Cold Boy's Wood by Carol Birch (if you liked this book TXT) 📗

it wasn’t really a farm, it was in the middle of town and attached to a big building that had once been a school but was now what they called a Welcome Centre, because it was for inadequate people like me.

An odd little family we made. When it was gone, I saw them about: Henry whose head was too full, Jane who loved dogs, Hilary who looked like the Duchess in Alice in Wonderland and scared people in the street by roaring Hallelujah.

When Childhallows closed they gave me a place in Crawley. That was weird, I mean really weird. My room smelt like the elephant house at the zoo, circa 1956. One morning there I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, face in the mirror, then suddenly the horror, the horror. Those deep hollowed bird’s eyes, bare and strange, looking back at me, but it wasn’t me, I had eczema round my eyes, the horror, the horror.

It’s a damn thing to be old and not know what any of it was for.

One night I nearly smoked my contact lens and put my dope to soak in saline for the night. And in the mirror there was me – behold the crone, the ancient of days. I was pretty once. A man stopped in the street and looked at me and sighed as if I was a sunset. But it happened, that thing that was always so far away, the place you were never going to get to. Others aged, your father and mother, their faces changed and then they died. You were never going to change. Then you did. Your face looked back at you from mirrors and dark windows, different, and you saw that only Death awaited, sweet and savage. And I got that deep humming noise in my head, the way it came before. Here we go again, just like before. I knew it was coming. I sluiced out my mouth, rinsed my face, went into the kitchen, poured out last night’s heated-up coffee and stood at the window. I looked at my fingers wrapped round the nice warm mug and they were peculiar to me. Then I looked out of the window and I was dizzy and there were people walking up and down, and they were remarkable. Truly do they not know fear? These people walking about and talking on buses and sitting in pubs as if nothing’s wrong. I have fear. It never goes away. It underlies my existence. Things block it out. I’ve taken meds. They slow me down. Fog the mind. Dry mouth. Dizzy. Speed I gave up. Dope I like, and booze. Just those really. Without them life’s just so dull, so boring. Oh, and anti-depressants; I had to take those because if I didn’t I lay in a coma forever. It’s a matter of survival.

There was a knock on the door, and I froze.

Who? My head ran through the possibilities. Oh I don’t know. Quickly – pull yourself together.

I opened the door and it was this woman called Sue who lives downstairs.

‘Hi, Lorna,’ she said. She has a nice face, her eyes are soft and kind. She’s round and red and so eager to be good.

‘Hello.’

Click. I’m on. Pretend to be OK.

‘I’ve brought you the paper,’ she said. ‘I’ve finished with it.’ She has a high little-girl voice.

‘Oh, that’s great. Thanks.’

Monday morning, of course. Yesterday’s Sunday Mirror with all its bits.

‘You know that funny woman,’ Sue said, timid and earnest, ‘that walks up and down with a cat in her pocket?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you seen her about recently?’

I thought. Poor old mad thing. Poor old cat.

‘Er – I’m not sure. I haven’t really been looking out for her.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just feeling a bit worried. I haven’t seen her in a while.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well. Do you think something’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked away, folding her arms in her big fluffy jumper. Her skirt was long and huge. ‘I don’t want to seem nosy,’ she said, looking back at me with small dark eyes full of hurt, as if at some stage, someone had badly upset her feelings, ‘but you know, you never know…’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Where does she live?’

‘I’ve no idea. But she’s usually on the benches near Sainsbury’s. I think I should take a walk down there.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s probably a good idea. She is a bit – I don’t know.’

‘She is, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah.’

There was an awkward silence. I didn’t want to get involved in any way.

‘It’s just that she goes right past my window,’ she said, ‘just about every day. Two or three times usually. And that little cat’s face peeping out of her pocket, poor little thing.’

‘I know.’ The little cat’s face came accusingly into my head. ‘Have you ever tried to talk to her?’

‘I used to,’ she said. ‘There’s not much point really, is there?’

‘No,’ I said, pushing the cat away, ‘not really.’

‘Oh well.’ She smiled and set her shoulders. ‘I’ll take a dander down there. I’ve got to get some bits and bobs anyway.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let me know, will you?’

‘I will, yes.’

‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said and closed the door.

‘Oh, I’m sure!’

When she’d gone, I sat down on the blue wicker chair. The room was not yet mine. It had nothing much of me, and I thought, I have become like those boys when I was young, those boys with their sad little pads they couldn’t make nice. You’d go round and they’d try and get you to stay and sleep with them. The humming was loud in both my ears. I looked at the newspaper. There was a picture of a gorgeous little boy crying his heart out. The headline said: Thousands flee fighting. But it was blurry and I had to keep blinking, and my heart started: Boom! Boom! Boom!

Breathe, dear. Go on.

The coffee wouldn’t go down, it just wouldn’t. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom so I pushed up the window and spat it out onto the sill.