Susan is free to go to her music lesson.
I am kept in ‘supervised isolation’ until the end of school, which basically means doing my French homework while Miss Biggs, who I’ve never spoken to before, does some marking and – to judge from the snorts and giggles – catches up on Facebook or whatever.
I’m supposed to be learning the perfect tense.
J’ai dormi – I slept.
J’ai rêvé – I dreamed.
Je suis devenu fou – I went mad.
I feel for the bumps on my arm again – a sort of reassurance that I am not actually losing my mind. They’re not there any more, however closely I look. Did I imagine it all, just like I imagined I was in a dream?
‘Malcolm,’ says Miss Biggs, ‘is your homework written on your arm?’
I pull my sleeve down and look again at the stain on the fabric: a large, uneven smudge. The smell is still there: faint but distinctive.
I’m wondering about this, and letting my mind drift, when I’m startled by the end-of-day bell.
It’s 3.30. I’m free to go. The first thing I see when I turn my phone on is a text from Mam.
Not even an ‘x’ at the end. That’s serious.
I’m walking past the library on the way out and Susan appears just as I am passing. She’s been waiting for me, I can tell. I don’t know what to say, apart from, ‘Hi.’
We’re on the Tyne path, walking home together, before either of us says anything else. It’s as if Susan is waiting, but she’s not impatient. She could probably wait for days. She walks close enough to me that I can smell her appley hair.
‘Thank you,’ I say, eventually, after the silence has become too awkward for me. She nods and waits some more. ‘Why … why did you say all that?’ I ask. ‘You know, lie for me? I didn’t think you lied. Buddhism rules an’ that.’
‘It is not a rule, Malky. It is a guideline. And I lied because I am worried for you.’
‘You think I’ve gone mad?’
She pauses long enough for me to guess that ‘Yes’ is at least part of her answer. But instead, she shakes her head and says, ‘No,’ which is kind of her.
Then she adds a ‘but’, at which point we hear a voice behind us, and whatever the ‘but’ was going to be is left hanging.
‘Hello, you two! Kenneth – look who it is!’
We both spin round to see Andi pushing old Kenneth McKinley in a wheelchair, with Dennis ambling lazily by their side.
‘Kenneth. Do you see who it is?’
The old man lifts his chin from his chest and peers at us.
Andi says, ‘It’s the children from the weekend, Kenneth. Susan and Malcolm.’
At the mention of my name, his head straightens a bit more. He repeats what he had said the day I met him. ‘Malcolm? Good Scottish name that, eh, lad?’ His speech is soft and slurred.
‘He’s not having such a good day today, are you, Kenneth?’
The old man grunts in response and Andi leans over to zip up his thick fleecy top. I’m trying not to make eye contact with Dennis, who has flopped on to his belly at the first chance, but seems to be watching me suspiciously.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Mr McKinley,’ says Susan, loudly.
‘I’m not flamin’ deaf, lassie. Ninety yearsh old, but I can hear you fine.’ Seems like he’s back to being a grouchy old man.
Susan, though, is not put off. She crouches down next to his wheelchair and takes one of his bony hands in both of hers, looking at his face with her head tipped to one side. She says, ‘You began to tell us something the other day. Before your son – Uri – called. You were talking about the limits of the unconscious mind. I was hoping I might hear more.’
The old man shifts his eyes to look sideways at her. Then he reaches up and whips off his mauve-tinted glasses. Except that the arm of the specs gets caught on one of his big old-man’s ears, making it ping back against his head. It’s like he was trying to be dramatic, but didn’t quite pull it off.
‘I’m so glad you remember,’ he says, regaining his composure and looking between the two of us. It really is as though a mist has just lifted in his head. ‘Your teacher said you were curious and diligent. I was beginning to wonder. Had I got to the bit about the warning? Had I?’
A warning? What was he warning us about? We both shake our heads.
‘Hmm. Aye, well, Andi – I think we should take these two home with us. Let them have a wee look at that stuff out in the shed. I mean – no one else has ever shown any interest, and there may not be … may not be …’
Whatever there may not be is lost in a coughing fit of a violence like I have never seen before. This is not a cough from the throat, or even the chest: the poor man’s entire thin body convulses, lifting his feet off the footrests of the wheelchair and turning him dark pink as he coughs again and again and again, louder and louder. He flaps his hands as if trying to fly.
Andi holds him by his narrow shoulders, saying, ‘There, there, Kenneth …’ After several more coughs, he stops, and I genuinely worry that he has died in front of me, but a few seconds go past and then he takes an enormous, groaning, inward breath. He leans back in his chair while Andi gets a small canister of oxygen from the shelf under the seat. She holds the mask to his face, saying, ‘Okay, okay, there you go.’
And, during all of this, I have a chill passing through me.
That stuff out in the shed. Surely he can’t mean …?
What the heck ELSE would he mean, Malky?
No, no. There were other things in the shed. He could mean anything. Pots, a spade, tins of old paint …
No, he means the bag of stuff that you stole, Malky. Obviously. Because he’s got one hanging over his bed. And you’re going to be found out …
As he sucks greedily on the oxygen, Andi turns to us, a sad look on her face. ‘I’m sorry, kids. That must have been frightening for you. He’ll be all right in a minute.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ says Susan, asking exactly what I want to know.
Before she answers, Andi looks at Kenneth, who has heard this. He gives a little nod – permission, I guess, for Andi to tell us. I hardly understand a word: there’s something ‘pulmonary’ and ‘acute’ and ‘syndrome’ and other words as well.
Susan nods sympathetically and I imitate her.
Another look is exchanged between Andi and the old man. Andi says, ‘You may as well know. The outlook is not, shall we say, very optimistic.’
Kenneth removes the mask from his face. His colour has returned to normal and he smiles weakly. ‘Too many birthdays, that’s my problem. We all have to go one way or another, eh? But, before I do, I want to make sure my story is told once more. This time to a new generation. Andi – we’ll head back now and get the bags from the shed, please.’
Oh no. That’s it. Only he said ‘bags’. Plural. Perhaps he’s referring to something else?
Andi is looking at me closely. ‘Are you all right, son? You’ve gone pale.’
She knows.
‘Ah no, I’m fine. I was just a bit, you know …’
‘Scared? I understand. Don’t worry, he’s fine now. Aren’t you, Kenneth?’
‘Ahem. Oh yes. Right as rain. Now let’s go, if you please. Are you coming, children? There’s something I want to show you.’
‘Now?’ I say.
‘Of course,’ says Kenneth. ‘Like I said, I don’t have much time.’
And they lead the way to the house.