still held in place, the edges of the wound were hanging on to the blade, they were lips kissing it, thanking it for the feeling. The only feeling that made sense sometimes. The little alarm of dripping blood brought me back to reality.
Fuck, my combats’ll be ruined!
And so the next part of the ritual began. I jumped into the empty bath and dropped my trousers, turned on the taps and tried to soak them before the blood stained, at the same time running my arm under the cold one. I reached over and opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out my brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide – magic stuff this; every home should have one. Did you know hydrogen peroxide breaks down really quickly when exposed to light? That’s why it’s in a little brown bottle: the brown filters out the sun’s rays. It’s a great antibacterial thing – you can use it as mouth-wash, clean kitchen surfaces…even highlight your hair! I held my arm over the sink, whilst my feet kneaded my trousers in the bath, and poured a little over the cut. It fizzed and bubbled, all pink. Stung a bit too, but that’s a small rush after the main event. I poured again and again until the fizzing was white – it stops the bleeding and cleans the wound simultaneously, you see? Grabbed a bit of gauze from the cabinet and stuck it over the cut with tape, nearly slipped in the bath, my feet tangled in my combats – Christ, I had no intention of killing myself!
I wandered in my boxers back into the living room, switched off the TV – it was threatening to invade the little bit of peace I’d just created for myself, pull me back into chaos again too quickly. I sat back in the sofa, saw the bloody knife on the table and had to get up again, take it to the kitchen and give it a quick wash before I could sit and enjoy my peace properly. I tell you, I love this flat…no, there is something about it, honestly. Sat there, slouched on the sofa, I stroked the rough armrest as if it was a balding cat, and all I could see out the window was sky. Sky and the tips of the big tree across the road, the only one round here; its naked branches looked swollen in silhouette with budding leaves. The thin red clouds against pale blue could’ve been the sky outside a plane window or something, as I’m on my way somewhere warm, with fresh air and a beautiful landscape, shitting myself about this new life I’m going to, but knowing I’m alive – for the first time in ages having something worth shitting myself about. Then, as if to remind me that that wasn’t the case, a black dot of a plane weaved through a couple of clouds, flashing its lights smugly, and those thin red clouds were suddenly scar-shaped and sore-looking.
More flashing lights, coming from the street below, made the black tree top turn blue every few seconds. Curiosity dragged me from the sofa. The crowd was in the way, kids, women, blokes, so I couldn’t see what they were so interested in. But judging by the ambulance and the only car in the middle of the road, the driver still in his seat, but with his feet on the road and his head in his hands, it was pretty clear he’d just knocked someone over.
So if the ambulance is there, what are you lot doing, eh? Helping? No chance. Enjoying the show, more like. Getting your next fix of grief and drama since Casualty’s finished and EastEnders ain’t on till tomorrow. But what if I went down there in the street now, with my cheese knife, and started cutting my arm outside the Costcutter? They’d all run a mile; lock themselves in their scummy flats until the nutter had gone. Why? It’s OK to stand there and watch the little girl’s brains leaking onto the tarmac, but not me making a little cut in my arm. Because she didn’t do it to herself. If I hurt myself then it’s not just blood and guts and broken bones, it’s mental and emotional pain too. And no one wants to deal with the kind of emotional pain that makes you do that to yourself. That’s not entertainment, is it? It’s not good drama. And it’s certainly not art, right?
‘Go go go! Go go way!’ Jeanette is copying the sound of the big green birds in the fig trees. The ones with the tall white hats. She is running in and out of the trees trying to make them fly off. One does. It spreads its pretty purple wings and looks down at me as it goes. Its eyes are red apart from the black in the middle – red like Uncle Leonard’s after he has been at the cabaret all night with Dad. The bird looks unhappily at me, just like Uncle Leonard does if I wake him too early. I try and tell the bird, with my eyes, that I was not the one who scared it. But I laughed when Jeanette did it, so he is bound to blame me too.
Mum clucks like a chicken because she is unhappy at the noise we make. ‘Go and take your swim now if you want it, Clementine,’ she says. ‘Be quick! I need you to help carry the water back – that is if you want any breakfast today.’
Jeanette and I run on ahead. We know we must hurry. We are so lucky. My family are so lucky to live this close to the Nyabarongo. I try not to show it, but I feel bigger, more clever than Jeanette – even though we are both ten years old – because she always prefers to come and stay at our house. We are close to the river, you see. As we run past the last stretch of the marshes I puff the air out of my nose, so that I do not have to smell it. The smell of the marshes makes me feel sick. Jeanette has to smell that every day when she goes to collect the water with her mum and sisters. The water in their cans is always brown, the colour of the marshland. Mum walks to the edge of the river to get ours – so it is always clearer, and it tastes sweeter. And it is great to—
‘EEEE!’ Jeanette screams and falls into the mud up ahead of me. And I stand as still as a statue because my heart jumps and tells me to stop. But just for a moment.
Then I laugh at her. I laugh high and loud, louder than usual because I am relieved that it was just a big grumpy pig that came running out from the papyrus and knocked her over. The pig squeals as if it is copying Jeanette and disappears into the papyrus again just as quickly as it appeared. I jump over Jeanette and run ahead, sliding down the muddy bank. I leave my sweater and my dress on the rocks and run again – I like to try to keep running until the water slows me down and lifts up my feet and—
SPLASH!
Jeanette jumps in close to me.
‘EEK EEK, little pig!’ I say.
‘WHOOP WHOOP, little monkey!’ I suppose it was the only thing she could think of quickly.
We don’t have the breath to say much more, as we use all our energy to splash and swim. The water is nice and warm. I look up to the hills where we live. The mist is sliding away so I can try and spot my house. But all I can see from here is the banana groves. The bunches of bananas poking out from the trees look like the hands of giant green creatures holding back the branches so that they can spy on us swimming far below. I search for a moment for their eyes in the darkness and start to scare myself, so I turn the other way and watch the sky turning from pink to orange to blue. It is so pretty. Jeanette looks pretty too as the new sun sparkles in the water drops on her face. I smile at her. She kicks water in my eyes.
As I blink the water away, I feel a little moment of panic – just a tiny moment, because I cannot see – and I start imagining a big wave of water coming at me and covering my mouth and nose because I cannot see it coming to get out of the way. So, as my sight returns, I feel like I should look to the river bank to find my mum. She is there, where the water curves around the marshes, with the big papyrus plants looking over her shoulder as she crouches down and fills up our water cans. Mum is tall and thin – I think she is one of the most beautiful women in our village. If she stood up now she would just about be able to see over the top of the papyrus and over the marshes. Jeanette has disappeared under the water, swimming like a fish in case I try to splash her back. I make sure I can feel the river bed under my feet, in case she tries to pull me under, and I keep my eyes on Mum. I think she is filling the third can already, but because she is quite far away it is not easy to tell. She usually brings only two or three, but she has brought one more today because we have Jeanette’s hands to help too.
