nerve-rash revving into life under her steely gaze, already claiming his cheeks, vining him, down, down, his neck, chest. It’s a sorry sight.
‘I want to go too.’ His brother, loud into the shardy quiet.
‘No. You’re too obvious together.’
‘I can’t do it by myself,’ Mouse whispers. No, he can’t. And in that vast churning silence he rubs his arms where Soli yanked him from under the bed but her face does not change, she will win this. He stares at the speedy bruises on his skin, the yellow petals already on his flesh and Tidge’s hand finds his shoulder, always there for him. Motl told them once that the difference with them is that there are yes-sayers and no-sayers and people who say yes are rewarded by the adventure they go on and people who say no are rewarded by their feeling of safety, andneither is better than the other, it’s just the way they are. And they always have to respect the other’s choice; they have to be their brother’s protector and must never forget it.
‘We all have to do this.’ Soli, iron in her voice. The one who doesn’t get weakness or maybe she does, too much. She spins Mouse around and propels him out.
‘You were adopted. I think you should know, in case I don’t come back.’
Soli’s hands drop. ‘I am not.’ But a voice that believes it.
‘Dad said so. I found the birth certificate in his drawer and I wasn’t allowed to tell you.’
A new, electric quiet. Soli’s paleness. Her mouth she forgot to shut. Mouse steps back. Pebbled now by the enormity of what he’s unleashed. The taste of his meanness sour in his mouth.
‘Get out,’ Soli says finally.
‘No, you weren’t, I made it up.’ Mouse laughs too loud. Trying to spool back the situation.
‘Get out. We don’t want you here. We don’t need you. You’re never any help.’
He frowns and rolls in his lips. Rooted, panicky, to the spot.
‘And walk like you belong,’ Soli says with a furious shove. ‘Not that you belong anywhere.’
He had that coming. But there’s the huge, glittery sting of it nonetheless. It’s in his face.
Change, impermanence, is a characteristic of life.
75
The corridor. The door behind him. Just about to be firmly shut. Leaving Mouse stranded in the vast unknown. The boxer’s back. His legs aren’t working properly. It’s like walking through thigh-high mud. ‘Mummy,’ he mouths, wildly looking around, ‘Mummy?’ You need to be with him, need this, he’s so small, so young for this. You thump the wall in frustration.
And so it is. Thank God for that, thank God.
The corridor’s empty. A hum like an engine room is somewhere close. Mouse’s breathing ratchets up, his eyes are wide as he tries to work it out; perhaps there’s a furnace or a lab for strange experiments or a child-sized oven warming up, and stopping at head height are rectangular, filthy cream tiles and above them are scrapes as if enormous crates have been pushed, protesting, into the building’s dark heart. He gazes at the ceiling. Spaghetti lines of black piping run into the distance, ticking and gurgling and transporting goodness knows what. Water? Waste? Blood? He tries to spine his walk, to tall himself up, progressing slowly, so slowly down the corridor. Fire stairs, ahead. Can he do it? Can he climb them? He rubs his arms, feeling his sister’s intent, still wears her finger marks. Up, up the steps, whimpering, barely managing this. To a heavy black door on the next level and he grabs a door handle and can’t quite bring himself to turn it, to dare to see what’s beyond, but, but…
He bends. Peers. A tiny, ripped-off piece of checked shirt, tied to the doorknob. So small it’s hardly there. But it is .
His brother. A secret signal.
So. It must be all right. Someone’s guiding him here.
Mouse smiles and turns the handle strong.
I am the door.
76
You gasp in shock. Well, well.
So this is B’s world that he never talks about. Of course not. It would never fit the image
‘I want to go too.’ His brother, loud into the shardy quiet.
‘No. You’re too obvious together.’
‘I can’t do it by myself,’ Mouse whispers. No, he can’t. And in that vast churning silence he rubs his arms where Soli yanked him from under the bed but her face does not change, she will win this. He stares at the speedy bruises on his skin, the yellow petals already on his flesh and Tidge’s hand finds his shoulder, always there for him. Motl told them once that the difference with them is that there are yes-sayers and no-sayers and people who say yes are rewarded by the adventure they go on and people who say no are rewarded by their feeling of safety, andneither is better than the other, it’s just the way they are. And they always have to respect the other’s choice; they have to be their brother’s protector and must never forget it.
‘We all have to do this.’ Soli, iron in her voice. The one who doesn’t get weakness or maybe she does, too much. She spins Mouse around and propels him out.
‘You were adopted. I think you should know, in case I don’t come back.’
Soli’s hands drop. ‘I am not.’ But a voice that believes it.
‘Dad said so. I found the birth certificate in his drawer and I wasn’t allowed to tell you.’
A new, electric quiet. Soli’s paleness. Her mouth she forgot to shut. Mouse steps back. Pebbled now by the enormity of what he’s unleashed. The taste of his meanness sour in his mouth.
‘Get out,’ Soli says finally.
‘No, you weren’t, I made it up.’ Mouse laughs too loud. Trying to spool back the situation.
‘Get out. We don’t want you here. We don’t need you. You’re never any help.’
He frowns and rolls in his lips. Rooted, panicky, to the spot.
‘And walk like you belong,’ Soli says with a furious shove. ‘Not that you belong anywhere.’
He had that coming. But there’s the huge, glittery sting of it nonetheless. It’s in his face.
Change, impermanence, is a characteristic of life.
75
The corridor. The door behind him. Just about to be firmly shut. Leaving Mouse stranded in the vast unknown. The boxer’s back. His legs aren’t working properly. It’s like walking through thigh-high mud. ‘Mummy,’ he mouths, wildly looking around, ‘Mummy?’ You need to be with him, need this, he’s so small, so young for this. You thump the wall in frustration.
And so it is. Thank God for that, thank God.
The corridor’s empty. A hum like an engine room is somewhere close. Mouse’s breathing ratchets up, his eyes are wide as he tries to work it out; perhaps there’s a furnace or a lab for strange experiments or a child-sized oven warming up, and stopping at head height are rectangular, filthy cream tiles and above them are scrapes as if enormous crates have been pushed, protesting, into the building’s dark heart. He gazes at the ceiling. Spaghetti lines of black piping run into the distance, ticking and gurgling and transporting goodness knows what. Water? Waste? Blood? He tries to spine his walk, to tall himself up, progressing slowly, so slowly down the corridor. Fire stairs, ahead. Can he do it? Can he climb them? He rubs his arms, feeling his sister’s intent, still wears her finger marks. Up, up the steps, whimpering, barely managing this. To a heavy black door on the next level and he grabs a door handle and can’t quite bring himself to turn it, to dare to see what’s beyond, but, but…
He bends. Peers. A tiny, ripped-off piece of checked shirt, tied to the doorknob. So small it’s hardly there. But it is .
His brother. A secret signal.
So. It must be all right. Someone’s guiding him here.
Mouse smiles and turns the handle strong.
I am the door.
76
You gasp in shock. Well, well.
So this is B’s world that he never talks about. Of course not. It would never fit the image
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