The Boy with Two Heads

  Richard stood up, and crept along the landing. Three steps up, and the door stood open. The sound of television floated up from the lounge, and he could detect the scent of hot milk. He stepped across the threshold and turned on the light – the new desk sprang into focus, under the window, where Grandad’s sideboard had been. Instead of the wardrobe there were the two filing cabinets. The pictures were absolutely gone.

  The mirror offered him a perfect reflection.

  ‘What do we want?’ said Rikki quietly.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you want to do? How serious are you?’

  ‘Serious.’

  There had been seven suits, and Richard had sat among them in the wardrobe. He’d let the jackets conceal him, breathing in the smell. A few days later he’d found the wardrobe empty, and the clothes were in a box in the car. His mother had cried, and he’d cried too, but they’d agreed to be sensible, and they’d taken them together to the charity shop on the High Street and even told the woman there a little about the old man who’d once worn them. To know that they still existed was good – they’d fit somebody, and they were far too well made to be thrown away or turned into rags. Somebody would buy them. Some grown-up might be wearing one of the regimental blazers now, as Grandad had on the last Armistice Day, at the war memorial with the Scouts, cadets, Brownies, St John’s ambulance . . . Richard remembered him trying to march – trying to keep pace with the younger men in the town square as the wreaths were laid . . . trying to stand straight and tall when his back wouldn’t let him.

  Good clothes had to be recycled, even if they ended up as fancy dress – Richard knew that. And anyway, he had taken the things that he wanted – he’d been allowed everything and anything. He had his grandad’s books on his shelves, and he had his spectacles case, and the silliest ornament too – a pair of Dutch clogs under a little toy windmill. The old man had bought it with the grandma Richard had never met, when they had honeymooned years ago, in Amsterdam. They had hung it on the wall, on the hook that now held the very modern clock.

  The woodwork had all been repainted. He had helped his father sandpaper it smooth.

  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an old leather wallet. He didn’t take it to school, but he’d slip it into his jeans sometimes, because it had his grandad’s smell. It had a picture of him – Richard – in the side panel, eight years old with the most appalling haircut, which had made Rikki laugh and laugh. The wallet gave up its scent, but it had no money in it any more. He had vowed he would never spend the banknotes he’d found in it – because they were Grandad’s last. But he had. Of all the things he was ashamed of, that came back: the fact that he had taken Grandad’s last ten pounds and spent it on some trash that he didn’t need. But what did he need?

  ‘What’s money?’ he said to Rikki.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Grandad wouldn’t have minded. Grandad would stop and search his pockets for the gift of that two-pound coin, or a five-pound note.

  The wallet had a hearing-aid battery in it. Grandad had been deaf without his aid, and he had owned a dental plate too – translucent with little wires. There were the photos in the album downstairs, which they had all organized together:

  Photos of a slim pilot in immaculate uniform, from a world of black and white . . .

  A grainy world, with Grandad in an old car – the first one he’d owned . . .

  Grandad on the runway with two of his friends, impossibly young . . .

  Grandad older and in colour, with a baby in his arms – and the baby, somehow, being a little, tiny Richard that had now grown and morphed and monstered into a boy with two heads . . .

  Richard leaned on the desk and started to cry.

  No photos of the funeral, of course – people didn’t get their cameras out at funerals. So there was no record of the trip to the crematorium, and the slight delay as the preceding funeral finished and cleared. A white shirt, bought specially, because his school shirts were blue and inappropriate – the collar too big for Richard’s neck, and the sleeves too long. No record of this, except in memory – and nobody needing to hear about it.

  That was where the armchair had been. The old man might have looked up from it. ‘You off to bed?’

  ‘What’s on the radio?’

  ‘Jazz Favourites. Is it too loud?’

  The smell of whisky, always. Strong, when he kissed his cheek. The hand squeezing his shoulder, just enough to hurt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shout if it keeps you awake.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night, son.’

  Rikki spoke, close into his ear. ‘Is there a knife? To cut out what you’re feeling?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there a laser, then, to burn it away?’

  ‘To burn it out? No, Rikki. There’s no knife. There’s no laser.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘I just want to sleep without dreaming,’ said Richard. ‘Every time I dream, and then wake up—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s like, just for a moment, I forget. Not every day. But it’s when we forget, and then remember – that’s the worst. I can’t stand that, Rikki. I just can’t stand that.’

  He felt inside the wallet again and found the book of matches. It was small and green, from the pub down the road. Grandad had gone there one or two nights a week, and smoked in the back courtyard. The cardboard was bent, and the matches broken, but it was still possible to break one off and hold the red phosphate clear for striking. You had to rub it against the paper, and when the flame flared it burned his fingers, and he dropped it at once. It fell, like a little comet.

  Richard turned Rikki round and pulled a sheet of paper at random from one of his father’s filing trays. Rikki adjusted it, so the corner projected. This time, when they lit a match, they took the flame straight to the paper, and the paper caught. It was easy then to draw the paper free and lay it on the desk. It was easy to take another sheet and feed the flames. The papers writhed and opened in flowers of black and orange, and the smoke rose up into their faces.

  Rikki coughed and laughed. He pulled open a drawer, and they scooped the flames into it, and there they blazed more fiercely now that they had a nest. More and more smoke – it was amazing how much smoke a few papers made, and how much ash. There were more papers everywhere: reports and files – his father worked at home one day a week and was forever bringing more paper into the house. Rikki crumpled them, and Richard stuffed them into the drawer. The wooden sides were blackening now and there was real heat. The room became foggy so fast, and Richard’s eyes were streaming with tears. Smoke was rolling up over the ceiling, and the inferno was beginning to breathe and crackle, coming alive. They added more fuel. They tore a cardboard folder into pieces and the smoke was black. The drawer itself was on fire now, for it was cheap chipboard: the desk was burning. Somewhere out on the landing, an alarm started to chirp: an urgent, anxious cry.

  Richard closed the drawer knowing it was now like a bomb, the temperature rising higher and higher. It would all go up, with the curtains and the window frame, and then – if he was lucky – the house itself, from floorboards to roof. The drawer was cremating itself and would burst any moment: he could hear roaring. He was coughing, and so was Rikki: the heat was wonderful. Rikki was laughing too, and there was ash rising around them in curious slow motion.

  Then, under it all, came the inevitable thump, thump, thump of feet on the stairs and there were shouting voices. There was a scream, and the door crashed open, and someone was there, hazy in the fog, waving his arms. The figure bounded forward, and still someone screamed – the smoke alarm was frantic now. Richard saw his father’s face, the horror and fear – such a wild, twisted mask. He felt his father’s arms around him and he was hauled from the room, and the shouting and the screaming beat like wings, upstairs and down.

  Their father had a fire extinguis
her. Dad was always organized, Dad was sensible, and the flames were dying. In a moment, the windows were open, and it was only boiling smoke. It was just mess, and stink – and then, for the first time in a long time, Richard knew his dad was going to hit him. It was almost a joy to feel a strength he couldn’t fight lift him up and shake him, and take him back along the landing. A joy to hear the shouting louder than ever, and to feel a hand smacking down, so he didn’t even protect himself. His mother was crying out, and his father was punctuating every blow with the words: ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  He was on his bed. Smack, across his shoulder. Smack, across his head – his mother screaming, ‘No, Frank – no! Stop it!’ Richard didn’t want it to stop. He was putting his face up, and so was Rikki – they both leaned into the blows, aching to be hurt. When the door slammed shut, and he found himself alone, with his flesh on fire, it was a relief. It was as if something had been silenced. The boy with two heads wept properly, then, until his mother came, and then he wept in her arms, and was rocked gently to sleep.

  In the morning, they found that the door to their grandad’s room was locked.

  Their father had gone out and their mother made breakfast, trying so hard to be normal. The whole house stank of burning, and her hands were shaking. Richard and Rikki were bruised all over and the shirt they wore could not conceal the marks. They sat at the table in unbreakable silence.

  PART THREE

  THE CHANCE TO BE NORMAL

  CHAPTER ONE

  The school term slipped by, inching towards its end.

  Mr Prowse, the headmaster, could not bring himself to look at Richard or Rikki, and said nothing directly to them. Perhaps Dr Warren had advised against confrontation of any kind? The counsellor himself was often close by, adapting the boy’s medication. His visits to the school became more and more regular, but the fire at home was never referred to.

  Lessons continued, of course, and those in Year Six worked harder than ever. At last it was time to take the dreaded exams, and the children filed down to the hall where neat rows of desks awaited them. The papers were distributed, and the ink flowed. The papers were gathered in again and – suddenly – it was all over.

  There was a strange sense of anti-climax, and a feeling of emptiness.

  Luckily, there was football, and then the residential.

  The semi-final against St Michael’s was scheduled for the very next week, so Mr Barlow ran regular practices. A large calendar on the wall revealed that the trip to Wales was just ten days away, so that started to dominate too. Mr Barlow had to spend hours organizing and talking through the arrangements, for the children always wanted to discuss them. Deposits were paid and kits had been assembled.

  They got onto the Adventure Centre’s website, which had pages of photos and links, and pored over every detail. The special order for Nailhead McGinty’s precious handbook had been delivered too, and Eric and Mark’s copy was already so well-read that the spine had broken. They’d had to put elastic bands round it, and together they’d cross-referenced different sections with Post-it notes. Eric had memorized some of the great man’s sayings, and would sidle up to his friends and mutter: ‘A man has more chance if he’s alone, you know.’ Then he’d narrow his eyes like the Nailhead photo, and smile, adding, ‘Trust no one – only yourself.’ Mark just grinned happily, and wrote endless kit lists.

  Transport details were confirmed, and every child received a letter. The coach would leave school at seven-thirty on the Sunday evening, and drive through the night. Clifden was a tiny village, nestling in a wild part of moorland close to the sea. The brochure revealed that it was right beside the British Army’s Commando training ground – a restricted area to which Green Cross would have ‘specially negotiated access’. Adventures would begin as soon as they arrived. That would be on Monday morning, so everyone could sleep on the bus before a day of paragliding. Mr Barlow announced that he was re-organizing the groups, as he wanted to ensure the right mix and gender balance. Everyone groaned, but Richard and Rikki were secretly glad, as they knew Jeff wouldn’t want to be with them any more. That friendship had broken for ever.

  Then things went badly wrong for Eric.

  He was caught in school with cigarettes. He insisted that he’d been looking after them for his brother, ‘Spider’, but he was disciplined and sent home. No further action was taken. Later in the same week, however, he appeared with a devastating new haircut. His brother’s girlfriend had shaved parts of his scalp, and woven intricate braids. He had a meeting with Dr Warren, and was sent home again to have the style amended. The very next day he got into a fight with two older boys, from another school. Eric did karate, and used a manoeuvre everyone knew was dangerous and illegal. One boy was hospitalized, and Eric was suspended properly this time – there was even talk of expulsion.

  He was back the next week, though, having agreed to spend more time at the Rechner Institute. Surgery, they said, was now a real possibility. He signed a final ‘good behaviour contract’, and the reward he was offered for keeping it was his place on the all-important residential. It was the one thing he was looking forward to, for he hated school more than ever. Mr Barlow tried to stay close, and keep him calm, while Mark read him his favourite sections of the McGinty book. The two boys spent their time planning how they’d survive in the wild, should they ever need to.

  Meanwhile, the football pitch was mown, and its lines were repainted.

  St Michael’s Prep School rolled up in a silver minibus, and the team disembarked in identical tracksuits. They had won their previous game thirteen–nil, and everyone knew they were determined to make the final and keep hold of the cup. Their trainer was a tall, thin man called Mr Merrett, and he would referee the game. St Michael’s wore red; Green Cross wore midnight blue.

  It was obvious straight away that Mr Merrett was going to be biased. He had a great lolloping stride as he ran up and down the pitch, but he also had the disconcerting habit of encouraging his own team even as he reffed, which was extremely off-putting for Green Cross.

  ‘Come on, Phipps – get in there!’ he’d shout, as one of his boys went in for a tackle.

  ‘There at the back! Tolly! – What are you doing, boy? – Close him down, lad!’

  He’d blow his whistle at some minor foul and say, ‘This isn’t what we practised, is it? Now get yourselves together! Three, five, nine – go! Go!’ Then he’d blow his whistle and sprint after the ball as if he was going to take possession. ‘Good pass!’ he’d yell. ‘Shoot! Shoot! Don’t just look at it, boy – go for goal!’

  At half-time, it was two–nil to St Michael’s, and the ref had ignored a very obvious handball in his own team’s goalmouth.

  Green Cross were not happy.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Salome. ‘They’re a bunch of snobs, and cheats!’

  ‘Can’t you punch a few out?’ said Rikki.

  Salome pulled a face and mouthed an obscenity at him.

  ‘We’ve got to change t-tactics,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘I know what you’re thinking, and I’ve got eyes myself. But they’re not snobs, and there’s no point getting upset about it: they’re good in d-defence and we’re not getting through. I’m going to suggest something controver-versial.’

  His team listened carefully.

  ‘Richard. R-Rikki. How would you feel about taking over as full-back?’

  ‘I’m a striker,’ said Richard.

  ‘And a very good one,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘But haven’t you noticed? They’re better than us in the air, and they’re winning the ball every time. I want you back with Jeff – and J-Jeff, you have made some cracking saves. But I think you need an extra line of defence now, and I think Rikki and Richard can help you. Salome.’

  Salome looked at him.

  ‘I’m going to put you f-forward. You’re powerful, and I think some of those boys will fall apart when they see you coming. They’re a timid little side in some ways – apart from anything, they’re scared of their own r-r
ef. So my idea is to put you up front, put Richard and Rikki at the back. I just think we could change everything. Eric. Mark. I want you to use Salome as much as you can – push the ball towards her.’

  Everyone nodded, and in a moment they were all trotting back onto the field.

  ‘Five–nil, minimum!’ shouted the ref as his boys lined up. ‘This should be a walk-over and you’re letting yourselves down. Radford!’ he yelled at a small boy who was re-tying his laces. ‘If you don’t get a goal you’re in detention, do you understand me? You’re like a girl today. Now get your backside into position, and let’s have some concentration!’ Radford trotted forward, looking utterly terrified. The ref grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to one side. ‘Not there, stupid!’ he hissed. ‘What’s wrong with you? Outside right, supporting Tayler and Ballingal.’

  The whistle blew, and the game restarted.

  By coincidence, Radford took possession almost straight away, and surprised everyone by some very neat dribbling. He punted out to the right wing, and earned a ‘Good show!’ from the referee. Then came a beautiful cross, but Rikki – in his new position – caught it even more beautifully, with a powerful header. Unfortunately, it fell straight to another St Michael’s player, who volleyed it hard. Richard and Rikki leaped again and deflected it wide. When the corner came, Jeff plucked it out of the air skilfully, and booted it into midfield. For the first time in a while, Richard, Rikki and Jeff smiled at each other.