Rockoholic (13 page)

“Course he’s not dead. But he’s going to freeze to death in there. Well, go on.”

I force my legs into action and run past him down the bridge and down again, sliding along the frozen mud on the bank and through the long reeds until I feel the coldest sensation on my legs and I’m in the water.

“I’m drowning, I’m d-d-drowning!” Jackson screams. He’s in the middle, thrashing around, gasping and shouting and swearing and scared, though he must be able to feel the bottom with his feet. I wade out to him, not daring to slow down though every single nerve in my body is begging me to stop and get used to the icy water before I move forward. But I don’t. I wade on out and throw both arms around him, making him lose his footing so I can pull him, awkwardly, as he thrashes around in my arms, toward the bank.

We both slump down onto the mud. “Bloody hell,” I gasp as Jackson lies shivering and crying beside me. Within seconds I hear footsteps and Mac’s there, coat off, wrapping it around Jackson from the front.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” he says, “come on, we’ll get you inside and get you warm.” He lifts Jackson to his feet, bundles him tightly in the coat, and guides him up the bank, leaving me lying there, like a rat in the shallows. Breaths pump out of me, and every one hurts. This just isn’t Jackson. This just isn’t what he’s like. This isn’t the man I fell in love with. My kindred thingy. This isn’t the man who understands me. This is the celebrity my grandad was talking about. Driven up the wall by fame.

“No bloody wonder they want to kill themselves. Who’s looking after them?”

That’s why Jackson said all that horrible stuff about the fans. He’s sick of being famous. He’s sick of the celebrity. He’s sick. And then, more abruptly than my head knows how to handle, the facts wash up and begin piecing themselves together.

I have to help him. I have to look after him. That’s what Grandad meant.
That’s
what
“Don’t Dream It, Be It”
means. I couldn’t help Grandad stay alive, but I
can
help Jackson!

I lie there, having my eureka moment for a bit, then slowly get to my feet and trudge up the bank, soaking and weighed down by my cold, soggy clothes. But on the inside, I’m warm with thoughts of my new project: Project Jackson. Project Celebrity Cold Turkey. And I know what I have to do. I have to get him back to my house, that’s the first thing. Then I can look after him. I can bring him back to who he really is. But when I reach the top of the bank on the bridleway, Mac is alone. There’s no sign of Jackson. There’s a little movement in the hedge and Alfie returns from taking a wee.

“Where . . . is . . . he?” I pant. “Where’s Jackson?” Mac nods toward the back of the library. Nobody is there, just some recycling bins and a red dumpster stuffed full of cardboard and shredded paper.

“Where?” I shiver, my eyes darting around the place. “Oh God, we’ve lost him again, haven’t we? For God’s sake.”

Mac nods toward a recycling bin, a tall upright green one with a lid. He mouths, “In there.”

I look at the bin. I crouch down beside it. “Jackson?”
Knock-knock.

“Go away,” comes an echoey, juddering sob. I can hear a clacking, too — his teeth.

“What’s he doing?” I mouth to Mac. I’m juddering with cold, too.

“He saw Marge going into the back of the library. He thought she was the paparazzi.”

“T-t-t-the w-w-w-what?” I shiver. “Why would he think that?”

“Because he’s a paranoid wreck. He’s convinced he’s being watched.”

“Marge uses a walker, doesn’t she?” Mac just stands there, looking cold without his coat on. “Right,” I say, flicking the brake up on the bin and going behind it to tip it onto its wheel. There’s a heavy thud inside and I nearly tip the whole thing over but Mac joins me and takes some of the strain and we push it along together.

“The police station’ll be open by now. The town’s just coming to life,” heaves Mac. “We’ll drop him off on the doorstep and leg it.”

“I’m not dropping him anywhere. I’m taking him home.”

Mac stops. “No you’re not,” and pulls the bin away from me.

“I bloody am,” I say, pulling it back.

“No way,” he says, tugging it back again. “Alfie, come on, Alf . . .”

I tug again hard and this time I break away with the bin and Mac stands to the side, grabbing Alfie’s leash up off the ground. “I’m going home and I’m going to call the police. You don’t know what you’re doing, Jody. This has gone way far enough. I’m going to tell the police.”

I roll on with Jackson in the bin. “Do what you like.”

“You can’t keep him, Jody!” he shouts. A man walking a poodle stops along the bridleway on the other side of the bridge. Mac marches back up to me and whispers, “How are you going to get him past your mum and Halley? Dumbledore given you an invisibility cloak or something?”

An echoey sob comes from somewhere inside the bin. I keep rolling him on, taking the full strain of the sodden lump inside now. “I’ll come around and get my stuff later,” I call back.

“I don’t want anything more to do with this!” he calls out.

“Fine!” I call back.

“And I’m still calling the police!” he says louder. “You can’t look after yourself, Jody, let alone anyone else! Let alone someone like
him
!”

I don’t stop moving until I’ve reached the end of Chesil Lane and see the blue door of number 25 shining in the distance. I roll the bin along the rickety pavement, the wet hems of my cargoes slapping against the concrete, until we get to the alley at the side of the house. Oh stunning. Gravel. I roll along regardless, going as quickly as I can, even though the bin is making such a racket on the stones and Jackson is inside, juddering around like a sodden wet lump and sobbing like a toddler.

Our garage is at the back of the house, at the end of the garden. It’s the perfect place for Jackson. Grandad had a small lottery win a couple of years ago and had it converted into a drum room. He used to be a drummer in a band when he was younger, but had got out of the habit, so he said he was going to start drumming again. Then he got his diagnosis. Not only is it warm and secluded in the drum room, it’s also carpeted and soundproofed. It’s like my very own Room of Requirement for a rude, drugged-up rock star — carpeted, soundproofed, and a million miles away from his former habits — and momentarily I’m optimistic. It’s also cluttered with boxes of Grandad’s things that Mum put out for the Goodwill pickup the night before his funeral, things I rescued. I’d come down in the wee small hours to steal some of them back and hidden them in the drum room. I didn’t want charity having all his stuff.

The front of the drum room is bricked up and a normal door has been put into the side wall. There’s a cat flap at the bottom of it that Grandad had put in for Winston when he got the mange and couldn’t come in the house anymore, but Winston ran off a few months after we moved in, which was, like, two years ago, and the cat-flap door’s gone creaky and stiff.

“Phew, right. OK,” I puff as I pull down the handle and push open the door, propping it open using the bin, while checking all around me for unwelcome faces. No one about, no one lurking in their backyards, four of which back right on to the gravel pathway that runs along the back of the house. I look for curtains moving in upstairs windows, body shapes behind glass, doors ajar, children playing, even cats roaming the wall tops. But no one and nothing is about. It’s still too early for most people to have surfaced. I keep watching, lining up the bin with the opening of the door and lifting the lid for Jackson to get out. I expect a flurry of violence as the lid opens. But there is nothing. I peer slowly inside the bin and Jackson is cowering.

“It’s all right,” I whisper. “No one’s around.”

“I can’t g-g-get out,” he says, a meek look on his face as it tilts up toward me.

“You have to. I can’t pull you out,” I bark. “Come on, quick, before someone comes.”

“I can’t. I d-d-don’t have . . . up-p-p-p-p-per body st-strength.”

Without another word I snap the lid of the bin shut, wheel it around so it faces the other way, kick the brake down, and push it over so Jackson comes tumbling out of it and rolls straight into the drum room like a moldy potato rolling down a chute. I pull the bin away and step inside the room, clicking the door shut quietly and hunkering down beneath the two small double-glazed windows at the top in case someone appears to see what the rumpus is. Jackson lies shivering in a ball, plastered with sodden strands of shredded paper from the bin.

When I am sure the coast, or at least the garage, is clear, I straighten up and walk over to him. “It’s all right,” I say, without too much compassion. “You’ll be safe in here. I need to take your clothes off,” I say, starting to wrestle him out of Mac’s T-shirt, but he’s gripping on to it like his hands are claws, shivering and juddering.

“Need . . . m-m-m-my black-b-b-b-berriesssss.” I can hear his teeth clattering again. He’s gripping on tighter to himself so I can’t get him out of the rest of the clothes.

“Jackson!” I shout and his shivering lessens and his grip releases a bit so I can start peeling the T-shirt off him, and then the freezing, soaking cold pajama pants, and, yet again, his soaking wet underpants. He grips on to me as I change him. I root around in a box labeled “Clothes” and find an old checkered shirt that I put straight on him. A spider crawls out of his sleeve and it isn’t until I see it on his wrist that I realize Jackson’s hands are clinging on to me.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, and he’s really sobbing.

“It’s OK,” I say, choking down tears myself. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry. Don’t worry about that now. Let’s get you better, OK?”

I can’t find any pants but I remember seeing an old blue picnic blanket in one of the boxes so I start rooting through the one labeled “Holiday Gear.” I find it, shake out the dust, and wrap it around his lower half. He looks so fragile with the blanket wrapped around him. I rub my hands up and down his arms to generate some warmth. He keeps shrinking away from me, probably imagining I’m going to hug him or something. He keeps apologizing for the names he called me on the bridge.

“It’s OK, that wasn’t you. That wasn’t you. You’re not feeling yourself.”

“It wasn’t me, it’s not me. I don’t know w-what I’m . . .”

“It’s OK,” I say, rubbing his arms on both sides. “I’m going to look after you, OK? I’ll get you some dry pants from Grandad’s room. He’s got some he never wore, a couple of pairs that Mum got cheap — they’ve still got the tags on. And I’ll get you something to eat, all right? Are you hungry?”

He nods, his teeth still chattering violently. Mine are chattering, too.

“OK. I’ll get you something. It’s nice and warm in here. I’ll put the electric heater on as well,” I say as I see it in the corner of the room beside the drum kit. I unravel the cord and plug it into the wall socket and within seconds a little whir starts up and waves of warm air ripple out. I sit the heater directly in front of Jackson on the carpet.

“OK?” I say to him. He’s in a ball, shuddering under the shirt and blanket. He clutches the string around his neck and holds the key to his mouth. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I creep through the door and lock it again behind me, turning the corner into the back garden. I part the leaves of the willow tree and see Mum in the kitchen window, washing dishes at the sink. She looks up and sees me and hurries to the back door. She comes out onto the patio and stops, drying her hands on a tea towel. She looks at my soaked and filthy clothes.

“Don’t ask me any questions, Mum, OK?” I tell her, my jaw juddering with the cold. “I had an argument with Mac and I fell in the river. I’m OK, but please d-d-don’t ask me anything else.”

I know there’s a million things she wants to ask, seeing as the last contact I had with her was a note saying I’d gone to Mac’s. But she just nods. “OK. As long as you’re all right,” she says, letting it hang in the air like a question, but not a question.

“I’m fine. Hungry, but fine.”

“I’ll make you some breakfast,” she says. “How was the . . . you’re soaked . . . where’s . . .” She stops herself.

“My stuff’s at the pub. I’ll get it later.”

In the kitchen, my sister, Halley, is at the breakfast bar and looks up from her bowl of cereal. She takes one glance at my wet, muddy clothes and returns to her cereal without saying one word.

Mum comes back in and places a sheet of foil over a raw chicken sitting in a tray on the stovetop. She takes it to the fridge. “You OK with a veggie burger for dinner if we’re having chicken?” she asks.

I nod slowly. Now that I know Jackson’s not
actually
a vegetarian, I’m wavering. “Unless you want a bit of chicken with us?” I nod more certainly. Mum smiles. “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll make you some bacon sandwiches. How many rounds?”

“Five,” I say, knowing I couldn’t eat more than two, but thinking Jackson will probably want more. “I mean six,” I say and disappear through the door on the image of Mum’s face looking at me like she’s just been smacked in the mouth.

When Mum’s gone to work and Halley to school, I make up a bed for Jackson behind the stack of boxes in the garage using the three huge duck-feather cushions off my bed and our picnic blanket. I’m so tired I could flop down myself and go to sleep right then and there, but instead I set about changing him into some of my grandad’s unworn clothes — sweatpants, a long-sleeved black shirt, and a thick gray hoodie. I can’t believe that the only things of Grandad’s Mum didn’t throw out were the things he never used.