The Boy Who Could See Demons (17 page)

‘You should’ve been raised in France,’ she said, before turning and walking back into the kitchen. I gave Ruen a look before going inside. I sat down at the table and looked at the onions. I didn’t feel like eating them.

Ruen appeared in the seat opposite me. He looked very concerned.

‘Alex,’ he said, doing that thing with his hands where he makes a triangle with his fingers, only his fingernails are so long that his fingers don’t touch. ‘Is this because of the lady doctor, Alex? She
is
asking a lot of questions, isn’t she?’ His voice suddenly sounded like he was really concerned for me and I wondered if he really was. ‘Is it starting to bother you?’ he said. ‘Maybe I can help with that.’

I knew Auntie Bev could hear what I said next but I didn’t care. I looked at Ruen and said:

‘Why are you studying me?’

‘What, sweetheart?’ Auntie Bev poked her head around the kitchen door. Ruen glanced from Auntie Bev to me. I felt a warmth around my heart and there was a big fat sob in my throat. I said it again.

‘Why are you studying me? I’m not a footballer.’

Ruen laced his hands, making his triangle collapse, and his eyes grew small and angry.

‘I don’t like being studied,’ I said. ‘Not by you, and not by Anya. I just want my mum home, OK? And I don’t care if she comes home to this house or a fancy house with a fancy garden. So you can
stuff
your house!’

Auntie Bev walked towards me and her face looked worried. She looked around at the window behind her, then at me.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

I nodded and went to tell a fib about a bird landing on the windowsill and that’s why I was shouting at it but then there was a big lump in my throat and I felt angry and sad all at once. Auntie Bev knelt down in front of me which made her smaller than me and I could see the freckles on her forehead.

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ she said, and I nodded but didn’t say what I was scared of. She put her arms around me. She held me for a long long time and at first I wanted her to get off me but then I felt as if I could sleep right in her arms. After a few moments I got hot and needed to scratch so I pushed her away gently and she looked at me and smiled.

‘I haven’t held you like that since you were a baby,’ she said, wiping my face, and I realised I had a tear on my cheek. ‘You were born premature, did you know that?’

I had to think about what ‘premature’ meant.

‘You were this big,’ she said, holding her hands a very very small distance apart. She looked at the small space between her hands for so long that I expected a real baby to appear. Then she looked up at me and her eyes were shiny. ‘You were like a little bird. All the doctors said it was amazing that you lived.’ She lifted a hand to my face and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. ‘I had to go back to work the next day but Granny sent me photos, when she could get around to it. I promised I’d come and see you more often but … well, you’ll know what it’s like when you’re older.’ There was a long pause. I wondered if she’d finished but then she took my hands in hers and squeezed them tight. ‘This I
can
promise, Alex. I’m here for you now.’

She was really close to my face and I felt the lump in my throat get bigger and I was afraid I was going to throw up so I pulled my hands free and ran up the stairs.

‘Alex?’ Auntie Bev was calling after me, but I ran all the way up to my bedroom and locked the door by pushing a chair against the handle.

A few seconds later Ruen appeared in the chair. I almost jumped out of my skin. He was Horn Head. I could see the blood all clotted on the barbed wire next to his furry chest and I felt trapped because there was no other way out. He had the metal mace in one hand and the light from the window made the spikes glint.

‘Go and study bacteria,’ I told him.

‘You want to know why I study you?’ Ruen’s voice whispered in my head.

I wiped my eyes and folded my arms but said nothing. My chest felt like someone had scraped the insides out with a metal spoon and I felt angry with myself for pushing Auntie Bev away. Maybe she could get Ruen to leave. Even if I shouted I didn’t think she would be able to hear. Mum never did.

‘I would have thought you had already worked that one out, Alex,’ Ruen hissed, and I closed my eyes. I hated that he had no face. Sometimes parts of his face appeared: a pair of blue eyes, a mouth like mine. But it was just so weird and horrible that I couldn’t look at it.

‘For whatever reason, we can’t seem to tempt you. None of us seem to have much of an effect on you. And we need to know why that is.’

I went to ask why, but didn’t. I kept my eyes shut.

‘If you simply told me why this is the case, perhaps I might be able to stop studying you quite so intensively,’ he continued.

I thought about it. After a while I forced myself to open my eyes and stare at him. I looked at the red horn coming out of his forehead. It looked like liquid floating upward.

‘I guess I don’t like people telling me what to do.’

‘Admirable. Commendable,’ whispered Ruen. Then he turned into the Old Man and I gave a big breath of relief. He stood up and walked to the window, his arms behind his back as usual. I glanced at the door and moved the chair away, but just then Ruen was back in front of me.

‘I promise you, Alex, I won’t tell you what to do. I already know you can’t be tempted, so you have my word. I won’t even try to tempt you. You’re much too strong-willed, even for the likes of me.’ He cackled and it turned into a cough. ‘You will love this house, Alex. Are we still friends?’

I thought of the new house and felt happier. ‘Yes, Ruen. We’re still friends.’

14

MISTS OF THE MIND

Anya

I met with Cindy yesterday to ask her questions about Alex’s home life and about his father. Usually, a parent is the first port of call when it comes to detecting any abnormalities – patterns of withdrawal, any indications of voices or hallucinations, a sudden slipping away from school and friends – but unfortunately Cindy’s own depression has created a veil to anyone’s issues but her own. A history of abuse, both as a child and as an adult, has been compounded by the breakdown of her relationship with Alex’s father. Since then, repeated suicide attempts have been her method of dealing with it. Her ‘bracelets’, as she calls them, or the many white lines on her wrists from self-harming episodes, aren’t easy to conceal. She thinks Alex is receiving counselling to deal with her suicide attempts, which is partly true.

For her own treatment, I am pleased to learn she’s in the care of Dr Trudy Messenger, one of the most experienced and, dare I say it, warmest psychiatrists in the United Kingdom. She is renowned for making her patients feel like human beings after a single consultation. After years of feeling ousted, separate and vilified by the legions who don’t understand mental illness, these patients experience a kind of homecoming in Trudy’s office. Trudy has seen to it that Cindy is actively engaged in a variety of daily activities, mostly arts and crafts, and when I arrive she is completing a beautiful needlework of a small white dog.

‘It’s for Alex,’ she tells me with a small smile. ‘Woof. He loves that dog. Thick as thieves, those two. I know boys don’t like crafty things but maybe he’ll make an exception.’

I spend a few minutes talking about the facilities in the hospital before gently telling her that I have some concerns about Alex’s mental health. She looks puzzled.

‘Alex has seen a counsellor before,’ she says. ‘But they’ve never had any worries about him, not really. And he’s spoken to Michael. You can hardly expect a kid from his side of town to be tap dancing with joy every day. That’s my fault.’

‘I don’t think he’s depressed,’ I say.

‘Then what do you mean?’

I tell her there are other possibilities that I’m investigating. I assure her I’m optimistic that he can be treated but that I’m keen to ensure he receives the correct attention.

‘I’d like to know about Alex’s father,’ I ask softly, thinking quickly of my meeting with Karen Holland, Alex’s paintings spread across her desk.

Her face darkens. ‘Why do you want to know about Alex’s father?’

My voice is gentle. ‘A boy’s relationship with his father is important in forming his identity and his place in the world.’

She sets down her needle and thread and folds her thin arms tightly. ‘I haven’t told anyone who Alex’s real dad is. Well, except my mum.’

‘I don’t need names,’ I say carefully. ‘Would you say he was a good father?’

She looks out the window. A hand reaches for the other wrist, making a circle around it with her forefinger and thumb.

‘He saw Alex every so often. Maybe a handful of days out of every month. Sometimes he’d stay with us for a week. Then we wouldn’t see him for two months.’ She raises her eyes. ‘I named Alex after him.’

I nod. ‘He was never abusive with Alex?’

She looks disgusted. ‘No, never. He wasn’t exactly overjoyed when I told him I was pregnant but he still provided for us. It was the reason he …’ She falls silent.

‘It was the reason he what?’ I ask.

She takes a breath. ‘He’d take Alex to play table tennis sometimes, said it was good for his hand-eye coordination. He was thoughtful like that. He’d buy him toy cars. Alex hated cars.’

‘When did Alex stop seeing him?’

She is lifting a hand to cover her eyes, lowering her head. I must watch my step.

‘If it’s OK for me to ask, what were the circumstances surrounding his departure from Alex’s life?’

She shakes her head, her hand pressed to her forehead. I crouch down beside her.

‘Cindy,’ I say, lightly touching her hand. ‘I promise you, I’m only asking these things so I can help Alex.’

She lowers her hand and fixes me with angry, burning eyes. ‘You think he’s crackers.’

‘I don’t,’ I assure her. ‘But he has mentioned some things that he can see which appear to be harming him.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Someone’s hurting him? Is it someone at that theatre company?’

I shake my head. ‘Alex claims he has a best friend called Ruin. Several times now Alex has got quite aggressive during our sessions and claims that Ruin got angry. Have you ever come across any marks on his body, any unexplained injuries?’

She narrows her eyes. ‘I’m not abusing him, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘I think it’s possible that
Alex
is hurting Alex,’ I say softly.

She searches my face, her expression one of hurt and confusion. ‘Why would you say that? Why would you say he’s hurting
himself?’

I hesitate, confounded by the fact that her own arms bear hundreds of scars from her own self-harm efforts and yet she cannot conceive of Alex doing the same. And, as if she knows what I’m thinking, she reaches one hand across her forearm, where sunlight is making silvery rivers of her scars.

‘What if he’s telling the truth?’ she says, her lip trembling. ‘I mean, Alex wouldn’t do that. Would he? He’s so talented and smart and braver than me.’ She looks up at me. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘If Alex has seen you self-harm, chances are he’ll do it too.’

My words smash around the room. Cindy’s face crumples and she lets out a long, loose cry. It takes me a moment or two to realise why she is crying: she has never, ever considered the impact of her own issues on her child.

I walk across the room to retrieve a box of tissues. She plucks one out with a trembling hand and holds it to her eyes.

‘Let me see him.’

Alex was brought to the hospital later that afternoon. I asked Cindy if it would be OK for me to stay around and observe their time together. I expected her to ask why, but it seemed my comment about Alex’s potential self-harming had knocked the fight out of her. I wanted to ensure that I gathered the information I needed to answer these pressing questions: Is there a link between Ruin and Cindy? Or between Ruin and Alex’s father? Is Alex’s hallucination – and, indeed, his condition – linked to an incident in the past?

The adult psychiatric unit is on the same site as MacNeice House and is surrounded by a sprawling green lawn dotted with small patches of bright flowers, fenced off from the outside world by tall fir trees and an array of greenhouses which contain the potted plants and vegetables grown by inpatients. One of the nurses suggested Alex and Cindy take a walk outside – hinting at me to provide the necessary medical supervision – and so I carried three coats and an umbrella, in case the fat grey awnings of cloud toppled their load, and ushered us all outside. Cindy was keen to show Alex the result of her horticulture therapy workshop, and so we headed towards the greenhouses.

I let Alex and Cindy walk ahead of me, noticing the way Alex linked his arm with Cindy’s. Many times he leaned his head on her shoulder. There was genuine affection between the two, and playfulness: on several occasions Alex made Cindy giggle, squeezing her waist to ensure the giggle became a substantial laugh, at which she clouted him across the head, visibly careful to ensure that the clout wasn’t heavy-handed. They were almost the same height, though Cindy’s frame was starkly birdlike beside his, the bones of her ankles and wrists jutting out like white buttons on the sides of her arms. I noticed that they had the same walk.

We reached one of the greenhouses, which was crammed with tomato plants and an array of hanging baskets exploding with lobelia. Alex and Cindy huddled around a toilet bowl outside that someone had filled with bright yellow daffodils. Cindy waved over to me and asked me to join them.

‘I won a prize,’ she told me, her face beaming. ‘My first ever.’

‘Where did you get the toilet, Mum?’ Alex was asking, inspecting the broken back of it and utterly perplexed by its incongruity beside the other plant pots.

‘Never mind that, Alex,’ Cindy said. She looked up at me again. I saw she was eager to share an achievement.
‘You’re
clever, aren’t you?’ she said to me. ‘Can’t you work out what I was doing?’

I looked over the arrangement, at the rather haphazard way the daffodils had been planted into the compost, though their fat trumpets indicated they were healthy and being taken care of. A good sign. I noticed she’d painted the word HOPE on the bulge of the toilet.