expecting to answer? The ghost of the boy? A man with a beer can? A guy who has a thing about bricks?
“I can see you.” Even quieter.
No-one answers.
I go in.
The layout of the hallway is similar to that of the ground floor, only smaller – a central square with doors leading off. Four of the doors are wide open and one half open. Without moving, this is what I can see: to my left the ripped out remains of a kitchen; directly in front of me a bathroom, the white toilet and basin both sledgehammered; to the left of that a totally bare room which might have been a living room; and to the right, a room stripped of everything but flowery wallpaper and a mattress. A bedroom presumably.
The room with the half-open door is the one that looks over the back of the house, the one I know I have to go into, because it’s from that room that you would have to jump if you were going to land on the concrete. Because of the angle of the door, I can see very little from where I’m standing. But I can see the wallpaper. It’s children’s paper. Babies’ paper even. A jaunty, if faded, mother duck with three little ducklings in tow. The pattern repeated over and over. That room must contain a million mother ducks and her little ducklings.
What else does it contain?
I have goosebumps. The hairs on my forearms are standing upright, and those on the back of my neck feel like spikes. It’s not cold but there’s something icy rippling up and down my spine. I think it’s fear. Although it could be terror. There’s also something drumming in my ears. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the muffled panic of my own blood, because my hand is on the door handle of the room and I’m opening it, I’m pushing the whole weight of my body into the room where a boy just my age is supposed to have thrown himself to his death.
And now I’m in. I’m standing in the room, shaking from head to foot, my teeth knocking together like skittles in a bowling alley. And what’s in the room?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No furniture, no light fittings, no carpet, no bodies. Not a single body. Nothing but the million ducks, the three million ducklings and a window. Yes. A window. A window overlooking the garden. Overlooking the concrete. The window has two large panes. One is smashed. A sharp cut-out star of broken glass.
And of course I’m going towards it to check if it’s large enough for a boy to have fallen through. Eventhough I know the idea is absurd, because why not open the window? Eh? Why not, if you want to get out? Why chuck yourself through the glass? What would be the point? And in any case, this can’t be the glass. I mean, first thing you’d do if someone chucked themselves out of your window would be to replace the glass. Yes? Yes. Anybody can see that. And I can see the glass. I’m right up to it now. Looking out – where he must have looked. Out into the garden. And I can tell you this – it’s a long, long way down. The scorched earth is just a dot. Even the concrete looks like you could miss it if you weren’t concentrating on exactly where to throw yourself.
I want to touch the edge of the glass. To feel its sharpness. But I don’t dare. Because all of a sudden I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself not to go too far. You know how it is when you stand on the edge of an underground platform and, just when you hear the train coming, you think, oh – I might just throw myself on to the tracks. And – although you don’t, you can’t stop the thought? Well, that’s what I’m thinking. If I get any closer I might just do it. I might chuck myself out. So I step back. Just like you do on the underground platform. Behind the safety of the white line.
Only here there isn’t a white line. There’s only the ducks and the door. So I make for the door, and I’m running now and I’m not minding about the noise I’m making and I’m making plenty of noise, panting and whimpering and creaking and clattering, and
“I can see you.” Even quieter.
No-one answers.
I go in.
The layout of the hallway is similar to that of the ground floor, only smaller – a central square with doors leading off. Four of the doors are wide open and one half open. Without moving, this is what I can see: to my left the ripped out remains of a kitchen; directly in front of me a bathroom, the white toilet and basin both sledgehammered; to the left of that a totally bare room which might have been a living room; and to the right, a room stripped of everything but flowery wallpaper and a mattress. A bedroom presumably.
The room with the half-open door is the one that looks over the back of the house, the one I know I have to go into, because it’s from that room that you would have to jump if you were going to land on the concrete. Because of the angle of the door, I can see very little from where I’m standing. But I can see the wallpaper. It’s children’s paper. Babies’ paper even. A jaunty, if faded, mother duck with three little ducklings in tow. The pattern repeated over and over. That room must contain a million mother ducks and her little ducklings.
What else does it contain?
I have goosebumps. The hairs on my forearms are standing upright, and those on the back of my neck feel like spikes. It’s not cold but there’s something icy rippling up and down my spine. I think it’s fear. Although it could be terror. There’s also something drumming in my ears. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the muffled panic of my own blood, because my hand is on the door handle of the room and I’m opening it, I’m pushing the whole weight of my body into the room where a boy just my age is supposed to have thrown himself to his death.
And now I’m in. I’m standing in the room, shaking from head to foot, my teeth knocking together like skittles in a bowling alley. And what’s in the room?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No furniture, no light fittings, no carpet, no bodies. Not a single body. Nothing but the million ducks, the three million ducklings and a window. Yes. A window. A window overlooking the garden. Overlooking the concrete. The window has two large panes. One is smashed. A sharp cut-out star of broken glass.
And of course I’m going towards it to check if it’s large enough for a boy to have fallen through. Eventhough I know the idea is absurd, because why not open the window? Eh? Why not, if you want to get out? Why chuck yourself through the glass? What would be the point? And in any case, this can’t be the glass. I mean, first thing you’d do if someone chucked themselves out of your window would be to replace the glass. Yes? Yes. Anybody can see that. And I can see the glass. I’m right up to it now. Looking out – where he must have looked. Out into the garden. And I can tell you this – it’s a long, long way down. The scorched earth is just a dot. Even the concrete looks like you could miss it if you weren’t concentrating on exactly where to throw yourself.
I want to touch the edge of the glass. To feel its sharpness. But I don’t dare. Because all of a sudden I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself not to go too far. You know how it is when you stand on the edge of an underground platform and, just when you hear the train coming, you think, oh – I might just throw myself on to the tracks. And – although you don’t, you can’t stop the thought? Well, that’s what I’m thinking. If I get any closer I might just do it. I might chuck myself out. So I step back. Just like you do on the underground platform. Behind the safety of the white line.
Only here there isn’t a white line. There’s only the ducks and the door. So I make for the door, and I’m running now and I’m not minding about the noise I’m making and I’m making plenty of noise, panting and whimpering and creaking and clattering, and
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