“Yeah,” he said to the boy.
There was a woman on the screen. She was doing normal things, like washing up and ironing. She was talking to the camera about housework or something. David felt full of fear, almost ready to be sick, because it was all so ordinary, and you knew she was real, and you knew it had really happened, like this, and you knew you were going to see her murdered.
“This is boring,” said Kevin. “What’s she on about?”
“Shut up,” said Martin. “They got the camera in there to get her confidence.”
“But there ain’t nothing happening,” said Kevin. “She’s just bloody talking.”
“She’s pretty, ain’t she?” said the boy.
The other two fell silent, and turned to him for a moment. Even David sensed it was an odd thing to say.
“Eh?” said Martin.
“I says she’s pretty, ain’t she. She’s really nice.”
“What d’you mean?” said Kevin.
“She’s my mum,” said the boy.
There was another silence then. Everything had suddenly changed, and David felt it, but didn’t know how or why.
“Eh?” said Martin.
“I says she’s my mum. She loves me and I love her.”
The boys shifted in their seats. The pictures on the screen had changed. It was night-time, and the camera was outside the house looking in through the kitchen window. The room was warmly lit; the woman was moving about, alone, watering some big green plants. She bent down and picked up a little baby from what must have been a carry-cot, and cuddled it. But none of the three boys were taking this in: they were paralysed by what the strange boy had said. No-one said that sort of thing.
“He’s mad,” said Kevin uneasily.
“Hey, what’s your name?” said Martin.
There was no reply. Instead the commentary began again:
The boy was mouthing the words as if he knew them by heart. Suddenly from the darkness a stone shattered the kitchen window, and the woman gasped and turned wildly, clutching the baby to her. Her wide-eyed face stared out at them, and then they all saw at once that she
She was bending now, putting the baby down swiftly. And then another window shattered, and she jumped and cried out.
David’s heart was beating like a captured bird.
“Martin—” he started to say, but Martin himself spoke at the same time, loudly, sitting up tensely in his chair and turning to the strange boy.
“What d’you want?” he cried. “What you come here for?”
Kevin was shifting himself next to David, making himself look small and inconspicuous, like he did in class. Martin’s face was twisted and full of hate.
“Just wanted to see—” began the strange boy, but his dry rustling voice was drowned by a scream from the TV. David flicked a sideways look at the screen: a man with a stocking mask had burst into the kitchen. There was a blur in the sound, as if two pieces of film had been joined carelessly, and then the camera was suddenly inside the kitchen with them.
“Martin!” cried David.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Martin. He was shaking, glaring at the screen, staring wildly, gripping the remote control. “You scared? You seen enough?” He pressed the volume switch, and terrible sounds flooded the room. David put his hands over his ears. Kevin was still watching, but he’d curled up very small, and he was holding his fists in front of his mouth.
And the strange boy was still gazing at the screen. The woman was speaking, gabbling desperately, and the boy’s eyes followed her and his lips moved with her words.
“Shut up!” Martin yelled. “Shut up!”
He jumped up and dropped the remote control. The picture faded at once, and the last thing David saw was Martin’s face, wet with sweat.
They were in darkness.
No one moved.
David heard Martin gulping and breathing heavily. He felt sick with fear and shame.
The strange boy said, “It ain’t finished.”
“Shut up!” said Martin fiercely. “Get out!”
“I can’t till it’s finished. I always see the end.”
“What you want to watch it for?”
“I always watch it. That’s the only time I see her. I like seeing my mum.”
In the darkness his voice sounded more than ever distant, and cold, and strange. David’s skin was crawling. Everything was horrible. It had been horrible all day, but this was worse than anything. He thought of his own mum, and nearly sobbed out loud, but stifled it just in time.
“And the baby.” The strange boy spoke again. “It’s a nice baby, ain’t it? It looks nice. It must be nice being picked up like that, like what she does. I wish I could remember.”
“What d’you mean?” said Martin hoarsely.
The boy’s voice was even quieter now: hardly more than dead leaves falling.
“They killed her and then they set fire to the house. It all burnt up, the baby and all. That was me, that was, that baby. I burnt up all with my mum. But I didn’t stop growing up, getting older, like. It must be the video. Sort of kept me going. I seen it hundreds of times. The best bit is where she picks me up. I reckon she must have loved me a lot. That’s all I do, watch that video. There ain’t nothing else . . .”
He stopped.
Martin stumbled to the door and felt for the light-switch. The room sprang into being around them, all solid and bright, but there was no-one else there. Only a sharp, distant smell remained, and that dwindled after a moment and then vanished completely as if it had never existed. The boy was gone.
My Beautiful House
Louis de Bernieres
Location: Abbots Notwithstanding, Surrey.
Time: December, 2004.
Eyewitness Account:
Author: Louis de Bernieres (1954–) has been named one of the most outstanding British novelists of his generation and the international success of his novel,
