Bright Burning Things(36)

‘Would you like to adopt her, Tommy?’

He looks up at me, a tiny glint in his eyes. ‘Would Hewbie like her?’

There. His voice. And it almost melts my bones.

‘Herbie’s such a gentle giant. I’m sure he’d look after her.’

‘Five weeks is long, Yaya.’

‘Yes, darling. Too long. Ask Grandad to bring you next week and the week after and the week after that. Six more visits and then we can go home, with our new friend Marmie.’

He repeats the name: ‘Marmie’. Nods, satisfied that it is a good name. ‘Where is Hewbie, Yaya?’

I think fast. ‘He’s in a lovely house with other dogs and he has made a new friend, a big spotty Dalmatian named Hugh.’

Tommy looks away, an expression of disgust clouding his features. He never liked to be lied to.

‘Yaya?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘I want to go now.’

I can sense the interest from those around me intensifying, wondering how I’m going to handle this obvious rebuff.

I decide on a magnanimous approach: ‘Of course, sweetie. Let’s go get creamy ice.’

I take the kitten from his hands and place her gently back down among her siblings.

‘I want a kitty too, Mam,’ says the same little girl who said she could cry they were so cute.

Tommy looks at her slyly out of the corner of his eyes. ‘Not ours. You can’t have Marmie.’

The girl starts to wail. ‘That’s the one I want.’

A switch seems to be triggered inside his small body and I can see his impulse to smack the girl before it happens. I’m forced to grab his hand as it flies in the air. I hold on to him firmly and pull him away from the shed.

‘That’s not ok, Tommy. You can’t go around hitting people.’

He looks at me, like Who are you kidding? Heat rushes to my cheeks.

‘Would you like to see the room where I sleep?’

He shrugs, hands deep in the pockets of jeans I don’t recognise. Who bought him clothes? Did they take him shopping? He hates the bright lights, the thumping music, the crowds, just like me, hates the ‘stupid’ other people. Do the folk minding him know this about him? Do they let him grab anything orange he likes off the shelves? Underneath his favourite fleece hoodie (the one I stole for him last year) he’s wearing a new orange T-shirt. Jealousy grabs me by the throat, rattling me around.

‘What’s she like, Tommy, the lady who is looking after you?’

He almost disappears inside himself, his head hunched low.

I look towards the sky.

‘Where has Mr Sunshine gone to today, Tommy?’

He looks up, his focus intense, seeking out the concentration of light behind the thick membrane of cloud. His eyes dart all round, never alighting on one spot. After a few moments he gives up. He has never not managed to find the spot where Mr Sunshine is hiding.

I point, over his shoulder. ‘There. See?’

He shakes his head. ‘He’s gone away.’

‘He hasn’t disappeared, Tommy, remember? He’s up there somewhere. It’s up to us to find him.’

His eyes are cast down towards the gravel path beneath his feet. What does he see?

‘It’s only a matter of time, Tommy, before the sky is blue again. You know that, right?’

He doesn’t respond, seemingly irritated by everything about me.

‘What colour is the room you’re sleeping in, darling?’

He actively scuffs the front of his trainers, a long, deliberate, provocative scuff.

A part of me wants to smack him, another part wants to crush him close, sing in his ear over and over: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine… He has no interest in seeing my room, and anyway, what was I thinking? I don’t want to show him the four institutional beds in the dreary, stuffy room. What kind of an image would that plant in his mind? Why has he not asked me any questions: what, who, when, why? His enquiring mind never used to stop questioning, sorting, labelling, packaging. Have they given him some sort of sedative? Is that why his eyes are as dead as any addict’s in here?

I stamp my feet into the ground, shaking my head – push that one away. A leaf floats loose from one of the sentinels: a skinny, anaemic-looking fellow. Mr Droopy – how’s that one, Dad? That’s a new one!

‘A magic feather, Tommy!’

He reaches out to catch it, regards it closely, examining the veins, running his thumb over the lines. I remove mine from my pocket.

‘Look, Tommy, two autumn leaves for your scrapbook.’

He worries the one in his own hand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, crumbling it into tiny pieces before letting it fall to the ground. My offering lies vulnerable in my palm. He reaches out, as if in slow motion, and takes the leaf, which has dried even further since it fell only moments ago. I expect him to shred and stamp on it, but instead he kisses it and puts it in his pocket.

‘Would you like me to kiss it too, Tommy?’

He looks at me, his face registering first distaste, then consideration, followed by a tussle: yes, no, no, yes, stupid, yes, before he pulls the leaf out and offers it to me. I take it, kiss it, and put it back into his pocket.

‘Be careful not to tear it, Tommy. Remember how fragile it is?’

He nods, tapping on the outside of his pocket.