Bright Burning Things(3)

The bottle emptied, a space opens up and my head feels liberated, as if I’ve just removed a too-tight elasticated band from my hair. Glide into the living room and flop down between my two boys, Tommy feeding Herbie the rest of his beans by hand: what a sweet, caring boy. I’ll make sure he eats later. Settle against the warmth of their bodies, feel mine softening, falling.


Sometime later an acrid smell of burnt cheese on toast from yesterday fills the room. I sit up too fast, head banging, dots dancing in my eyes. Black smoke is billowing under the kitchen door. Move as if in a trance, groggy, but pulse racing – is this another of my night hallucinations? Open the grill door, reach in, grab the handle, flames are leaping, drop the pan on to the floor – fuck, be still my walloping head. Wrap my hand in a soggy tea towel and lift the pan into the sink. Under the tap, and whoosh, the flames burst and die, black charcoal in their place. I lined the grill with baking paper instead of tinfoil, stupid stupid stupid woman. I see my son in the doorway, eyes huge and glassy. ‘Ok, Tommy, everything’s alright now.’

He smiles, his mouth tight and tilted, an exact replica of his grandfather, and says, ‘Beeootiful. Hot and slinky like the sun.’

Herbie whines. My hand is hot and scalded.

‘Water, Yaya.’

I smile at him, my little oracle, and hold my hand under the cold tap.

Every window will need to be opened. Every part of me is jangling. Feel myself crashing, falling into the pit. Should’ve known when I first saw her there on the beach, shimmering, irresistible, that this was the way it would go. Grab the full bottle, turn my back, undo the screw top with my teeth. Tell myself that what Tommy doesn’t see can’t hurt him.





2


The windows are wide open and I’m naked except for the apron, no sign of another body in the bed. The clock says 9:10 – what, morning already? The TV is blaring and the house stinks of burnt charcoal overlaid with bleach, making my hot, scratchy eyes water. ‘Tommy? Tommy, darling?’ I lie back on the pile of tussled pillows, exhausted by the effort, and stare out the window at the grey overhang of cloud. One day of sunshine is all I deserve. My body is heavy yet my brain is racing, careening against the inside of my skull. Need to get up, shower, get dressed, go to the supermarket, make lunch, tidy the mess from the beans, scrub the charcoal off the blackened walls, buy some polish, spray the house, maybe get a bunch of flowers, tulips, brightly coloured, need to wash Tommy, clothe him, feed him, walk Herbie, find the lead – where’s the lead? – must pick up after him, need to remember to do that, bring the poo bags, get my son into the fresh air, make sure he eats. Close my eyes, drained by the effort of imagining the day’s activities. Everything feels parched: tongue, gums, lips, eyes, eyelids, fingertips. Will Tommy think to bring me in water? – he should know to do that by now.


When I wake again it’s a quarter past one in the afternoon. Push myself to sitting, look at the low, lumbering clouds, full and heavy like swollen cows’ udders. Nausea rises. ‘Tommy?’ My voice skips and scratches. ‘Listen, Tommy… Mummy’s got her witch’s voice today!’ No response and the TV is muted. Force myself to stand, the ground beneath my feet shifting – a whole-body seasickness.

The kitchen has been scrubbed, sparkling. Did I do all this last night, or this morning? When? My boys? Wait – ‘Tommy? Herbie? Tommy?’ Breathe, Sonya, breathe, breathe, breathe. Pull on my jeans and a warm hoodie, fight the acid reflux by swallowing manically, fight the spins by holding on to any hard surface to hand. Keys? On the hook by the door. Another gem that Howard drummed into me. Slam the door behind me, the whole house shaking, and run to the green, adrenal glands in overdrive. There are three little children and a dad, someone I don’t recognise. ‘Excuse me, have you seen a big black dog and a little boy?’ The man looks at me like all men ultimately look at me, like I’m a strange creature that’s just crawled out from under a rock: should he stamp on me or run? This man grabs his three children and herds them away. That’s right, run away, you always do in the end. Rain starts to gather in the heavy clouds overhead. An image of my boys, lost and scared, rises up and slams me, winding me with the force of it. Where else would they go? The beach? The shops? I run to the corner Spar. ‘Have you seen a little boy and a big black dog?’ The boys behind the counter shake their heads, then snigger. ‘It’s not funny, you assholes, a little boy is missing…’ They stop laughing. ‘Haven’t seen him, missus.’ Run on to the main road searching for a flattened black coat, insides trailing, blood oozing, all worst-case scenarios playing out. ‘Herbie? Good boy, Herbie, good boy.’ My voice is ripping from me. Herbie would never let anything happen to Tommy, as long as the stupid mutt hasn’t stepped out into oncoming traffic. Everything else he instinctively understands, except for that one kink, where he’ll see a car and barrel into its path. I run back to the park and perch on the swing, pushing it into motion with my feet, hearing Tommy’s voice in my ear: ‘High, higher, highest.’ The movement helps offset the mounting sense of panic. Lift my face towards the sky, the lightly falling drizzle cooling my hot cheeks. How long has Tommy been missing? An hour, five? Who could I call? My father? The thought is swiped as soon as it surfaces. Howard? He’d say this was bound to happen. The guards? – but what kind of a backlash might come from a call like that?