Me: ‘New or Old?’
Elizabeth: ‘Just shopping.’
Me: ‘Did you get them from a bad house?’
Elizabeth: ‘Just because something comes from a bad house doesn’t mean it’s actually bad.’
Me: ‘I’m not keen.’
Alex: ‘Is it safe for diabetes?’
Elizabeth looks surprised, like she hadn’t thought of this. She digs out the boring book she always carries and reads it, frowning. In a long time she looks up.
‘It doesn’t mention vitamins … truthfully then, I don’t know. I think it’ll be all right.’
Me: ‘Polar bears have too many vitamins in their livers. You should check it isn’t made of polar bear.’
Elizabeth: ‘I think it would say on the packet. Like with cod liver oil for instance.’
Me: ‘And hot dogs, for instance.’
Elizabeth: ‘Smart arse.’
In the end we flick our vitamins into the stream. Elizabeth looks sad about it, but doesn’t stop us. It’s good fun, and I want to flick more, but she won’t allow.
‘We’re not getting enough fruit,’ she says. ‘I did a project last year about sailors in the olden days. They got something called scurvy. That’s where you need vitamin C. Your gums and skin start to bleed. Well, Calum Ian and Duncan have very red mouths, don’t they?’
Me: ‘That’s because they’re always sucking petrol for their stupid bonfires that never work.’
Elizabeth doesn’t disagree.
Me: ‘Know something? I got reminded there about our hot dogs. Remember, that the boys took? Well I want them back. It still gets me fed up that they stole them.’
Elizabeth: ‘Best forgotten.’
Me: ‘No it isn’t. I bet they have hundreds of stuff in their house. I bet they eat all night until they’re sick.’
Alex: ‘If I get sick the thingamabob that hangs down my throat comes out.’
Elizabeth: ‘Rubbish, it only feels like it does.’
Me: ‘I think we should go to war with them.’
Elizabeth: ‘Nobody’s going to war. We all need to stick together. Remember – what’s going to work?’
We deliberately don’t say – teamwork.
When Elizabeth and Alex go back home I lie and say I’m going for a walk.
It’s not usual for me to go alone, but she looks fed up or in a sad mood again so I get away with it.
I know their garden right away. I know their street even, because of all the black bits from fires.
Six of the posts along one fence, charred and burnt. Burnt black spots of grass, like a spaceship landed and bounced. A whole front garden, burnt in a square. A kid’s plastic go-kart half-melted into glue.
They haven’t burnt their own garden. The nameplate says R. MACNEIL. I spy around the windows like Ruby Redfort on a mission. They must be upstairs.
A sprinkled heap of coats in the hall. The carpet looks worn, but then I see it’s dried mud. Two pairs of wellies, neatly together. There’s a family smell, stronger than Duncan’s even, sort of like gammon crisps.
The living room’s a mess. Bits of fishing rod, nets, lines, lumps of metal. There’s a lot of empty cereal packets. Standards are slipping, Mum would say. There’s shopping baskets on the floor full of games, DVDs. Some of the DVDs have been melted, by Duncan I guess.
A jar on the table, full of brown muck, with darts in it. What’s that all about? It smells bad.
They must be out. I do an actorly halloooo up the stairs, but nobody shouts back.
I go upstairs. The first room must be Duncan’s: it’s a mess across the floor and smells of socks. The next room is very tidy, with even the bed made. Posters of football players, blue bedsheets, boxing gloves.
But then I realise that they’re not sleeping in either of these rooms because there’s another room: with a big bed for adults. On top of this bed are two sleeping bags, with a pillow at one end and a pillow at the other.
So many beds, they didn’t know which to choose. Calum Ian’s teddy is a monkey. Duncan’s is an Eeyore with all the stuffing coming out. Their pillows are manky, with brown bits and spots of blood on Duncan’s.
I look around the room. Duncan’s fiddle books, like he was reading them before bed. Then inside Calum Ian’s sleeping bag I see a drawing book.
The first drawing is of five kids, made up like a family. A man and a wife, one big son, middle daughter, little son. All holding hands.
With a longer look I see that the family is us. And Calum Ian made himself the dad, and Elizabeth his wife.
Feeling disgusted but still laughing, I punch Duncan’s pillow. But it feels hard, nearly breaks my hand – I find a fishing trophy hidden under it.
The trophy has his dad’s name, next to Silver Darling – One Day Winner.
Underneath Calum Ian’s pillow – there’s a camera.
It’s got batteries. It’s working. It takes me ten or twenty seconds to work it out. AUTO to get snappy,
I take a picture of my knees, both feet, then my big toes.
Then the back of my throat to show the thingamabob that Alex was talking about. That looks weird.
I choose GALLERY, and find loads of other pictures besides the ones I just did. There’s one of Calum Ian and his mum. Duncan and his mum. Then the boys and their little sister Flora, who was nearly at school. Then a picture of their mum on the front step with a big stomach, holding around it with proud hands.
I go through the photos, up and down. The dates go from March to November last year. By December everything bad had started to happen, so the family snaps here must be the last they took.
In a box at Calum Ian’s side of the bed are some real pictures. A marrying one of his mum and dad. He’s wrapped them in clingfilm for keeping good.
I put the camera back, and go back downstairs. Their kitchen is like after a bomb. Skyscrapers of dirty plates and cups. Maybe Elizabeth was right about using paper plates. And mouldy tins in a bin overflowing.
Then I find that the cupboards are completely stuffed with food – which they should have shared. There is about a hundred packets of digestive biscuits! Plus crackers galore! And UHT milk, in proper-sized cartons!
Then
