SUNK (3 page)

At school, Miss Mawes the art teacher has developed this notion that I'm good at art. I've been avoiding her since term began but just before registration this morning she caught me.

‘Tom, at last I've found you. Now, I've got the Sculpture on the Beach details here. You really should enter – you've got a talent.'

This is based on a drawing of a badger that I traced last term for a project. Somehow she thought I'd drawn it from scratch and somehow
I didn't tell her the truth. I shouldn't have done it. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I was desperate and now she thinks I'm Leonardo.

I'd copied it from Eric's
Wildlife Fun for Lively Children
book, which is now hidden under my bed.

‘Well, at the very least, come to Art Club. After school, Tuesday. Shall I put you down?'

She took my silence as a yes.

About a foot down the corridor I met Dad, his arms full of cooking ingredients. ‘Give me a hand, Tom, just as far as Rainbow Class.'

I debated running away, but left it slightly too long and took the butter and flour from Dad's tottering pile. He pushed the door open with his bum and swung inside. I followed him into the classroom at which point the bag of flour slipped from my hand and exploded on the floor.

There was an awful silence. Someone at the back giggled. Mrs Hawk glared at me. Every single child in the classroom gaped, and some clapped their hands to their mouths dramatically.

‘Oh dear,' said Dad.

I turned scarlet and fled.

I'm wondering what I might have done wrong in a former life to deserve Dad, when Eric arrives carrying a copy of the
Bywater Times.
He points at the headline: F
IREMEN ACT IN
B
UCKET MYSTERY.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘Worrying, isn't it?'

‘We need to get this –' Eric uncurls his hand to reveal the tiny deckchair – ‘under there.' He points to Mr Bell's pride and joy. The brand-new XX900 Macrocaster, purchased by the PTA with money raised by a sponsored
midnight cliff walk. Since the school bought it we've been allowed to look at a fragment of onion skin and the scrapings from under Jacob's nails, which were more lively than expected.

The problem is that the XX900 Macrocaster is behind Mr Bell's desk and takes five minutes to warm up.

‘Sooner rather than later,' I say. ‘Before it starts to grow big again.'

‘So,' says Jacob, appearing behind me. ‘What's the plan, team?'

‘The plan is –' I say, but I'm interrupted by Mr Bell clapping his hands. I notice he's wearing what can only be described as a cardigan. Which is odd because he normally wears a tracksuit. He's been behaving strangely ever since his wife had a baby.

‘Good morning, class,' he shouts, before modulating his voice to something
uncharacteristically soft. ‘How are we this morning? Are we ready to try a little role play?'

There's a mumble.

‘Because – today – we are going to get in touch with our sensitive side. In fact, the whole school is getting in touch with its sensitive side.'

‘What?' says Jacob.

Mr Bell sits on the front of his desk and tilts his head towards Jacob in a sympathetic manner. I can't help feeling that he's been practising this in front of the mirror. ‘Yes, Jacob. I know that under all that … bravado is a sensitive, feeling, human being.'

Mr Bell may be sure, but I'm not.

‘Why, Mr Bell?' asks Jacob, scratching his bottom.

‘Why what?' asks Mr Bell.

‘Why are we getting in touch with our sensitive sides?'

‘Very good question,' says Mr Bell, reverting to his normal megaphone volume. ‘Does anyone know the answer?'

There's a pencil-rolling silence in which lots of people roll pencils.

‘Empathy,' he says in the end. ‘We're going to study empathy. So, for starters, I'd like you to look it up, find out what it is and we'll meet again in five minutes with some definitions.'

‘“Empathy” and “Mr Bell” are three words that I'd never put in the same sentence,' mutters Eric, reaching for the huge dictionary that he keeps in his bag.

‘What's empathy?' says Jacob, taking Eric's sharpener and sharpening his pencil. ‘Is it good on toast? Is it necessary? Do I have it?'

‘No, yes, no,' says Eric.

I reach for the dictionary. I'm a bit hazy about empathy. It's something Mum says as if
it's really important, and which she says Tilly has but keeps hidden.

She never says if I have it.

‘It says here,' I say, ‘it's the power of entering into another's personality.' I drop my voice to super-quiet. ‘How are we going to get to use that microscope?'

‘Shape-shifting?' says Jacob.

‘No – more like climbing into another person's skin and feeling what they feel from the inside,' says Eric. ‘We need a diversion.'

‘That's disgusting,' says Jacob, screwing his nose down towards his mouth.

Eric shakes his head and I say, ‘Yes, a really good diversion. That keeps Mr B out for at least ten minutes.'

Which is when Jacob's eyes light up as if some kind of electrical impulse has passed through his brain. ‘Leave it to me,' he says.

‘Sir, Mr Bell, sir – can I go to the toilet?' Jacob stands with his legs crossed, looking desperate.

‘Yes, of course,' says Mr Bell.

Jacob trips out of the classroom.

‘So, role play. Now I'd like you to imagine you are someone else in this room. Don't tell us who, we can guess …'

Jacob soon trips back into the room, grinning and winking and generally looking as subtle as a thunderstorm.

People are shuffling uncomfortably. ‘Sir, can I be you? Is that allowed?'

‘I don't want to be anyone else.'

‘I don't get this – what does he want?'

‘Can
I
go to the toilet, sir?'

‘Sir, what's the point of empathy?'

It feels like it could all go horribly wrong. The chatter gets louder and Mr Bell's voice
rises to foghorn level just as someone lets out a really long, really high-pitched scream.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrghghghghghghghghgh!'

We all go completely silent and look around.

‘There!' shouts the screamer, pointing at Mr Bell's cardigan.

‘What?' says Mr Bell.

‘Spider,' whispers the screamer.

There's a second's massive silence.

Mr Bell leaps to his feet and jumps and twitches and yells. He rushes out of the classroom still screaming, to yell and jump and run about in the playground, followed by the entire class, laughing and screaming.

‘Very effective,' says Eric.

‘Quick,' I say. ‘The microscope.'

‘Good, eh?' Jacob says.

‘Yes,' says Eric, pressing a big red button that says ‘ON'.

‘Can I just ask,' I say, checking from the window that Mr Bell is still writhing in the playground surrounded by our giggling classmates, ‘what happened?'

‘Well,' says Jacob, reaching into his pocket and finding something covered in fluff, which he then thrusts into his mouth. ‘It was that word, “empathy”. I thought what it would be like to be Mr B. What it would be like to stand in his shoes. And then I thought: what does Mr B really not like? And then I thought about spiders and then I remembered that there was a particularly large spider in the locker in the PE store. So I went to get it. Empathy, see?'

‘It's not really what empathy means,' says Eric, peering through the lens on the now humming XX900 Macrocaster.

‘But you said you had to imagine being someone else.' Jacob sounds puzzled.

‘You do – but not usually like that,' I say.

‘Oh,' says Jacob. ‘So scaring Mr B wasn't empathy?'

By the microscope Eric lets out a long loud sigh.

‘It'll help us find out what's wrong with the deckchair,' I say.

‘So on balance, it's probably OK?'

I nod. Eric shakes his head.

‘Good,' says Jacob. ‘Good.'

‘So what did you find?’ I ask Eric on the bus home.

Eric puts his copy of
Maths Daily
back into his satchel. ‘Well – I had such a short time to look, but there was definitely something wrong with it. The cell structure had changed.’

‘Not just because I shrank it?’ I ask.

Eric shakes his head. ‘No, the cells were smaller – but they were also … alive?’

‘How do you mean “alive”?’

Eric shrugs and stares out of the window until I wonder if he’s forgotten that we’re actually having a conversation. ‘It seems fanciful, but alive, like animal cells. Not like plant cells,’ he says eventually.

‘What?’

‘I know.’

‘But that’s terrifying.’

‘Yes,’ says Eric. ‘It is. Oh look, here comes your dad.’

Dad climbs onto the bus and immediately starts singing ‘Ten Green Bottles’. I shrink into my seat and watch the steam rise from the top of Tilly’s head.

‘
And if ten green
– join in, everyone –
bottles should
…’

Jacob bellows the words along with Dad and most people join in, in a humming embarrassedly sort of a way.

‘C’mon, Tom, you can sing too –
should accidently fall
… Oh and I’ve booked us in for parents’ night.’

I acknowledge him with a panicky squeak.

‘So both of us can come. I said I’d do the refreshments –
nine green bottles
…’

Tilly turns to glare at Dad. Her face is mostly white with two angry pink circles under her eyes.

I reposition myself so that I can’t actually see any members of my family. ‘So, Eric, are you saying that the deckchair is a living being?’

Eric, who has completed all twenty-seven of the sudokus in
Maths Daily
in the time it’s taken Dad to reach two green bottles, closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t like to say “living”. I’m not sure it’s really sentient.’

‘Are you saying the deckchair is like a zombie?’

Eric nods. ‘Yes, very like a zombie. And like a zombie that is activated by the sand or seawater or something frequently occurring on the Bywater beach.’

‘Good,’ I say, horrified by the words I’m saying. ‘So, to sum up, we have a case of a zombie deckchair and possibly a zombie bucket, zombified by something plentiful and naturally occurring.’

‘Yes,’ says Eric cheerfully. ‘That about states the case.’

‘What did you do with the deckchair?’

‘It’s here. Do you want it?’ says Eric, digging it out of his satchel and handing it to me.

It’s already larger than it was when I gave it to Eric. And it seems to be moving slowly, lugging itself around my palm. Like a zombie.

I listen to Dad chanting ‘
One green bottle
…’ and stare at the rain beating down
on the pavement outside and the steam filling up the windows of the bus. I turn the deckchair over and over in my hand and wonder just how to deal with a collection of zombified seaside equipment.

At the model village bus stop I jump from the bus to a dry paving slab, which tips and shoots water up the back of my trouser leg.

‘Bye, all,' shouts Dad, skipping down the step and tripping along the pavement.

Tilly gets off too and, head bent against the rain, walks dismally behind him. She looks completely furious.

I wait a decent time and follow. I'm not sure what to do with the deckchair that Eric gave me, so I'm thinking of leaving it in the model
village. If it's really a zombie then presumably at some point it will take off and march back to the beach. If it isn't, it will grow back to normal size and look like someone left it there for a prank. Either way, I don't want it in my bedroom.

I place it by the tiny cricket match. It looks utterly harmless. Perhaps Eric's completely wrong about this. Perhaps it was some kind of freak wind and he's been looking through the wrong end of the microscope.

I head back up towards home, pulling my hood close around my head, but I'm brought up short by the village noticeboard.

On one side, a handmade rain-smudged politely placed poster, barely covering anyone else's adverts: I
F YOU LIKE DECENCY AND WHOLEFOODS – VOTE FOR
C
OLIN
T
HREEPWOOD.
On the other, a dayglo-orange big-print banner: S
ARAH
P
ERKS FOR
M
AYOR.

Sarah Perks? That's Mum's name.

A horrible sense of misgiving slides over me. My percentage of happiness sinks from 61 to 0.

‘She wouldn't,' I say to one of the Dingly Dell elves on the wall of the crazy golf course.

The elf drips back at me, a horrible fibreglass grin stretched across its face.

‘But, Mum, you CAN'T.' Tilly's voice greets me before I even reach the front door. ‘I'll never live it down.'

‘It's not a question of you, Tilly. Or even me. It's a question of what's good for the community.'

Mum's sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of dayglo posters and a huge pen, writing our telephone number on them all. ‘And I will be good for the community. I
intend to wipe out all corruption and run on a ticket of transparency.'

‘Community? Transparency? What about me?' Tilly grabs my arm. ‘Us?'

I pull back. I don't like being caught up in Tilly's arguments. They can be very unstraightforward.

‘Don't be silly, Tilly. You'll survive.' A slight look of panic comes into Mum's eyes and she speaks a little too loudly. I can see that Tilly's got her worried so she does what I do with Tilly – avoid making eye contact. ‘And actually I can't just be a stay-at-home mum to please you. I've a life to live too you know. I'd like a little excitement before it's too late.' She finishes the telephone numbers and reaches for a stack of envelopes and a pile of stickered addresses. ‘Quite frankly, I'd like to see the bright lights once in a while. So put up with it.'

Grandma crangs down the lid of the Aga and crashes about with saucepans. It kind of fills the gap but there's still a huge silence in the room.

‘Do you fancy a rice pudding this evening, Sarah?' says Grandma.

‘Good idea,' says Mum, building up a rhythm with the stickers and envelopes. Mum's new career in politics doesn't look very exciting to me.

I glance over at Tilly. It's as if someone has sucked all the air out of her. Her shoulders are bent and her whole body droops. She scratches her head and pulls her hair down so that it hangs over her face. She draws in a long breath, but instead of speaking she lets it out in tiny bursts of almost sobbing, finished with a loud rattling sniff.

I wait.

She breathes in and out again, and the almost sobbing becomes louder and more definite, followed by another sniff. ‘But, Mum,' she says in a near whisper, ‘it's child cruelty.' I risk eye contact and notice that her eyes have changed from narrowed and angry to big and pathetic. She stops, waiting for the effect her words will have.

Mum goes on sticking stickers on envelopes. Grandma thumps a bag of sugar on the table.

Tilly sighs, and with a beautifully stifled sob goes on: ‘You'll be ignoring us, following a career in politics while your children go unshod and unfed, languishing and forgotten.' She rubs her nose with the back of her hand before scratching her head violently.

‘Oh stuff,' says Grandma, pulling out a pudding basin. ‘I've never heard such nonsense.'

Tilly heaves a huge sigh, the biggest yet. I can actually see a tear dribbling down her cheek.

‘I'll go up to my cold room then, and read a book, and wait until supper time. Don't worry too much about a pudding – I don't think I'll be able to eat one – I'm so … unhappy.'

She's wasted as a child. She should be an actress.