The Invisible Ones

  Lulu holds the feeding cup for her charge. She’s smiling—they keep breaking off to say something. I can see only half of his face, as Lulu is between us. Suddenly he jerks his head away from the cup and a trickle of brown liquid runs down his chin. He smiles, obviously embarrassed, and she leans forward to wipe it away. But instead of scuffling for a cloth— for, in fact, the cloth that lies on the tray by her side, as you might expect, she does it with her finger. Just her finger. He smiles again. What expression is on her face, I am unable to say.

  Then she lifts the cup to his lips again and tips it up for him to drink. Somehow, annoyingly, the same thing happens again. I find myself holding my breath, anxious for her, thinking, How clumsy: this time he’s going to be impatient with her—angry, even. The trickle of liquid runs down his chin and down his neck, heading toward his shirt collar. He seems to be staring at her, but she doesn’t rush to wipe it off. It’s very odd. Then I’m not even sure what I see; she seems to lean toward him and—it looks like, although I can’t be absolutely sure of this—it looks like she licks the trickle of liquid off his neck and chin. It happens so quickly, I think I must have imagined it. Because how could that be the case?

  The next moment she is back in her chair and all seems normal. Then I see why—the sitting-room door opens again, and the elderly woman pops her head around it. She seems to be laughing—perhaps she has forgotten something. Lulu and wheelchair man laugh, too. Happy people, these three. Hilarious. The mother goes out once more. This time Lulu gets up and goes out through the door, too, leaving him alone. I stare at him—who is this guy? What the hell kind of sick setup is this? Does he have some sort of hold over her that means he can force her to do these things? Demeaning her. Lulu comes back into the room and closes the door, a smile on her face. Saying something. Then she moves the tray and feeding cup and cloth and all onto the table by the door, and moves his chair a little nearer to the fire. She bends down to put on the wheelchair brake, and almost in the same movement, swings her leg over to sit on his lap, facing him. He moves his head back as far as it will go. I stare at the knobs of spine that are visible through her T-shirt, at her red high-heeled shoes: they are the same ones—the ones she wore when she met me. I see the scuff marks on the soles, the glint of nails where she’s had them reheeled. She must really like those shoes. She wriggles herself a little closer to his body—he can do nothing other than sit there, of course— and bends her head to kiss him.

  As far as I can tell—from my experience of this sort of thing—he kisses her back. There is nothing wrong with his head, after all.

  I find I am breathing hard, mashing a handful of leaves to a slippery, sharp-smelling pulp. I feel sick. Hot. Ashamed. This wasn’t what I came for. This wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  What was it supposed to be like, Ray?

  When two people are sitting in the same wheelchair, everyone else should leave. And so I do.

  I don’t wait to find out when she leaves the house in Richmond. I drive away with a petulant squeal of tires. The squealing says, I don’t give a fuck. I don’t know why I came. I’m not interested. I’m just trying to fool myself into thinking I’m getting over Jen. I even go and pick someone who looks a little like her, for Christ’s sake. Stupid. I wasn’t even thinking. Stupid.

  Back at home, I sit in the front room in the dark, rocking in my chair, vodka and tonic in my hand, clinging to the edge of the abyss, staring through the ash leaves at the railway tracks that run along and over the main road. Toylike trains bundle slowly over the bridge, hypnotizing me: brakes hissing and clanking, wheels rattling over the points, the train windows like frames of a film running sideways, snapshots of humans being carried home to their loved and loving ones, not caring that I’m out there in the dark as they rattle past.

  Maybe some of them are going home to dark houses where no one waits. Some of those people doing the crossword or staring sightlessly at the night might also be imperceptibly desperate; bored faces concealing a tangle of hopeless wreckage. After all, what could be more common than a failed marriage? What could be more mundane?

  Is ten years the most you can ever hope for?

  Happy birthday, Ray.

  20.

  JJ

  I’ve got to go and see the headmaster. Mr. Stewart didn’t say what it was about, but I’ve got a fair idea. All the teachers have been banging on about O levels recently, and I had this feeling I’d be hauled in before too long.

  Mr. McDonagh—our headmaster—isn’t too bad. He looks up and smiles at me when I slip in through the door.

  “Well, James, come in. Sit down.”

  It always feels weird when anyone calls me James. I wonder who the hell they’re talking to.

  “It has been brought to my attention that your attendance has been rather patchy this year.”

  Oh.

  “James, have you had any problems at home recently?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that you’ve always done so well with coming to school.”

  . . . for a Gypsy, he doesn’t say, but I know that’s what he’s thinking.

  “So I wondered if anything has changed with your circumstances?”

  I shrug. I don’t want Mum to get into trouble. She probably already is in trouble.

  “No. It’s just . . . sometimes, when Mum’s working . . . I can’t get a lift in. It’s miles to the bus stop.”

  That sounded all wrong. Like I’m blaming her, and it’s not her fault.

  “Right. Where are you living now?”

  The question I always dread. I think he thinks we’re on the council site near the new supermarket. As far as I can remember. Somewhere that has its own bus stop. But we haven’t been there for months and months.

  “Backs Lane.” I mumble the lie eventually. But McDonagh doesn’t look suspicious or even very interested.

  “It’s not that I want to pry, James. You have a very reasonable chance of getting some qualifications, and I don’t want anything to take that chance away from you. I want to help.”

  How is he going to help me? By giving me a lift to school every morning? Don’t think so.

  “I’ll make sure I get a lift,” I say, which sounds a bit stupid.

  “Yes? Because we can arrange help with that sort of thing, you know, if there’s a . . . problem.”

  “Thanks. It’s okay.”

  “And what about homework? Do you have somewhere quiet where you can study?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “Because you know you’re always welcome to stay behind after classes and work in the library if you need some peace and quiet.”

  “No, it’s fine . . . It’s . . .”

  Since it’s just Mum and me, quiet is not a problem. Much better where we are now than on the council site, where you look out the window and you’re practically in the bedroom of the trailer next door. And you can hear everything that goes on. I mean everything.

  “If there’s anything else you need, you know you can always come to me, or one of your teachers. We have high hopes for you, James.”

  He smiles in a sincere but slightly sickly way. I hope this is nearly over.

  “Thanks, Mr. McDonagh,” I mumble.

  “So do you think you can improve on your attendance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a lot of promise, you know. Mrs. Casanada has spoken very highly of your English. If all goes well, we could be talking A levels.”

  He says “A levels” like it’s the punch line to a really good joke. Ta-dah.

  I nod like an idiot, not knowing what else to say.

  “Well, all right. Thank you for coming to see me, James.”

  He always says thank you, like he didn’t just order you to come and see him. (Does this make him a nicer person? I don’t know.) I say thank you, too. We have a big reputation for good manners in our school. It’s the main reason Mum was so pleased I got in.

  Somehow it’s already half past four, and the last l
esson finished some time ago. It’s raining. It seems to have rained nonstop since the beginning of spring, and now it’s June. The papers keep going on about how it’s a record or something. Gran is supposed to come and get me today, but there’s no sign of any of our cars. I sit on the wall outside the school gate. There’s a tiny bit of shelter from the trees on the edge of the playing field, so I try to get under that, but it doesn’t make much difference—the wind seems to blow the rain under the leaves and straight at me. I close my eyes and pretend that it’s not raining, and when that doesn’t work, I try to imagine the rain is warm, like the showers at the swimming pool, which keep running as long as you keep hitting the button. Brilliant. When I live in France I’ll have one of those showers. And it’ll always be warmer than this, anyway. Even though it’s June, the rain is bloody cold. My hair is wet, and water keeps running down my neck, which is not a nice feeling. Then I remember what some people at school have been talking about: that rain is killer rain. That it’s full of poison because of that explosion in Russia, and it will give you cancer. If that’s true, it’s probably too late for me already. It doesn’t seem any different from normal rain, though. It tastes the same—of nothing. I start to imagine getting cancer and dying. Would Stella come to my funeral? Would she cry?

  I must have sort of drifted off, because when I open my eyes, there’s a black Range Rover in front of me. The only person I’ve ever seen get into one of these cars is Katie Williams, but the windows of this one are tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside. Then the driver’s window slides down with a slightly creaky electric hum. A woman with a nice face and an expensive-looking streaked hairdo looks out with a smile.

  “Have you been stranded?”

  Shocked that someone I don’t know is talking to me, I shake my head vigorously. Then the shiny head of Katie Williams leans forward from the ackseat.

  “We’ll give you a lift, JJ. Get in.”

  Katie Williams, who hates me—at least, I’ve always assumed so. Astonishing. It must be a joke. She must have something horrible in store, and everyone will laugh. It will be “Sausages” all over again.

  “I’m waiting for my gran. She’ll be here soon. It’s all right. Thanks.”

  “Oh, but you’ve been out here for ages! When I came to pick Katie up from her oboe lesson I saw you out here—that must have been twenty minutes ago.”

  Mrs. Williams looks kind and concerned. She makes me feel like a small kid again and in need of looking after. I quite like it.

  “She’s just a bit late. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

  “You’re absolutely soaked! You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  “I’m all right. Really. Not cold at all.”

  “Your teeth are chattering. We can’t leave you here . . .”

  There is muttering inside the car.

  “Katie says you live just off the Eastwick Road. It’s not far out of our way. And if your grandmother’s been delayed . . . There may be a problem with her car or something . . . I’ll explain it. Don’t worry . . .”

  The door is open, and somehow, although I keep saying that I’m all right, I seem to be getting into the back of the Range Rover, impelled by the power of money, or something. The seats are made of soft, squeaky leather, and I’m worried about ruining them. Once inside, I feel a hundred times wetter than I was outside. Katie, dry and sleek and smelling of strawberry lip gloss, stares straight ahead and chews gum and doesn’t look at me. How does she know where I live? Did Stella tell her? What did she say? The very thought of what she might have said makes me feel sick and hot all over. But also, the thought that she talked about me at all is strangely thrilling.

  Classical music plays softly on the car radio—a load of people are singing in a way that makes me think of an army marching with very measured steps, pausing between each one.

  “You done your Jane Austen?”

  Katie speaks without looking at me—I feel this rather than know it, because I am not looking at her, either.

  “Um. No. Not yet.”

  “JJ’s really good at English,” Katie announces suddenly, to my total and complete surprise.

  Mrs. Williams speaks half over her shoulder.

  “I wish you’d give Katie a few tips.”

  I sort of smile, as the idea is so bizarre it’s funny.

  “Why don’t you come back to our place? We can look at it together. You can get dry . . . and we’ll give you a lift back afterward—please, Mum?”

  She leans forward, smiling in a toadying way at her mother’s ear. I’m so stunned I can’t speak. Katie Williams, strawberry-scented supersnob, asking me back to her house? What?

  Mrs. Williams glances over her shoulder at me.

  “Well . . . maybe that’s a good idea. You look so bedraggled.”

  “Um . . . Mum will be waiting.”

  “You can ring your parents and tell them where you are. We’re only a minute away.”

  “I . . .”

  I don’t want to say that I can’t ring Mum because we don’t have a phone. Katie must know this. Or maybe she doesn’t realize—maybe she can’t imagine anyone not having a phone. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything, and this is taken for agreement, because a minute later the Range Rover glides down a long drive to a house that makes Stella’s house look like a garden shed (and our trailer like a dog kennel). It’s a mansion. I can’t imagine how many rooms there must be. Loads. It’s practically as big as the school.

  . . .

  Maybe Katie Williams is all right, really. We have mugs of tea, and cake— a really nice fruitcake that’s delicious and probably good for you as well. Probably made in the gigantic kitchen, which has a breakfast bar—which is literally a bar where you have your breakfast—as well as a big long dining table—presumably for lunch and tea, as there’s also a separate dining room where about twenty people can sit down at once. In a little room off the hall where the phone lives, I pretend to phone Mum. I mumble a bit at the brr, though no one’s listening, anyway. I can’t believe the phone has its own room. Katie doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, so there are just three people living in this enormous house. Ten rooms each, I reckon. I don’t think I could stand to live here, personally. It would give me the creeps.

  Now we’re sitting in Katie’s study (!) with our books out and more mugs of tea. I feel like something’s going to happen, but I’m not sure what it’s going to be, or if I’m going to like it. She has a proper desk and a chair on wheels like in an office, and there’s a settee, and posters on the walls—some are copies of real paintings: there’s a ballet dancer, and a horse on its hind legs. There’s a poster of Tears for Fears, and another one of Madonna. And it’s not even her bedroom.

  “How’s Stella?”

  I have to break the silence somehow. Stella’s been off school for nearly a week with the flu.

  “I don’t know.”

  I’m surprised. Aren’t girl best friends supposed to ring up and gossip to each other every day?

  Katie studies her fingernails, which have sparkly pink varnish on them, chipping off. Then she says, “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Who . . . Stella?”

  “Yeah. You were always hanging out together, last year.”

  “Yeah, well. That was last year.”

  Before you stole her away from me, I think. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t Katie but the visit to the trailer that spoiled everything.

  “So do you still fancy her?”

  “God! I didn’t fancy her! We were just mates. You know . . .”

  This bursts out before I can stop it. I feel bad as soon as I say it, because I did—do—fancy Stella, quite a lot. Although I’ve sort of given up on her over the last few months.

  “She likes Andrew Hoyte now.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I know.”

  Andrew Hoyte is old news. Most of the girls like him—he’s tall and blond, and looks about twenty. I think he’s got prematureaging disease. I say this, a
nd Katie giggles.

  It’s astonishing. It’s almost as though we’re friends. Encouraged by this, I start to talk about some of the other arseholes at school. Katie falls about at almost everything I say. She seems to agree with me. Amazing.

  “Do you like The Smiths?”

  She’s crawling toward a cassette player on the floor before I can even answer, and puts on the new album—the one I haven’t got yet.

  “What’s your favorite song?”

  How does she know I like them, unless Stella told her?

  “Um, ‘Hand in Glove.’ ”

  “Yeah? I’d have thought it would be ‘The Boy with the Thorn in His Side.’ ”

  Actually, my real favorite is “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want,” but I’m not going to say all that in front of her. She might think it was some sort of awful clumsy pass.

  “Why?” I say.

  Katie is staring at me. Her eyes seem almost feverish and strangely brilliant, as though she’s about to cry.

  “Because you are the boy with the thorn in his side, aren’t you?”

  I try to laugh. I don’t know what she means. What has Stella been saying about me? Katie smiles a rather strange smile. I feel like she’s really saying something else, but I don’t know what it is. Like she’s speaking German, which she takes and I don’t.

  Why would I have a thorn in my side?

  I shrug, which probably makes me look stupid, but it’s the best I can do right now.

  “So you don’t care that Stella likes Andrew?”

  I shrug again. I seem to have a shrugging disease.

  “No.”