The Sky Is Dead (11 page)

Suddenly overwhelmed again, I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “I understand. I’ve had some of those myself.” I have a matching set of scars—from the first bewildering months after Hopeless House—but I don’t bother showing them. She probably already knows.

Her eyes gleam suspiciously before she heads for the kitchen.

I go for a piss and clean my teeth. I’d like a shower but there isn’t time. I haven’t got any clean clothes, so it doesn’t take me long to finish up and join Mary in the kitchen.

Another full plate awaits me. Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, and hash browns. There are tinned tomatoes, as well, but I wouldn’t eat them in a million years. My granny ate those and they’re all slimy and disgusting. I eat around them and try to ignore where the juice has soaked into the hash browns.

Mary drinks her tea and watches me, not bothering to start a conversation until I’ve finished. I do better this time, almost emptying the plate except for one sausage and the tomatoes.

“Do you want to take the plate back?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. If you show me where the bin is, I’ll clear the plate.”

She points to a gray caddy on the windowsill. “Throw the food in that, rinse the plate, and put it in the dishwasher over there. There’s the same arrangement in the flat.”

“I have a dishwasher?” I hadn’t noticed.

“If you stay you do,” she says.

I sigh and look down at the table, noticing small holes in regular patterns. “I don’t know what to do.”

“No need to rush. Rest for a few days and then make a decision. Anyone can see you’re still getting over the pneumonia.”

“I’m fine,” I say defensively.

“And I’m the Queen,” Mary snaps back. “Look, we’re not expecting you to make an immediate decision, but for heaven’s sake, Danny, don’t turn away help because of your pride. Have you looked outside today?”

I hadn’t and only notice now it’s tipping it down. Fuck, going back to the park would be a nightmare, not to mention I’d have to find some cardboard and get it back without it getting soggy.

“Curl up in bed for the afternoon and watch TV. You can play
Crash Bandicoot
with me later.” Mary sees my face. “Sylvia’s been telling tales, hasn’t she?”

“She said you’re a shark,” I admit, getting up to clean my plate.

After that, I do as Mary suggests—curl up in bed and watch daytime TV. I can’t believe they’re still showing the same episodes of
Midsomer Murders.
I fall asleep just before the murderer is revealed, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve seen it before.

M
ARY
leaves me dinner again with a note that reads
Tomorrow you’re making lasagne
.

That fills me with apprehension. The last time I cooked anything was in Food Tech six years ago, and it did not go well.

This time she’s given me chicken and mashed potatoes. It’s not my favorite, but I’m not arguing. I eat it all up and then wash the plate. There’s no point running the dishwasher for one plate. As soon as I’ve done that I’m asleep again, and this time I don’t wake up until morning.

F
OR
a few days, the pattern of my day revolves around mealtimes and my cooking lessons. Mary seems determined to teach me to cook. The results have been… interesting. I’m so tired cooking is all I can manage, and Mary and Sylvia don’t seem to expect any more. Sylvia lets slip how pleased she is I am still here. I’m amazed myself, but fatigue has a lot to do with it.

Mary and Sylvia treat me well enough. I get told to eat, sleep, and shower. I point out to them I’m not three years old, but they just nod and wait until I’ve done whatever it is they want me to do. No amount of muttering or complaining changes their minds. I’m not strong enough to argue yet, but I will be. I’m frightened by how weak I’ve become. I’m nineteen years old and I have no strength at all. How close I’ve come to checking out is brought home when I catch another chest infection and have to see the doctor about more antibiotics. The doctor wants me to go back to hospital but Mary promises she will nurse me back to health. I sleep again, the cooking lessons suspended for now, and all thoughts of leaving are lost in feverish dreams. I’m not stupid enough to think I can survive this winter outside.

It’s nearly Christmas before I’m back on my feet again. One afternoon Mary knocks at the flat door, as she always does. I asked her once why she doesn’t just walk in. She gave me an odd look and said, “This is your home. You don’t enter people’s homes without knocking. It’s not right.” I don’t really care, but maybe I will when I feel better.

“Hello, Danny. I’m going up to the top shop. Is there anything you want?”

The top shop is the local store. It’s like the TARDIS from
Doctor Who
, apparently—small from the outside and a maze inside, full of everything you could ever need. I haven’t actually got out of the flat to see it. I’ve been here a couple of months and spent most of it in bed.

“No, thanks.” I am sacked out on the beanbag under a pink fleece blanket, watching
Dante’s Peak
, and I have no intention of moving.

Mary looks disapproving for a minute; she’s started to make noises about me helping her with the shopping and stuff. I play the tired card and sink further into the beanbag. Then she sighs and says, “Sylvia and I normally help at the local homeless shelter for Christmas Day. We don’t bother with a Christmas dinner. Will you come with us?”

I’m irrationally disappointed. I’ve been looking forward to a proper Christmas, my first in three years. I turn my attention back to the TV. “No, thanks. I’ve spent enough Christmases there.”

“All the more reason you should come and help. Give back what you got from them,” she says briskly.

I grit my teeth to keep the angry words from spilling out. “I don’t feel well enough. Another time.” I keep my attention focused on the TV rather than look at her.

“You need to get out, Danny. You’re not sick anymore, and being lazy won’t help you get your strength back.”

“I don’t want to go back to the shelter.”

Mary comes and sits on the sofa next to me. “Is that what’s bothering you? Having to go back there?”

I nod but still won’t look at her.

“Oh, Danny, you don’t have to worry. They’ll be thrilled to see you again. They know you’re with me.”

Startled, I look at her for the first time. In the background, the world is coming to an end, but I pay no attention. “You’ve talked about me?”

She nods. “Of course. I’ve worked with them for years. I probably met you before, although I don’t remember.” She looks vaguely embarrassed.

“I don’t remember you either,” I admit. “Maybe we missed each other. I wasn’t there all the time.”

“Well, they’re pleased you’re all right. They were worried when you stopped coming in for meals. I told them you were in hospital and now with me. Greg wants to know when you’ll be coming in to see him.”

“You think they would mind if I went back?”

She smiles at me. “I think they’d be delighted. Now, I’m going up to the shop. When I get back you can help me cook dinner.”

I groan loudly. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. Time you were back on your feet again instead of watching this trash.”

“It’s not trash.”

“I don’t care. I’ve let you get away with being lazy for far too long. Rules, remember?”

I’d hoped she’d forgotten the damn rules. Saying as much earns me a whup around the head.

“Hey!” I clutch at my head and stare indignantly at her. To my surprise, Mary isn’t smiling at me.

“Danny, you’ve been sick. Sicker than most of the kids we’ve had here, and I’ve let things slide. But this isn’t a holiday or a hotel. I told you that in the beginning. If you stay here, you have to help me and find work. You’ve been here for weeks, and it’s time you pulled your weight.”

Her face is so serious it makes me sit up. “Are you going to throw me out?”

“Not yet. As I said, you’ve been sick. But staying in here will just make you depressed, and that’s no good for you. Now get your shoes on and take a walk up to the top shop with me.”

“I don’t have a coat.” It’s fucking freezing out there. I know, because I saw the frost on the fence outside the window.

“Yes, you do.” Mary gets up and goes to the small cupboard by the front door. She produces a black coat and the trainers. The coat is puffy, the sort of thing I’d have worn to school, protesting all the time.

I’m not going to get away with that today, so I sigh pitifully and take the trainers. I’ve lost a lot of weight, and my feet slip and slide in the shoes. Mary notices. “We’ll get you another pair tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, embarrassed she saw, but she shakes her head.

“You can’t wear badly fitting shoes all the time. You’ll get blisters.”

The cold air is a shock after the heat of the flat. Mary and Sylvia keep the place almost too warm, and I guess I’ve got spoilt in the short time I’ve been there. I shuffle beside her up the road. I’m shocked to find the short walk up the hill is almost more than I can manage.

In the shop, which is dark and crowded, I lean against a wall to recover. Mary is chatting away to a middle-aged guy, Barry, who turns out to be the owner. He eyes me appraisingly.

“You’re the latest, are you?”

I nod. The latest in a long line of lame ducks.

“What’s your name?”

“Danny.” It sounds more defensive than I mean it to.

“Good to meet you, Danny. Glad to see you on your feet.”

I look over to Mary, who shrugs. “Barry’s met most of my guests. He was wondering why he hadn’t seen you.”

He gives me that long appraising look, and I have a fair idea what’s coming next.

“You look after Mary and Sylvia, and don’t give them any hassle, you hear me?”

And there it is… the “hurt my friend and I’ll hurt you” speech.

“I won’t. I promise.” I don’t want to hurt the only two people who’ve looked after me in a long time. I don’t think of Harry. I
never
think of Harry if I can help it.

Mary ignores Barry and points at the sweet counter. “Let’s treat ourselves. What do you want, Danny?”

I walk over to look. “Mars bar, please.”

She sees my glance at the fridge and rolls her eyes. “Go on, then. Just this once. You can pick whilst I get the beans.”

I add a can of Coke to the sweets and then wait for her to complete the rest of her shopping. As Barry doesn’t seem inclined to talk, I wander over to the magazine rack. I don’t recognize any of the faces on the covers, and I realize how out of touch I am for my age.

“Do you want one?” Mary calls, pointing at the magazines.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.” I see the look of approval on Barry’s face and I’m tempted to change my mind. Fuck him. I don’t need his approval.

But Mary’s already paying and I know it would look petty.

The walk back is easier, but by the time we get there I’m ready to sit down again. Mary has other ideas, though.

As we go in through her front door, she says, “Put your coat and shoes away, and then come in the kitchen. You can have a cuppa while you peel the spuds.” I huff, but she wags her finger. “You heard what I said earlier, young man. No lazing around now. You aren’t sick any longer.”

“I’m tired,” I protest.

“Tough.” She turns her back on me and heads for the kitchen.

I grumble under my breath.

“I heard that,” she yells.

Inside the flat, I slam the connecting door to make me feel better. I’m shattered. All I want to do is climb into bed and fall asleep, but I’ve got a feeling she’ll drag me out of bed if I do. Like an obedient little school boy, I put away my coat and trainers, and then go back to Mary before she comes looking for me.

Chapter Ten

A
FEW
days before Christmas, Sylvia and Mary discover it’s my birthday. December 21. Stupid time to have a birthday. Everyone is running around trying to get Christmas ready and no one wants to be bothered with holding a party or getting birthday presents. Mum used to try and make up for it by holding my parties at different times of the year. I used to come home from school and discover it was designated party day. It was a strange thing to do, but that was my mum.

I can see by the looks on their faces that Sylvia and Mary take birthdays seriously, and sure enough, I’m called into the kitchen to find a chocolate birthday cake and a wrapped present.

Sylvia hands over the present with an embarrassed look on her face. “Here. We didn’t know what to get you.”

I mumble a thank-you and stare at it for a moment.

“You can open it. It won’t bite,” she teases.

It’s a couple of DVDs. The shape had already given it away. It’s two films I haven’t seen. They’d come out after Dad kicked me out.

“Thank you.” I’m really touched they took the time to buy me something.

“We got you socks and pants, as well, but we didn’t wrap those up,” Mary says. She hands over a bag from Marks & Spencer.

I’m just as grateful for those, even if the thought of her buying me underwear is icky. I give them both a hug and then sit down to eat the cake. It is as rich and gooey as it looks, and I eat half of it without even thinking. I’m always hungry at the moment.

“Greg wishes you a happy birthday as well.” Sylvia hands over another small package.

I blink at her. “He knew it was my birthday?”

“He did once I told him.”

Unwrapping the package reveals a pack of razors, shaving cream, and a small bottle. I squint at it.

“It’s supposed to soothe your skin after shaving,” Sylvia supplies helpfully.

I run my hand over the scruff on my face. I’ve never grown a proper beard, but I haven’t even bothered to tidy it up in months. Once it got past the itching stage, I stopped caring.

“I suppose this is a hint,” I say drily.

Sylvia shakes her head. “Take it as an order.”

“This concept of being allowed to get on with my life… it’s not quite true, is it?”

“With help. You can get along with help.” Mary hands me another can of pop.