Kit's Wilderness (7 page)

T
hat day after school I went out alone, climbed the fence. There were dozens of kids playing in the gathering dark. There was a slide on a bare patch of ground. Someone had brought a lantern down. They slid through its pale glow, clashed into each other, went sprawling, laughed and squealed.

“Kit!” someone yelled. “Come and play, Kit!”

Then screamed, “Aaaaaaaa! Hahaha!”

I waved and walked on. The frosted grass crunched and crackled under my feet. The house lights from the opposite bank shimmered on the slow river. Stars brightened as the dark came on. No moon. I looked down and was certain I saw ice forming there at the river’s edge. Cold enough, I thought. Bitter cold.

I closed my eyes, saw Grandpa as a boy, slipping and sliding on the ice. I smiled to myself, then heard a whispering, a tiny giggling nearby. Opened my eyes, saw nothing.

“Who’s there?” I whispered.

I stared into the dark, squinted, heard the whispering again.

“Who’s there?”

Then there came a sudden growl, a mutter.

“Down! Leave him!”

“Askew?” I whispered.

He lurched out of the dark, the dog beside him blacker than the night. He stood yards away from me. My breath quickened, heart thudded. I reached into my pocket, gripped the ammonite.

“I got your picture,” I said.

He grunted something.

“It’s brilliant,” I said.

He held the dog by its collar. Its white teeth glistened in the dark.

“I know it is,” he said.

“I put it on my wall, Askew.”

“You,” he said. “Bloody you.”

“Me what?”

“You. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Butter Wouldn’t Melt.”

“Eh?”

“Eh? Eh? It was you that spoiled it, Mr. Teacher’s Pet.”

“Eh?”

“It was you that brought her running.”

He stepped closer, gripped my collar.

“What’s it about you that gets everybody running to protect you?”

We watched each other.

“Don’t know what you mean,” I said.

He growled, and the dog growled at his side. “He’d tear you limb from limb,” he said.

“Askew,” I said, exasperated with him.

“You,” he said. “You and that stupid pretty thing.”

I tugged away.

“Get off me,” I said. “You’re being . . .”

He gripped me tighter, so tight I could hardly breathe. He glared, and his eyes glittered with reflected light.

“What d’you want?” I whispered.

“From you? Nothing. Nowt.”

But he held me close.

“Kit Watson,” he whispered. “Kit Watson, aged thirteen. What’s it like?”

“Eh?”

“Eh? Eh? Living death. What’s it like?”

“Like nothing,” I said. “It’s nonsense.”

“Aye?”

He grunted again. He wanted to hurt me with his grip, wanted to frighten me with his eyes. But I could feel that his grip was also a way of clinging to me, that his eyes were also filled with yearning. It was Askew who needed someone to protect him, Askew who needed love.

“You could be something, you know,” I said.

He sneered.

“You could,” I said. “Your drawing’s brilliant. You’re throwing yourself away. You’re being stupid.”

The dog growled, strained against his grip. We watched each other in silence.

“Watch what you say,” he said. “Just watch it, Kit.”

I heard wordless whispering around us again, an intake of breath. At the edge of my vision, in the darkness, children crouched and watched us. I turned my eyes from Askew, peered past him, squinted.

He laughed, low, guttural.

“Aye,” he said. “There’s them that see and them that don’t. You’re closer to me than you think, Kit Watson.”

“I know that,” I said. I met his eyes again. “We’re closer than anyone could think,” I said. “And I know we could be friends.”

He pushed me away at the word.

“Friends!” he hissed. “Bloody friends!”

He moved away with the dog.

“Yes,” I whispered after him. “John Askew, aged thirteen, friend of Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.”

I stood there, listening, squinting, searching the darkness, then hurried home, and there were skinny children all around.

“J
eez, Kit. It’s such a drag, man.”

“Come on,” I said. “We’ll do it together.”

Allie slumped in her chair and sighed.

We were working on Pangaea, on the kitchen table. We had to show how it was formed from all the continents that we have now. I stared at the maps, saw how the coasts of Africa and America could be slotted into each other, how India could fit tight against Africa. I read how the movement of continents and countries away from each other continues.

“It is,” I said. “It’s easy.”

I started to cut out the continents from the map so that we could fit them together.

Allie clicked her tongue, picked her nails, sighed.

“Who wants to know?” she said. “Who wants to go a million million years into the past?”

I just went on, cutting out, fitting together.

“Mr. Watson,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Mr. Watson heading back into the past. Mr. Watson in his element.”

“Stop it, Allie.”

“That’s very good,” she said, acting Mr. Dobbs as I went on. “Excellent, Christopher. And did you realize that the continents continue to move away from each other, perhaps as slowly as our fingernails grow? You knew that? Very good, Christopher. Such a fine pupil. Perhaps some of you others should follow Christopher’s example. What’s that, Christopher? Ah, you wish to be a geography teacher yourself someday? Excellent. Excellent. We should have a proper chat sometime. I’ll give you the benefit of my experience. Allie Keenan! Stop dreaming, girl! Get some work done. Yes, sir, Mr. Dobbs. Of course, Mr. Dobbs. Pangaea, eh? How very very fascinating.”

She giggled. “Jeez, Kit. what a drag, eh?”

Pangaea was made. I looked at it, all the continents together.

“Amazing,” I said. “You think the earth’s solid and fixed, but then you find out something like this.”

“Quite amazing, Mr. Watson.”

“Anyway, it’s done.”

“Thank God for that. Dobbs’ll be delighted, eh?”

Allie started putting her books back into her bag. “D’you never wish it was all just over and done with?”

“Eh?”

“Eh? School and books and homework. So you can get out in the world and get going properly.”

“Suppose so.”

Allie grinned.

“Is that bad little lass still here?” called Grandpa from the living room.

“Yes!” she shouted. “She’s still in here!”

“Driving me grandson round the bend and up the pole, I bet!”

“Aye! And round the twist and all!”

“Hahaha! Good lass! Good bad lass!”

Allie giggled again and twisted her face.

“I do, though,” she said. “It’s all such a drag, man.”

She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Tomorrow morning?” she said.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Allie dropped her head forward, stood like someone stupid, nodded her head up and down, slowly grunted, “Tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow.”

She was on her way out when we heard a sudden crash from next door, Mum’s scream of terror.

“Dad!” she yelled. “Dad! Oh, Dad!”

H
e was slumped on the floor, head twisted back against the sofa. Face gray, eyes staring. Mum kneeling over him.

“Dad,” she whispered. “It’s all right, Dad. Stay calm. You’ll be all right.”

My father was on the phone.

“Come on!” he said. “Answer, answer!”

He saw me standing there, held his hand up. “It’s okay, son. He’ll be all right. Come on, answer!”

I turned to Allie. She was in the doorway.

“Kit!” she whispered.

“Answer!” said Dad. “Answer!”

Allie stared, and tears poured from her eyes, just like when she looked down into the den.

S
ilky came that night, long after the doctor had gone, long after Grandpa had been put to bed, long after I’d gone to bed myself, long after the moon shone in through my window. Long after the moon had been blotted out and the snow began to fall, long after I’d tried to sleep and couldn’t sleep and simply watched the snowflakes thicken on my windowsill.

Just a glimpse, from the corner of my eye. A shimmering like silk. I caught my breath. “Who’s there?” I whispered.

Nothing. Then again, nothing but a flickering. Nothing. I closed my eyes, saw the boy running away from me, glistening as he headed down the tunnel.

“There he is!” I called. “After him! After him!”

I ran. Endless tunnels, heading further and further into the earth. Kept thinking I’d lost him, then saw him again. Just a glimpse, then gone. I followed, lost him, saw him, lost him. A little blond boy in shorts and boots. I kept on running into the endless dark but he was nowhere. Then again.

“There he is! There he is!”

He stood, head turned back to me, watching. Our eyes met. I gasped. I knew he was waiting for me, that he was leading me. He ran again, into the endless deep dark, nothing to be seen but his flickering before me, nothing to be heard but the thundering of my heart and the gasping of my breath and the thumping of my feet. We ran an age, a million years. Far into the earth through secret unknown tunnels, a boy in front and a boy behind and darkness all around. And then a final flickering, and he was gone for good. Where was I? Deep inside the earth, deep inside the dark, alone. I stretched my hands out, inched forward, seeking a way out. Tiptoed forward, feet on the hard earth. Nothing, nothing to be seen. Then touched him, the man standing there beside me. Touched the shoulders, the face, the icy cheek, the open eyes. “Grandpa,” I whispered. No answer. He was dead still, dead stiff. “Grandpa.” I moved in close, put my arms around him. “Grandpa. It’s all right, Grandpa. Stay calm. It’ll be all right.”

I held him tight. I held him tight for hours, for a million years, till at last we heard the footsteps in the tunnel, saw the distant light of the lamps, heard the voices of the men who’d come to find us. And Grandpa sighed and shook his head.

“Here they are,” he whispered. “We’re okay, son. Here they are.”

I opened my eyes to dawn. Snow lay thick on the windowsill. Great flakes drifted across the panes.

“Grandpa,” I whispered.

I pressed my cheek to the wall. I heard him moving in his bed, then his frail voice:

“When I was young and in me pri-ime . . .”