Read Online Where the Moon Isn't by Nathan Filer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nathan Filer
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flyers, before he left to join the army.
I guess that was it.
He wasn’t trying to sound clever, he just wanted to be able to talk about his brother – so I would talk about mine. I only just thought that. I only thought it as I wrote it.
Opening the wardrobe I carefully lifted out the bucket of water, with the sawn-off Coke bottle floating on a layer of ash. This was the other thing me and Jacob Greening did together. He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out what was left of our Ten Bag of skunk, and started loading up a pile onto the tinfoil gauze.
I don’t know if you have ever smoked a Bucket Bong before, but this was something else his brother had shown him. ‘To get you really fucking stoned.’
‘Tell me what you did,’ he said, out of nowhere.
‘What?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘What?’
He held his lighter over the leaves, and gradually lifted the bottle through the water, filling the chamber with thick white smoke.
‘Tell me about what happened, why you left your junior school, everyone talks about it, everyone says—’
‘Everyone says what?’
He looked straight at me, sort of startled. Then said, ‘Fuck it, eh? Fuck it for a bucket. This one’s for you, if you want?’
I knelt down and took a deep lungful, sucking in the smoke until the water touched my lips, then I held my breath.
I felt him squeeze my shoulder.
Did I?
I held my breath.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he said again, quieter now. ‘I just mean you can tell me if you want. I tell you—’
I held my breath, and began to replay the conversation I’d overheard once, when I’d gone into the kitchen and he was talking to his mum, talking about everyday things like what he’d done in school, and how much pain she was in, when she said something else, she said, ‘Your brother called earlier. He finds prison so hard Jakey, he finds prison so hard.’
The familiar numbness crept behind my ears, slowing my brain. Fuck it for a bucket. I breathed out, filling the room with smoke.
He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even look up as I said it, so this made me wonder if perhaps I didn’t say anything, if it was just a thought. Except that didn’t make sense because it was loud, it was in the room, so maybe he had said it? I was so stoned, that was the problem. But if he said it, surely his lips would have moved? And now I couldn’t remember what it was even, what had been said, but the voice was familiar, wasn’t it? I was so stoned. I suddenly felt far too stoned.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ Jacob was holding the flame again, setting up for his turn. ‘Hear what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it my mum?’
‘No I fucking didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘What did you just say?’
It was gone again, what did it say? What did it say? I was so stoned.
‘What shall we play?’
Jacob switched on the PlayStation 2, and loaded Resident Evil, and I slumped on the floor, staring at the screen, getting lost in the violence, and thought about being a doctor, about making things better, about curing his mum, about curing mine. And there was something else, something else, hidden in a cloud of smoke.
is this question useful?
I wonder if you believe me? People don’t tend to believe me. I’ve been asked a lot of questions. Questions like:
This voice – his voice – do you hear it inside your head, or does it seem to come from the outside, and what exactly does it say, and does it tell you to do things or just comment on what you’re doing already, and have you done any of the things it says, which things, you said your mum takes tablets, what are they for, is anyone else in your family FUCKING MAD, and do you use illicit drugs, how much alcohol do you drink, every week, every day, and how are you feeling in yourself right now, on a scale of 1–10, and what about on a scale of 1–7,400,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000, and how is your sleep of late, and what of your
I guess that was it.
He wasn’t trying to sound clever, he just wanted to be able to talk about his brother – so I would talk about mine. I only just thought that. I only thought it as I wrote it.
Opening the wardrobe I carefully lifted out the bucket of water, with the sawn-off Coke bottle floating on a layer of ash. This was the other thing me and Jacob Greening did together. He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out what was left of our Ten Bag of skunk, and started loading up a pile onto the tinfoil gauze.
I don’t know if you have ever smoked a Bucket Bong before, but this was something else his brother had shown him. ‘To get you really fucking stoned.’
‘Tell me what you did,’ he said, out of nowhere.
‘What?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘What?’
He held his lighter over the leaves, and gradually lifted the bottle through the water, filling the chamber with thick white smoke.
‘Tell me about what happened, why you left your junior school, everyone talks about it, everyone says—’
‘Everyone says what?’
He looked straight at me, sort of startled. Then said, ‘Fuck it, eh? Fuck it for a bucket. This one’s for you, if you want?’
I knelt down and took a deep lungful, sucking in the smoke until the water touched my lips, then I held my breath.
I felt him squeeze my shoulder.
Did I?
I held my breath.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he said again, quieter now. ‘I just mean you can tell me if you want. I tell you—’
I held my breath, and began to replay the conversation I’d overheard once, when I’d gone into the kitchen and he was talking to his mum, talking about everyday things like what he’d done in school, and how much pain she was in, when she said something else, she said, ‘Your brother called earlier. He finds prison so hard Jakey, he finds prison so hard.’
The familiar numbness crept behind my ears, slowing my brain. Fuck it for a bucket. I breathed out, filling the room with smoke.
He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even look up as I said it, so this made me wonder if perhaps I didn’t say anything, if it was just a thought. Except that didn’t make sense because it was loud, it was in the room, so maybe he had said it? I was so stoned, that was the problem. But if he said it, surely his lips would have moved? And now I couldn’t remember what it was even, what had been said, but the voice was familiar, wasn’t it? I was so stoned. I suddenly felt far too stoned.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ Jacob was holding the flame again, setting up for his turn. ‘Hear what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it my mum?’
‘No I fucking didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘What did you just say?’
It was gone again, what did it say? What did it say? I was so stoned.
‘What shall we play?’
Jacob switched on the PlayStation 2, and loaded Resident Evil, and I slumped on the floor, staring at the screen, getting lost in the violence, and thought about being a doctor, about making things better, about curing his mum, about curing mine. And there was something else, something else, hidden in a cloud of smoke.
is this question useful?
I wonder if you believe me? People don’t tend to believe me. I’ve been asked a lot of questions. Questions like:
This voice – his voice – do you hear it inside your head, or does it seem to come from the outside, and what exactly does it say, and does it tell you to do things or just comment on what you’re doing already, and have you done any of the things it says, which things, you said your mum takes tablets, what are they for, is anyone else in your family FUCKING MAD, and do you use illicit drugs, how much alcohol do you drink, every week, every day, and how are you feeling in yourself right now, on a scale of 1–10, and what about on a scale of 1–7,400,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000, and how is your sleep of late, and what of your
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