The toads’ heads rest on the surface like floating sprouts. I cautiously use my index finger to push the plumper of the two down in the milk pan I’ve secretly taken from the kitchen, until it plops up again. They’re too weak to swim, but floating is going well.
‘Just one more day and then we’ll leave for good,’ I tell them, getting them out of the water. I dab their bobbly skin dry with a stripy red sock. I can hear Mum shouting downstairs. She and Dad are arguing because one of their old milk customers has complained to the congregation. This time not about the milk that was too pale or too watery, but about us, the three kings. I look pale in particular and my eyes are a bit watery. Mum said that it was Dad’s fault, that he didn’t give us any attention, and Dad said that it was Mum’s fault because she didn’t give us any attention. After that they both started threatening to leave but that turned out to be impossible: only one person could pack their bags at a time, one only person could be mourned at a time, and only one person could come back later and act like nothing had happened. Now they’re arguing about who’s going to leave. Secretly I hope it’s Dad because he usually comes back around coffee time. He gets a headache if he doesn’t drink coffee. I’m not so sure about Mum: we can’t tempt her back with sweets. We have to beg her and make ourselves vulnerable. It seems they’re moving further and further apart. Like when they cycle over the dike to the Reformed church on Sundays, and Mum goes faster and faster and Dad keeps having to close the gap. It goes the same way with arguments – Dad has to solve them.
‘They’re going to take my coat off me tomorrow,’ I whisper.
The toads blink, as though they’re shocked by this announcement.
‘I think I’m just like Samson, though my strength isn’t in my hair but in my coat. Without my coat I’ll be Death’s slave, do you get that?’
I get up and hide the wet sock under my bed with the wet knickers. I put the toads in my coat pocket and go to Hanna’s room. The door is open a chink. She’s lying with her back to it. I go inside and lay my hand under her nightdress on her bare back. Her skin has goose bumps – it feels like a Lego sheet. I could click myself onto it and never let go again. Hanna turns over sleepily. I tell her about the moles and Dad saying I have to take off my coat, about the argument, them threatening to leave, always threatening to leave.
‘We’ll be orphans,’ I say.
Hanna is only half listening. I see in her eyes that her thoughts are somewhere else. It makes me nervous. Usually we roam around the farmyard when we’re together. We think of escape routes, we fantasize about better lives and pretend the world is like The Sims.
‘Has a mole trap gone off or is the mercury out of the thermometer?’
Hanna doesn’t reply. She lights up my face with the torch; I hold my arm in front of my eyes. Can’t she see we’re not doing very well? We’re slowly floating away from Mum and Dad on a lily-pad instead of the other way around. Death hasn’t only entered Mum and Dad but is also inside us – it will always look for a body or an animal and it won’t rest until it’s got hold of something. We could just as easily pick a different ending, different from what we know from books.
‘I heard yesterday that you can fantasize yourself dead, that more and more holes will appear in you because it will nag away at you until you break. It’s better to break by just trying it – that’s less painful.’ My sister brings her face close to mine. ‘There are people waiting on the other side who can only lie on top of you in the dark, like the way night presses day to the ground, only nicer. And then they move their hips. You know, the way rabbits do. After that, you’re a woman of the world and you can grow your hair as long as Rapunzel in her tower. And you can become anything you like. Anything.’ Hanna begins to breathe faster. My cheeks grow warm. I watch as she lays the torch on the pillow and lifts up her nightdress with one hand. She pushes against her colourful spotted underpants with the other. She closes her eyes, her mouth open slightly. Her fingers move against her knickers. I don’t dare move when Hanna starts to moan and her little body curls like a wounded animal. She pushes it backwards and forwards a bit, the way I do with my teddy bear, only this is different. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, only that she’s not longing for a Discman or thinking about mating toads. What is she thinking about then? I pick up the torch from the pillow and shine it on her. There are a few droplets of sweat on her forehead, like condensation from a body that has got too warm in a space that is naturally cold. I don’t know whether I should rush to her assistance, whether she’s in pain or whether I should fetch Dad from downstairs because Hanna’s feverish, maybe even hitting forty degrees.
‘What are you thinking about?’ I whisper.
Her eyes are glassy. I see she’s somewhere that I’m not, just like that time with the can of Coke. It makes me nervous. We’re always together.
‘Naked man,’ she says.
‘Where did you see him then?’
‘In Van Luik’s shop, the magazines.’
‘We’re not allowed there. Did you buy Fireballs? The hot ones?’
Hanna doesn’t answer and I begin to worry. She raises her chin, squeezes her eyes shut, sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, groans again and then lets herself fall back onto the bed, next to me. She’s covered in sweat – a lock of hair is sticking to the side of her face. It looks like she’s in pain but also isn’t. I try to think of explanations for her behaviour. Is this because I pushed her into the water? Will she break out of her skin like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon and then batter herself to death against the window, against the insides of Obbe’s hands? I want to tell her I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant it that way when I pushed her into the lake. I wanted to see how Matthies sunk under the water, but Hanna’s body wasn’t my brother’s. How could I ever have got them confused? I want to tell her about the nightmare and ask her to promise never to skate on the lake, now that winter is coming to the village on a sled. But Hanna looks happy, and just as I’m about to turn away from her angrily, I hear the familiar crackle. She takes two red Fireballs from the pocket of her nightdress. We lie next to each other, contentedly sucking and blowing and laughing at each other when our Fireballs get too hot. Hanna presses against me. I hear the sitting room door slam next to us, Mum’s crying. Apart from that it’s quiet. I used to sometimes hear Dad’s hand patting her back like a carpet beater to get out everything she’d inhaled during the day: all that greyness, the dust of days, layers of sadness. But the carpet beater has been missing for a long time.
Hanna blows a big bubble. It pops.
‘What were you doing just now?’ I ask.
‘No idea,’ she says. ‘It’s just been coming over me recently. Don’t tell Mum and Dad, will you?’
‘No,’ I say softly, ‘of course not. I’ll pray for you.’
‘Thank you. You’re the sweetest sister.’