's down a good bit.' Fiona pushed Molly's pram out of earshot and started showing her the horses in the field.

I slid my hand inside Flight's rug and gave him a scratch on his warm, hairy shoulder. ‘He's brilliant. Aren't you, my love?' Then, as if I'd just remembered, though in fact I'd been waiting for the right moment since we got here, ‘Oh! I meant to give you this.' I held out the blue envelope.

She put the saddle down on a wall and took it, frowning. ‘What's this? Fiona paid your livery bill yesterday.'

‘It's an apology. From Declan. I got one too.'

She turned the envelope over as if she didn't really want to open it. ‘Bit late, don't you think?'

I swallowed. ‘Cam, there's something you don't know about that day – about why he went off on Flight, I mean – and I think you should know about it before you read the letter. I mean, I think you've probably guessed that I … said stuff to him. Because everyone said it was so unlike him. And I
wanted
to tell you; I just couldn't.'

She folded her arms and waited.

And I told her what I'd threatened. I played with Flight's mane the whole time, plaiting and unplaiting the same lock of red hair over and over until he twitched his neck in protest. ‘I
wouldn't
have told you,' I finished. ‘At least, well, I was going to but in the end it seemed too mean. But Declan believed me when I said I would. I suppose he just …' my voice trailed off and for the first time I met Cam's eyes. They were very green and very cold.

‘I already knew,' she said.

‘About the joyriding?'

‘Right from the start. It was in the report his school sent.'

‘And you still let him work here?
Why
?'

Cam shrugged. ‘He was a good worker. One of the best I've ever had. And he loved the horses. I don't just mean he liked the riding and the fun stuff, but all of it. There was something special about him. Well, I
thought
so.' She started pressing round Flight's cut – that was all it was now – frowning. ‘And I suppose I thought it'd be a good chance for him to try a different sort of life. Maybe
if someone had done that for … Well, anyway.' She straightened up. ‘I was wrong.' Her voice was brisk.

‘Please, Cam, just read it,' I begged.

‘You've changed your tune,' she pointed out. ‘One minute you didn't want him near the place, then suddenly you're pleading his case. Why?'

‘Because I know how much it was my fault. Because he
is
special with the horses. Everyone could see it. I could see it too, but I wouldn't admit it because I was so … so jealous.'

‘I know you were.' Cam turned the envelope over. ‘The way he was with Flight – you hated that, didn't you?'

I bit my lip and nodded.

‘He has a real affinity with horses,' she said. ‘Oh, I know he doesn't know much yet. In a way, that was a help. He didn't have preconceived ideas. You know, lots of people just see horses as showjumpers or machines or, you know, fit them into our routines, expect them to be what we want. He didn't know any of that. He just accepted them as – well, as horses. As themselves.'

‘I know. That was what I hated.' I scratched Flight's neck. ‘So – will you let him come back?'

She shook her head. ‘That kind of recklessness – there's no place for that on a yard full of valuable horses. No matter how good he is. I'm sorry, Vicky; I'm not taking him back just to make you feel better.'

Flight rubbed his head against my chest. I rubbed his ears and nodded at the letter. ‘But you'll read it?'

‘I'll read it,' she said. ‘But I'm not saying it'll make any difference. Put that saddle away when you've a minute, will you?'

And she set off towards her house, stuffing the envelope into her body-warmer pocket like a used tissue.