Going Out

When Luke wakes up it’s getting dark. His room has a deep-blue glow, and occasionally, when a car passes outside, there is a yellow streak across his ceiling, a muffled engine sound or the squeal of a fucked clutch. Then nothing. The cul-de-sac is usually quiet – it’s one of the reasons for the high house prices around here. But at about four every weekday afternoon, the shift workers at the local industrial estate use it to turn in because you can get on the A12 better going the other way. These cars are like Luke’s alarm clock and the approaching darkness is his dawn.

His curtains, which he can open only when it’s fully dark, are heavy enough to keep out all the light and most of the shadows. Since about January, though, Luke’s been experimenting; leaving a tiny gap in the curtains so that there are more shapes and shadows in the room. He read somewhere that his condition – if it is in fact XP, which no one ever really found out for sure – is dangerous only in direct sunlight and that it would be perfectly acceptable to have his curtains open in the day with special filters on the glass. But Luke’s mother told him that was rubbish and made him vow to keep the curtains completely shut. He did, for years, but now something’s making him slightly rebellious. Probably this 2001 deadline, this kill-or-cure feeling he’s got.

Another day; still alive. Luke’s been waking up with headaches lately, that’s the only thing. Of course, that could be down to the cable they’re installing in the road outside. It’s pretty hard to sleep when a load of guys are drilling just beneath your bedroom window.

The air in the room is heavy and stale despite the various air filters and ionisers. After getting out of bed, Luke switches on his fan and starts his exercises, which he hates but still does every day. He doesn’t hate the effort, just the empty feeling afterwards, the adrenaline rush that never has anywhere to go. The feeling goes with the territory, he knows that. He knows he’s ill, and it could be a lot worse than this – if he was bedridden or contagious or didn’t have a TV or computer, that really would be hell. This isn’t so bad, he knows that.

After Luke ran out of the house for the first time on that bright, cold spring morning, his mother installed window locks and turned the house into a prison, with everything that was lockable firmly locked. If she was going out she usually shut Luke in his room, a practice she reluctantly gave up a year or so later when a neighbour pointed out that it was a fire hazard. After that she went out less often and gave up her nursing job to keep a proper eye on Luke. When Luke threatened to open his curtains and kill himself that way she got his father to paint the outsides of the windows with silver paint, which came off after about a month. Keeping up with Luke’s new and sometimes ingenious ways of threatening to kill himself took its toll on Jean, until she had an ingenious idea of her own.

‘I think I might kill myself,’ she said thoughtfully one night. Luke was about nine. They’d just watched Dallas, and everything was normal until she said that.

Luke’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Mum!’ he wailed. ‘You can’t say that.’

‘I think I might gas myself. Or maybe I’ll cut my wrists. What do you think?’

‘One more word about going out, and . . .’ She paused. Luke’s heart squeezed in on itself. ‘You know what I’ll do, don’t you? I won’t warn you, I’ll just do it. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mum. I promise I won’t say anything ever again . . . I promise. I promise. I promise . . .’ His tears prevented him from saying any more. His mother held him as he sobbed, and then she put him to bed with a low-fat chocolate drink and a hug.

It’s eggs for breakfast today. After breakfast Luke goes into his en-suite bathroom to wash and shave while his mother airs the room. He hears her moving things about and then the clunk of the window lock and the click as the small window opens. He imagines the cold, clean air entering his room and the bad, hot air leaving. His mother lets the air circulate for five minutes or so before Luke hears the sound of the window closing and the lock being fastened. He has asked his mother to stop locking the window, to trust him to do it or even not lock it at all but she always says that it needs locking and she might as well do it when she airs the room.

After the window lock is fastened, Jean sprays antibacterial air-freshener around the room to kill anything that may have come in with the air. Then she goes downstairs to watch TV. Luke waits until he hears the annoying Countdown music before he comes out of the bathroom. He tries not to see his mother more than necessary because, lately, he doesn’t know what to say to her, and whenever he does say something it’s wrong, or she accidentally says something wrong and they end up arguing. Without even thinking about what he’s doing he connects to the Internet, just as he does every single day. Maybe if he could talk to his mother in a chat room things wouldn’t be so hard. In chat rooms you can use emotions to show that you’re only joking, or that you mean something in a nice way, or simply to prevent people from misunderstanding and, ultimately, flaming you. If Luke could pepper his conversations with his mother with happy smiley faces, or cute, regretful unhappy ones, things might be easier. And if he used text rather than speech, his mother could never complain about his ‘tone’.

Luke half expects something to have come from Wei, but there’s nothing. He scans his Outlook Express inbox. He can see that there are three unread messages in his ‘Crap’ folder, ten in his ‘Mailing List’ folder and two in his ‘Personal’ folder. He clicks on this folder first. One of them is from Leanne and the other is from Charlotte. For a minute, Luke has to think. Charlotte? Then he remembers. It must be Charlotte Moss. No one has seen or heard from her for ages. He clicks on her e-mail first.

Hey,

Have you heard about number 14? Some trailer-trash cousin of Leanne’s has won the Lottery and bought it. Fucking hell. That house is cursed. That whole fucking street is so Jerry Springer – even now I’ve left. :-) Anyway, I expect you know all about the rich cousin and everything since you’re getting jiggy with Leanne. Yuck! (Yes, she told me everything.) What has got into you? I’m coming to this party, by the way. I’ll pop in and see you too if that’s OK. Sorry I haven’t been in touch for ages. Oh – I told a friend about you and he said he’d be in touch. Hope that’s OK. Say hi to Jules. Charlotte XXX

Dear Luke

I have tried to phone you but I can’t get any reply. How are you? My cousin Chantel is coming to live at number 14 and no one is allowed to tell her about what happened there. If Charlotte gets in touch with you before I see you can you tell her that too? I did go and see her but she was a bit out of it and I don’t think she really understood how important this is.

I really want to see you, Luke. I’ll drop by later today (Friday) after work. I finish at 6.00 p.m. Lots and lots of love

S. W. A. L. K. Leanne

Chapter 7