But it was my fault. Who else’s fault could it have been?
And ever since then I only talk out loud to Ellamay when we’re alone.
Another thing I learned not to say out loud was ‘monkem’. Monkems are all the people in the world except for Mum, Auntie Shirley, and the Doc. They’re called monkems because they come to me in my dreams as horrible scary things with hairy monkey bodies and long grasping arms and bandy legs and little human heads with vicious grinning mouths with their lips pulled back over nasty big monkey teeth . . .
That’s what other people are to me.
Terrible things that want to rip me apart and eat me.
Monkems.
The first time I said it in front of Mum she told me I mustn’t say it any more.
‘Why not?’ I asked her.
‘You can’t call people monkeys, Elliot.’
‘Monkems,’ I corrected her. ‘Not monkeys.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she said (which made no sense to me at all), ‘but people might think you’re saying monkey, like I just did, and they might think you’re being horrible to them.’ She gave me a look. ‘You don’t want anyone to think you’re being horrible to them, do you?’
I told her I didn’t, and since then I only ever use the word when I’m on my own or with Ellamay. Not that it makes any difference. The way I react to monkems – screaming my head off and running away in terror – they must think I’m mad anyway, so what does it matter if they think I’m horrible as well? And besides, even at that age – three or four years old – I was very rarely seeing anyone else apart from Mum and Shirley and the Doc, so the chances of me upsetting a monkem by calling them a monkem were virtually non-existent.
I wish this was easier. I wish I could just lay my hands on your head and transfer what’s inside me to you. I wish you could be me, if only for a moment, so you’d know exactly how I feel.
But that’s not going to happen, is it?
Wishes never come true.
shake it . . .
like this
It’s twelve minutes past three now and I’m back in my room. Still hatted and booted and gloved, still sticky-skinned from the drying cold sweat, and still sick to my bones with fear.
What are you doing, Elliot? Ellamay says, sounding confused and slightly frustrated. I thought we were ready to go. I thought we’d –
‘It’s all right,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve just remembered something, that’s all. I won’t be a minute.’
I cross the room and go into the bathroom.
Oh, right, Ellamay says. I see.
She thinks I’m going to the toilet.
‘No, it’s not that,’ I tell her, opening the cabinet above the sink. ‘I’m just checking to make sure there aren’t any pills in here that I’ve forgotten about.’
You’ve already done that.
‘I’m double-checking.’
You’ve already done that as well.
‘I’m triple-checking then.’
There are four empty brown-glass pill bottles in the cabinet. I always keep a few empty ones, just in case I break one or something. And Ellamay’s right, I have already checked each of them twice. But sometimes I get riddled with doubts – about all kinds of stupid little things – and there’s something inside me that won’t let me rest until I’ve hammered those doubts into the ground.
So I check all the bottles again – take one out, shake it
like this
unscrew the cap, look inside, turn it upside down and tap it against my palm . . .
Nothing, empty.
I put the cap back on, place it to one side, take the next bottle out of the cabinet. Shake it
like this
unscrew the cap, look inside . . .
Nothing.
I go through the same process with the other two bottles, but they’re both empty too, as I knew they would be.
Satisfied?
‘Not yet.’
I start removing everything else from the cabinet – packets of pills (for headaches and indigestion), eczema cream, toothpaste, toothbrush – and when the shelves are completely empty, I stand there scanning the dusty emptiness for any specks of yellow, hoping against hope that if I look hard enough I’ll find a stray pill. But I don’t. So then I reach up and start running my fingers through the dust, feeling around in every little corner of the shelves, every little gap between the shelves and the back of the cupboard, every possible place where a small yellow pill could be lodged . . .
There’s nothing there.
No doubt about it.
I close the cabinet, reach into my pocket, and pull out my current pill bottle. I give it a shake
like this
and the last remaining pill rattles thinly against the glass. I close my eyes for a second and think again about taking it now. The last one I took is beginning to wear off, and I can already feel the first faint stirrings of the thing I dread the most – the beast that is the fear of fear itself – and I know that if I don’t take the pill now . . .
Save it for later, Ellamay says.
‘I don’t think I can.’
You’re probably going to need it later a lot more than you need it now.
I know she’s right.
I know I have to wait.
I shake the bottle one more time
like this
and put it back in my pocket.
Is that it? Ellamay says. Can we go now? It’s going to be completely dark outside if we don’t go soon.
‘I know,’ I tell her, crossing over
