The Enumerations Read online

  He waited, all the way through painting shapes with potatoes instead of paintbrushes and putting lucky beans into cups and taking them out again and doing interesting things with Plasticene. At least Miss Jonas said they were interesting, but all the colours had been squished together and the clay was a browny mess, so all the things he made looked the same.

  When the bell rang, everyone got up and started rushing to their bags, but Miss Jonas said, ‘Children, children, back to your places, please.’ She said she was teaching them how to behave for when they got to Grade 1. They had to learn how to wait, and how to take turns, and ‘no pushing or shoving’. When they were all quiet they could get up and ‘walk quietly, please’ to their bags and take out their lunchboxes.

  Inside his lunchbox Noah found 5 little sandwiches cut into small stars, each with 5 points. There was one cheese and one pnb (that’s what Mom called peanut butter) and one strawberry jam and two just-butter. For the first time on Noah’s second day it felt like things were getting better, and at least that was something.

  A girl was sitting next to him, the one from yesterday who said she wasn’t scared of big school. She was wearing black shiny shoes and her socks had frills around the tops.

  ‘Swap?’ she asked.

  Before he could say he didn’t know what ‘swap’ meant, she’d put her hand into his lunchbox and took a butter-only sandwich, the one he was saving for last. Then she put a bit of sausage where his butter-only was supposed to be and smiled.

  ‘My feet are sore,’ she said, but he didn’t care. He wanted to kick her shiny black shoes with his new red tekkies, but Mom said you shouldn’t hit girls.

  So he counted to 5 and wished Miss Jonas would clap her hands and say, ‘Tidy up children, no crumbs please’, but instead she walked over and looked down on him and said, ‘Come along, Noah, you must eat up.’ He stared at her, and he hated her, and he hated ShinyShoe girl and her stupid sausage.

  When Miss Jonas’s hands finally went Clap! Clap! he liked her again because eating was over and he could go to his hook and hang his bag and touch the points of his star.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mom said. ‘Soon you’ll make lots of friends.’

  He wished he could make just one friend, but when they all went outside to play on the swings and in the sandpit and on the jungle gym everyone had someone to play with except him. So he sat on a swing and used his feet to push off. His legs were long, so he was able to go higher and higher, and at least that was also something.

  Then, Clap! Clap! Miss Jonas went again and it was time to go inside and do stuff and wait for the bell that said soon Mom would be there to collect him.

  121.

  Ms Ellen Turner sits back in her chair and looks at them, her expression serious. A little girl playing at being doctor, Dominic thinks sourly, with her black jacket and name tag, her hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail, her short-cropped nails, just the top of her white shirt showing. Dark trousers, too, and plain black pumps with a low heel. All very professional and conservative but none of it helping to make her look a day older than twenty. And she, this near-child, this wet-behind-the-ears child, wants to talk to them about guilt.

  ‘What I want to talk about,’ Dominic says, ‘is why I’m paying a pile of money to come here and be lectured by a girl young enough to be my daughter.’

  He knows that Kate wants to creep under the young woman’s desk and look up at her beseechingly and say, ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Turner, my husband didn’t mean—’

  But Dominic’s tired. He’s tired of all the talking and the tiptoeing and the to-and-froing and the endless talk, talk, talk about Noah. He’s tired of Kate trying to make out that this is the sort of thing that happens in every family. It isn’t, and he knows it, and Kate knows it, and Little Ms Therapist with her serious face and her kindly concern knows it. Just like she knows that Kate is crawling with guilt, that it keeps her awake at night, and her guilt is trying to invade him too, send him from their bed to sit at his computer, clicking obsessively, keeping his mind closed against the invidious thought creeping closer and closer, the one that hasn’t been mentioned, the elephant standing unmoving and unmovable. Dominic feels his mouth open and out come the words he has avoided saying aloud for almost two years.

  ‘Why us, Ms Turner? Can you tell us that? Why did we land up with a son like Noah? Why don’t we talk about that, Ms Turner? Why don’t we go back to the scene of the accident?’

  Kate’s horrified, he can see, but there’s no stopping him. He’s on his way, siren wailing, lights flashing.

  He’s going to say things that can’t be taken back, and once he does, once he sets foot on this path, there will be no turning back. He’s going to pull them all along, and the only way will be down, with him.

  He’s letting it all out, and Kate finds herself wishing she could stop the flow, push his words back into that pent-up place where Dominic keeps all his emotions tightly bundled up and labelled ‘Do Not Open’.

  Return to the scene of the accident? Kate shudders. Is this what his marriage, their life together, their children are to him? One gigantic and ugly scene? And Dominic? He’s not racing to save them. His family’s standing at the side of the road, yelling for help, and he’s screaming past them, his siren blaring defiance. He’s cutting himself loose with every word that leaves his mouth, vanishing as fast as he can. Her husband won’t be tethered to the crash site of their lives.

  ‘Let’s forget about guilt, Ms Turner.’

  ‘I—’ the young woman says, but Dominic interrupts.

  ‘I’m not going to sit and wring my hands and feel sorry and guilt-ridden and ask what we could have done better and bemoan this decision we had to make and ask you to help us find some way of forgiving ourselves for putting Noah here.’

  Dominic feels a quick spurt of satisfaction. See how you deal with this one, Ms Turner. Not exactly a textbook outburst, is it?

  He’s sitting so far forward on his seat that he’s almost touching Ms Turner’s knees.

  ‘Why don’t we look at the facts, Ms Turner, and forget about the feelings? Why don’t we all take a deep breath and let the bullshit fly out the window? Here’s the situation, plain and simple. Our son can’t cope with life, and we can’t cope with him. So why are you asking us to feel guilty about having him here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say—’ Ellen Turner tries to interject, but Dominic is ready for her.

  ‘You wouldn’t say? You don’t have to. Just using the word presumes the feeling. My son is in the best place, Ms Turner. Allow us to accept that.’

  Ms Turner can’t stop him, but Kate is going to try. It’s her turn now. She’s at the side of the road watching her life fall to pieces and her mouth is open and she’s yelling at him to stop, calling him every name she can think of. He is smug, he’s shallow, he’s callous, he’s an egotistical prick, he can’t think of anyone but himself. He shuts himself away from her, she doesn’t know who he is any more. Has she ever known who he is? But more than that, over and above all of that, just answer this question, she shouts: ‘Is this the way you’ve always felt, Dominic? Is this why you battle to look your son in the eye and call him by his name?’

  Ms Turner starts to speak, but this time Kate holds up a hand to silence her.

  ‘Let him answer,’ she says.

  He lifts his head, and looks her in the eye. ‘I don’t know, Kate. I don’t know how I feel. I’m glad Greenhills exists, that they’re happy to look after him here. I know you want me to visit every Sunday, but I can’t. I just can’t.’

  Dominic turns his head to the window. He doesn’t want to look at Kate, he wants to get it all out. ‘Life’s easier without him.’

  122.

  Think of it as a new beginning, Mrs Social-Worker says to Gabriel. She’s holding his hand and Gabriel wishes he could pull away from her. In another room, somewhere in this building, with its long corridors and rooms with brown desks and shelves filled with folders, is his little sister. Gabriel kno
ws this because he saw a car arrive at the same time as they did, and a lady got out holding Harry, but the lady wasn’t Mum. He hasn’t seen her since the night when Mr George Fat found him hiding behind the hedge in his garden and said, Holy fuck, son, they’re looking all over for you. He’d moved towards Gabriel, but Gabriel dodged him and sprinted from Mr George Fat and Mrs Gladys Thin’s garden.

  A mad dash, that’s what Mum used to say.

  Come on, Gabe, let’s make a mad dash, and they’re running across the sand and into the sea.

  A mad dash and Dad’s laughing and Mum’s tummy is as round as the beach ball Dad blew up when they got to the beach. Mum touches Dad’s shoulder and then she’s saying, C’mon Gabe, come on, Gaby-Baby, what are we waiting for – let’s make a mad dash for it – and the sea is cool and wet on Gabriel’s ankles and then his waist and Mum is holding him and his legs are around her waist and the sea is rocking them and everything is calm. And Gabe and Mum are calm and enjoying the water.

  So Gabriel makes a dash, he dashes along the road and Mrs Cleans-Her-Windows yells, There he is! and Gabriel runs … straight into the arms of a man who smells of sweat. Long ago, when Dad was there and Mum was happy, Gabriel played with a big red fire engine, and there was a fireman with a yellow hat, and Mum said, One day, when you grow up, maybe you’ll be a fireman, my Gaby-Baby.

  The fireman’s got him in his arms and he’s swinging him up in the air, and he’s saying, Easy now, easy. Come with me, son.

  There’s Mum, leaning against Mrs Cleans-Her-Windows’s wall, and she’s not even looking at Gabriel. She’s not looking anywhere except across the road to the burning house.

  This is one of the things Gabriel will wonder, year after year after year: Did the old man wake up and smell the smoke and hear the fire crackling on the other side of his door? Did he take a deep breath to yell and did smoke rush in to fill his lungs, so all he could do was croak, Help me, please help me. But was his voice strangled so that no one could hear? Did he try to get out of bed, did he get tangled in the sheets, did a small flame lick its way under the door and find its way into the folds of his cotton pyjamas (cheap polyester, they said later)? And then, did the fire have a field day, a picnic, a feast of old man’s flesh, when it was too late for anyone to go in and save him? Did he know what was happening as the flames ate and ate and turned his pale white skin and strong body into a skinny black crisp?

  Gabriel will think about this, year after year, as he leaves behind his past, and the burning house and Mum with her empty eyes, and his hands that smell of petrol, and his little sister in another lady’s arms, and he hopes, oh, he really hopes, that the old man died screaming, choking in a smoke-filled room.

  123.

  Day 35 / 21:54

  Noah switches off his bedside light, closes his eyes and listens. He has done this every night since his organiser was moved. He vows to stay awake, catch whoever it is in the act of disruption. But he can never keep his eyes open, stop himself entering the jumpy world of sleep. He’ll never dream of blue again, he’s sure of that. And he’s glad – it was too cool, too relaxing. It moved him from high alert to deep calm, lowered his defences. He’ll never make himself that vulnerable again.

  He’s tried telling Ms Turner about it, but when he opens his mouth the words don’t come. Besides which, he knows the questions; he’s asked them himself, over and over.

  Are you sure, Noah?

  Are you absolutely sure?

  Were you just tired?

  Is it possible you missed it when you did your final check?

  And then of course, there’s this:

  You’ve been distracted. You’re getting too comfortable here.

  That’s true. He’s been slipping. He needs to double up his efforts. Check, check, check. Watch what he says.

  He won’t tell Ms Turner anything about his blue dream, or his organiser. What he will do, however, is make very sure that everything is where it should be before he closes his eyes. There must be no doubt.

  That’s more like it. Keep your guard up.

  124.

  Day 36 / 12:36

  Noah cannot, dare not, talk to Ms Turner about the intruder in his room. But he needs to get it out, somehow. And if one thought leads to another – well, that’s what he’s getting used to when he writes things down.

  Dear Ms Turner

  I’m writing this in my journal because I can’t use words to talk. You say writing things down makes them easier to deal with, helps break down a large problem.

  These are huge problems and I don’t know how to cope with them.

  Someone came into my room.

  I’m pretty sure of it. But I can’t be 100% positive, and that’s what’s worrying me. I have so much I need to be careful about and it feels as if I’m not being as vigilant as I should.

  I always have this huge question in my head – what if?

  It won’t go away. It stops me from doing anything properly. I can’t join in group properly, I can’t make friends, I can’t talk to you, I can’t let my mother know I’m OK, I can’t face up to my father and ask him what his problem is. Every time I do, the question’s there. What if I do and something terrible happens to my family? It’s my job, you see. I have to keep them from harm and if I break one of the rules …

  When I sat down to write this, I thought, OK, here’s one place where I can tell the truth. Really say it. Move it from inside my head. Even as I’m trying to write, I feel it building. It wants me to stop. It’s going to start telling me what to do. It doesn’t like it when I speak for myself.

  I’m going to tell you about it, Ms Turner.

  I call it the Dark. It drowns me when I try to talk. It stops me moving. That’s why I need my 5s, to push it away when it fills my head.

  I can’t talk about it. It’s too risky. Too dangerous. I won’t show this letter to you. But I’ll write it. Anything to make it weaker.

  It’s there. The Dark. It’s always there. That’s what I find so hard to explain. There isn’t a single moment when my mind is empty. I force it back, shut it down, but I can’t make it disappear.

  When it moves, every muscle in my back bunches and my fingers curl. I’m coiled and ready, waiting. It prowls, jabs at me.

  Keeping you on your toes, Noah.

  That’s what it tells me, that sort of thing.

  I have to tap, keep it contained, because if it explodes it will reach right down into me and destroy me. Leave me gutted, unable to crawl or call for help.

  You know those scenes you see on the TV, after a hurricane has hit a town? The streets laid out, the grids, the pavements, the way the town was planned on paper, but now whole houses have been torn up, trees are upended, roots pointing to the sky. Everything’s turned upside down, all the insides out.

  That’s what it’s building towards when it gets really angry. I smell it, hot and ready to blow. I have to gather strength.

  I have to stay on high alert.

  The thing is, once a hurricane hits, you can’t even see there used to be a town. And that’s what the Dark is like. It’s out to crush and destroy. Once it’s done with me, it’ll be off, unstoppable. My parents. Maddie. I won’t be able to help them.

  I’ve tried my best to describe it, but my words are too weak. The Dark is a hurricane, a tsunami, a raging forest fire, all swept into one. It hates to be controlled. And every time I close it down a bit, it resents me more.

  It hates me.

  I hate it.

  I wish it would vanish, once and for all.

  12:56

  And should it vanish, ‘once and for all’, do you think Fear will leave too?

  It will still be out there. In the shadows, where your nightmares wander.

  125.

  27 July 2011 / 02:56

  The gate was closed. Securely locked, a new password keyed in to keep them safe. The front door fitted with a new lock.

  His parents had gone to bed but Maddie’s door was open. So was his. ‘
Please, Noah,’ she’d said, ‘don’t close your door.’

  ‘You can sleep in my room, we can bring in a mattress,’ he’d offered.

  ‘No, it’s fine. As long as I know you’re right next door.’

  ‘I’ll hear you, Mads,’ he said. ‘I’ll hear you breathing.’

  And now he was at his window, awake in the dark, restive, on edge.

  The sound of light breathing from the room next door signalled his sister was finally asleep.

  Down at the end of the driveway, the gate was closed.

  The smell of the men had gone with them, the meatiness of GreyEyes’s breath, the acid tinge of fear on GapTooth’s body, his cloying aftershave.

  Noah pressed his hands against the windowpane. It was cold under his touch and as he watched two ghostly handprints formed. 5 fingers on each hand. He pulled his hands back and let each of them curl into a fist.

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. It was still sore where he’d bitten it.

  Outside the window, down the drive and beyond the gates, shadows shifted and shivered in the darkness and each was a shape, a man in black. They were still there and always would be; 3 bodies becoming 1 and then 3 and then 1 again, formless and forming, pushing hard against the wrought iron. Eyes flashed silver, orange. Strong fingers pulled at the iron bars and there was a grin, a quick baring of fangs. Then it all slid away, melted into nothing and the night folded back on itself. Still, Noah stood at the window, all 5 senses on high alert, ready to react at the smallest hint of danger. He would stand there all night if he had to.

  Such a pathetically sad image. Noah Groome taking on the Dark.

  126.

  Week 6: Day 36 / 13:43

  Juliet’s hands are quick, excited. They punctuate her sentences, swooping and flying, diving and weaving with the narrative of her stories. Like her, they’re seldom at rest. It’s as if she’s scared to pause, take a breath, take a break. Even when she’s exhausted, there’s always part of her moving. She listens to Noah, but her body wants to be up and gone. Especially her hands, knitting into and over each other, knotting into fists then stretching out into open palms. Her hands speak for her. When she’s hiding behind words, her hands tell the truth.