Solitaire Read online

  “We’re watching Beauty and the Beast,” he says.

  “No, we are not,” I say.

  “I think you will find that we are,” he says.

  “Please,” I say. “No. What about The Matrix? Lost in Translation? Lord of the Rings?” I don’t know why I’m saying this. Becky owns none of these films.

  “I’m doing this for your own good.” He inserts the DVD. “I believe that your psychological development has substantially suffered due to lack of Disney charm.”

  I don’t bother asking what he’s talking about. He clambers onto the bed next to me and props himself up on the headboard with a pillow. The Disney logo appears on-screen. Already I can feel my eyes bleeding.

  “Have you ever even watched a Disney film?” he asks.

  “Er—yeah.”

  “Why do you hate Disney?”

  “I don’t hate Disney.”

  “Then why don’t you want to watch Beauty and the Beast?”

  I turn my head. He’s not watching the film, even though it’s started. “I don’t like films that are fake,” I say. “Where the characters and the story are really . . . perfect. Things don’t happen like that in real life.”

  He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “Isn’t that the point of films?”

  I wonder why I’m here. I wonder why he’s here. The pathetic dubstep beat downstairs is the only thing I can hear. There are some cartoons on the screen, but really they’re just moving shapes. He starts talking to me.

  “Did you know,” he says, “that in the original story, Belle has two sisters? But in this film, she’s an only child. I wonder why. It’s not that fun being an only child.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “Yep.”

  This is mildly interesting. “I’ve got two brothers,” I say.

  “Are they like you?”

  “No. They’re really not.”

  The Beauty is being courted by a heavily muscled man. He is not attractive, but I sympathize with his dislike of literature.

  “She really likes to read,” I say, shaking my head at the girl in blue. “That’s got to be unhealthy.”

  “Don’t you do English lit A-level?”

  “Yes, because I can bullshit my way through it, but I don’t approve of it. I hate books.”

  “I probably should have done English. I would have been good at it.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He looks at me and smiles. “I think it’s better to just read and not study books.”

  The Beauty has sacrificed her freedom to save her father. It’s very sentimental. And now she’s crying about it.

  “Tell me something interesting about you,” says Michael.

  I think for a moment. “Did you know that I was born on the day that Kurt Cobain killed himself?”

  “Actually, yes. He was only twenty-seven, the poor guy. Twenty-seven. Maybe we’ll die when we’re twenty-seven.”

  “There’s nothing romantic about death. I hate when people use Kurt Cobain’s suicide as an excuse to worship him for being such a tormented soul.”

  Michael pauses and stares at me before saying, “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Beauty has gone on a hunger strike. That is, until the cutlery and crockery of the house put on a singing and dancing performance for her. Now she’s being chased by wolves. I am struggling to keep up with the plotline.

  “Tell me something interesting about you,” I say.

  “Erm,” he says, “I’m, like, ridiculously unintelligent?”

  I frown at him. This is obviously untrue.

  He reads my mind. “Seriously. I haven’t got above a C grade in any subject since Year 8.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I just . . .”

  It seems almost impossible for someone like Michael to be unintelligent. People like Michael—crazy people who get stuff done—they’re always smart. Always.

  “When it comes to the exams . . . I generally don’t write what they want me to write. I’m not very good at, er, sorting out all the stuff in my head. Like, I took biology A-level, and I completely understood what polypeptide synthesis was, but I couldn’t write it down. I’m not dyslexic or anything. I just don’t know what the examiners want to hear. I don’t know whether I just forget things, or maybe I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it. I just don’t know. And it’s fucking horrible.”

  Throughout this, he makes swirly gestures with his hands. I imagine all the pieces of information flying around in strands inside his brain, unable to form themselves into comprehensible words. It seems to make sense. He’s crazy. Maybe not in a bad way. But he’s definitely crazy.

  “It’s so unfair,” he continues. “School literally doesn’t care about you unless you’re good at writing stuff down or you’re good at memorizing or you can solve bloody maths equations. What about the other important things in life? Like being a decent human being?”

  “I hate school,” I say.

  “You hate everything.”

  “It’s funny because it’s true.”

  He turns to me again. We look at each other. On-screen, a petal falls from the rose, which I’m pretty sure is symbolic of something.

  “Your eyes are different colors,” I say.

  “Did I not tell you that I’m a magical anime girl?”

  “Seriously, why, though?”

  “My blue eye conceals the power of my past life, and I use it to summon my guardian angels to assist me in my plight against the forces of darkness.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m a poet.”

  “Well, control yourself, Lord Tennyson.”

  He grins. “‘The stream will cease to flow.’” He’s quoting a poem obviously, but one I’ve never heard. “‘The wind will cease to blow; the clouds will cease to fleet; the heart will cease to beat; for all things must die.’”

  I chuck a pillow at him. He leans over to avoid it, but my aim is spectacular.

  “All right, all right,” he laughs. “It’s not as romantic as it looks. Someone threw a rock at my eye when I was two, so basically, I’m pretty much half-blind. It’s actually very annoying.”

  On-screen, they’re dancing. It’s a little odd. An old woman is singing. I find myself singing along—apparently I’ve heard this song before. Michael joins me. We sing alternate lines.

  And then we are silent for a long time, watching the colors on the screen. I don’t know how long the silence lasts, but at some point I hear Michael sniff and I see him move his hand up to his face. When I look around I see that he is crying, actually crying. I am momentarily confused. I study the screen. The Beast has just died. And the Beauty is holding him, crying herself, and oh, wait, a tear falls onto his fur, and then all kinds of trippy magic happens and yep, there you go, he has miraculously returned from the dead. Oh, and he’s become handsome as well. Isn’t that fantastic. This is the kind of crap that I hate. Unrealistic. Sentimental. Crap.

  But Michael is crying. I don’t really know what to do. He’s got one hand on his face, and his eyes and nose are scrunched up. It’s like he’s trying to hold the tears inside.

  I decide to pat his other hand, which is resting on the bed. I hope this comes across as comforting, not sarcastic. I think it turns out okay, because he grabs my hand in return and squeezes it with extreme force.

  The film ends shortly after that. He turns it off with the remote and we sit in silence, looking at the black screen.

  “I knew your brother,” Michael says, after a very long time.

  “Charlie?”

  “From Truham . . .”

  I turn my head, not really finding anything to say.

  Michael continues. “I never spoke to him. He always seemed kind of quiet, but everyone loved him, which is pretty rare at an all-boys school. He was different.”

  It’s then that I decide to tell him. I don’t know why this happens. But I get this urge. My brain gives up. I can’t hold on to it.

  I tell him abo
ut Charlie.

  Everything.

  About when he started collecting things, and about when he stopped eating, and about when he started hurting himself.

  To be honest, it’s not even that big of a deal anymore. He’s been to the hospital. He’s better now. And he’s got Nick. I mean, he’s still recovering, but he’s fine. It’s fine.

  I don’t know when I fall asleep, but I do. Not fully asleep. I stop being able to tell whether I’m awake or whether I’m dreaming. It’s probably weird to fall asleep in this sort of situation, but I’m starting to not really care about stuff like that anymore. What surprises me the most is how suddenly it happens. Normally it takes forever. Normally when I’m trying to sleep I do all these silly things, like I roll over and imagine that I’m sleeping next to someone and I reach out and caress their hair. Or I clasp my hands together and after a little while I start thinking it’s somebody else’s hand I’m holding, not my own. I swear to God there’s something wrong with me. There really is.

  But this time I feel myself roll slightly over so I’m resting on his chest, under his arm. He smells vaguely of bonfires. At some point I think someone opens the door and sees us lying there half-asleep together. Whoever it is looks at us for a moment before quietly shutting the door again. The shouting downstairs begins to ease, even though the music is still pumping. I half listen for any demonic creatures outside the window, but it’s a silent night. Nothing traps me. It’s nice. I feel the air in the room, and it’s like there is none.

  My phone rings.

  01:39 a.m.

  Home Calling

  “Hello?”

  “Tori, are you coming home yet?”

  “Oliver? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I was watching Doctor Who.”

  “You didn’t watch the Weeping Angels episode, did you?”

  “. . .”

  “Ollie? Are you all right? Why did you call me?”

  “. . .”

  “Oliver? Are you there?”

  “Something’s wrong with Charlie.”

  My face must then do something very unusual, because Michael gives me this look. This funny, terrified look.

  “What . . . has happened?”

  “. . .”

  “What’s happened, Oliver? What’s Charlie done? Where is he?”

  “I can’t get in the kitchen. Charlie shut the door and I can’t open it. I can hear him.”

  “. . .”

  “When are you coming home, Tori?”

  “I’m coming home right now.”

  I hang up.

  Michael is awake. I am cross-legged in the middle of the bed. He is cross-legged opposite me.

  “Shit,” I say. “Shit shit shit shit shit shit fucking fuck.”

  Michael doesn’t even ask. He just says, “I’ll take you home.”

  We’re running. Out the door and down the stairs and through the people. Some still partying, some piled on the floor, some making out, some crying. I’m almost at the front door when Becky catches me. She is fucked.

  “I’m fucked.” She grabs my arm really tight.

  “I’m going now, Becky.”

  “You’re so cute, Tori. I miss you. I love you so much. You are so beautiful and cute.”

  “Becky—”

  She flops onto my shoulder, knees buckling. “Don’t be sad. Promise me, Tori. Promise me. Promise you won’t be sad anymore.”

  “I promise. I have to—”

  “I ha-hate Jack. He is such a . . . such . . . such a . . . bitch. I deserve a . . . someone like Ben. He is so beautiful. Like you. You hate everything, but you’re still beautiful. You’re like . . . you’re a ghost. I love you so much . . . so much. Don’t be . . . don’t . . . sad anymore.”

  I don’t really want to leave her, because she is beyond drunk, but I need to get home. Michael actually pushes me forward, and we abandon Becky, whose legs look too spindly now, her makeup too thick, her hair too backcombed.

  Michael is running and so am I. He gets on his bike. It’s a real bicycle. Do people even ride these anymore?

  “Get on the back,” he says.

  “You are joking,” I say.

  “It’s that or walk.”

  I get on the back.

  And with that, Sherlock Holmes and Wednesday Addams fly into the night. He’s cycling so fast that the houses we pass blur into gray and brown wavy lines and I’m clinging onto his waist so tight that my fingers have lost feeling. I realize that I’m happy even though I shouldn’t be, and the conflicting emotion only makes the moment more insane, more radiant, more immeasurable. The air tears at my face and makes my eyes water, and I lose track of where we are even though I know this town inside out, and all I can think of is that this might have been what that boy who flew away with E.T. felt like. Like I could die right now and it wouldn’t matter.

  We’re at my house within fifteen minutes. Michael doesn’t come inside. He has manners, I’ll give him that. He sits up on the bike as I look back at him.

  “I hope he’s all right,” he says.

  I nod.

  He nods. And cycles away. I unlock the door and enter my house.

  THIRTEEN

  OLIVER TROTS SLEEPILY down the stairs. Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas. Teddy in his arm. I’m glad that he’s never understood what’s wrong with Charlie.

  “You all right, Oliver?”

  “Mmmyeah.”

  “You gonna go to bed?”

  “What about Charlie?”

  “He’ll be fine. Leave it all to me.”

  Oliver nods and ambles back up the stairs, rubbing his eyes. I rush toward the kitchen door, which is closed.

  I feel sick. I’m not even fully awake.

  “Charlie.” I knock on the door.

  Total silence. I attempt to get in, but he’s blocked it with something.

  “Open the door, Charles. I’m not joking. I’ll break the door.”

  “No, you won’t.” His voice is dead. Empty. But I’m relieved, because he’s alive.

  I turn the handle down and push with my whole body.

  “Don’t come in!” He sounds panicked, which makes me panicked because Charlie is never panicked and that is what makes him Charlie. “Don’t come in here! Please!” There’s a clattering of things being frantically moved around.

  I keep heaving my body onto the door, and whatever is blocking it begins to move away. I make a gap large enough for me to slip inside, and I do.

  “No, go away! Leave me alone!”

  I look at him.

  “Get out!”

  He’s been crying. His eyes are dark red and purple and the darkness of the room drowns him in a haze. There is a plate of lasagna on the kitchen table, cold, untouched. All of our food has been removed from the cupboards and the fridge and the freezer and set out in order of size and color in various piles around the room. There are a couple of bloodstained tissues in his hands.

  He’s not

  better.

  “I’m sorry,” he croaks, slumped in a chair, head rolled backward, eyes vacant. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

  I can’t do anything. It’s hard not to throw up.

  “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Where’s Nick?” I say. “Why is he not with you?”

  He goes deep red, and then mumbles something inaudible.

  “What?”

  “We argued. He left.”

  I start shaking my head. It goes from left to right to left to right in an uncontrollable act of defiance. “That bastard. That stupid bastard.”

  “No, Victoria, it was my fault.”

  My phone is in my hand, and I’m punching in Nick’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Do you understand the severity of what you have done, you absolute prick?”

  “Tori? What are you—”

  “If Oliver hadn’t called me, Charlie might have—” I can’t even say it. “This is entirely
your fault.”

  “I’m not— Wait, what the hell’s happened?”

  “What the hell do you think has happened? You left Charlie during a mealtime. You can’t do that. You can’t do that. You can’t leave him while he’s eating, let alone upset him. Didn’t you learn that last year?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I trusted you. You were supposed to look after him, and now I’ve walked into the kitchen and he’s— I shouldn’t have gone out. I should have been here. We’re—I’m the person who is supposed to be there when this happens.”

  “Wait, wh—”

  I’m holding the phone so tight, I’m shaking. Charlie is looking at me, silent tears falling from his eyes. He is so old now. He’s not a little kid. In a couple of months he’ll be sixteen, like me. He looks older than me, for God’s sake. He could pass for eighteen, easy.

  I drop the phone, draw up a chair next to my brother, and put my arms around him.

  Nick gets here, and with Charlie we clear up the kitchen. Charlie keeps wincing and clutching his head as I upset all his precious piles of tins and packets, but I do it anyway because his psychiatrist told us that you have to be brutal. He used to shout at me when I moved his food around. Sometimes he’d try to physically stop me. He doesn’t do that anymore.

  I get rid of the lasagna. I find the first-aid kit and put plasters on Charlie’s arm. Luckily, the cuts aren’t deep enough to need stitches this time. I set the table and I make three rounds of beans on toast and the three of us sit down. It’s a difficult meal. Charlie doesn’t want to eat anything. His knees keep bobbing up and down and his fork keeps reaching his mouth and stopping, unwilling to go any farther. Sometimes, in the hospital, they’d let him drink this extremely high-calorie drink instead of eating a meal. We don’t have any of that in our house. I try not to shout at Charlie because that will make everything worse.

  Eventually Nick and I escort him to bed.

  “I’m sorry,” says Charlie, lying in bed with his arm across his forehead.

  I’m standing at the doorway. Nick is on the floor in Charlie’s spare pajamas, which are much too small for him, with a spare duvet and pillow. He is staring at Charlie with an expression somehow simultaneously encompassing fear and love. I haven’t forgiven him yet, but I know that he will redeem himself. I know that he cares about Charlie. A lot.