Bright Burning Things(35)

This false posturing antagonises every jangling nerve ending, wires dangerously crossed, likely to flip that switch. I rest my eyes on Tommy’s form, so small and angular, constrained in his skin, as if he’s holding something inside that’s too big, as if his bones might crack from the weight of carrying it. I drink him in, smelling his sweet marmalade scent, disguised with somebody else’s brand of washing powder. He’s so quiet, not the lively little man I remember. Are my memories of him filtered through the lens of the red-rimmed, melancholic boozer’s eyes?

He nods at his grandad, sombre little fellow, then looks off into the distance.

‘Not too long, now. Don’t want to tire the boy out.’

My mouth fills with every obscenity I’ve ever uttered and some I’ve never given shape to before, but some functioning part of my brain intercedes before the explosion. I have to force down all that hot, bubbling bile.

‘Come, Tommy, and I’ll show you around the place where Yaya’s been staying.’

I hold my hand out and he doesn’t take it. I smile at him, gently, I hope. Come back to my orbit, little man. I want to stick my tongue out and roll the sides off each other but know how that would look.

‘No more than thirty minutes. We have to get him home.’

Did he really just use that word?

‘Tell your mummy about the lovely lady you’re staying with. Clare, isn’t that right?’

My tongue worries the inside of my already bitten cheek.

‘Half-hour tops,’ he says before turning, Lara’s arm snaking around his lower back, as if, without her support, he might topple over.

‘Would you like to see a giant statue?’ I ask, careful not to demand too much too soon, even though my body is craving to hold him close, feel his heartbeat next to mine. Rat-a-tat-tat.

We walk. Single file.

‘This is Mary,’ I say when we get to the oversized statue in the grotto. ‘You know… the mother of Jesus?’

I almost bow my head. He looks blankly at the carved stone figure. Of course he hasn’t a clue; I hardly prioritised his religious instruction.

‘Look at her robin-redbreast cheeks and lips!’ I don’t mention the flaking, peeling paint job, which makes her mouth look as if it’s bleeding. I don’t mention the whole mother-of-God stuff, certainly not the Immaculate Conception stuff, sure to bamboozle him and fill his head with nightmares, as it did mine.

‘Hey, were there any lady giants like this one in the Land of Nod?’

He shrugs, kicks at the ground. He tracks a large black beetle as it makes its lumbering way across the path.

‘Big fella, huh?’

He picks up a twig and bends to prod it.

‘Maybe not, Tommy. How would you feel if one of your giants started poking you?’

He doesn’t stop, just flips the beetle over and crouches low for further inspection.

‘Jeepers creepers, how many legs does one tiny creature need?’

I’m trying to reach him when he presses the twig down hard into the centre of the beetle, its innards flying in all directions, a sickening crunch.

I can’t help myself: ‘Did that make you feel better?’

He doesn’t answer, just throws the twig down and puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Tommy…? Tommy. Look at me.’

His eyes. Dug out with a spoon.

‘I’m sorry, darling. Yaya’s sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

I kneel in front of him. How can someone so young have so little light in their eyes? Were they always this deep-set, or are they grooves from tiredness? No person this little should have eyes like these. A replica of his mother, who deserves the bruises she sports.

I’m careful not to touch him, reading his signals that this is close enough.

‘I was sick, Tommy. And now I’m getting better. I’ll be home soon.’

He looks down, scuffing the toe of his trainer on the ground.

‘We can all go home soon.’

There is an unspoken absence hanging between us.

‘The first thing we’ll do the day I get out of here is pick Herbie up.’

At the mention of the dog’s name his eyes well and he blinks hard.

‘We’re almost there, Tommy. Over halfway. Only five and a bit weeks to go. We can do that, can’t we?’

He walks on ahead of me, shoulders hunched, a silent shrunken old man.

‘Would you like to see some kittens, Tommy?’

His head makes an imperceptible upward-downward movement.

‘Follow me,’ I say as I sweep past him, woman in charge.

When we reach the shed a number of other visiting families are there, cooing over the little ‘fur babies’, as one girl calls them. ‘So cute they make me want to cry.’ Tommy looks unimpressed at her histrionics and seems to want to leave. I push to the front and reach in to lift out the small, inquisitive tabby. ‘Look, Tommy. A marmalade cat.’ His two favourite things rolled into one: animals and orange jam. For a moment he seems to forget his hurt and reaches out to stroke the kitten between her eyes. The episode with the beetle crosses my mind and I’m careful to keep a close watch. The Tommy I left behind would never willingly kill any other living creature, even buzzing bluebottles as they’d bang against the window, crazed. I remember him shooing them out through the opened windows and doors, crying when I squashed one with my thumb. I ooh and ah at the tabby, overcompensating, sensing the other parents staring at me.