Bright Burning Things(10)

‘Stop them, Yaya. Stop them. They’re hurting her.’ Tommy is shouting. How he instinctively knows it’s a she I don’t know, but the two of us grab sticks and a ball and anything we can find and lob it at the gang attack. Five drakes are going at one duck, dragging her under, banging her head against the concrete rim of the pond. I pick up a big stone, throw it, whack one of them, but they’re only momentarily distracted, and then go at their victim even harder.

A man leaning on a walking stick speaks very loudly: ‘What an example to teach your young boy.’

I throw with more fury. ‘I’m teaching him it’s not ok for a female to be raped.’

The man shakes his stick at me. ‘Lunatic. You’re going to hurt one of them.’

‘That’s the intention, old man.’ Can hear the mania in my voice, see my boy all riled up, the colour high in his cheeks, his focus intense. Herbie is running up and down along the side of the pond making a wailing sound like keening.

Tommy trips over his clown-like feet. I put the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, of course I did, and now my boy is hobbled. A big swan glides to the edge of the pond and hisses. I see white.





5


‘Is Mary’s house made of sweeties, Yaya?’

‘I don’t think so, darling. Mrs O’Malley’s house looks like bricks and mortar to me.’ When did he start calling her Mary?

Tommy has his nose pressed to the window, staring at the house opposite. I find myself in the yard rummaging through the black sacks and picking out the two full bottles. Funny how I didn’t pour their contents down the sink; funny how the bottles were carefully placed to avoid any breakage; funny how I know there’s nothing remotely fucking funny about this. No conscious control, none, beyond a feeling that I should stop, but I’m not able I’m not able I’m not able. The corkscrew is in my hand, it’s in the bottle, it’s twisting and turning. The neck is between my lips and I’m sucking on it, like a greedy baby at her mother’s teat. It takes the full one this time to feel anything other than sad ole lonely ole pathetic ole me. Wavy lines float in front of my eyes, followed by hollowed black spots. Dizzy, and giddy. Now I am a Tennessee Williams character – Amanda, say, in The Glass Menagerie. Sashay my way into the living room, draw the curtains tight, press play on my resident blues album, The Essential Billie Holiday, and lift my boy high in the air, swinging him. High, higher, highest. One, two, three, wheee. Herbie is running around us wildly in circles. Tommy is giggling, then full-on laughing, then chortling, or is that choking? I stop and draw him closer. ‘Ok, little man? Everything’s going to be ok.’ Close my eyes and continue swaying, my boy now a lover in my arms, his body pressed against mine. Feel wanted, needed, and all is well with the world. I sing-croon into Tommy’s ear: ‘Your eyes of blue, your kisses too I never knew what they could do I can’t believe that you’re in love with me…’

Tommy is pushing against me with his hands, and when I release him his fists pummel my shoulders. ‘Not ok, Yaya. Don’t like…’ Oh, what a little worrier. I kiss him, all over. ‘Ok, Poohead?’ – expecting peals of laughter to follow this term of endearment. ‘Down, Yaya, down.’ A flash of anger erupts inside me. No one likes to feel rejected, particularly by one of your own, and after all I’ve given up for him. Ungrateful little so-and-so, but oh, how I love him so! Hug him tighter, sing more loudly into his ear, feel his taut body go limp and a surge of electricity flows through me. This is the only place in the whole world where I now hold any power, where my actions have any agency. Finally I have stepped into the role of the director or, even better, the writer, and these characters are mine to do with as I want. Right now I feel the urge to suck Tommy right back into me, to merge with this boy whose head is pressed against my chest. And Herbie? What could I do there? Test myself. Kick him, throw him out into the dark, light a candle and hold it to his fur, the smell of it singeing and then burning, catching light, flames leaping and licking through to his skin. Creeping shadows gather themselves into a solid mass and cover me in darkness. My hand is on the back of Tommy’s head, which is rocking beneath my palm, as I continue to push his face against my chest. ‘Shh, darling, shhh.’ Herbie is whining now in earnest, which prompts my leg to shoot out and make contact with his ribs. He freezes, huddles, makes himself as tiny as a big dog can be and starts to shake.

My heart clutches. My heart. I have one. I can hear it in my ears. A creeping, tingling feeling of disgust crawls over me. What am I? What have I done? Herbie, darling, I’m sorry, is this what used to happen? I release my boy, his face red and creased, and watch as he crawls to Herbie and rests his head on the dog’s flanks. ‘Ok, Herbie, ok, you no worry, you me, me you, ok, ok, ok…’ he whispers to his friend, not looking at me.

I walk away, through the kitchen and into the yard. The air smells of summer rain. I lift my face to the cloud-scudded sky, fall to my knees. What I could have done back there. Shake my head to try to dislodge the tumbling thoughts. Feel like I’m drowning, water rushing in. Try to hold my breath, rock on my knees incanting, help, help, help, please help, not knowing who I’m beseeching, but someone, something, some force for good, something bigger than me, wiser, kinder. Mother? Father? Bigger than that, more benign, less prone to causing hurt.

In that moment back there she got me, that lethal bitch, and I didn’t even see her lurking.