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The Go-Away Bird
Warren Fitzgerald
What happens when two worlds collide?This is a story about me, Clementine, and my friends: a panther called Levi, a pelican called Lola and a turtle called Jimmy. It is about dragons and goblins, my Daddy the King, my Mummy the Queen and Prince Pio my brother. At least that is the way I tell it sometimes when thoughts of the blood, the machetes, the swamp and the fear of Uncle Leonard become too hard to describe.But that was all before I met Ashley, wonderful Ashley. Not that he would ever call himself wonderful in a million years. When he tells you his story you will see what I mean…
WARREN
FITZGERALD
The Go-Away Bird
blue door
For ‘I’ and the kids of LRC and Kazo, who saved me…in so many ways.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u301c5ebf-deb5-515c-ae89-aec9adc3a30e)
Title Page (#u5143dca8-8f49-5317-b4c3-60f72f147351)
Dedication (#u249c35b8-fca0-5566-aa2d-2776258bebc8)
1994 (#u1e436fb1-818b-5449-b241-2454696edce4)
Chapter 1 (#u18633700-0feb-5ddd-94fd-c9e1df182b70)
Chapter 2 (#u370e4d65-b14e-5c55-b3de-7af20830ee12)
Chapter 3 (#u86cc6a76-aa4f-598c-9a0a-96b7c26bc599)
Chapter 4 (#ub3f436d2-8bc6-58bc-8784-d77ec868c8d2)
Chapter 5 (#u93a20936-91d3-58a6-bac4-ab9c7a1f3c98)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
1996 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1994 (#ub51a6516-333d-563d-885f-e6bf27871035)
Chapter 1 (#ub51a6516-333d-563d-885f-e6bf27871035)
I live here because I can’t afford to live anywhere else. Well, you wouldn’t live here for any other reason, would you? It’s a hole, but where else can you live in central London for forty quid a week, eh? Nowhere, I tell you. And I’m only here because I was lucky enough to know ’Chelle from my time at the charity, and she moved up north and sublet the place to me. So, yeah, I always have to think twice before answering the buzzer, or turn down the telly and creep to the peephole for a squiz if someone hammers on the door, but…central…forty quid.
Nearly there. Hold on, a couple more minutes.
Surprising I get any students at all when you think about it. I can just imagine their faces as they look up from their A–Zs, reckon they’ve found it…Well, this is Couper Street. They see the tall glass-fronted foyer with the concierge’s (don’t have a go if I’ve spelt that wrong! Not many of you would get it right first time. And as for my pronunciation…there’s only one person who’s allowed to correct my French – you’ll know why when you meet her)…Anyway, where was I…the concierge’s desk with alien green light all round the bottom of it, so the bloke looks like he’s hovering above the metallic turquoise floor in a little spaceship, ready to welcome the residents, or to exterminate the uninvited filth. They see the massive potted plants with polished green leaves that match the spaceship lights; they see the rows of locked pigeonholes, one for each flat…sorry, apartment…lined up behind the concierge and his floating desk, as if he’s standing guard over loads of little safes in a bank vault or something. And they see nothing else in this huge foyer that stretches the length of the block, except for the big cardboard sign in the corner window advertising the fact in blue and yellow that for a mere £475,000 the ‘penthouse’ apartment is still available – I wonder why?! They look impressed, even a bit excited. Then I can imagine their faces as they read the tiny letters on the glass door that say: CATHEDRAL APARTMENTS. So they turn round, looking for Frapper Court. Right street, wrong side. And their faces drop as they see the defaced council sign welcoming them to /rap/e/Court.
Nice.
Why do I find it so difficult to remember that I would’ve found that bloody hilarious when I was their age? Because I seem to take everything so personally these days, I suppose. Because, although I’m no little shrimp to look at – well, not particularly – if I’m honest with you then I’d have to say that I’m a bit scared of the little bastards, dressed in their baseball caps, enormous jeans and huge plastic clocks hanging round their necks, trying to be Flavor Flav or Chuck D. I’m scared of the feeling of humiliation if I get another football smacked into the back of my head, and the laughter that ricochets off the beige hard face of my block, so it’s like even my own windows are dissing me:
No sanctuary for ya, even here, mate!
You can shut up. Call yourself windows! You’re so thin and weak I could push you out with one finger from your grotty metal frames – laugh at me then as you plummet down eight storeys and shatter on the pavement with nothing but a puny hiss. You can’t even keep the rain out half the time, let alone the cold and the noise. Christ, if this was my own place I would’ve been in touch with that nice old bloke from Everest, had him come and ‘fit the best’, had you out on your ear and replaced with some lovely double glazing ages ago.
I tore my screwed-up eyes from the windows of my flat as I ducked into the stairwell of the block. The stench of piss and wet dog slapped me round the chops and made me realize that I’d just been having a barney with a piece of glass!
Don’t worry, Ash, you’re seconds away now.
I took the stairs, of course. I needed the exercise, and I just couldn’t risk the lift. It’s not the getting stuck in there that bothers me. I sometimes wish for that. Then everything would have to stop. I would have to stop for as long as it took. It’s the closest you could get to having the world stop turning for a bit so you could jump off, if you know what I mean. But I wouldn’t, not in that lift, ’cause when my legs got tired I couldn’t sit on that floor knowing what’s been puked, pissed and gobbed on it.
By the time I got to Floor 4, I was already flagging. Man, you’re thirty-nine, not fifty-nine! A door slammed somewhere up at the top of the block and gave me my second wind so I could get to my place before I’d have to pass whoever it was on the stairs coming down. Floor 6, and right on cue the theme music to Casualty blasted from Number 57 so loud that their front door buzzed at me as I flew past. I had absolutely no idea who lived there, never seen them, but I knew exactly what they liked to watch on TV – we all did. Even though there was another floor between me and them, I knew they couldn’t get enough of Casualty, EastEnders, Coronation Street, and now this new version of Casualty called Cardiac Arrest – it can’t last, not two dramas about hospitals and blood and grief: surely people don’t have the stomach for it?
Floor 7 and Roddy and Dave in Number 58 were pumping out the House hits as per.
‘La da dee la dee da, la da dee la dee da,’ went Crystal Waters with her voice like the phlegmy mutterings of the old girl who sits outside Costcutter dozing in her wing-backed chair.
Here’s me trying to teach people what makes a good voice and a classic performance and these two dopes below will slam on another Acid track like they’re trying to undermine me. And now this stuff’s crossing over into the top 40 I can see that look in my students’ eyes sometimes that says: I just wanna be a star, be top of the charts, where 2 Unlimited and Snap! are, so why you getting me to sing all this old Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin crap?
Nearly there, Ash, nearly…
I finally reached my floor and the door opposite mine, Number 61, gently clicked shut like it always did when I reached the landing. It’s enough to make you paranoid, don’t you reckon? But I knew that her eye wouldn’t be at the peephole for long once she’d seen it was me. It wasn’t me she was waiting for. It was that bloody ape Daryl. I knew his name ’cause I’d heard her squeak it a thousand times through bruised lips as he crashed down the stairs telling her she’s dumped (again), and that she’s a whore and a fat one at that. Her name’s Rachel – I knew that ’cause he’d be roaring it into her door later, and she’d open it, like she did every time, and she’d let him in. Why did she let him in? Is it that she actually liked it, the way he treated her? It’s beyond me, I tell you.
My hand shook as I turned the key – it’s nothing though, just the fact that it’s bloody freezing tonight. It’s March, what do you expect? The heavy door slammed behind me and the windows all shook as if to try and get the argument going again, but I weren’t rising. I was going to be sorted in a minute.
I whacked on the TV. I already knew what was on BBC1 thanks to my neighbours down below, so I started flicking almost before the tube was warmed up. I landed on Channel 4 News first. There was talk of Nirvana’s lead singer again, put himself in a coma this time, it seems, after a cocktail of champagne and Rohypnol. Jesus, look at Courtney Love, what a state! Although I blamed the likes of Kurt Cobain for the lack of interest the music industry has in really fine singers today, I couldn’t tear myself away from the news, any news about celebs in the music biz. If it was good news I’d search between the newscaster’s words like someone reading their horoscope, vainly trying to find a comparison that signalled imminent success for me. If it was bad news, and it usually was, I’d just use it to feel better about the state of my life. So I dived in the kitchen and grabbed a pot of houmous and a bag of Doritos, the black-handled knife and the Red Leicester from the fridge, holding the crisp packet between finger and thumb, out in front of me like a dead rat so it didn’t make a racket and block out any of the sound from the TV. I was back on the sofa in a flash. I had a bit too much momentum in the rush, forgot to sit down gently and so a cloud of dust puffed up around me from the frayed green armrests. I could taste it. I’m such a scumbag! But where would you start? The sofa’s beyond saving. I’ll chuck it out and get a new one…when I get the time…and the money.
They’ve finished with Kurt and Courtney already, back to Iran…The time! As if you haven’t got the time, Ashley Bolt! You teach about six hours a week, drop off and pick up a few things here and there, do the odd gig – once in a blue moon – and you reckon you haven’t got the time. Ah, houmous and Doritos! Better than sex, eh? Haven’t got the money then…you can’t argue with that. I don’t earn enough to waste on sofas, furniture. It’s just things; things don’t matter. That’s what Kurt, even Kurt Cobain, would say. But then he can say that, can’t he? – he can afford to. Better than sex! Finish the cheese, quick! Like, when was the last time you got your end away to know about that? Iran, Iraq – how could you live like that? That would be the time with the bondage girl, who pulled a cat-o’-nine tails from her bag and told you to whip her from behind. Harder, she said. You can’t do it hard enough, she said. Bloody right, I couldn’t! Me and Jim had a laugh about that one. But then I bet she did too – probably thought I was a right letdown. I wonder whether it would make any difference if I lived in Cathedral Apartments…’Course it would. People would come back. More students. I wanted to make a proper dinner, something hot. Now I’ve had all this cheese and crisps. You knew you would. Don’t kid yourself, you dick! Now the knife’s here. Must phone Dad. Why should I? Why does she do that, that Rachel? They know I teach singers. Do you reckon they do it on purpose, those two, play it loud to undermine me? I’d probably get complaints myself in Cathedral Apartments. Got crumbs down the side of the sofa. Like it matters! But it should. Perhaps I should change the way I teach, add some of this House stuff. Stick to your guns, boy, that’s your trouble. Kurt Courtney Rohypnol Good for a comedown after a night on the pills Date rape Cheese Clean off the knife It’s clean Ah
Ah
Ah.
Peace.
The more it hurt the more I cut. The knife with the black handle had a short, sharp blade. I slid it backwards and forwards on the inside of my forearm, pressing harder each time. And the chaos all went. Everything just stopped. Except the to-ing and fro-ing of the shiny blade. All was peace and quiet in my head. Nothing existed outside either. I couldn’t hear the TV. I drew in the smoothest, longest breath. I rushed. An endorphin rush, if you know what I mean. Sex, orgasm – you’re on the right lines. The buzz off a pukka E – maybe. Scratch an itch, an itch that you couldn’t get to for ages because the time wasn’t right, or the place. Yeah, any itch, on your inside leg, your back, your bum, anywhere. It wasn’t appropriate in public, that paralysing relief you know is coming when you scratch the itch; it’s going to make you look weird in front of others. But the longer you leave it, the more frustrating it gets, and the greater the relief when you finally get on your own…
So what if that itch is deeper? Deeper than your skin, I mean. What if that itch isn’t an itch at all? What if it’s a place, a person, something they said, something they didn’t say, a thought, a dream, a nightmare, all of these things and more, crashing into the little space inside you?
The relief. The stillness. And then the blood popped out of the space between the blade and a flap of my skin and slid so fast, like a red and silent bolt of lightning looking for earth, down my forearm to my elbow. The first sound was the tapping, fast tapping of the blood dripping onto my khaki combats, making a dark purple stain. The sight of the blood on my arm had already made me stop pressing with the knife. But it was still held in place, the edges of the wound were hanging on to the blade, they were lips kissing it, thanking it for the feeling. The only feeling that made sense sometimes. The little alarm of dripping blood brought me back to reality.
Fuck, my combats’ll be ruined!
And so the next part of the ritual began. I jumped into the empty bath and dropped my trousers, turned on the taps and tried to soak them before the blood stained, at the same time running my arm under the cold one. I reached over and opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out my brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide – magic stuff this; every home should have one. Did you know hydrogen peroxide breaks down really quickly when exposed to light? That’s why it’s in a little brown bottle: the brown filters out the sun’s rays. It’s a great antibacterial thing – you can use it as mouth-wash, clean kitchen surfaces…even highlight your hair! I held my arm over the sink, whilst my feet kneaded my trousers in the bath, and poured a little over the cut. It fizzed and bubbled, all pink. Stung a bit too, but that’s a small rush after the main event. I poured again and again until the fizzing was white – it stops the bleeding and cleans the wound simultaneously, you see? Grabbed a bit of gauze from the cabinet and stuck it over the cut with tape, nearly slipped in the bath, my feet tangled in my combats – Christ, I had no intention of killing myself!
I wandered in my boxers back into the living room, switched off the TV – it was threatening to invade the little bit of peace I’d just created for myself, pull me back into chaos again too quickly. I sat back in the sofa, saw the bloody knife on the table and had to get up again, take it to the kitchen and give it a quick wash before I could sit and enjoy my peace properly. I tell you, I love this flat…no, there is something about it, honestly. Sat there, slouched on the sofa, I stroked the rough armrest as if it was a balding cat, and all I could see out the window was sky. Sky and the tips of the big tree across the road, the only one round here; its naked branches looked swollen in silhouette with budding leaves. The thin red clouds against pale blue could’ve been the sky outside a plane window or something, as I’m on my way somewhere warm, with fresh air and a beautiful landscape, shitting myself about this new life I’m going to, but knowing I’m alive – for the first time in ages having something worth shitting myself about. Then, as if to remind me that that wasn’t the case, a black dot of a plane weaved through a couple of clouds, flashing its lights smugly, and those thin red clouds were suddenly scar-shaped and sore-looking.
More flashing lights, coming from the street below, made the black tree top turn blue every few seconds. Curiosity dragged me from the sofa. The crowd was in the way, kids, women, blokes, so I couldn’t see what they were so interested in. But judging by the ambulance and the only car in the middle of the road, the driver still in his seat, but with his feet on the road and his head in his hands, it was pretty clear he’d just knocked someone over.
So if the ambulance is there, what are you lot doing, eh? Helping? No chance. Enjoying the show, more like. Getting your next fix of grief and drama since Casualty’s finished and EastEnders ain’t on till tomorrow. But what if I went down there in the street now, with my cheese knife, and started cutting my arm outside the Costcutter? They’d all run a mile; lock themselves in their scummy flats until the nutter had gone. Why? It’s OK to stand there and watch the little girl’s brains leaking onto the tarmac, but not me making a little cut in my arm. Because she didn’t do it to herself. If I hurt myself then it’s not just blood and guts and broken bones, it’s mental and emotional pain too. And no one wants to deal with the kind of emotional pain that makes you do that to yourself. That’s not entertainment, is it? It’s not good drama. And it’s certainly not art, right?
Chapter 2 (#ub51a6516-333d-563d-885f-e6bf27871035)
‘Go go go! Go go way!’ Jeanette is copying the sound of the big green birds in the fig trees. The ones with the tall white hats. She is running in and out of the trees trying to make them fly off. One does. It spreads its pretty purple wings and looks down at me as it goes. Its eyes are red apart from the black in the middle – red like Uncle Leonard’s after he has been at the cabaret all night with Dad. The bird looks unhappily at me, just like Uncle Leonard does if I wake him too early. I try and tell the bird, with my eyes, that I was not the one who scared it. But I laughed when Jeanette did it, so he is bound to blame me too.
Mum clucks like a chicken because she is unhappy at the noise we make. ‘Go and take your swim now if you want it, Clementine,’ she says. ‘Be quick! I need you to help carry the water back – that is if you want any breakfast today.’
Jeanette and I run on ahead. We know we must hurry. We are so lucky. My family are so lucky to live this close to the Nyabarongo. I try not to show it, but I feel bigger, more clever than Jeanette – even though we are both ten years old – because she always prefers to come and stay at our house. We are close to the river, you see. As we run past the last stretch of the marshes I puff the air out of my nose, so that I do not have to smell it. The smell of the marshes makes me feel sick. Jeanette has to smell that every day when she goes to collect the water with her mum and sisters. The water in their cans is always brown, the colour of the marshland. Mum walks to the edge of the river to get ours – so it is always clearer, and it tastes sweeter. And it is great to—
‘EEEE!’ Jeanette screams and falls into the mud up ahead of me. And I stand as still as a statue because my heart jumps and tells me to stop. But just for a moment.
Then I laugh at her. I laugh high and loud, louder than usual because I am relieved that it was just a big grumpy pig that came running out from the papyrus and knocked her over. The pig squeals as if it is copying Jeanette and disappears into the papyrus again just as quickly as it appeared. I jump over Jeanette and run ahead, sliding down the muddy bank. I leave my sweater and my dress on the rocks and run again – I like to try to keep running until the water slows me down and lifts up my feet and—
SPLASH!
Jeanette jumps in close to me.
‘EEK EEK, little pig!’ I say.
‘WHOOP WHOOP, little monkey!’ I suppose it was the only thing she could think of quickly.
We don’t have the breath to say much more, as we use all our energy to splash and swim. The water is nice and warm. I look up to the hills where we live. The mist is sliding away so I can try and spot my house. But all I can see from here is the banana groves. The bunches of bananas poking out from the trees look like the hands of giant green creatures holding back the branches so that they can spy on us swimming far below. I search for a moment for their eyes in the darkness and start to scare myself, so I turn the other way and watch the sky turning from pink to orange to blue. It is so pretty. Jeanette looks pretty too as the new sun sparkles in the water drops on her face. I smile at her. She kicks water in my eyes.
As I blink the water away, I feel a little moment of panic – just a tiny moment, because I cannot see – and I start imagining a big wave of water coming at me and covering my mouth and nose because I cannot see it coming to get out of the way. So, as my sight returns, I feel like I should look to the river bank to find my mum. She is there, where the water curves around the marshes, with the big papyrus plants looking over her shoulder as she crouches down and fills up our water cans. Mum is tall and thin – I think she is one of the most beautiful women in our village. If she stood up now she would just about be able to see over the top of the papyrus and over the marshes. Jeanette has disappeared under the water, swimming like a fish in case I try to splash her back. I make sure I can feel the river bed under my feet, in case she tries to pull me under, and I keep my eyes on Mum. I think she is filling the third can already, but because she is quite far away it is not easy to tell. She usually brings only two or three, but she has brought one more today because we have Jeanette’s hands to help too.
An antelope bounces through the marshes and catches my eye. They are my favourite animal – so soft and gentle, but so scared of everything. I dream about stroking their red fur and the white spots on their cheeks, but you can never get that close to one in real life. The river bursts behind me and Jeanette gasps for air, but I do not move. I’m trying to keep the antelope in my sight for as long as possible.
‘Who is that?’
‘Where?’ I say, still looking at the marsh, but I am only imagining the antelope now, following the swaying tops of papyrus and telling myself that it is the antelope that is making them move.
‘Behind your mum. Look! Over there!’ Jeanette grabs my chin and moves my head in the right direction. She does that a lot, probably because I daydream a lot, but I like the feeling of her hands on my face – it is a nice way to come back to real life.
I look back to the bank and my heart jumps, just like when the pig ran over Jeanette. A dark figure is coming round the edge of the papyrus and creeping towards Mum as she starts filling the last can. It spreads its arms wide as it gets close to her and just as it is ready to pounce I see a flash of white teeth and eyes as it smiles towards us. Then the man jabs his fingers into my mum’s sides and she screeches and drops the can into the water as she jumps up to see who is attacking her.
My dad lets out a huge, deep laugh as he hugs Mum close to stop her from slapping him. My heart is light again and excited at the new task we girls have – to catch the empty can floating off down the river. I swim as hard as I am able because I know Mum and Dad will be watching me and proud if I save the can for them. But I was never as strong as Jeanette in the water and she reaches it first and holds it up as she runs along the bank towards my parents, as if she has won the soccer championship.
I run from the river, but I stop by the edge for just a second to catch my breath – and to look at the picture of my dad greeting Jeanette and my mum cheering her for saving the can. All at once I am jealous of her and happy that she is treated as part of our family – she is like my sister. I do not have any real sisters, only a brother. These feelings are quite confusing so I run on again and concentrate on the mud oozing between my toes – that is a feeling that makes sense.
I throw my clothes on over my wet body and shout: ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ as I jump into the air towards him, and he catches me like I knew he would – he always does. ‘I saw a sitatunga over there just now, before you came. It was beautiful, all red, and it came so close I could see its white cheeks.’
‘That close, eh?’
‘So close. I think it knew that it did not have to be scared of me.’
‘I am sure it knew. I am sure.’
Mum is back, crouching by the water, filling the last can. When she finishes she gives one to Jeanette, places one at Dad’s feet – for me, picks up the other two herself and marches off up the hill towards home. I stand on Dad’s arms as if they are the branches of a tree – they are as thick and as strong – and clamber up from his chest to his shoulders, as far from the heavy water can as I can go! He does not complain, he just bends his knees, scoops up the can and follows the others, with his free hand wrapped warmly all the way around my little, cold ankle – his one hand goes easily round it, but my two arms just about reach around his neck. I have to hold on tight as I bounce around high above the sloping path on the side of the hill. So my voice wobbles when I say,
‘Tell me a story! Tell me a story, Daddy!’
‘Mmm…’
His voice vibrates against my hands wrapped round his throat. It is such a big voice that it vibrates all around his head and so my tummy buzzes with it. Because I am so high up on his shoulders, all I can see ahead of me are the sky and the many hills in the distance that still look blue at this time of day. It is like a fresh blue piece of paper that I can paint onto, paint the picture of the things that the voice tells me about. Dad’s voice. But I can’t see Dad from here, I just hear his voice, like a magic voice bringing characters to life in my mind and on the paper in front of me. That is why I always ask for a story when we are walking like this. I think Dad expects me to ask too, because he only hums for a second before he starts.
‘Many years ago, a man called Sebwgugu married a young and very beautiful woman. The day after they were married there was a severe, terrible drought. Food and water became very scarce.’
I paint the hills a hot, dry red – the colour of the main road to Kigali.
‘One day,’ Dad’s voice warms my belly, ‘Sebwgugu’s wife set out to collect firewood. And, while walking the forest floor, she came to a clearing and happened upon a thriving pumpkin patch…’
Trees cover the red hills and there is Sebwgugu’s wife clapping her hands,
‘…pleased with such a rare and lucky find, under the dry conditions. Carrying as many pumpkins as she could possibly manage, she returned home. That evening she and Sebwgugu had a delicious pumpkin meal. The newlyweds were very happy.’
I dare to lift my hands up from Dad’s neck and hold onto the top of his round head instead – still looking ahead at the scene, I can feel a big round pumpkin beneath my hands.
‘Miam, miam! Pumpkin!’ I giggle, and bounce my teeth carefully off Dad’s short hair – carefully because we are still wobbling on up the hill and I do not want to knock my teeth out on his hard head, or hurt his head, because then the fun would really be over. My giggle sounds funny and muffled when my mouth touches his hair so I want to do it again, but suddenly I feel Dad’s hard hands on mine. He scrunches up my hands like they were just leaves – he does not hurt me, he just slaps my hands back around his throat and the voice comes back. He has not finished.
