bee bones 1

richard
pierce

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Bee Bones - Chapter One

Memories are open wounds. She left so many years ago. My guilt keeps me awake. And now nothing eases this loneliness. Not even our son.

'Dad,' he whispers, shaking me. 'Dad.'

'Do you know what time it is?' I groan.

'Doesn't stop you waking me when you want me to go to school.'

'It's Saturday, Tillmann. And I was asleep. For a change. Go away.' I try to pull the duvet back over my head. Should've thrown out this bed when she died, but never got round to it.

'This is important, Dad.'

'It's only six o'clock, mate. What the hell are you on?'

'I had a dream about Mum. She was still alive.'

'Oh, Jesus.' I sigh and sit up.

I've been waiting for this, ever since we'd been left, heartbroken and alone, we two men – almost men, anyway - in this sad little flat overlooking this sad little road. He's always loved her, always missed her. Despite the way she died. Although he saw her die. Here, in fact. Here, in this bed, in this room, in this dark room, morning still waiting under the horizon, behind the houses, out past the railway line from London to Bristol. I miss her, too, his mother, his wonderful, gentle, beautiful mother.

There's just me and him. Tillmann – his mother had been obsessed by that name. I don't know why. I don't think he's ever forgiven us for it. The kids at school call him Attila. I reckon he likes it deep down. Him and his messed-up black hair and his messed-up friends. I'm not important. I'm just his servant and his driver. Oh, and his banker.

Some things I remember, some I don't. Her face I remember from the photographs we still have hanging around desolately; dusty trophies from a better time. But I've forgotten her caresses, the pitch of her voice; they're things I can only imagine, living touches from a dead woman's hand.

He's started sobbing by now, unusually; deep, racking sobs which shake me down into the part of me I try to hide from everyone including him, because it hurts too much to let it out. His crying crashes into my years of pain, of trying to forget. My arms around him, he just lets himself go, like I've tried to teach him, hypocrite that I am, because I've never learned to let go, never accepted she's dead and gone and buried, and we'll never ever ever see her again. Because I'm beginning to think grief is pointless. Because the one person you want to share your grief with is the one you're grieving for. Because it hurts to be alone.

'What can I do?' I ask.

'There's nothing you can do.' He pulls away from me. Sits up.

'But I'm your dad.'

'You might've been able to kiss things better when I was a kid, but that game doesn't work anymore.' He dries his eyes with his sleeve.

'So what's the point?' I don't mean the question to sound as final as it does.

'Maybe there isn't one.' He shrugs.

'There has to be.'

'Is that really what you think? You've protected me too much. From the world, from everything you think's bad.'

'Is that so wrong?' I ask.

'Depends on.'

'On what?'

'On who you are,' he says.

'What do you mean?'

'I sometimes think you're the way you are because you're scared of losing me, too. Like you think you'll lose me like you lost her.'

I shake my head. 'You've got it wrong,' I say.

'You expect me to believe that?' He stares at me.

I look away. Say nothing. I can't.

'You've made me too old, you and your grief and protectiveness,' he says, still staring. 'But you still treat me like a kid. You assume my dreams are the dreams of a child.'

'You are a child.'

'Dad, I'm sixteen next week.'

'We should start talking about the birds and the bees then, I suppose.'

'Stop being an idiot.'

'Sorry.'

'Can't you be normal for a change?' he asks.

'I am being normal.' I can't think of anything else to say. I've often hoped that some day she'll just come knocking an the door again, although I know that's impossible. That I might just get a postcard from her asking me to go and pick her up from somewhere at a certain time. Or a phone call. But I've never told Tillmann about those hopes, because they're stupid. And they make me cry. And now he's made me cry. 'But I can't change anything,' I finally say, desperate to say something. 'She's dead, mate. You know she's dead. I know she is. And there's nothing we can do about it.'

'I know. But, but sometimes I wonder if there's just a small chance she's ...'

'No, Till, no, don't go down that road. It's crazy, and you'll just screw your mind ...'

'What? To say maybe she's still alive? Why would that screw me up any more than I'm screwed up already?'

'Because you'd be lying to yourself. Because you'd start thinking the impossible. You'd spend the rest of your life thinking you could bring her back. And you can't.'

'So why do we still talk about her as if she's just gone out?' he asks. 'Why keep these photos of her?' He grabs one from the bedside table. 'Wouldn't it be easier just to throw them all out, to stop torturing yourself with her face everywhere you turn? Aren't you doing just the same thing you think I'd do? Screwing with your mind? Letting her screw with your mind? Aren't you?'

'Don't ...'

Too late. He throws the frame across the room. It hits the wall, in slow motion almost. Shatters. A spray of glass and wood.

'Sorry, Dad. Sorry. Sorry.' He rushes to where the debris has come to rest. Only just misses shredding his bare feet on the shards. Bends down. Starts to pick the pieces up. Slowly. Gently. He's sobbing again.

I bend down beside him. Put my arm round him. He doesn't resist. 'It's ok, mate. It's ok. We can fix this. Honest. I promise.'

'Don't make promises you can't keep, Dad.'

We clean up as carefully and quickly as we can. Both of us in tears. I'm about to get the hoover to make sure all the mess has gone, when he picks up the photo.

'When did you get this framed?' he asks.

'Oh, she had it done,' I say. 'Why?'

'There's something scribbled on the back.'

'Let me see,' I say.

'Probably nothing important.' He makes a point of not trying to read what it says.

I take the picture over to the bright light by the bed. It's her writing. Angular and decisive. I'm shaking.

I'll never be far away. Think of that, always.

'Haven't you seen that before?' he asks.

'No.' I sit down on the bed.

'What's it mean?' He sits down next to me.

'She probably just felt like writing something on the back of it when she had it framed. Just to set herself a mark in time.'

'You don't think...'

'No, I don't,' I say. 'It means nothing now. It's just another part of our history, just another bloody memory.'

'How can you say that?'

'As easily as you threw it across the room.'

'Won't it ever stop hurting?' he asks. 'It has to, surely.'

'Not as long as we can't forget.'

*

Now that's one of the things I do remember. The first time I kissed his mother, the first time we met. Eighteen years ago, eighteen long years ago. Children we were, really; naļve children in a heartless and devious world. On Newbury railway station, ten minutes walk from here. Catching the slow train into London, because we were both equally impatient with standing on the draughty platform waiting for the next fast train to come. They still had carriages you could have a smoke in, then. Not any more, though, not in this sterile, emotionless world. God, she was beautiful.

We'd both rushed onto the platform just as the fast train was pulling out. Cursed aloud. She was tall and thin, a black coat billowing out behind her, a shroud of black hair whirling around her pale face, big blue eyes staring angrily down the track. She stamped her foot and cursed a second time before she noticed me.

'What're you staring at?' she hissed. 'I hate missing trains. I hate it. I hate it.' She didn't give me time to answer. 'Don't you hate missing trains?'

'Yeah, I guess,' I said. ''Specially as I always do. Without fail. It's probably my fault you missed yours. What with me staring and all that. And being jinxed.'

It was her turn to stare. 'What are you going on about? Stop babbling. D'you smoke? Have you got a spare cigarette?'

I pulled the crumpled packet out of my pocket and held it out to her. 'Here you go.'

'Got a light as well? I'm desperate. I tried giving up, but I don't think it's working.'

I lit her cigarette, sheltering the flame from the wind with my empty hand. Accidentally – honestly accidentally – brushed against her naked fingers in the process. Started. Apologised. Almost ran. I'm afraid of women. Of women and love. Always have been. Always will be.

'Thanks,' she said, breathing out her first lungful of smoke. 'I needed that.'

'No worries.'

I wondered what to do next. Turned to face the track, holding my cigarette tightly against the wind. I'd always laughed at people who claimed touching someone you were attracted to was like getting an electric shock. But I was still tingling, and I didn't want it to stop. And I didn't want her to see the surprise and fear in my eyes. I'd never believed in love at first sight. Just imagining things, I said to myself; just being a stupid lonely old man.

'D'you always do that?' She'd followed me to the edge of the platform.

'Do what?'

'Ignore people you've just given a cigarette and a light to. It seems kind of weird to me.'

She was hugging her unbuttoned coat closed, breathing smoke across to me, but the wind stopped it from reaching.

'Sorry,' I mumbled. 'I'm not really very good at small talk, so it's less embarrassing for me and others if I just keep my mouth shut. Much less stress. And I wouldn't want you to think I was bothering you.'

'No bother,' she said. 'That was quite an effort then, for you, all that blabbering on about being jinxed and stuff. Quite the orator.' She wasn't smiling.

I shrugged. 'I get carried away with myself sometimes.' Nearly tried to flirt. Managed to stop myself.

She threw her half-finished cigarette out onto the track. Her coat blew open. She was dressed entirely in black. Black coat, black boots, black trousers, black top. 'You shouldn't be so hard on yourself', she said. 'Meeting strangers is never easy. Specially not when you're jinxed.' This time, she did smile. 'How is it you're jinxed, anyway? You look quite normal to me. Like someone's who's just missed a train should look.'

I stared at her in that way Tillmann says can be frightening and endearing at once. Shrugged again. 'Not much luck with women and things.' The words just sort of came out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying, before I could stop myself. Should've been strangled at birth, I thought, blushing. Should've stayed in bed this morning. Should've been anywhere but here. 'Keep it to myself,' I added, sort of in self-defence. 'Like it best that way.' Shut the hell up, I was saying to myself. She doesn't want to listen to you banging on about all sorts of rubbish; making a fool of yourself.

'Been there,' she said. 'Don't worry about it. There'll be someone somewhere. There's bound to be.'

But already it was only her I wanted. But I was afraid, so afraid. And now she's dead.

*

'So what're you going to do about it?' Tillmann asks.

'Eh?'

'The photo,' he says. 'Didn't you hear what I said?'

'Sorry. I was somewhere else then, in my head.'

He gets up. Walks round the room. Restless again. 'Are you going to do anything?'

'There's nothing to do,' I say.

'You should burn all her stuff if you don't think she's coming back. You've got a wardrobe full of her clothes, as well.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Then at least try to find her in yourself. Track down where she's been. Reconstruct her life. Maybe you'll find it easier to let go.'

'No. I don't want to let go.'

'But you're telling me to. You've always told me to.'

'I don't want you to get as lost as I am,' I say. 'You've got your whole life in front of you.'

'And yours is over, is it?'

'It feels like it.'

'Oh, great. Now I've got a suicidal father to look after, as well as wondering who my mother really was.'

'I'm not suicidal.' God, I wish I could stop giving him ammunition for his wrong conclusions.

'Then live a little.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'We never do anything. All we do is sit around here and get on each other's nerves.' He stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

'Do you really mean that?'

'Yes.'

'It's not easy, you know,' I say. 'Being self-employed. No holiday pay. No sick pay.'

'You could take time off if you really wanted to. You're just afraid of the real world.'

I didn't talk like that when I was fifteen, I'm sure I didn't. In fact, I probably didn't talk at all, because I thought my parents were tyrants. But then he's had to grow up faster than I ever did.

'Don't you care about how I feel?' he goes on. 'What've we done since Mum died? Nothing. Vegetate. I hate it.' He takes a step back. 'And laugh? Never.'

I shrug. It's a habit we both have. I can't defend myself, because he's right. All I've done is work, from out of this house, never anywhere else. All I've done is send him to school, with his messed-up hair, to spend time with his messed-up mates. And in the holidays, all we do is watch the telly or read, or go for short walks round town. But never away from here. Because, even though I hate this place, she's still here, and I don't want to leave her. And I don't have the strength to change.

'I'm sorry,' I say.

'You think I've forgotten her, don't you? That she's passed me by now, after all this time. That I can't really remember her, because I was so young when she died. But I can. She's in my head. She's in my being. I remember what she smelled like. And now this dream; it's upset me and excited me. I need to know more about her. More than you've told me. Because I'm sure there's lots you haven't told me.'

'What d'you want me to tell you?'

'I don't know,' he says. 'Everything.'

'What's everything?' I say. 'I can't remember every second I spent with her. I wish I could.'

'Can't we just pretend she's run away and go look for her?' he says, almost pleading. 'You could take me places you've been, and maybe you'll remember things you've not told me, maybe you'll remember things you've forgotten.'

'But it hurts to remember,' I say. 'It hurts so much. Sometimes, most of the time, I'd rather just forget. If I could get someone to brainwash me into never having known her, I'd do it.'

'Then why this time capsule, Dad? It doesn't make sense.'

'I've never been strong enough to let go.'

'Would you do it for me? So I can live my life without having to worry about you?'

'You worry about me?'

'Every day I come home from school asking myself what I'm gonna do if you've done yourself in, or drunk yourself stupid. Because every day, when I've got time to think about it, I reckon the day's come when it's all just got too much for you.'

'How...?'

'You tell me to show my feelings,' he says, putting his hands on my shoulders, 'but you're crap at talking about them. And even worse at hiding them. See, you do think of me as a kid, a stupid kid. Not a grown-up.'

'Because you're not grown-up yet.'

'You expect me to act grown-up in everything else I do. Why not now? Why not listen to me?'

'Because you're still my responsibility, and I don't want you hurt.'

'Won't it hurt me even more to suffocate here?'

'You've got your mates.'

'They're all away this half-term. You know they are. And I want to spend time with you, proper time, like before Mum died.'

'It'll never be like that again.'

'You're so negative.'

'I'm being honest.'

'You're being obstinate and self-indulgent.' He's almost shouting now. And it was him who came to me crying. And now the tables are turned. Maybe he is the stronger one.

'Is there any point arguing over this?' I say.

'If it helps both of us, yes.'

'Why can't we just move on?'

'Because you won't let us,' he says. 'Because you're stuck here, in the past. You say her memory hurts you, but you live in it. Break free, Dad. Let's go and look for what's left of her away from here.'

'We can't.'

'You can't, you mean.'

I turn away from him. Bury my face in the pillow that covers her nightshirt. We can't leave this ivory tower of memories.

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