“So,” he said. “Was there much yak yak yakkity yak?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“And did you attack anybody?”
“Nobody at all.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pele.”
Mum put her arm around me. I was occupied with myself, filled with memories of the day and thoughts of what I’d do tomorrow.
“Well?” she said. “Did you settle down? You were being very strange when I left this morning.”
“Just uncomfortable, I suppose.”
“But you settled down.”
I sighed.
“Yes,” I told her. “The people were very nice. I had a good time. I …”
I hesitated, looked out at the traffic. For some reason, there was no way I could tell her about my vision.
She smiled.
“But it’s not for you?”
I shrugged.
“No. I’m sorry, Mum.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“Really, Mina. I didn’t really think it would be, somehow. Come on, cuddle in.”
I cuddled into her. I told her about Steepy and Malcolm and the others. I saw Karl smiling at us through the driver’s mirror. I closed my eyes, and saw Dad again inside me, standing in the crackling sunlight. One day I’d tell her, but not yet. When I look back now, I suspect that Mum had her own secret that afternoon. I recall how happy she felt against me. I remember seeing her smile to herself as we drove back across the river. Was it Colin Pope? Had she taken the chance to be with him that day, freed from her weird daughter? I suspect she had.
And so I leave the tree, and go back into the house. Mum’s sitting at the table reading a book about the Antarctic.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I take a breath. “I do remember Colin Pope,” I say.
“Do you?”
“Yes. And I remember he seemed very nice, Mum.”
She smiles.
“Good. He is.”
“And,” I said softly, “I think you’re very brave.”
She laughed.
“I’m not,” she said. “But thank you, love.”
On the next page is the story I created at Corinthian Avenue. It’s an empty page, no words at all. It’s like Steepy’s back, waiting for tattoos. It’s like an empty sky waiting for a bird to cross it. It’s as silent as an egg waiting for the chick to hatch. It’s like the universe before time began. It is like the future waiting to become the present. Look at it closely, and it can be filled with memories, with dramas, with dreams, with visions. It’s filled with possibilities, so it isn’t really blank at all.
Chicks, A Lethal Cat & Limplessness
The black beast is on the prowl. Be very wary. Because the black beast really is a black black beast. It’s a pretty purring pet called Whisper but it’s also a wild thing that will kill if we give it the chance. That’s because the eggs have hatched! There are three pretty sticky feathery things inside the pretty nest! And the parent birds are flying back and forwards with fleas and flies inside their mouths, with worms dangling like fat spaghetti from their beaks. I’ve climbed carefully, quietly, just high enough to look down and see the extraordinary pretty things. And the parents squawked at me – Squawk squawk squawk! – and tilted their heads as they looked at me.
Don’t you dare! they squawked. Keep away! Squawk! You’re danger! Squawk!
But the real danger’s down below. The black beast’s prowling in the garden. It’s slinking along the pavement. It tries to look casual and unconcerned, but it hesitates and listens. I see it turning its head, turning its ear towards the nest. And it looks up at me with O so pleading eyes.
Hello, Mina, purrs the black black beast. I’m your special friend, aren’t I? I’m your lovely little pet. Why don’t you let me come up there to keep you company?
I glare back down, and I point my finger.
Don’t you dare, you black black beast! Keep away! You’re danger!
I wave it off and it turns in a huff and prowls haughtily away. It’ll soon be back, making eyes at me, and licking its teeth at the thought of crushing the pretty little things inside its mouth.
I sit still in the tree. I tell myself I’m the Guardian of the Chicks. But I’m not really. In truth, the chicks are safe inside the nest. They’re out of Whisper’s reach. He couldn’t climb up here. And even if he could, he couldn’t climb out to where the nest is. It’s built on branches far too thin to hold him. So he prowls below, listening, watching, waiting. The real time of danger will come when the chicks are fledged, when they’re out of the nest but not able to fly well, when they’re hiding in the hedges and the shadows and the parent birds are still feeding them.
It’s safe to close my eyes. I stop being the Guardian of the Chicks and I try again to imagine being inside an egg. I imagine the sticky feathers and wings growing on me. I imagine peck peck pecking at the shell with my little pointy beak. I imagine pecking my way out the blue-green darkness of the egg into the blue-green light of the tree, just like the chicks have done. I imagine testing my tiny chirping voice for the first time. And I make tiny, almost- silent tweets and squeaks, pretending that my throat is a bird’s throat and my mouth is a beak and …
And then I hear my name spoken.
“Mina? Mina?”
I open my eyes. I look down. There’s a girl standing just underneath me. She’s wearing a St. Bede’s sweatshirt.
“Mina.”
I can’t speak. I make a rather silly-sounding tweeting noise. I bite my lip.
“Do you not remember me, Mina?”
I nod. Of course I do. It’s Sophie Smith, the girl from school, the girl that was my friend for a while.
“Yes,” I squeak at last.
“Just thought I’d come and say hello,” she says. She smiles. “Hello.”
“Hello,” I squawk.
She smiles again, looks up at me in my tree. Blue eyes, blond hair, pale face. Just like she was, but older. The blackbirds are squawking in alarm at this new visitor.
“They’ve got chicks,” I cheep.
Sophie smiles.
“Just being good parents,” she says. She widens her eyes. “I won’t harm them!” she whispers up towards the birds.
Squawk! go the birds. Squawk! Squawk!
“Brave things,” says Sophie. “And soon they’ll be brave enough to let their babies fly away.”
Then she flaps her arms and jumps and jumps.
“Look!” she says. “I had my operation!”
