He presses himself against the wall. He’s nowhere near flat enough. She’s bound to see him, and then she’ll clobber him with the very object he’s come for. Misha will smash his head in, and maybe she’ll regret it and maybe she won’t, but in this instant he feels very clearly that he shouldn’t be here. Caleb hasn’t thought this through at all. As he strode into the graveyard he’d envisioned himself demanding that she hand the ball over, that she owed it to him, that he’s not going to take any argument. As he got closer, and he could see her house, it changed to a chat, a request, a favour needed. As he spotted her coming, he threw himself round the side of the house, heart tangled in his lungs, praying she wouldn’t see him lurking.
And now!
He desperately wishes he hadn’t hid! All Misha has to do is peer around the corner, and what will he say? What could he possibly say? After the way she raged last night, would she give him a chance to explain? But does he want to explain? He’s angry with her. He’s sad. Confused. He’s…
safe. The front door opened, and shut again quickly. She’s inside. He sags. It takes a surprising amount of effort to try to become a wall.
‘What am I doing?’
He came up here to confront her, and all he’s ended up doing is hiding. So much for his brave stomp up the hill, his conviction that he would take charge of the situation and get to the bottom of everything. Yet again, all hot air and empty promises. Cowering is about all he is capable of.
He hates himself for that.
He slides his back down the wall, sitting with a bump on hard ground. Perhaps he should leave and not wait to be discovered, but he can think of nowhere to go.
Angry muffles of shouting inside. The words come and go as the argument moves around the house. He doesn’t need the specifics: it’s an age-old theme, the clash of generations. Where have you been, it’s none of your business, it is my business when you live under this roof, why are you always on my case, and on it goes. He wonders if Misha looks the way she did at the playground. Seething eyes, pointed shoulders, throat pulsing.
He has to see her again. Now that he’s here, he needs one look.
Caleb eases himself back up the wall. There’s a window at his side. He slides closer, and he braces himself to peer in, and his mouth clogs up. Caleb pins himself to the bricks instead. Can’t look. Can’t move.
Can’t stay here all day.
Why does he have to see her? Why does his breathing feel strange?
One look.
He leans out slowly, so he can see through the window a tiny slither at first, then gradually more, ready to jump back at the slightest hint he’ll be spotted. Clearly he hears her granddad: ‘Your childish behaviour will get you killed! You know what’s out there!’
Misha, snappy: ‘Surprise, I am a child! Can you believe it?’
‘Here we are again with the attitude. And where did you get that from? Certainly not your mother.’
‘Stop comparing me to her!’
Caleb’s looking down the hallway now, as the inhabitants move out of sight – a brief glimpse of Misha with Granddad following. Caleb feels the pull of her, darts around the house, matters of bravery forgotten. Next he comes to a bedroom of dowdy browns and woollen blankets and a fade-old armchair and mish-mash stacks of cracked books threatening shelves. The door is shut. Caleb moves rapidly past to the next. This window is partially open.
The room is hers.
Purples and lilacs in here, softer than he would have expected. Unframed paintings on the wall of suns dipping behind graveyards, gatherings of well-ordered graphic novels, a collage pasted on the wardrobe of magazine cuttings and chopped-up postcards, figurines of kung-fu girls, and on her bed the eight-ball. The bed is beside the window. The partially open window. The gap is small. His arm is slim.
A message flashes up on the ball.
NOT FOR YOU
Caleb has never felt such a strong invitation.
Misha’s bedroom door is also shut. The argument is very near.
Against his expectation, bravery burns cold in the cavity of his chest.
Caleb reaches in.
DON’T DO IT
A message in hot lava glow. It pulses, growing bigger, surging.
His arm won’t go in past the elbow. Caleb pulls at the window. It’s held in place on a latch. His fingers dance towards it, so close.
KEEP OFF ME
Each word bursts forward to fill the screen. Caleb flinches, sure his skin will burn if he touches the ball.
Her voice: so close! Outside the bedroom door. ‘It’s the same arguments every day! I don’t want to know! I don’t even want to be here, so why would I want to know?’
The door handle turns.
An old voice cracking, but still strong. ‘You don’t walk away from me again! You need to grow up and stop acting like a brat!’
The handle springs back, suddenly let go. ‘I’m a brat? You’re the one almost stamping your feet!’
Keep arguing, urges Caleb as he stretches for the ball, trying to push his arm in that little bit further. A ragged spelk of wood catches inside of his thin bicep, pushes into the meat. The pain is hot and precise. He wants to scream loud, hammers his knee against the bricks so he can feel something else, anything else. Agony hisses out of him on an endless keening breath.
Finger-ends brush over the surface of the eight-ball. It’s warm then cold, warm then cold, a heartbeat pushing then retracting blood.
‘Please,’ says the cracking old man at the precise moment that Caleb begs the ball to come to him, ‘please, Misha, I need your help, now more than ever, help me this one time…’
Her shout is also a plea. ‘Leave me alone! I don’t want anything to do with it!’
The handle turns, quick.
Caleb lunges.
Gets his hand around the ball; the splinter punches in.
BLEED BLEED BLEED
The door swings open.
Misha pauses in the doorway. ‘And don’t come knocking! I won’t answer.’
Caleb pulls his arm out of the window. The splinter slides out slickly, popping out of his skin. The ball clangs against the window frame, as it won’t quite fit through.
‘I’ve had enough of you!’ screams Misha. ‘I wish I was dead like Mother!’
Stupid in panic, Caleb pulls again. It didn’t fit last time; it won’t fit through this time.
Except it does.
The thin frame bulges millimetres. It’s enough. Out comes the eight-ball.
Misha’s in the room and slamming the door.
Caleb drops to the ground, fast enough to catch his own heart in his throat.
Deadly silence. It’s like the door-slam cut out all noise. The pain in his arm is so bright he wants to cry out, needs to let the pressure go, but he’s already convinced he’s bleeding too loud.
She’ll hear.
She’ll notice her precious ball is gone. She’ll come to the window. And lean out. And see him cowering.
A silken blood-thread trickles up goose bumps to the crook of his elbow. The puncture wound gets hotter.
She’s in there, above him, growling and caged, throwing things around. The rest of his skin prickles at the pulse of her fury. Something hard shudders the window – the force of her uncontrollable rage. The glass has to be cracked. One more blow and he’ll be sprayed with cutting shards.
The eight-ball is flashing messages.
HORRID LITTLE THIEF
When Misha realises this ball is gone, she will go off like an atom bomb.
BURN IN HELL
The message swims as if melting in flames.
Bed springs bounce. Sobbing. She’s thrown herself down, energy spent. The pillow does a poor job of quieting her tears. Misha’s short hard sobs pull at him, hook into him deep. It’s there, the want to do something stupid.
GO ON IDIOT
He wants to stand up, say something quiet and soothing.
TALK TO HER
He wants to be the one to stop her crying, make it all okay. He wants to be stupid enough to save her.
OPEN YOUR MOUTH
But what can good-boy Caleb say to murderer Misha?
SHE HATES YOU
It aches where words should be.
DAD DOES TOO
He crawls to the corner of the house, then runs. But it all keeps up with him.