Bright Burning Things(70)

‘Keep the change,’ I say.

He puts the order through and backs away from me. I study him. He looks better, the muscles suit him, though they did come on rather quickly. Where is this boy heading? I think of the man in the meeting who watched his father throw himself into the canal on his fortieth birthday.

He speaks low: ‘Glad to see you’re ok, you know, after that day ‘n’ all…’

I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then add, ‘You’re looking well yourself.’

He nods curtly, calls out the teenagers’ order, which does in fact include garlic dough balls, and I wonder what else was I was right about. The porn, no doubt, the vicious games, probably, but this boy and the canal? I look at the boy’s solid physique, the fact of his holding down a job, earning money, and can’t help feeling hopeful.

He hands me the box, lowers his voice again and says, ‘God bless you,’ as I leave.

I don’t think it was ironic.





43


‘Last one in is a pooper.’

‘Pooper scooper,’ Tommy says.

‘Want to join us, Mrs O’M?’ I shout when I see our treacherous neighbour peering at us from behind the safety of her well-pruned hedge.

‘No, Yaya, not Witchy Mary,’ Tommy says.

‘It’s ok, Mr T, she wouldn’t dare.’

Just what did the ‘little mite’ endure in that house, and how many nights was he there before he was moved on? I won’t allow this thought to take hold, burrow down.

‘Hello, Tommy,’ Mrs O’Malley says. ‘So lovely to see you all back home together.’

You bitch. I’m filled with the shape, the taste, the smack of the word, which sounds satisfactorily like it should. I grab Tommy by the arm and pull him through the front door.

‘Ow, hurt.’

‘Sorry, Mr T. Sorry. We all need to eat.’

‘Yes, Yaya. Aminals too.’

‘Yes, Tommy, I know that.’

Tommy is watching me closely. He opens the fridge, sniffing, eyes darting anxiously around.

‘Owange juice, Yaya?’

I pull a bottle of MiWadi from the cupboard. His tense body visibly relaxes. Jesus, is this how it will play out from now on?

‘Don’t forget Marmie and Herbie’s yackety-yack.’

‘After us, T. I’ll feed them after us.’

‘No, now. They’re stahving. And they need water.’

‘Here.’ I hand him the bowl, lift him up, careful not to hold him too close, turn the kitchen tap on.

‘Enough, Yaya,’ he says, the bowl overflowing. ‘Yaya?’

‘Yes, darling. I’m right here.’

‘You don’t sound blurry.’

Christ. ‘Thank you.’ I articulate the words carefully. Can I do this? ‘Do what exactly, Sonya, what?’ Something is missing.

‘Who are you talking to, Yaya?’

I didn’t know I’d spoken that aloud.

‘My guardian angel,’ I say, trying to smile.

‘My guarding angel sat by my bed sometimes when you were away.’

‘What did he or she look like?’ I tread gently, aware this is the first time he’s spoken of our time apart.

‘Sometimes like Herbie.’

‘Do you hear that, Herbie?’

The dog’s tail thumps on the kitchen tiles.

‘And sometimes like Gandad and that pizza-man.’

‘Giant versions?’

‘No, people-size.’

‘Oh. Do you think they look alike, T?’

‘They have the same voices.’

‘Yes, they do sound similar.’

‘I hope Gandad comes to see me soon. He pwomised.’

Did he? I find that almost unbearable. Who makes false promises to someone so little? I serve him his pizza, which he eats methodically, chewing carefully. I make myself swallow two slices.

‘Tommy?’ I speak pretend-casually, not wanting to spook him. ‘What did you set on fire in Mrs O’Malley’s house?’

‘Nothing, Yaya!’

‘And in Clare’s?’

‘Only Mr Candle and Ms Matches.’

‘And did you try to set the house on fire?’

He looks at me as if I’ve truly lost my mind, left it somewhere else, as if only someone spectacularly stupid could ask such a thing.

‘But did you want to?’ I can’t help myself.

He ignores me, bends down to pat Herbie.

‘Just going to the loo, Tommy,’ I say.

He doesn’t answer.

I close the bathroom door behind me and look in the mirror, see a blur looking back at me, which is not unusual. What is unusual is a bar of carbolic soap still in its wrapping. I’d never buy that shit. Wash your mouth and your thoughts out, Sonya. A disembodied voice.

‘Yaya?’ Tommy shouts from outside the door. Was I talking out loud again?

‘It’s ok, Mr T. Just doing a poops,’ I say, hoping to make him laugh, but then I remember our previous open-door policy. Jesus, the booze really lowered the boundaries.

‘All done!’ I say as I come back out.

‘Stinkystink, Yaya!’ He waves his hand in front of his nose.