I call him The Raven. The
other boys at school call him Weirdo. Don't think they know
what weird is. They haven't met my mum.
She cries. A lot. Most of the time in fact. Drives my dad
mad. Mum says she can't help it, says she'll get better when
they get her medication sorted out. Sometimes think she loves
those pills more than any of us. She says she just wants to
be happy. Don't we all? Me, I'd settle for OK.
So, I spend a lot of time on the beach. Don't do much. Looking
for fancy shells, stones with holes through them, money, things
like that. And I like seeing the things people do. I make
up stories, in my head like, about what's happened before
they came to the beach, who hates who, where they live, what
they do, stuff like that. I give them lives they can slip
on like a well-worn coat.
Yeah, I like sitting on the beach. It’s never quiet.
There’s the waves and the wind and the shifting sand.
You can sit there and talk to yourself, quietly, and no one
can hear you. No one hears me at home but that’s different.
So, The Raven. He sits on the rocks at the end of the bay.
He’s not like me, he doesn’t sit and watch the
tourists, no, he sits looking out to sea, like he’s
waiting for a ship to come and rescue him. Or he hunkers down
(I like that word, I'd like to be able to do it but I always
fall over. I like the word skitter too. I'd like to be a person
who hunkers and skitters.) Anyway, he hunkers down and looks
down at his hands, or the rocks. Sits there for ages. I want
to know what's going on in his head.
Or perhaps I don't. Some of the kids at school say he's a
paedophile. They say we should contact the News of the World
and then they'd run a campaign and women would come and scream
at him and make him go away. But I don't want that. I want
to talk to him. But I mustn't. Mum's always going on about
Stranger Danger, how the world is full of people just waiting
to harm you. She reads the paper for hours, all the murders,
and wars, and rapes.
September 11th she cried for days. It isn't like she knew
any of the people. She says: ‘See, Martin, I keep telling
you it's a wicked world. You're not safe anywhere. The evil
always target the good.’
I nod. I don't agree really but you don't argue with Mum.
She gets all upset, and cries, and rubs at her face. Sometimes
I think she's going to wake up one day and find her face has
gone, all rubbed away. She sighs a lot. I hate those sighs.
Kids at school say they hate maths homework but I rather have
masses of long division than Mum's sighs. It's like all the
bad things in the world are clogged in her chest.
She doesn't know about The Raven. I've never told her and
she doesn't go out much, just to the doctor's and the supermarket
if Dad's with her. But shopping's hard for her. There's the
environment to consider, and fair trade, and additives, and
calories, and cholesterol. Eating used to be fun but it isn't
now.
Sometimes I sit on the beach and just watch him, The Raven,
try to think myself inside his head. I think he's sad, but
not like my Mum. It's like she wants the whole world to know.
The Raven doesn't, it's like he doesn't realise anyone else
is there. Sometimes I think he's from another planet, stranded
here, waiting for a spaceship to come back and collect him.
I hope it comes for him when I'm there. I'd love to see it.
I'd try and hitch a ride.
Sometimes I think he's sad 'cos he's lost someone. He always
wears black, that's why I call him The Raven. He's got dark
hair too, and dark eyes. Kids at school say he belongs in
a horror movie, digging up freshly buried bodies, or drinking
virgin's blood, or torturing people with knives and bits of
broken glass but I don't see that. I think they've got it
wrong, but I don't tell them that.
I want to know more about him, but part of me doesn't. In
some ways I like him as he is, a mystery. I'd hate it if he
talked to me and he had a twangy Brummie accent like Miss
Butler at school, or started talking about something really
naff like gardening, like my grandad does, and wouldn't stop,
didn't realise he was boring you, or just didn't care. But
I don't think he would.
And I'd hate it if he smelled, armpits and that, but I think
he'd smell more of stone, or cold metal, or wet lead pipe.
I've made up my mind. I'll speak to him soon, honest.
He's there, on the rocks as usual, hunkered down, looking
out to sea. Every two or three minutes I edge a little closer.
Almost at the edge of the rocks now. Did think of pretending
to twist my ankle or something but I don't know what I'd do
if he ignored me.
‘Hi.’ I say it low and small. He doesn't hear
of course. No reaction. What if he's deaf?
I step on to the rocks. There's no going back now. ‘Hello,’
I say a little louder but not loud enough obviously.
Climbing up. He must hear me. ‘Please,’ I say
but I don't why.
Stand up to leap across to the next rock and my foot slips.
I fall and my whole body jolts. My teeth rattle. My foot's
stuck and twisted between two rocks. Hurts like hell.
Didn't know I'd shouted but I must have done because The Raven's
standing up, looking at me. ‘You want help?’ he
asks.
I nod. I can't say words because tears are first in line and
I don't want him to see me cry. That would hurt more than
the foot.
He clambers down, and looks at my foot, wedged between the
rocks. ‘I don't want to hurt you,’ he says. I
feel all funny inside. No one's ever said that to me. I'm
just Martin, it doesn't matter about me.
‘Can you lift it?’
I shake my head. I want to cry, really bad, but I won't. Want
to ask him to help me but I can't.
He's there, crouched below me. His hands move towards me but
he stops, a few millimetres away, like there's a forcefield
around me. ‘I'll have to...’ He looks up at me.
He looks afraid. I feel even worse. I mean, if he's worried...
I want to ask him to get the spacemen to help but somehow
he doesn't look like an alien. He doesn't even look weird,
just scared.
He takes a breath then puts his hands on my ankle. I cry out.
I didn't mean to, it just happened. And suddenly, he's there
beside me. He puts his arm around me and holds me to him.
I can hear his heart thumping away and feel his body, lean
and hard. I want to be like that when I grow up. His breath
is like a warm breeze.
A shout. ‘Oi! Leave that kid alone!’
His arms fall from me and he springs up, so quickly I didn't
see it happen, like a cartoon when they lose a few frames
of the action.
Mr Watson who rents out deckchairs on the beach, and self-appointed
beach warden prat, is running across the sand, waving his
hand, shouting, saying he's called the police.
The Raven is backing off. ‘Run!’ I say. ‘They'll
hurt you.’
‘But...’ he waves his hand at my foot.
‘It's OK. Save yourself. I'll be all right.’ I
say that a lot, to my mum, my dad, teachers at school. I say
it 'cos it's what they want to hear, not 'cos it's true. But
this time it is.
His eyes lock on to mine. I feel something, something strange
I've never felt before. I don't know what it is. I'll take
it home, shut myself in my bedroom with the curtains closed
and door locked and dissect it, like an exotic insect or a
flake of moon dust. ‘Run,’ I say, suddenly feeling
very powerful, the gift of his life in my hands.
He's torn. He looks across at Mr Watson who's stopped, red-faced
and gasping. He looks back down at me. There's just the hint
of smile on his face. Or at least I think there is.
‘Go,’ I urge him. I want to save him, and know
I can.
He turns and skitters over the rocks. I watch him go, knowing
he's taking something of me with him.
And I've taken something from him...
|
| Shortlisted
Entries shortlisted to final judging stage in the Loneliness
short story competition were from: Carolyn Belcher, Waddington,
Lincoln; Elizabeth Candlish, Crail, Fife; Julie Fitch, Wiesbaden,
Germany; Ann Gibson, Tadcaster, North Yorkshire; John Hughes,
Bishops Waltham, Hampshire; Margaret Kirby, Great Glen, Leicestershire;
Gillian Middleton, Bramber, West Sussex; Angela Pickering,
Hawkwell, Hockley, Essex; Sophia Riley, Campsall, Doncaster;
BA Roberts, Thurcaston, Leicestershire; Caroline Skelton,
Corstophine, Edinburgh; FT Walton, Hyde, Cheshire; RF Walton,
Bramley, Tadley, Hampshire.
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