The Testament of Jessie Lamb (13 page)

I don't remember my dreams that night but I do remember waking and feeling as if I'd been right down to the bottom of something. Down into the very deep blue water, the sea, going down down down through layers of darkening blue like all the shades on a paint chart, turquoise, teal, aquamarine, royal blue, navy blue, French navy, midnight blue, ink, darker and darker but not scared, just marvelling at the depth and intensity of colour. I knew that whenever I wanted, soon enough, I'd come popping back up to the surface like a cork.

Which is what I did, waking up. And I felt surprised and dizzy to see my ordinary room around me. I remembered that I had thought about volunteering.

I made myself imagine volunteering to be a Sleeping Beauty. Being put to sleep and never waking up. I still didn't know how anyone could volunteer for that. I felt spacey inside my head, as if there was easily room there for lots of contradictory ideas. Spacey and excited. I wondered if I would talk about it with Baz. I felt as if something extraordinary was going to happen that very day.

Something extraordinary did happen but it wasn't good. In the evening when I was watching BABIES OF THE WEEK I heard Mum and Dad's raised voices in the kitchen. I turned up the telly, because I love that programme. It's organized by
Mothers for Life
. They show photos of the babies, and of their mothers before they were pregnant. Someone, usually the Sleeping Beauty's mother, reads a poem or from the Bible or the Koran. You can choose your own poem but there are also some purpose-written ones, this is my favourite:

Some people chose to have their favourite song. I tried to imagine myself on there, and wondered what photo of me they'd use. I watched all the babies. There was one like a little monkey with wispy black hair and solemn eyes. And another had a bald head and fat hamster cheeks. I love it when they're staring at you with that dazed look, like they're wondering ‘Where on earth am I now?' After the babies came more news: arson, suicides, wars, famines and fighting as usual; coup in Malaysia, state of emergency in Pakistan, riots in Washington; attacks on the homes of UK animal-research scientists; terror suspects appealing against imprisonment without trial; new Chinese Sleeping Beauty programme recruiting 5,000 volunteers a week; voluntary redeployment into vital services; floods in India; and of course a story about a healthy pregnant woman in Nigeria, kept alive by her followers at a secret location. There was always a story like this, but most mysteriously they never showed the woman on screen, and you never actually heard about it when her baby was born. There were endless rumours about things which were supposed to have helped women survive pregnancies: diets, special herbs, round the clock prayers to the Virgin, cannibalism, sterile environments, living underwater, meditation, hypnotism, voodoo, acupuncture, fasting, staying at high altitudes, making blood sacrifices to the mother goddess. Strange how all those healthy pregnant women were invisible, though!

I tuned out and then I could hear Mum and Dad weren't just having a standard row. Mum was crying, so it was hard to make out what she said.
I didn't need to tell you?
I muted the telly. My ears latched onto my own name; Dad in a low voice,
something something Jessie knows?
Then the shocking sound of a dish smashing against the tiles. I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it.

‘You never even looked at me–'

‘Oh it's
my
fault. Whichever way you spin it, Cath's the victim–'

‘No–listen–Joe–'

‘Why should I listen? Why should I listen to another word of this self-serving shite?'

There was an awful silence and I stretched and strained my hearing but couldn't get anything–then the kitchen door being snatched open, steps in the hall, the front door slamming shut and the car roaring into life.

I froze, waiting for the next sound, but there was nothing. Dad had gone. As quietly as I could I tiptoed upstairs. I knew what this was about and I didn't want to see Mum. When I reached my room I shut the door without a sound and put on my headphones so I wouldn't hear if she called. I sat at my desk and stared at the wall. I had known for weeks. I could have stopped it–I could have told Mum I knew, threatened her I'd tell Dad. But I'd been merrily going along in my own life blanking it out (the note in the pocket? The new trousers? The day out with ‘colleagues'?) as if it was nothing to do with me. And now Dad had driven off into the night in rage and misery, going I didn't know where, at risk of crashing and never coming back.
Something something Jessie knows?
Was he asking, did I know? What if he thought I knew and was keeping it secret from him, that I was conspiring with Mum?

Of course he would think that. Driving along the icy roads, with blackness swooshing past the windows, he'd think about all the things I was thinking–the late clinics, the smart clothes, the supposed teas with Mandy–and he'd think I must have been in on it, helping to cover up her lies. He'd think I was as bad as her.

I had to listen for him coming back. I took off the headphones, turned off the light and got into bed. After a long time I heard her coming upstairs. She stood still on the landing for ages, then used the bathroom and went into their room. She left the landing light on. I lay rigid straining my ears for the car, willing it to turn in at the end of the road. I lay like that for hours, and my head kept flashing with images of Dad skidding off the road, of black water swirling over the roof of the car, and the wavering headlamps shining on astonished flickering fish, down in the murky depths of the river.

I thought about texting or phoning him but I was afraid of causing an accident if he was still driving. I lay awake all night and in the morning when Mum knocked quietly on my door and then opened it, I pretended to be asleep. Eventually I heard her leave the house. When I crept down she'd left a note saying she'd be back from work by 7 and that she'd cook. No mention of Dad. She'd probably left it hoping he would come back and see it.

I had a shower and put on some clean clothes. I didn't know if they'd split up. Part of me didn't want to know and didn't in the least care. I stared at my empty phone for a bit then I texted him, ‘Dad r u OK? xoxoJ' There hadn't been any reply by the time I got to college so I switched it to silent. There was no reply all day. And no Sal at college.

When I got home, it was exactly as I'd left it. I didn't want to eat with Mum so I made a sandwich and took it to my room. I rang Dad's lab but there was no reply. After a bit I rang his mobile but it went straight to answer. Which was weird, I'd never know him turn it off.

When Mum got in I called down that I'd had my tea. She came and tapped on my door and I told her I didn't want to talk. She opened the door anyway.

‘Have you heard from Joe?'

‘No.' I couldn't bear to look at her.

I stayed in my room all evening. I could hear Mum moving around downstairs, and when she started talking I opened my door to listen. But she was on the phone to Paul the carer. I heard her asking what Mandy'd had for her dinner, and had they been for a walk? Her voice turned fake and cheery when she talked to Mandy; ‘Great, well done! I'm ever so pleased.' Then the whole house was quiet again, waiting for the phone to ring, or the sound of the car in the drive.

Mum stayed up till midnight; after she used the bathroom she stood listening outside my door. I didn't move, and eventually she went into her own room and shut the door.

My window was open and I could pick up the sounds of cars all the way to the main road. There weren't many, and none of them were his. There were lots of other sounds, ticks and clicks as the heating cooled down; an owl, the sound of water rushing down next door's drain like someone'd just let out a bath. If he'd had a crash someone would've found him and taken him to hospital; they could look in his wallet, the police would trace him. He hadn't had a crash. He just didn't want anyone to know where he was.

I thought of everyone dressing up and dancing at YOFI; of twirling around in that blue dress. Of the ones who sacrifice themselves. How clear and simple and
good
that was, in comparison to all the stupid mess of being married and telling lies and fighting. Why didn't he text me? I was convinced he knew I knew about Mum. Maybe he never wanted to see either of us again.

I must have fallen asleep sometime after five, because I woke up with a jolt when the letters came at half past nine. Mum'd gone, she'd left another note about coming home to cook. My eyes were prickly and my head ached with tiredness, but I couldn't bear to stay in the house. I thought of talking to Sal but I was afraid she'd go ‘So what?' She'd be right–so what if they did split up? Her mum and dad split up, it was just one of those things that happened. Stupid adults; their days were numbered.

I caught the bus to college and sat in the front seat upstairs. The sky had clouded over and everything through the window was flat and factual, like a crime scene. Like a place waiting for something bad to happen. Like suspended animation. I thought, a Sleeping Beauty wouldn't know anything. Being dead, the state of being dead, would be OK–just the same as before you were born. A dreamless sleep. I could do that–it wouldn't really matter. No more feeling upset about stupid parents, no more waste of energy and emotion. Just peacefulness and calm. Then I suddenly saw Dad. He was walking along the near-side pavement and the bus was coming up behind him, I recognised his shoulders and his striding walk. As I jumped up and the bus passed him I glimpsed his face. Not Dad. It wasn't Dad at all, it was a man with a moustache.

I fell back into my seat, my heart was making my whole ribcage shake. Might Dad kill himself? The thought flew in before I could block it. Maybe that was why he didn't want to speak to me–he'd lost hope. Because of Mum, because of MDS, because everything had gone wrong. Yet again I rang his mobile. No answer. I remembered him that night he and Mum brought Mandy into our house, half-dragging her between them, and Mum put her to bed in the spare room. He stood by the sink staring at the kettle as if he could see the future in it, as if it paralysed him. Now he thought I'd betrayed him too. He must think we didn't know where he was and we didn't care, we hadn't even tried to find him.

I got off the bus at Guide Bridge and took a train into town. From the station the next bus down to the clinic. Surely he would be at work? I walked through the car park looking for our car but I couldn't spot it. I couldn't get in the lab doors because I didn't know the key code. I had to go round and up the steps to the front doors. The security guard stared at me but when I told him my name he grinned and nodded, ‘Haven't seen you for a while!' Just getting inside the building made me feel calmer; the corridor was peaceful, with names on every door–I passed a nurse with a tray and she winked at me. As I ran down the stairs to the labs I smelled that old friendly smell which only belongs to the lab. It's a bit like alcohol, and it clears up the back of your nose. A warm smell, that brings out the dark scent of the wooden work benches. Dad would always be here, I thought.

But he wasn't. The door to his lab was locked–no Dad, no Ali. I tried to peer through the little wired-glass window but it was dark in there and I could only see my own reflection. Even the corridor down there was still and empty; there was nobody to ask. I had to go back the way I came until I found myself outside again, with the cold grey day glaring down on me, not knowing what to do.

I walked back fast into town and now I was angry. It was idiotic. Idiotic to come all this way, looking for him. Of course he wasn't at work–if he was, Mum would've spoken to him. And there was no way he'd kill himself, the old cynic–he even laughed about the suicides doing the Grim Reaper's job. Why was I wasting my time chasing after him and worrying, when he'd gone off somewhere without a second thought for me–gone off probably to visit some old friend or the British Museum or some amazing library. Was he so upset about Mum he didn't even
remember
me? Why on earth should I care about him? If he could abandon me then I could abandon him.

I was starving and I stopped at The Eighth Day and got a smoked tofu burger and an apricot smoothie to guzzle on the bus. The taste of apricot flooded me, orange mixed with hyacinths, gritty behind my teeth. I wished I had bought two.

I finally got to college with half an hour to spare before History. I did a diversion past the music rooms, and my luck was in: I could see Baz in the practice room on the grand piano. He looked up and grinned, but kept on playing–I walked in to a waterfall of tumbling notes.

I wanted to tell him about my parents. Why shouldn't I? At least his dad couldn't help being mad; mine behaved like idiots without any excuse at all. Why should I cover up for them? Baz finished and jumped up from the piano. ‘Nat's found out what's happening at Wettenhall!'

‘You what?'

‘The animal lab near Chester that they've been investigating. They've managed to infiltrate it.'

It took me a while to grasp what he was on about, but it turned out the ALF had been trying to get into this place for a long time and now they'd managed to take some secret film of the animals, drugged, with tubes and wires attached to them, strapped down and unable to move.