The Enumerations Page 13

  70.

  The old man is dead. Gabriel’s sure of that. The fire has crackled and spat its way into his room, crunched its way through his muscles, burnt his bushy white hair to ashes. It’s melted the rough skin of his hands and scorched his horny heels. He’s dead now, Gabriel thinks, as he watches the people from Acacia Avenue spilling out of their houses. He’s dead and it’s not his mother’s fault, and nor is it Gabriel’s, but who is going to believe him?

  Who is going to believe him when he says he smelled the smoke before he saw the fire? That when he woke up his room was hazy and his eyes stung as he opened them. That the smoke wormed its way into his lungs and made him cough. That he followed the smoke down the passage to the kitchen, seeing his feet and hands disappear as the smoke grew thicker. That his mother was standing at the blazing grate, the fire snaking its way around her, and that he saw how it wanted to slither up her legs and feed on her loose-hanging nightgown.

  Gabriel. Mum turns to him with a glowing smile. Come, over here darling. It’s so much warmer now.

  Gabriel’s small, and he’s quick, and he darts over the snaking flames to his mother’s side.

  Her voice is bright and happy. I was so cold, Gabe.

  I know Mum, I know. Well done, good job.

  Gabriel tries to pull her away from the fire, he looks at the kitchen door, standing wide open. All he has to do is edge her towards it, move her away from the roaring grate and the trail of fire.

  His mother’s hair is sweat-soaked, her face is pink and shiny hot. The fire has reached the curtains now, the dingy red gingham flaring into a terrible brightness. Gabriel hears the window panes crack and then fall out of their frames.

  Harry.

  He looks around.

  Where’s Harry, Mum?

  Harry? His mother looks at him blankly. Harry’s fast asleep. She’ll be nice and toasty warm now, Gabe. She was so cold, and so was I.

  Gabriel grabs her hand. Mum! He shakes her arm, then shakes it harder, digging his nails into her skin. Mum! I have to get Harry. You have to wait for me outside.

  This time his sister’s name connects and her eyes widen.

  Harry! Mum turns away, panicked.

  Okay, Mum, Gabriel soothes. It’s okay. You go outside and I’ll get Harry.

  The path to the door is still clear. His mother nods. I will Gabriel. I will. She edges her way to the door. You get Harriet, darling, and we can all go and sit outside.

  Good idea, Mum. Gabriel tugs at her gently and she moves away from the fireplace, away from the fire hurrying along the floor, making its way to the room his mother shares with Harry and Gabe.

  Gabriel takes two dishcloths from the sink and holds them under the tap. He drapes one over his head, ties one around his face, over his nose. He’s able to breathe better, the air acrid but cooler.

  71.

  ‘Terrible-terrible-terrible,’ Dominic mutters all the way down the steps and into the car and down the road. He stops this refrain every now and again and the silence gathers and then he starts over, under his breath, his lips making the word, moving silently around it, until suddenly it bursts out and the silence is filled with it again. Terrible-terrible-terrible. He sounds just like Noah, with his under-breath droning.

  Normally, Maddie’s mom’s the one to calm him down when he gets into a state, when he starts on about what’s happening to taxpayers’ money and how the government should be booted out once and for all and how they should just up sticks and go and live on a desert island. Her mom will listen for a bit and then pat his arm or give him a hug and asks if he wants a beer, and should she do roast chicken or mince for supper. Small meaningless questions that pull him down from his irritable high.

  But this is different, this mumbling, and her mom is sitting tight-lipped and her knuckles are white. Her left hand’s pushing against her door as if she’d like to fling it open, roll out into the road and run.

  Her parents are changing into escape artists right in front of Maddie’s eyes.

  ‘How could you?’ Her mom finally forces the words out when they pull into their driveway. ‘The whole time we were there, you didn’t say one word to him. How could you?’

  ‘Look, Kate,’ her father’s voice is wheedling, filled with apology, ‘Look—’

  ‘No, you look. He’s your son, Dominic.’

  ‘But you know how I hate places like that. Hospitals, closed-in spaces.’

  ‘Oh, please, Dominic. Grow up. How do you think he’s coping? Did that thought ever enter your selfish, childish mind?’

  Her father isn’t childish or selfish. Maddie knows that, and so does her mom, but Noah being at Greenhills has changed the way they talk to each other.

  The moment Maddie’s dad stops in the driveway, her mom leaps out and runs to the front door. She fumbles her key into the lock and slams that too. Maddie edges along the back seat, closer to the back of her father’s head. She wants to smooth his hair, say, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll be fine, but something stops her. She opens the passenger door and slides out quietly. Her dad stays put. He doesn’t come into the house until much later, when Maddie’s finishing her homework and her mom’s calling her for supper.

  72.

  All he needs is a moment, to get back to being who he is: Dominic Groome, loving husband and father of two, currently residing at 21 Sunbird Drive and a partner in one of the most prestigious investment firms in South Africa. It’s going to take him all week to find the parts of him that went flying when they visited Noah and put them back into place, rebuild his carefully constructed self. And then, just as he manages to slot the last piece back where it belongs, it will be time to visit his son again, and it’ll be back to square one.

  Tonight, though, he just needs to be calm, calm enough to go to his wife and tell her he’s sorry, and that of course he should have spoken to his son. Agree with her when she says his behaviour over the last few weeks has been impossible. And no, of course it’s not Noah’s fault that he’s where he is, and that he doesn’t know what comes over him or why he’s acting like this.

  It’s not Kate’s fault that he is who he is and it’s not Maddie’s and it’s not Noah’s. The son whom he can no longer touch. Not now. Not where he is now. It’s his fault. How can a man who was once a boy who was abandoned by his mother and father be anything other than a failure? As a father, a cesspool rather than a gene pool, as a husband, a complete let-down? Dominic’s blood is blighted, he’s sure of it, and he’s passed on his terrible genes and his terrible self to his son.

  73.

  She should go out and talk to him. Knock on the driver’s window, knock and knock until he’s forced to turn the ignition and open the window and look at her. Even if he doesn’t answer, the very least he can do is meet her eyes.

  She doesn’t understand any of this. What’s happened to her? If she looks back over the months, she sees a life that belonged to another woman. Not her. Not Kate Groome, née Cilliers.

  It started to crumble the day she opened Noah’s bedroom door and found him bug-eyed and frozen in the centre of his grey sisal rug.

  ‘What is it? What is it, Noah?’ she’d asked, but he couldn’t answer.

  It took her a long time to get him to move. ‘Breathe deeply, Noah, there you go.’ And she heard him: ‘in … two, three, four, five and out two, three, four, five and in … and out two, three, four, five …’ with a small emphasis on the five.

  ‘I can’t—’ He stopped. ‘I can’t. I don’t know what to do, Mom.’

  The look he gave her that first time was so piteous that Kate’s heart nearly broke in two. Each time after that was harder, each time the crack in her heart deepened.

  No, Kate thinks now, nothing’s the way it’s meant to be. Her son shouldn’t be in an institution. Oh, there are other, kinder, nicer words for where he is, but let’s get down to basics, shall we, and admit the truth, go for the blunt description.

  To add insult to injury – Kate is feeling the injury now, t
he gasping wound that her life has become – her husband should not be sitting outside in the car, acting like a shell-shock victim, as if he should be in a room that looks like Noah’s.

  Kate glances at the clock. It’s gone half past six, she hasn’t started supper and their daughter has school tomorrow.

  Should she rustle up something simple like bacon and eggs? Maybe they should get fish and chips – one of Noah’s favourites – or pizza, although they’ve all pretty much gone off that. There’s no point asking Dominic. Her husband isn’t talking and her son isn’t here to eat fish and chips.

  Kate bends over the kitchen sink. Dominic is right. This is terrible, and has been for a very long time.

  74.

  26 July 2011 / 19:39

  No cars passed. No headlights beamed up their drive.

  What time was it? Kate couldn’t tell. The sky was cloudy, no moon, no stars, nothing to indicate how long they’d been there. Dominic would be home soon, though, with Maddie. ‘Pizzas for supper, I’ll collect them,’ he’d said. That way they get them home quicker, hotter, no need to wait for the delivery guy to bring them, only just warm and starting to get soggy.

  Once Dominic and Maddie got home, everything would be better. Once they’d untied them and removed the rags from their mouths and the plastic ties at their wrists, once they could get back inside where everything would be as it should.

  Kate tried to speak, choking through the gag. ‘Ar-ou-ll-righ-No-ah?’

  ‘Mm-ine.’ His reply was indecipherable but reassuring. I’m fine.

  Lucky, that was the word in her mind. They were so lucky. Apart from that one blow to his face, they hadn’t hurt Noah.

  Alive, that was another word. They were both alive. Kate leant back onto her son’s shoulders.

  They were alive.

  They were lucky.

  But she was so cold. Her jacket was in the car, on the back seat.

  She started to shake. If it weren’t for the gag, her teeth would be chattering. The small movements became larger; a shuddering she couldn’t stop.

  ‘M-om, don wo-yy.’ Noah’s hands tightened on hers.

  She could hardly make sense of the words, but the sound of his muffled voice helped.

  Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.

  Alive. Lucky.

  75.

  The floor is boiling under his bare feet, but Gabriel has to run over it, as fast as he can. Fakirs walk on fire, Dad told him once. His dad was full of useful snippets of information. They move really quickly, Gabe, but don’t ask me about the bed of nails thing, haven’t a clue how they do that.

  The door to Mum’s room is open. Gabriel looks back down the dark passage and the flames are behind him, their bright teeth nipping at his heels.

  He bends over Harry’s crib. His sister’s eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed. He places a hand on her chest, feels it rise and fall. Then he plucks her from her cot. Harry wakes with a whimper and Gabriel’s saying, Sorry, sorry, Harry. Shhh-shhh, as he covers her face with the damp cloth. He looks behind him. The fire is charging the doorway now; he can’t go back down the passage.

  The bedroom window is shut tight against the bitter cold. Gabriel’s about to push down on the metal catch, but fierce heat is radiating from it and he snatches his hand away.

  He looks around. Harry’s heavy in his arms, and she’s crying now, a low rasping. She shouldn’t cry, she shouldn’t breathe in more than she has to. She could die from the smoke, it’s not just the fire that kills. Dad told him that, too, along with all sorts of other things. Useful information, Gabe, he’d say. Who knows, one of these days it might save your life, and then he’d grin and the wrinkles would squeeze up around his eyes.

  Only Dad isn’t here now and Gabriel thinks that’s because he probably didn’t have the right information to save his own life. That’s what he’s picked up from what the old man has said and why Gabriel’s mother can’t answer him when he asks her about his dad.

  Good-for-nothing piece of shit, the old man says when he talks about his son, but Dad wouldn’t be good for nothing now, he’d know exactly what to do.

  76.

  Week 3: Day 15 / 08:59

  Noah looks at his watch. 10 more seconds and then it will be time.

  Down-up-down-up-down. He opens the door to Ms Turner’s office and there she is, sitting in her comfortable chair, ready with her big wide smile.

  ‘Noah, how was the weekend?’

  He can’t talk about that yet, he’s still checking. Everything seems fine. Nothing has changed since Friday. Nothing that is, except Ms Turner. She’s standing up and pointing to the sofa sitting vacant next to Noah.

  ‘I thought we could sit together today.’

  He’s been practising what Juliet told him to do, to keep his face deadpan, not to let dismay or frustration or anger show, but really, does she realise what she’s asking him to do? Share his space with her. The space he’s become used to in the sessions where she sits in her armchair and he looks over at her.

  ‘I don’t—’ But she’s already there, sitting, patting the cushion next to her.

  Anger sparks inside him.

  Why doesn’t she let you finish a sentence? She’s always interrupting, telling you what to think, what to do. It’s too much.

  Noah has his list in his pocket. He’s managed to write 5 things about himself. It’s not detailed and it doesn’t tell Ms Turner anything she doesn’t already know, but it’s a list. He’ll even take it to group, because even though Ms Turner isn’t forcing him, he knows that having filled in the sheet will help his case, and that’s what he needs.

  They have to say Noah is better so he can get out of there.

  77.

  Kate used to love driving early on a weekend morning, when the roads opened wide, almost deserted. Shifting gears, feeling the car leap forward with a growl. ‘My rally driver’ Dominic called her, and he wasn’t wrong. She imagined herself testing her vehicle over difficult terrain, coaxing the best from it, seeing what the massive engine was capable of.

  Now the road feels small and tight. Her car is neat and zippy. She can leave it in the underground parking lot and know that it’s as safe as any other mid-range car. She misses her Audi, misses the freedom of being behind the wheel and in control. She’s surrendered all that to a car that offers less in the way of temptation.

  Kate can’t remember the last time she laughed. A proper deep laugh – one that came from her belly and wouldn’t stop.

  The last time she cried? That’s a different matter entirely. Kate remembers that and the time before and the time before that. She’ll be shopping for groceries and see spears of asparagus and reach for them because Noah loves asparagus, or grapes, or baby tomatoes (arranged on his plate in neat groups of five – food he can count), and then the tears come. She’s used to them now, blinks them back fast, always carries tissues with her. But there are times when a blink or a quick dab doesn’t work and she abandons her trolley and hurries out of the supermarket. She’s learnt to leave her car in the deep recesses of the parking lot so she can lean her head against the steering wheel and let the tears rain down.

  Kate no longer questions the reasons for their situation. She’s given up on that. There are no answers to the riddle and muddle that is her son. Now all she can do is listen to Ms Turner as she urges her to trust the process. Kate’s handed it all over. Let Ms Turner find a way to understand Noah.

  78.

  Day 16 / 12:43

  Noah’s trying to remember a good time for his journal, like Ms Turner suggested. Use the time to remember bits and pieces of his life, she said, get used to writing about them, and maybe later, when he’s more at ease, he can share some of them in group.

  When he was little, some of his best times were lying in bed with his head against Mom’s shoulder, watching her turn the pages in his storybooks, but only after he had looked carefully at every picture and made sure everything was where it was supposed to be: the red cloak of
the little girl who traipses (his mom’s voice went all funny when she said that word) down the path into the woods, carrying a basket full of goodies to her long-in-the-tooth Gran, the flowers with the round, white petals in the grass next to the bridge, the clippety-clippety-clop of the hooves of the goats as they trip-trip-tropped over it. The huff and the puff and the blow-your-house-down of the wolf and his hot anger as – plop! – he fell into the pot. This was the wolf who wanted to eat the three little piggies, but they used their clever pig brains to make a plan. So, two wolves. One for the pigs and one for the juicy little girl. And then there were the children – Hansel and Gretel, who left a path of crumbs all the way to a witch’s house and she invited them for a lovely cup of tea and a slice of gingerbread. There was an apple in the stories, bright red and begging to be bitten into, one small bite, and a young girl lies sleeping forever. There was fi-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an English man, only his mom always said ‘the blood of a South African’.

  There were goodies and baddies in The Children’s Treasure Chest of Stories and they all came alive when his mom gave them special voices, and cuddled him close when things got a bit hair-raising. ‘Don’t worry Noah,’ she always said, ‘it all comes right in the end.’

  And it always did, no matter how wicked the witch, how scary the fi-fi-fo-fuming giant, how bloodthirsty the wolf with the shaggy coat, how sickly green and nasty the troll sitting on a pile of smelly bones under the bridge waiting for the clip-clip-clop and the trip-trip-trop of the Three Billy Goats Gruff.

  Somehow, in all sorts of ways, good got the better of evil.

  But Noah’s not 5 any more. Now he’s in a world where everything is dark, everything is dangerous, and safety is never guaranteed.

  Every day he checks his lists, ticks the boxes and follows the path, breadcrumb by breadcrumb. And every day the Dark spreads, deepening, blocking out all light.