Kate Rhodes went to the University of Essex and completed a doctorate on the playwright Tennessee Williams. She has taught at universities in Britain and the United States, and now writes full-time. Her first books were two collections of poetry, and her novels Crossbones Yard and A Killing of Angels are both set in London, her birthplace.
Nan’s breathing sounds like a full force gale. When I get back from school at lunchtime the mask is pressed over her face, pale blue lips gasping for air. I twist the dial on her oxygen tank to maximum, and soon she’s well enough to tell me off.
‘Why are you home early, Shane? What have you done this time?’
‘Nothing.’
Her eyes pinpoint me. ‘They’ll separate us if you get in trouble. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t do anything, Nan.’
‘How long have they excluded you for?’
I study the scuff marks on my trainers. ‘Just till Monday.’
The look Nan gives me would kill anything within twenty miles, but she’s the reason I’ve been fighting again. Jamie Wilcox made jokes about her being a cripple, so I went at him with both fists. There’s no point in trying to explain, because she’d never believe me, so I leave her gasping into her mask and go back downstairs.
Nan always sleeps in the afternoon, which suits me fine. From the back step I can see the fen rolling away into the sunshine, flat as a bowling green. Sometimes it feels like I could run through the parched fields, and keep going till I touch the sky. I try not to make a sound as I lift the rifle from the cupboard. Nan keeps it for shooting rabbits, and I’m not meant to touch it, but I can’t resist the smooth wooden carriage, the trigger’s cold metal. Sometimes I take it into the woods and shoot pine cones from the trees. I slip a cartridge into the carousel, stow a couple more in my pocket then head outside, with the rifle slung over my arm.
Our neighbour, Barry, is working at the bottom of his garden. I always know what he’s doing, because our cottages are connected, and there are no other houses until Rawlings’ Farm, half a mile away. Nan doesn’t like Barry, but that’s not unusual. She’s not keen on the health visitor either, or any of my teachers. She says that people have lost their manners, more’s the pity. The hole he’s digging is waist deep, circles of sweat darkening his T-shirt. A smell of rain, fresh turned grass, and decay rises from the ground.
‘What’s that for, Barry?’ I ask.
‘None of your business. Why’ve you got that gun anyway?’
I shrug at him. ‘Target practice.’
‘Watch your feet, kiddo. Don’t lose any toes.’
Barry always calls me kiddo, but I’m as tall as him, even though I’m only twelve. He’s an odd looking bloke; thin arms held together by strings of muscle, always struggling to stand still, dancing from foot to foot. One of his eyes stares straight ahead while the other spins in circles, like it’s stuck in a whirlpool. Maybe that’s why he lives alone. If he had a girlfriend she wouldn’t know which eye was watching her.
‘That must have taken ages to dig,’ I say.
‘I’m planting an apple tree here.’ He rests his spade on the dry soil. ‘Listen, I’m going to town later, want to come along?’
‘Can’t, the health visitor’s coming.’ I’ve been out with Barry a few times, but he just drives around in his van for no reason. He stares at girls walking by, muttering things under his breath, and never talks to anyone.
‘See you later then, kiddo.’
Barry scowls at me, so I leave him to his digging and run down to the canal. It’s so hot that I feel like diving in, but I haven’t brought a towel, so I throw stones instead, counting the ripples that reach the bank. I lift the gun and take a pot shot at a rat, but miss by yards. When I get tired of the water I lie on the bank and watch a blur of swallows changing shape overhead. Every way I turn, the sky goes on for miles, no buildings or tall trees to interrupt it. The last time mum visited I spotted her car, miles away − a red mark between the fields, slowly growing bigger, until she pulled up outside. She doesn’t come often anymore, just birthdays and Christmases. The last time her hair was black instead of blonde and she cried when she said goodbye. She told me to learn from her mistakes so I wouldn’t have to make any of my own.
When I get back, Nan’s staggering around in the kitchen in her dressing gown, so I hide the gun in the log pile. She’s insisting on tidying up, each breath rattling as she wipes the surfaces. She likes the place to be spick and span when the health visitor comes. The woman’s name is Denise and she’s always on time. When I open the door at three o’clock her hair is a frizz of orange curls, and her expression is so bitter, it looks like she’s sucked a lemon.
‘Off school again, Shane?’
There’s no point in replying because she writes everything down in her black book. I take her into the sitting room then make some tea. After I’ve delivered the tray, I wait outside, earwigging. Denise’s voice is as sour as her face, and I can hear every word.
‘It’s better to forward plan, Mrs Wilcox, that way you’re in control. There are plenty of foster parents who would take Shane if you go into a care home.’
Nan’s reply is too quiet to hear, but it must have been sharp, because Denise opens the door so fast it almost smacks me in the face. Her Nissan Micra disappears in a cloud of dust. Soon it’s a speck of metal vanishing into the potato fields, and Nan’s eyes are so black it’s like staring down a well.
‘That woman’s not coming here again, Shane. There’s no way on God’s earth she’s splitting us up.’
I can’t help smiling. This is the Nan I remember, the one who could chop wood all afternoon, and never sit down, before the emphysema began. But the fight soon fades out of her. She lies on the sofa with the fan at full blast, panting for air.
It’s five o’clock when Barry’s van pulls up. He opens the doors and lifts out a big cardboard box, and whatever’s inside must be heavy, because he staggers under its weight. I want to find out what he’s bought, but I’m making our dinner: beef burgers and oven chips, a tin of baked beans. It’s so hot it feels like the air has stopped circulating, but at least Nan’s peaceful. She eats a few mouthfuls then drifts back into sleep.
After I’ve washed up I go outside to listen to the crickets. There’s plenty to watch at the edge of the field − dormice and ladybirds. I catch a Red Admiral and feel its wings brush my cupped hands before letting it go. The air smells of dust and a hundred different types of pollen. By the time I get back, Nan’s awake again.
‘Put the news channels on, can you, Shane?’
She always makes me watch the headlines, even though they’ve got nothing whatsoever to do with me. A blonde woman talks about another war starting, then men in suits argue about why London’s run out of money. It’s only when the local stories come on that something catches my interest. I recognise the girl’s face straight away. She’s called Eva, and she’s in year seven. I’ve seen her loads of times in the playground with her mates. She’s smiling in the picture, wavy brown hair flying in the wind. The newsreader explains that she’s gone missing on her way home from school.
‘There are some sick creatures in the world,’ Nan mutters. ‘It’s time you went to bed.’
I help her upstairs then go to my room, but I can’t stop thinking about Eva. She’s been stuck in my head for weeks, because she’s so pretty, and she never calls me names. Sometimes she even smiles at me in the corridor.
It’s so hot that I lie on the bed with the window open, longing for a breeze. Something brings me round hours later. My alarm clock says that it’s three fifteen and moonlight’s flooding through the window. At first nothing seems to be moving, but when I look outside, Barry’s in his garden, digging with all his might. The hole is deeper now, almost up to his shoulder.
Barry’s so hard at work, he doesn’t notice me slipping outside and climbing over the fence. The cardboard box I saw him lift from his van is beside the compost heap, the lid half-open. I have to rub my eyes to believe what’s inside. Eva is lying on her back, naked skin pale as a ghost, and fear hits me out of nowhere. I’m still frozen when Barry grabs my arm. There’s a froth of spit on his lip when he speaks, and a stink of fresh sweat.
‘Listen to me, kiddo,’ he hisses. ‘Your gran’ll get hurt if you tell anyone. Do you understand?’
I blurt out the question before I can stop myself. ‘What happened to Eva?’
‘She wouldn’t shut up.’ Barry’s lazy eye crawls across my face. ‘Some girls are like that, you’ll understand one day.’
I look at Eva’s bruised face and reach out to touch her hair, but the punch knocks me to the ground. Barry’s hands close around my throat.
‘I could put a pillow over your gran’s face, right now. Remember that, kiddo.’
I manage to break away, and after that everything spins into fast forward. I run back to collect the gun, and my thoughts stop as I edge along the fence. My mind’s empty when I point the barrel between his shoulder blades, and he collapses forwards into the dirt. A puddle of red gushes from his chest, staining the clean moonlight. Then I sit still, too shocked to cry, but the light in Nan’s room never comes on. She takes sleeping tablets, so there’s a chance she never heard anything.
Eva’s skin is cold when I lift her into the hole. It feels wrong to make her lie beside someone who hurt her so badly, but there’s no other way. It takes a long time to pile the earth back with Barry’s spade, and by the time I’ve finished, the sun’s rising above the lip of the fen. There’s no way I can stay here, because Nan would get into trouble, and she’s too sick to go to prison, so I pick up the gun and set off down the path. I sprint until my lungs empty, and the cottage is a brown thumbprint in the distance. Then I turn away and start running again, even faster now, aiming for the wide open sky.