The Camel Trail Page 2

  In the bathroom, somewhere between an ear-popping yawn and the rumble of his empty stomach, he thought he heard voices coming from outside. He listened intently.

  He put the toilet seat down, stood up on it, leaning against the porcelain cistern for balance, and cracked open the small frosted window high up above the sink, dust pluming in his face. He couldn’t see anyone at first.

  ‘Come on, just a couple more.’

  Kevin leaned further out and saw Tessa and her son on the grass, Martin stretched out on a blanket, his mother kneeling in front of him, pushing and pulling at one of his legs, bending and twisting a foot.

  ‘That’s good. Keep pushing.’

  Martin screwed his face up, not so much in pain, but as though it was an age-old ritual he hated performing but couldn’t avoid.

  ‘And then he said—’ Martin paused as his mother picked up his other leg and began the ritual all over again. ‘And then he said they won’t be ready for another few weeks. At least.’

  ‘I know,’ Tessa said. ‘I was there, remember?’

  Kevin felt oddly guilty for eavesdropping, but it wasn’t as though they were talking secrets. They were out in the open for anyone to hear.

  ‘Okay,’ Tessa said. ‘That’s enough for now. Cocktail time. Let’s go.’

  From the window, Kevin watched as Martin’s mother helped him up and into his wheelchair. Martin looked up, caught Kevin’s eye and waved. Kevin smiled, but his mouth was below the line of the open window and invisible to everyone below. And then they were gone.

  He lingered there for a moment longer, staring down at the flattened grass where the blanket had been. Then, blinking, he closed the window and hopped down from his perch.

  ‘School,’ she said. Kevin groaned.

  Sarah had managed to book an appointment for registration at the local school, hoping the two and a half months Kevin had missed this term wouldn’t hinder him. Or the school.

  ‘School’s boring.’

  ‘Sitting around the house all day is boring.’

  ‘Not as boring as school. You could teach me here. You’re brilliant at maths.’ He blinked, tilted his head, gave those eyes. The Look.

  ‘That look might get you out of PE once in a while, but it’s not enough to get you out of school.’ She pushed his shoulder. ‘Come on, get up. We can’t be late.’

  ‘If we’re late, will they not let me go?’

  ‘Nice try.’

  She got him up, told him to put his jacket on, helped him out the front door with a gentle push between the shoulder blades.

  When they got to the school gates, Kevin glanced up at the whitewashed building. They could see drawings and paintings facing out from some of the windows, a large clock above the front entrance, faded chalk lines marking games on the playground.

  ‘It’s tiny.’

  ‘You’ll fit,’ Sarah said.

  Inside, they found their way to the headmistress’ office, an elderly lady in a pencil skirt. After introductions, Kevin was asked to wait outside, and he could just about hear what was being said inside.

  ‘His file arrived just yesterday. I’ve had a quick read. He hasn’t been to school this term?’

  ‘Family trouble.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause. Kevin could imagine Mrs McDaid scanning over his file—Needs to work harder. Could do better. Appears to lack concentration until he’s brought into conversation. Came to school with a black eye; third time this term.

  ‘And you say you’ve moved how many times this year?’

  ‘A few. But we’re settling here. You don’t need to worry, Mrs McDaid. I won’t be pulling him out of school in a hurry.’

  ‘Of course. Education is important.’

  Someone cleared their throat. Kevin sat upright in his chair, his neck straining as he tried to listen.

  ‘Forgive me, you haven’t mentioned your husband on this form.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  A minute later, Kevin’s mum opened the door, rolling her eyes and grimacing at him as she ushered him inside. They settled in chairs and Mrs McDaid smiled at him.

  ‘Monday morning,’ she said. ‘We start at eight forty-five and we don’t appreciate tardiness.’

  Sarah pushed the back door closed as quietly as possible, dropped the large black refuge sack into the bin, and reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. The tobacco crackled as she flicked the lighter on and inhaled. Her head was already swimming from the bottle of cheap red wine but she wished she had some left. Sleep wasn’t coming easy.

  She exhaled, emptying her lungs of breath and smoke, her fingers shaking in the cold night air, and she sat on the damp bench.

  ‘Is that you, Sarah?’

  She almost choked, her hand flapping thick smoke away from in front of her face. ‘Yes,’ she croaked.

  Gentle laughter. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  Sarah stood and moved closer to the fence that separated her from Tessa. ‘I was just having a cheeky smoke,’ she explained. ‘I’ve given up. Kind of.’

  ‘I gave up ten years ago,’ Tessa said. ‘Hardest thing I ever did. Well, one of the hardest. How’re you settling in?’

  Sarah shrugged for no reason; the fence was too high for Tessa to see her. ‘Not too bad,’ she said.

  ‘Last time we moved,’ Tessa said, ‘it took me months to settle in. How’s your son finding it? I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught his name.’

  ‘Kevin. He’s okay, I guess. And your son—Martin, was it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Sarah wanted to know, but dared not ask. Human frailty is the desperate need to know about things we don’t normally see. Her only memory of contact with a disabled person was when she was waiting in line for a job interview in London. The girl—she couldn’t have been more than twenty—hovered by the entrance in her wheelchair, finding it difficult to manoeuvre around the poorly positioned coffee table in the centre of the room. The guy who was sitting next to Sarah, a thirty-something in pristine shirt and garish silk tie, leaned in to Sarah and whispered, ‘Spastic.’ Sarah had glanced at the girl, then at the man. But she said nothing.

  She was weak like that.

  ‘You want to know what’s wrong with him,’ Tessa said, a statement not a question. Like she was used to it.

  Sarah took another drag of the cigarette, leaned against the fence, and said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Muscular dystrophy,’ Tessa said. ‘Duchenne, it’s called.’

  ‘Is it…?’ Sarah began, but she stopped. She didn’t know what word would finish the sentence.

  ‘Is it what? Debilitating? Fatal?’ There wasn’t any real venom in Tessa’s words, just annoyance. ‘Yes,’ she said, answering her own question. After a moment of silence, her hand appeared above the fence. ‘Give us a drag of that, will you?’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only if you want it.’

  ‘Please.’

  Sarah passed the cigarette over, heard Tessa take a long pull from it, took it back when she passed it over again.

  With a tight throat, as though she need to cough but couldn’t, Tessa said, ‘Disgusting.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘I know. But you get hooked, don’t you? I seem to get hooked on everything. Think it’s a curse. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  She laughed again. ‘Nothing. Finished the wine. I shouldn’t have, but…these things happen.’

  And Tessa laughed with her. It was true. These things happen.

  She stood in Kevin’s doorway, her eyes half closed, her face slipping from the alcohol. She always had a lopsided eye when she had been drinking. That’s how Kevin could tell.

  ‘Kevin?’

  He was asleep.

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  His breathing was slow and regular, deep and calm. He had one arm tucked up over his head, the other lolling out the side of the bed, one small foot
poking out from the bottom of the duvet.

  She closed his door and went to the bathroom, looking in the cabinet for the painkillers. After taking them, she put the toilet seat down, sat, and cried into her hands. She sat that way for a while, even after the tears had run out, hugging herself and rocking back and forth. Eventually, she wiped her face with the back of her hand, stood, flushed the toilet for no reason, and went to her room.

  She crashed on the bed, too tired to undress, too awake to sleep. She stared across the room at the shelves on the opposite wall, counting the paperbacks in the fading light, and she remembered the first time—the first time he had ever been aggressive.

  Frankie wasn’t exactly the most attractive man on campus, but he did have a certain quality, Sarah admitted. He had something that made him stand out from the all the others, something about his brown eyes, she thought. Something about the knowledgeable tone in his voice.

  Their first proper date, away from the student bar, was a nightclub in London. Thumping drum and base, he called it. Not exactly romantic. And later, after a number of gin and tonics and one too many tequila slammers, they paid too much for a taxi back to their halls of residence and Frankie invited himself into her room.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she told him.

  ‘That makes too of us, then.’

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘I want a kiss.’

  That was when he reached out for her, pulled her in towards him. He leaned in and kissed her cheek when she turned her head, giggling. ‘Frankie,’ she said. She had class in the morning. Things to do.

  He cupped her breast.

  ‘Frankie, please…’

  But he covered her words with his mouth, his teeth jarring against her own.

  ‘Okay, settle down. This is Kevin. He’s just moved down from London and is going to be joining our class.’

  There was an inarticulate welcome from the rest of the nine-year-olds in the cramped room. When the teacher told Kevin to find a seat, he looked around and saw Martin over by the windows, a spare seat in front of him. As he made his way slowly between two aisles of desks, blushing and trying desperately not to make eye contact with anyone, he saw a young man in the seat next to Martin, sharing a textbook with him.

  Kevin smiled at Martin and mouthed hello, grateful at least for the presence of someone he recognised. When he took the seat in front of him, the man leaned forward and put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder. ‘Nice to meet you, Kevin. I’m sure you’ll get along fine,’ he whispered.

  Kevin smiled over his shoulder and nodded. It was odd seeing an adult sitting at a school desk and he thought perhaps he had been held back, unable to pass out of primary school into the grown-up world.

  ‘Lillian,’ the teacher said, ‘share your books with Kevin until we get him some of his own, okay?’

  A redhead with glasses and large orange freckles came and sat next to Kevin, pushing her huge history textbook across the desk between them.

  ‘We’re on page seventy-four. Have you done any Roman history yet, Kevin?’

  Kevin glanced nervously at the teacher. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘You’ll soon get into it. Now, Caligula ruled for only four years.’

  Shrinking in his chair, Kevin tried to make himself as small as possible, paying little attention to the teacher’s voice or the textbook in front of him. Lillian was breathing heavily as though she had asthma and it was getting on his nerves. He stole little glances here and there, taking note of the paintings tacked to the walls, each with a name in the bottom right corner. He found one by Martin that depicted a small house on the top of a steep cliff. The sea below looked rough but it could have been the colour of the paint he had used.

  At ten thirty, a bell rang and startled Kevin’s wandering mind. Lillian snapped the textbook closed and got up, following the rest of the children out of the classroom.

  ‘Quietly,’ Mr Bancroft said and the noise level reduced.

  Kevin looked around, stood, wanted to sit down again, saw scores of children flooding onto the playground outside, and gave a flustered smile to the teacher.

  ‘Break time,’ Mr Bancroft explained. ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  A small voice from behind Kevin said, ‘He can stay inside with us, if he wants.’

  Turning, he saw Martin and the young man sitting at their desks, smiling at him. He sat down again when Mr Bancroft allowed him to stay.

  ‘I’m Alan,’ the man said. ‘This is Martin.’

  Kevin said, ‘We live next door.’

  ‘Alan’s like my little helper.’

  ‘But believe me,’ Alan said, ‘he ain’t no Santa Claus.’ Alan closed the textbook. ‘Do you play chess, Kevin?’ He stood, went to a cupboard, and brought back a chess box. The box was falling apart and had been stuck back together with brown packing tape.

  ‘You can be black,’ Martin said. ‘But you have to use a button for one of the pawns ’cause someone stole one.’

  ‘It’s gone missing,’ Alan said.

  ‘No, it’s been stolen.’

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, Martin’s pretty good at it, but he likes to cheat sometimes.’

  ‘No I don’t. You cheat.’

  ‘And he’s a bad loser, too,’ Alan said. He set the board up.

  Kevin scratched his nose, looked out the window at some kids kicking a football around, looked at the collapsed wheelchair beside Martin’s desk, and said, ‘Can’t you walk?’

  Martin didn’t look up, but his voice was defensive. ‘Of course I can. I just get tired sometimes. Can you speak Spanish?’

  ‘No.’

  Martin gave a little shrug. ‘Neither can I.’

  Kevin laughed and pushed a pawn to battle.

  Ten minutes later, two pawns, a button and a knight lost to the enemy, another bell sounded and the room filled with red-cheeked boys and girls and a dozen or more sniffling noses.

  ‘Quiet,’ Mr Bancroft said as he wrote an algebraic equation on the board.

  Sleep was elusive. All too often Sarah needed that extra glass of the cheap red wine with the vinegar aftertaste, the extra hour staring at a cracked ceiling, the ritualistic turning in bed—left side, stomach, right side, back—before sleep would consume her. She had stood over Kevin two hours ago like he was still a four-year-old, making sure he brushed his teeth, washed his face and hands, swirling the wine in her glass and absently listening as Kevin, with toothpaste foam on his chin, regaled her about his first day at school.

  ‘He walks funny,’ Kevin had said of Martin, ‘but it’s okay, we’re still friends. One day he won’t be able to walk at all unless some medical thing can make him keep using his legs. Alan—he’s Martin’s little helper—sits next to him and helps him out when he needs it and then he drives him home every day.’ And then Kevin gargled, spat, ran a towel across his face, and said, ‘Goodnight.’

  She treated him like a baby sometimes. And now, lying in bed, her head spinning in an alcohol-induced haze, she wished he’d never grow up. She rolled over onto her back again, looked up at the low ceiling, and she knew she was dreaming even before she fell asleep.

  She was in a vast, empty warehouse, by the look of it. Her hands were tied behind her back and, although she felt the need to scream, her mouth wouldn’t open.

  Kevin was there. And Frankie, too. One big happy family, she thought dryly. Her immediate concern was for Kevin, but he was smiling at his father as together they were toasting whole loaves of bread, held out over a small fire in an oil drum. Kevin’s loaf was skewered on the end of what appeared to be an extendable radio antenna. Watch you fingers, Sarah wanted to say but couldn’t.

  They were talking and laughing, but she couldn’t make out even a single word. She struggled with the bonds at her wrists, trying to get free, and she felt something wet trickle down her arm from her elbow. Sweat? Blood? She didn’t feel injured but there was no way of knowing.

  Kevin dropped his loaf into the fire and laughed. Fra
nkie hugged him. And then, walking slowly, purposefully, Kevin came across to where Sarah sat on the cold ground. He was carrying something wrapped in a blanket.

  Help me, Kevin. Untie me.

  She couldn’t speak.

  Kevin beamed at her as he lay the bundle down next to her, pulling back the corners of the blanket to reveal a baby. The child, a boy, had no legs. There was neither blood nor stumps. His waist simply rounded off as though that’s the way it should be, the way he was born—without legs, never able to walk.

  Tears filled her eyes and ran steadily down her cheeks, pooling momentarily at the corners of her mouth before running down her chin. She looked the little boy in the face, wide blue eyes staring back at her, a thin drizzle of mucus forming at his nose, and she wanted dearly to pick him up.

  Kevin laughed as Frankie knelt down beside them.

  ‘We cut them off,’ she thought she heard Frankie say, but she couldn’t be sure. ‘We cut the legs off.’

  Kevin, help me, please.

  She could smell Frankie’s sweat, could almost taste the stale beer, and it made her retch. She vomited all down her shirt and Frankie shook his head in dismay. He stood and took his belt off.

  No, please, Frankie. Don’t—

  ‘Take you nowhere,’ he said. He gripped her throat so tight she couldn’t breathe. But then he suddenly let go. He wrapped the end of his belt around his fist and took a handful of Kevin’s hair, pulling him to his feet. ‘Should I take it out on the boy?’ Frankie said. ‘Spare you the injury. Is that what you want?’

  Oh, God! Frankie, no!

  Why couldn’t she speak? Why couldn’t she scream?

  Kevin just smiled as the belt buckle cracked off his back and legs. He was laughing. And Frankie was laughing. And, though she could have been mistaken, it looked like even the legless baby was grinning and gurgling with delight.

  Kevin held the back of the wheelchair while Alan helped Martin to stand. ‘Are the braces okay?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Well, at least they’re not dental braces or I’d never be able to smile again!’

  ‘You never smile anyway. Flatten your heels.’