that hotel. Jesus Christ.”
Herod had been gazing out of the window, fiddling with the zip on his hoodie. Now he turned and stared at us. “We never take anything from him ever again.” Even Owen looked surprised at the tone of his voice. “Not a fucking penny, OK?” Herod said.
Owen stared at him. “All right. OK. OK.”
It was a pact.
I can still see the moment we realized that Herod was truly, properly ill. Mum, Louis and I were in the kitchen one Sunday night, eating spaghetti carbonara. Owen had gone out somewhere.
The door swung open and Herod came in. Owen had full-on dreds way down past his shoulders then, which Mum hated and Louis found amusing, but Herod’s hair was just a stringy, greasy mess. He was wearing an unwashed grey t-shirt and jeans: weird because before Herod always used to smell of Pears soap, cinnamon, mixed with the underlying wet-earth scent of china clay. I could see the confusion in Mum’s eyes: it was as if Herod were turning into someone else, a strange and terrible butterfly hatching from a chrysalis. He was also extremely thin. We were always kind of lanky, my brothers and I, but Herod’s wrists looked as if they might snap.
“Darling,” Mum said, too brightly. “We saved you some supper.”
And the empty expression spread across Herod’s face again: he simply disappeared while you were speaking to him, leaving only the shell of his body behind.
But this was the first time the Creature spoke through him.
“Mother,” he said, as if speaking to a small, stupid child, “you must think I’m a fool. I know what you put in my food. I’m not going to fall for it. I know you’re poisoning me, you bitch.”
Herod would never have called Mum “Mother”, or “you bitch”. Or said “fool” like that. You could tell it wasn’t really him speaking, that he’d become a kind of mouthpiece for something else. It was just that we didn’t know what.
After he’d gone, letting the door slam shut behind him, Mum was the first to speak. “He needs to see someone, Louis. Quickly.” She turned to me. “Herod’s not very well, Jack. He didn’t mean what he said just then. He really didn’t.”
The next day when Yvonne dropped me home from school, Louis was there but Mum wasn’t.
“It’s Herod,” Louis told me. “He’s gone into hospital. He’s going to be OK, though. They just need to keep an eye on him for a while.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with him?”
Louis didn’t answer for a moment then said, “Well, I suppose it’s like this: he’s confused about what’s real and what’s not.”
The difference between fear and reality is a fine line and Herod had crossed it. Imagine not trusting the people you love, afraid they’re trying to kill you. If it sounds scary that’s because it is.
Herod didn’t come out of hospital for weeks and by then I hardly recognized him. The drugs make you fat – even Herod, who was always so skinny. The next time he went to hospital, though, he stayed for longer. Much longer.
“You saved my life,” Herod told me when he was in hospital that second time. “You’re a fucking jailer – you know that, don’t you? I’m a prisoner and I was nearly free, but you had to stop me.”
I turned and ran out of the room, stood in the hospital corridor staring blankly at a poster about hand hygiene. A nurse rushed past. Mum followed me out – I knew she would.
“Jack,” she said, hugging me. I could smell her spicy perfume mixed with the cucumber scent of hand cream. “You did the right thing. You did.”
I wasn’t always so sure.
The last time I’d seen Herod was just before Christmas, months ago now. He walked down the sweeping gravel drive to meet us, early on a frost-bitten morning. Had he been listening for a car? The Peace Centre is a stately home that got taken over by a load of Buddhists in the seventies, an old house with pillars outside the front door and a thousand glittering windows, hidden
Herod had been gazing out of the window, fiddling with the zip on his hoodie. Now he turned and stared at us. “We never take anything from him ever again.” Even Owen looked surprised at the tone of his voice. “Not a fucking penny, OK?” Herod said.
Owen stared at him. “All right. OK. OK.”
It was a pact.
I can still see the moment we realized that Herod was truly, properly ill. Mum, Louis and I were in the kitchen one Sunday night, eating spaghetti carbonara. Owen had gone out somewhere.
The door swung open and Herod came in. Owen had full-on dreds way down past his shoulders then, which Mum hated and Louis found amusing, but Herod’s hair was just a stringy, greasy mess. He was wearing an unwashed grey t-shirt and jeans: weird because before Herod always used to smell of Pears soap, cinnamon, mixed with the underlying wet-earth scent of china clay. I could see the confusion in Mum’s eyes: it was as if Herod were turning into someone else, a strange and terrible butterfly hatching from a chrysalis. He was also extremely thin. We were always kind of lanky, my brothers and I, but Herod’s wrists looked as if they might snap.
“Darling,” Mum said, too brightly. “We saved you some supper.”
And the empty expression spread across Herod’s face again: he simply disappeared while you were speaking to him, leaving only the shell of his body behind.
But this was the first time the Creature spoke through him.
“Mother,” he said, as if speaking to a small, stupid child, “you must think I’m a fool. I know what you put in my food. I’m not going to fall for it. I know you’re poisoning me, you bitch.”
Herod would never have called Mum “Mother”, or “you bitch”. Or said “fool” like that. You could tell it wasn’t really him speaking, that he’d become a kind of mouthpiece for something else. It was just that we didn’t know what.
After he’d gone, letting the door slam shut behind him, Mum was the first to speak. “He needs to see someone, Louis. Quickly.” She turned to me. “Herod’s not very well, Jack. He didn’t mean what he said just then. He really didn’t.”
The next day when Yvonne dropped me home from school, Louis was there but Mum wasn’t.
“It’s Herod,” Louis told me. “He’s gone into hospital. He’s going to be OK, though. They just need to keep an eye on him for a while.”
“Why?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with him?”
Louis didn’t answer for a moment then said, “Well, I suppose it’s like this: he’s confused about what’s real and what’s not.”
The difference between fear and reality is a fine line and Herod had crossed it. Imagine not trusting the people you love, afraid they’re trying to kill you. If it sounds scary that’s because it is.
Herod didn’t come out of hospital for weeks and by then I hardly recognized him. The drugs make you fat – even Herod, who was always so skinny. The next time he went to hospital, though, he stayed for longer. Much longer.
“You saved my life,” Herod told me when he was in hospital that second time. “You’re a fucking jailer – you know that, don’t you? I’m a prisoner and I was nearly free, but you had to stop me.”
I turned and ran out of the room, stood in the hospital corridor staring blankly at a poster about hand hygiene. A nurse rushed past. Mum followed me out – I knew she would.
“Jack,” she said, hugging me. I could smell her spicy perfume mixed with the cucumber scent of hand cream. “You did the right thing. You did.”
I wasn’t always so sure.
The last time I’d seen Herod was just before Christmas, months ago now. He walked down the sweeping gravel drive to meet us, early on a frost-bitten morning. Had he been listening for a car? The Peace Centre is a stately home that got taken over by a load of Buddhists in the seventies, an old house with pillars outside the front door and a thousand glittering windows, hidden
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