Proper feral now, wilder versions of themselves. Like abandoned houses where nature has run rampant. A river-map of dirty lines on their palms, matted hair clotting into dreadlocks, clothes they can’t be bothered to wash. As grimy and greasy as worn bank notes. It’ll be war-paint next, blood on the cheeks. Mouse sniffles. A cold’s coming on. Tidge says it’s his body crying; Soli says shut up, you lot, you have to stay strong. She never gets colds. She’s such a pirate of a girl, always battling on; it’s in her chin, its perky point, and the set of her mouth. ‘I wish I could infect you,’ Mouse grumbles and breathes hard into her face.
Oh, guys.
He keeps looking across at the old volume on the windowsill. The book muncher of the family hasn’t dared a touch. As if he’s terrified of what it may hold, the certainty of what it may impart. Your child who’s knotted by complexity, so complicated, tight; for all his cynicism he hates novelty and adventure and risk, for all his pushing away he needs you so much. His little hand used to lock over your throat whenever you lay next to him to lull him to sleep. ‘I’m holding on to you so you can’t run away from the beddy-byes,’ he whispered once. ‘I’ve got the mummy disease, you have to stay close.’
He goes up to the old book now, hovers a touch, retreats.
Hold this book close to your heart for it contains wonderful secrets.