back, we might look the same, feel the same, think the same, but the subatomic particles, the smallest parts of us that make every other part, will have rushed away, been replaced at impossible speeds. We will be completely different people. Everything changes all the time.
Truth changes.
Here are three truths.
Knock
KNOCKKNOCK
Truth No. 1
I didn’t have my armchair yet. The main room seemed bigger without it, and he looked small, crouched on the carpet in the dusty light beneath the window. He buried his face in his hands. I couldn’t say how long he’d been there, but I think for a long time.
I’d been sleeping after a night shift and was still holding my expensive pillow. It was a gift from John Lewis that Nanny Noo and Granddad bought me, to help with my bad dreams; the dreams that had started to follow me outside of sleep, so that sometimes I would have to cut a little at my skin with a knife, or burn myself with a lighter, to make sure I was real.
I can’t speak for Jacob, but when I think about things now, there was more to it than his mum; I was becoming a problem.
We didn’t talk straight away. The only noise was the faraway sound of traffic, drifting through the window. You can hear it all the time, but only notice it when there is a silence that needs filling.
I wasn’t sure he’d seen me, until after a while he said, ‘She was slumped forwards in her chair again, with the neck rest too high up.’
‘We can say something.’
‘It’s more than that.’
They sent different people round, that was a problem. Each morning it could be a new carer getting her up. Nobody knew Mrs Greening properly, or the way things had to be done.
‘It was her hair,’ he said.
I’ve replayed the conversation in my head so many times. I imagine myself saying different things, then what he would say differently. I move the memory around the flat like it’s a piece of furniture, or a picture in a frame that I can’t decide where to hang.
‘What are those things, like little girls have?’
‘What?’
‘In their hair.’
‘I don’t know. Pigtails, is it?’
‘Yeah, them.’
I used to brush Mrs Greening’s hair, whilst Jacob prepared her tea and got her medicine ready. I’d wash it sometimes too. She had this special sink, like you see in hairdressers but with padded bits that fold over the edges. She didn’t have much feeling in her arms and legs, but her head felt tingly and nice when I rubbed in the shampoo. That’s what she said, anyway. And she said I was better at it than Jacob because he pulled too hard, but I wasn’t to tell him because we were both her angels.
‘What are you smiling for?’
‘I’m not.’
‘It’s not fucking funny, Matt.’
‘I wasn’t smiling about—’
‘I bet you’re exactly the same. In that old people’s home, you probably treat them like fucking children too.’
He didn’t mean that, but it still hurt.
‘No I don’t. You know I wouldn’t—’
‘Well quit fucking smiling then. She was there trying to pull the things out all morning. But the more wound up she is, the worse her hands get. Now these three fingers—’
His voice trailed away. He didn’t cry, I’ve never seen him cry. But I think he was close. ‘These three fingers, they don’t really work at all.’
I dropped my pillow on the carpet and sat beside him. The acne that had clung to his face all through school was finally clearing away. He’d started growing a beard too. Except it didn’t reach his sideburns, so there were these two lopsided islands of soft pink at the top of his cheeks.
He smelled like he always smelled: Lynx deodorant and cooking fat from the Kebab House.
‘I don’t know what to say, Jacob.’
He sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve. ‘You don’t get it,’ he said softly. ‘She’s all on her own.’
It was a strange moment. Not because of what he said, but the way he looked at me. He’d looked at me like that once
Truth changes.
Here are three truths.
Knock
KNOCKKNOCK
Truth No. 1
I didn’t have my armchair yet. The main room seemed bigger without it, and he looked small, crouched on the carpet in the dusty light beneath the window. He buried his face in his hands. I couldn’t say how long he’d been there, but I think for a long time.
I’d been sleeping after a night shift and was still holding my expensive pillow. It was a gift from John Lewis that Nanny Noo and Granddad bought me, to help with my bad dreams; the dreams that had started to follow me outside of sleep, so that sometimes I would have to cut a little at my skin with a knife, or burn myself with a lighter, to make sure I was real.
I can’t speak for Jacob, but when I think about things now, there was more to it than his mum; I was becoming a problem.
We didn’t talk straight away. The only noise was the faraway sound of traffic, drifting through the window. You can hear it all the time, but only notice it when there is a silence that needs filling.
I wasn’t sure he’d seen me, until after a while he said, ‘She was slumped forwards in her chair again, with the neck rest too high up.’
‘We can say something.’
‘It’s more than that.’
They sent different people round, that was a problem. Each morning it could be a new carer getting her up. Nobody knew Mrs Greening properly, or the way things had to be done.
‘It was her hair,’ he said.
I’ve replayed the conversation in my head so many times. I imagine myself saying different things, then what he would say differently. I move the memory around the flat like it’s a piece of furniture, or a picture in a frame that I can’t decide where to hang.
‘What are those things, like little girls have?’
‘What?’
‘In their hair.’
‘I don’t know. Pigtails, is it?’
‘Yeah, them.’
I used to brush Mrs Greening’s hair, whilst Jacob prepared her tea and got her medicine ready. I’d wash it sometimes too. She had this special sink, like you see in hairdressers but with padded bits that fold over the edges. She didn’t have much feeling in her arms and legs, but her head felt tingly and nice when I rubbed in the shampoo. That’s what she said, anyway. And she said I was better at it than Jacob because he pulled too hard, but I wasn’t to tell him because we were both her angels.
‘What are you smiling for?’
‘I’m not.’
‘It’s not fucking funny, Matt.’
‘I wasn’t smiling about—’
‘I bet you’re exactly the same. In that old people’s home, you probably treat them like fucking children too.’
He didn’t mean that, but it still hurt.
‘No I don’t. You know I wouldn’t—’
‘Well quit fucking smiling then. She was there trying to pull the things out all morning. But the more wound up she is, the worse her hands get. Now these three fingers—’
His voice trailed away. He didn’t cry, I’ve never seen him cry. But I think he was close. ‘These three fingers, they don’t really work at all.’
I dropped my pillow on the carpet and sat beside him. The acne that had clung to his face all through school was finally clearing away. He’d started growing a beard too. Except it didn’t reach his sideburns, so there were these two lopsided islands of soft pink at the top of his cheeks.
He smelled like he always smelled: Lynx deodorant and cooking fat from the Kebab House.
‘I don’t know what to say, Jacob.’
He sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve. ‘You don’t get it,’ he said softly. ‘She’s all on her own.’
It was a strange moment. Not because of what he said, but the way he looked at me. He’d looked at me like that once
Similar Books
