26

Over the years two distinct memories have emerged, formed and sharpened. Both are as real and separate to me as my own two hands. In both memories I am riding my bike, that is the constant, it was me on my bike. I’d had it for nearly a year by then, still couldn’t believe it was mine. In the first recollection it was early Saturday morning and I’d been riding around on the waste ground behind our house, but every time I passed the garage where the trouble with the kitten happened I felt guilty, so I rode to the front, onto Hawthorne Road. It wasn’t as much fun there, there were less bumps, less space, but no bad memories. I was only allowed down to number sixty-five because Mum could see that far from the front window, and she knew Mr Taylor who lived there. But after Mr Taylor’s the hill really starts to fall steeply and that was where you could get your speed up. By the time I’d raced down the steep slope, leaving number sixty-five behind a couple of times, it didn’t feel like I was really breaking the rules any more. I was getting faster too. Braver each time. When the handlebars started to wobble, instead of holding tighter and reaching for the brakes, I’d learnt to relax my grip and ride the bumps out, to let the jolts and shocks dissolve into my arms and fizz away into nothing in my elbows. I looked at my watch, I had ten minutes before I had to be back inside. There was enough time for one more really good ride and I decided I would make the most of it and get to the bottom of Hawthorne Road for the first time by myself. I thought I could just about do that and get back in ten minutes, get back before I was in any trouble.

I started from outside my house and pedalled hard until I hit number sixty-five, after that I coasted for a while because it was impossible to keep up with the speed of the wheels anyway. I slowed myself for number thirty-seven because the pavement kinks to the left and you can’t be going full tilt there or you’ll end up in the road. After thirty-seven the pavement straightens out again, and if you put some serious pedalling in, you can get back up to speed in no time. I wasn’t going the fastest when I hit him. Probably about eighty per cent. The main road at the bottom was approaching, so I would have started to slow a little, not much, but a little. I was still going fast. I saw a shock of blond hair appear from a gateway on the left, he was almost already under the wheels, and then I was no longer holding my handlebars, I was tumbling through the air. The pavement was the sky. The sky was the pavement. I landed hard, folded over like a piece of paper. I was sore and confused. I moved different body parts but nothing was screaming in pain; nothing was broken. I stood up. I was facing the opposite side of the road – the big grand houses with the steps leading up to their wide front doors wobbled in front of me. I turned to see what had happened but I was dazed and turned the wrong way and was looking at the bottom of the road. I managed to get myself the right way round and saw him lying there. Blond hair. A dark blue all-in-one outfit. Pink feet. No shoes. My bike was next to him. I ran back and knelt down in front of him and brushed the hair away from his eyes. His eyes were open. He looked curious. He looked deep in thought. I picked him up. I stood him on his feet, he fell forward into my legs and wrapped his arms around my knee. He wasn’t crying. I crouched down in front of him and he tried to hug my face and I gave him a big hug back. ‘Are you OK? Are you all right? Are you OK?’ I kept saying into his face, looking for any damage. I pulled back to get a proper look at him. He pushed his hand at my nose like it was a button he wanted to press. I gave him another hug and then I took his hand in my hand and walked him to the open gate. He held onto my hand tightly. He stumbled once as we walked up to the house and he was wheezing, like he had asthma, but everything seemed to be in working order. There were no cuts or bruises, none that I could see. His hand was very warm. I jabbered as I walked with him, ‘Are you hurt? God I walloped you then didn’t I? Did you see me fly through the air?’ The front door was ajar. It was a red door with a silver letter box. I was about to knock when I heard the shouting. Two of them at it, upstairs. Angry as Mum on a terrible day. There were words I’d never heard used before tumbling into my ears, words I instinctively knew must be the worst in the world. They were raging. I held my hand ready to knock, waiting for a pause, but when one of them finished the other started and then they were both going together. When there was finally a silence I got one knock in before the woman screamed like something was being torn away from inside her and I couldn’t knock again after that. He’d gone floppier now and was leaning into my legs so I turned him round and sat him against the wall next to the front door. I knelt down in front of him and held both his hands and he smiled at me. ‘Sorry,’ I said. He smiled again and his head fell to one side and his eyes closed but he carried on smiling. I heard someone banging down the stairs then. I was terrified. I turned and ran. I reached my bike and clambered on. The steering was knocked out but I could still work it. I pushed down hard and pedalled back up the hill, trying to get back home before Mum spotted that I’d gone further than number sixty-five.

The other memory is just as clear. I woke up determined to paint. After breakfast I gathered all my stuff together and set myself up on the kitchen table. I spread out the old newspaper underneath, just like I was supposed to, and began to work. I leant forward to wash my brush in the water, but it was a long stretch and I was clumsy. I knocked the jar over. I rushed to clean it up but Mum heard the clatter and came charging in from the front room. I hadn’t even noticed at that point, but it was the first thing she saw – the murky water had reached and covered her purse. She picked it up, water dripping from it. She threw it down on the table, took three fast steps and slapped me across my face. She screamed at me to get out and started to cry. Why is she crying? I thought. My cheek was throbbing, I could feel the skin pushing itself out in shock and pain, hanging heavy. ‘Out! Out! Out!’ she screamed, when I didn’t move as fast as I should. I left the mess on the kitchen table and tumbled out through the back door. I took my bike from the yard and set off shakily. The air met my cheek and cooled the skin a little. I was shocked and rode slowly and wobbly with no destination in mind. She’d never hit me like that before and it took a while before I could think straight. As the shock lessened the anger started to come through and I rode past sixty-five, pleased to break her rules. All I’d done was knock some water over, her purse wasn’t ruined, it would clean up. Why did she whack me so hard? Why was she crying? I was heading down Hawthorne Road, still not pedalling fast, but the slope was carrying me away and I was speeding up regardless. The anger reached my legs at the bottom of the slope and I started to pedal then. My cheek began to burn again, my legs ached and I was flying. Leaving that fucking woman behind. As I sped along I saw him step out from the front gate into the middle of the pavement. Just when I should have braked and pulled up I pushed down on the pedals – push, push, push and I hit him hard. I didn’t hang around. I looked him over, saw there was no blood anywhere and jumped on my bike. I was away in seconds.