Me, Otis and Joan, we’re groaning and pushing this huge cake on wheels. Jesus, it’s heavy.
Mo’s all giggles, eyes closed, ‘What’s going on?’
Pa hits the lights. ‘Just you wait, hun.’
Otis fires up the candles, millions of them, seems like.
Joan whispers, ‘Open your eyes.’
Out of the darkness Mo’s eyes flash, her face glows with the flames and excitement, she takes a deep breath, we all hold ours and –
‘Da Daaah!’
Dan shoots out of the cake on a pneumatic platform. He’s got his Superman jimjams on, pants over the top.
‘Da Daaah!’
What a triffic birthday surprise!
Light bounces off Mo’s eyes and her earrings and her slinky silver dress. We all float up to the ceiling and bounce about laughing – ‘Hip Hip Hooray!’ – that’s how happy we are.
‘Not this time.’
‘But, Pa.’
‘No.’
‘A card at least.’
‘Harry, look at me.’ Suds dripped off the fingers of his yellow rubber gloves. ‘No card. No present. No whining.’
This time it’s the world’s biggest chocolate fudge brownie – on rails. Otis sprays the candles with a flame-thrower. I’m just getting to the bit where Daniel springs out when in real life Mo sleep-walked in, a tea-stain on her dressing gown, eyes blank, hair greasy. Mo, thirty-nine today. Looking every minute of it.
She said, ‘I thought I might,’ left it hanging, shuffled off again.
Mo’s birthday. Sunshine. Lots of reasons to be cheerful. Not at our house. Oh, no. Life dragged on.
Weheyhey! Look, no hands! Me on my Trek Mountain Lion Bike, swerving round tourists down Elgin Avenue. Don’t you love that ripping sound of tyre on hot road?
Mister Boombastic, blasting out of a sound system someone’s dusting off from last year. Giggly kids, all excited about the Carnival that’s coming, half dressed up as peacocks, bumblebees, all sorts, sparkle like marbles in the sun.
Mo would get her present, whether she liked it or not. No matter how bad things are you have to celebrate stuff, else you might as well give up and die.
No Pasaran.
Thirty-nine lengths I’d swim for her, all-time record for me. Might not even tell her. It’s the thought that counts.
‘That’s the ticket,’ said Biffo. ‘That’s the spirit, Kid. I’m prouda ya.’
I felt so good I said, ‘Hey, Biffo, why don’t you have a break? Go on, mate, have a holiday.’
Queuing for tickets you could hear drums pounding, a band out there doing some practice for the Carnival.
‘Certainly hot, I’ll give you that,’ said a man behind me.
‘No sign of rain, please God,’ said a lady.
People talked like that, getting cosy with strangers coming up to the Carnival. It was our Carnival. All of us. We actually lived there, and all those people who spilled out of the tube were just visitors.
‘It’ll be a sizzler, I bet,’ I said, not out loud, though.
Nine Carnivals I’d been to. Ten, if you count the one I was in Mo’s tummy. Dan said it was him that time. Wasn’t, though. You can ask her. Ten Carnivals. The original Mister Boombastic, that’s me.
‘Are you with us, love, are you in the land of the living?’
I certainly was.
‘One junior swim, please.’
‘Are you here for Happy Dippers, the disabled kiddies?’
Obviously I wasn’t.
‘If you’re not a Happy Dipper, there’s fifteen minutes left, love. Do you still want to pay for the session?’
Fifteen minutes, fifteen lengths. Tops.
I gave her the money.
‘You’ll be needing a pound for the lockers, love.’
‘I’ve got my pound,’ I said, loudly, in case people thought I was a Dippy Hopper who looks all right but is funny in the head.
The gents smelt stronger than the ladies. Felt different too. More grown-up. Less chat. Bit scary. Men trying not to be watching each other. In the ladies, with Mo, didn’t hardly notice other people about, what with Mo at us to hurry up and get on, and me and Dan flicking each other’s bums with our towels.
Leapt right over the footbath, the drum beat getting louder. Ten minutes left, said the big clock. Ten lengths, tops. Best speed up.
‘No ranning at ze boolside!’
That big German lifeguard. I’d show him. There’s no rule against goose-stepping, Herr Prick.
‘You! Offa hare! Haff you shard?’
‘Course I have.’ Actually, I’d rubbed spit in my hair.
‘Shar again, please.’
Brilliant showers. Freezing cold. Scorching hot.
The big clock says seven minutes. Seven lengths. Never mind, it’s the thought that counts. No running this time. No goose-stepping neither.
Got in.
Nice feeling isn’t it, hot pee on cold legs? Didn’t catch me this time, did you, Herr Prick?
Thought of Mo and pushed off into the cool blue light. Torpedo Kid, that’s me, shooting over where the floor falls into the deep, the drums, drumming me on. Bubbles tickled my ears. Felt a safe, locked-in feeling.
Those drums, every year, drummed Mo’s birthday and the Carnival in. And the first off-beat beats of kids rehearsing in the Methodist hall sent me and Pa and Daniel off down Oxford Street to get Mo’s presents and our new term equipment, eat bacon sandwiches, stare down on tiny shoppers from the fifth floor of John Lewis.
Once, after Mo’s birthday supper, the drums woke me up. Smelt burning. Ran downstairs, ready to rush the whole entire family into the safety of the night and the fire crews’ blues and twos. (That’s blue lights and two-tone sirens if you’ve not got a fireman in your family.) Found Mo and Joan snuggled up on the sofa, red-eyed and cosy. Red wine and chocolate. Funny-looking cigarette. Just the one – they took turns.
‘No, Harry, darling, no gorgeous, no, there isn’t a fire.’
‘Have a cuddle H. In the middle. Mmmm. Lovely boy.’
Voices thin and croaky. They couldn’t stop giggling.
Made it! All the way to the murals of sea snakes and mermaids. A whole length underwater. Personal world record best. For Mo. Surfaced, gasping, to the thunder of drums.
The next bit just happened. Crossed my arms over my chest, tucked my elbows in, chin down, let myself
drop,
drop,
drop
to the bottom.
Stood there. Didn’t know you could do that. Yellow waves of light danced across the floor. Liked the pressure on my ears. Closed my eyes. A trapdoor opened. Sucked me down, down. How long would drowning take? Did it hurt?
Last time Pa took us swimming, Dan stood on the edge, checked for Herr Flick.
‘Geronimo!’ Dive-bombed me.
Pa, no idea it wasn’t allowed:
‘Well done, Daniel! You’re really getting the hang of this.’
Helped him up again. Dan whipped off his inflatables.
‘Geronimo!’
Splash!
Pa, sorting out the armbands. Things always went missing when he was in charge.
‘Pa, he hasn’t surfaced yet.’
‘Course you can, honey.’
‘Pa, Pa, Pa. He’s still down there.’
‘Wha–!’
Pa yanked him off the bottom. Dan’s sick hit Pa’s chest. Fear hit Pa’s face.
That’s how fast Pa could move, before, you know. Faster than fear.
Drowning not as easy as you think, most likely. Herr Prick would spoil it, save me, do the kiss of life in front of everybody. I flapped my hands. Rose towards light. Sped up, shot out, really like a torpedo, gulping for air.
A pair of giant clogs, big face loomed over me.
‘I vont zay it again. Iz Happy Dippuz. Clare ze bool.’
‘But the clock. The big clock. It’s ages yet.’
He tapped his watch, the sort that divers use ten thousand metres under water.
‘Ziz ere. Ziz iz ze tamepiss zat carnts.’
Nazi.
In the changing rooms Dippy Hoppers clanked about. I got dressed, pretended not to look, had a sneaky-peeky. Least I had all my bits.
Jumped between the sliding doors. Blasted by sunlight and Mister Boombastic bang on time just for me.
How about no hands all the way home to make up for the lengths? A nail-biting, death-dicing first. For Mo. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
Must have stood at the bike rack a good while dreaming. Loads of bikes. Not one of them mine. Tru-Pro-Lok still there. Took a while for the penny to drop. Moron. Idiot. Dickhead. Must have locked it straight to the bar, left the bike out. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckwit.
Wouldn’t you think that if you lost your little brother and your mountain bike all in one summer, you wouldn’t give a monkey’s about your bike?
Well, you’d be wrong about that.
I hid my Tru-Pro-Lok with my other precious stuff under Daniel’s bed and got ready to tell Mo about my lengths. I stood tall and loose, closed my eyes, breathed all the way in, then all the way out. All the way, how Otis taught me, til my chest was like, this big, and I was three centimetres taller.
In my head I said, ‘I am strong. I am ready.’ And I was. I really was. I would have done it, only down in the kitchen they were rowing again.