Brat, p.14
Brat, page 14
“It’s not a story,” I said, “it’s real. All my skin is peeling off.”
Jadon Sancho scored for England. He picked the ball out of the net and ran with it back into the center circle and placed it on the spot for the Germans to kick off.
“Great,” my brother said, “now we have to have hope again.”
“It is all peeling off. I promise. And my leg got infected. But I peeled the infection right off. Like I’m Wolverine.”
“Jordan Henderson is a fucking clown,” my brother said.
“And it’s happening to a character in one of Mum’s manuscripts, too. I can show you the manuscript. But she does not remember writing it. She thinks it’s a different book. It’s about a boy whose skin is all peeling off. He goes missing. And the mum, in the book, has to find him. With the help of a gross scientist.”
“This isn’t funny,” my brother said.
“I am not being funny,” I said. “The manuscript keeps changing. Or it changed once. And in Dad’s study there’s a story about a VHS tape that keeps changing. This morning a boy and girl came to the house. While you were asleep. I think they’re the boy and girl in the book. Their mum died in a car crash, too. Like in the book Mum thinks she wrote. But his skin didn’t peel off, I don’t think. Just mine.”
“This is not funny,” my brother said, “and I don’t know if you’re joking.”
“I am not joking,” I said. “I can show you the manuscript. I can show you the skin next time it happens. You can meet the boy and girl. When they come round again. And I can show you the video. You’ve seen the pictures of it.”
“I think you should see a doctor,” my brother said.
“They say we can’t sell the house. I need to look after it. Or something really bad will happen. I’m serious.”
“Right,” my brother said, “that’s what this is about.”
“Yes. But not like that. I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Without the house. You’ve seen what’s happening to it. It’s like my skin. It’s like me.”
“That’s what this is about,” my brother said.
“Yes. But not like that.”
“My wife just lost her job,” my brother said.
“What?” I said.
“She lost her job,” he said. “Last month.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, because I didn’t.
“Yeah, well. Now you know. We need to. Don’t make me choose between supporting my family and your insane, grieving bullshit. Because I will look after my family.”
“It’s real. I’m scared.”
“You need to talk to a doctor.”
“You are a doctor. And I don’t need to. It’s real. I can show you.”
My brother straightened his back. He turned his head to look at me in my eyes.
“You’re grieving,” he said, “that’s all. People do it in different ways. But you need to see a doctor. For your head and your skin.”
“I am grieving. But this is not a facet of that.”
“People grieve in different ways. And you are grieving very weirdly.”
“This is not a facet of that,” I said.
“I cried like a bitch when I heard Dad died. I got drunk and drove to a lay-by in the country and cried like a bitch. For two hours. It’s okay.”
“You shouldn’t drink-drive,” I said.
“You shouldn’t drive. Because you can’t even drive.”
“You never taught me,” I said. “Nobody ever taught me.”
“You have all your book money,” he said. “It’s not as easy for everyone else. Some people have to actually have jobs. You think I want to sell this place? I need to.”
“I didn’t know that. But we can’t.”
“We can, and we will. And everything will be fine. And in a couple of years we will laugh about this together.”
“I’m scared,” I said. “Please.”
“You need to talk to a doctor.”
“You are a doctor. And you are my brother. Why won’t you believe me? I am frightened.”
“I am not qualified to help you with this. You need to understand that.”
On the television Germany scored again.
“Fuck’s sake,” my brother said. “Fucking fuck.”
I finished my beer.
I stood up and left the room.
I badly rolled a joint and took it out into the back garden. The air was getting colder.
I shivered.
The cold made me feel very small.
I felt frightened and drunk and embarrassed.
I lit the joint. It tasted bad. The roach was too loose. My tongue burned. There was the sound of the motorway far off.
In less than thirty seconds I felt stoned.
I heard something move in the growing bushes and shrubbery and gray-black trees at the bottom of the garden.
I knew exactly what it was.
But I just thought: let it watch.
I thought about Christmases I would spend at home from university, years before. Smoking in the garden, looking out into the black, just like now.
Going out for a cigarette or joint and Dad joining me, drunk and sheepish in a cardigan and Crocs, two or three minutes later. Then my brother too, sometimes, if his wife and son were asleep.
And I would finish my cigarette, and then just stand there watching them smoke theirs, until they finished, and I would love them both so much that my heart hurt.
And then we would go back inside to where my mother was waiting for us all.
In the living room I picked up the remote and turned the television to the VHS input.
“What the fuck?” my brother said.
“I need to show you this,” I said.
“I was watching that. It’s England. You should be, too.”
“It’s five–one. And it’s not going to get any better.”
“I’m not indulging this,” my brother said.
“Please,” I said, “don’t be a prick.”
“I am not indulging this,” my brother said. “I am going to watch the football.”
“If I am wrong, then I am wrong, and then I will go to a doctor,” I said. “But you need to look at this first.”
“I’ve seen this. You sent photos to me.”
“But not the manuscript. You don’t know what they mean. Because you haven’t seen the manuscript.”
My brother put his head into his hands. He exhaled. Then he rubbed his eyes. Then he looked back up. But at the television. Not at me.
“Fine,” my brother said, “whatever. Let’s do it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But you are going to talk to a doctor. And tomorrow we are going to finish clearing out this house and we are going to sell it.”
I thought about what the boy and girl had said and how scared I was. But I didn’t know what else I could do.
“If you still want to after, that’s okay.”
“Okay,” my brother said.
I put the tape that I’d retrieved from upstairs into the player.
I pressed play.
Snowstorm appeared.
I waited for the start of the video. My mother’s lap, and then my father’s face, and then my brother grinning, running toward the camera. But it didn’t start.
I looked at my brother. But he didn’t look at me. He took a drink.
I could hear the tape running in the player.
I waited.
“Is this the right tape?” my brother said.
“Wait,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
I looked at the television. Then I looked back at him. Black and white flickered on his face.
I heard the tape stop in the player.
“Right,” my brother said.
“No,” I said, “hang on.”
“You see how this looks,” my brother said.
“No,” I said. “This happens. In Dad’s script. I told you about this. It’s just happening here.”
“It’s a blank tape,” my brother said.
“It’s not,” I said.
“You’re sure you got the right one?” he said.
“Yes. This shows it’s the right one.”
“You see how this looks,” my brother said.
“You’re not listening,” I said.
My brother made a mouth noise.
“Rewind it,” he said. “Maybe I missed something.”
He stood up and went to get another beer.
“That’s not how this works,” I said. I rewound it anyway. I pressed play. Snowstorm filled the screen again.
My brother walked back into the room with two beers and two glasses of whisky.
“Two drinks,” he said, “remember?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m listening. I’m watching the tape. This is what we agreed. I’m trying to be nice.”
“You’re not listening,” I said.
“I am,” he said. He put all the drinks down on the coffee table.
“You’re not,” I said. The screen was still full of snowstorm.
“Are we done?” my brother said. “Have a drink.”
“The manuscript. The manuscript, too. In Mum’s study. You have to look at that, too. Please.”
Then the snowstorm stopped, and our mother’s lap appeared.
“See?” I said.
The camera turned to our father. He made his funny face into it. Then he smiled.
“I don’t need to see this,” my brother said.
“You do,” I said.
I waited for the camera to turn to my brother. But it didn’t. The tape just stopped there, right on our father, young and handsome, smiling at us out of the television.
The image stayed on the television, shuddering.
“I really don’t need to see this,” my brother said.
“It changed,” I said. “You saw it before. It changed.”
My brother sat down on the sofa. He looked at Dad. Then he looked over at me.
“You get this is horrible for me, right?” he said.
“What?” I said.
“I don’t want to look at this,” he said.
I looked over at Dad. He shuddered on the screen, stuck mid-smile.
Then the snowstorm reappeared.
I felt bad.
“Right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I mean, Jesus fucking Christ,” my brother said.
“It’s okay. I’ll turn it off. I’m sorry. But you need to look at the manuscript, too.”
We went up the stairs and into my mother’s study. I went first. I wanted to look back at my brother to check if he was still there. But I didn’t. I just listened to his footsteps.
“Sit down,” I said. “It’s that one.”
I’d turned the manuscript all the way back to the front, to the title page.
“Yeah,” my brother said.
He sat down at the desk and turned on the desk lamp. I leaned against the wall by the door. I felt it move behind me, a shift, a sinking.
The shade on the lamp gave the room an almost transparent, blue glow. My brother looked down at the title page.
I felt frightened. I didn’t know which version of the manuscript he’d see. It could be the version I’d read first, the one my mother had told me about on the phone. Or it could be the strange story I’d read about the skinless boy who goes missing. Or it could be something else altogether.
“A Bit of Earth,” my brother said.
“That’s right,” I said. He turned to me.
“Do I have to read it aloud?”
“Shut up,” I said.
“Not aloud,” he said, “got it.”
He looked back down at the title page again. Then he turned back to me.
“What?” I said. He made a slightly pained face. Then he composed himself.
“I’m doing this because I love you,” he said. “But it is really fucking horrible for me.”
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t think you do,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I felt bad.
“Like, really fucking horrible.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, again. “She’s not dead yet.”
“Yeah,” my brother said. He looked at the title page then back at me again.
“Just read it,” I said, “please. And if you still think I’m being whatever I will do whatever you want. I’ll stop bothering you. I’ll see a doctor.”
“And the house,” my brother said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Okay,” my brother said. He turned back to the manuscript so I couldn’t see his face.
I closed the door behind me.
The football was over on the television. The news was on. A volcano had erupted in New Zealand. Wild dogs had taken over a Scottish town. A million tubes of moisturizer were washing ashore, off the back of some capsized container ship.
I didn’t want to watch that so I went out into the garden to smoke another cigarette. The garden was very dark still. I thought about my brother alone, upstairs, reading; the room blue from the light from the lamp.
The cigarette got short quick. I moved my fingers so I didn’t burn them.
The back door opened behind me loud.
I turned.
“Is this some kind of fucking sick joke?” my brother said. He had the manuscript in his hand.
“What?” I said. “What version did you get?”
“There’s nothing here. There’s nothing in it. It’s not a book. It’s just the same page over and over.”
“What?”
“You’re fucked. In the head. Or you have been lying to me. Which is it?”
“Show me,” I said. He handed the manuscript to me, then turned around.
I opened the manuscript.
“You probably printed this. You can’t even put effort into a sick fucking joke.”
He was right. It wasn’t a manuscript at all. It was just the title page over and over, maybe three hundred or three hundred and fifty times, each set alone in black on its own bright white page.
My brother came back toward me.
“So, what the fuck?” he said.
“This is like the tape in Dad’s script. At the end of it. And the tape just now. Just the beginning over and over.”
“What?” my brother said. “It’s not like anything. You printed this out.”
“You haven’t read Dad’s script,” I said.
“No,” my brother said. “That’s enough. Either you fucking printed this out, or our demented mother did. And now you’re making up some sick shit to fuck with me. So I don’t sell this place. You need to see a fucking head doctor.”
“I don’t. Don’t you see? The tape literally changed just now. It was blank before. Then we saw Dad.”
“I left the room and you switched the fucking tapes.”
“It happens in Dad’s script, too. It changes. There’s something bigger going on.”
My brother took a step toward me and pushed me in the chest.
“This is fucked up. Stop fucking with me. It’s enough.”
“It will be there. You just need to read it again, maybe. It changes.”
“Shut up,” my brother said. He pushed me again.
“It’s in there. And I can show you my skin. And you can talk to the boy. We need to look after the house. We can’t sell it.”
“Shut the fuck up,” my brother said, “I’m not being funny.”
“You’ve seen the video. You saw it change. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t care about the video.”
“You should. You do care. Or you wouldn’t be so angry.”
“I don’t care. Except that you are fucking with me. And fucking with my family.”
“I am your family.”
“This is what family does?”
“I’ve seen it change. And Mum remembers writing it. Ask her.”
“She’s sick and so are you.”
“I’m not sick. I’m fine. I’m right.”
“This is not right. This is cruel. My wife was right. This is unhealthy. You’re just trying to get attention.”
“I’m not,” I said. “That’s not fair. You’re not being fair.”
“I’ve been too fair. Once this is over, it’s over. The house. This isn’t what family does.”
“It’s not over. How can you not see that? You’re so fucking stupid.”
“Shut up,” my brother said. He pushed me in the chest again.
Then he snatched the manuscript out of my hand and threw it against the wet ground hard.
The bright white pages scattered on the black. They moved in the wind.
“You just don’t want me to be right. Because this works for you. Mum is sick and Dad is dead and I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said, “I think you’re cruel.”
“Why the fuck would I do this?” I said.
“To get what you want. To get whatever stupid fucking thing you want.”
“I don’t want this,” I said.
“You don’t want to sell. You hate my wife. You hate my family.”
“I am your family.”
“Are you?” he said. “Are you fucking really? He’s my dad. Do you really think he’s yours?”
In the bathroom we cleaned the blood off our faces. One of my front teeth felt loose. But I tried moving it and it stayed in me.
I looked at my brother in the mirror. We made eye contact through the mirror and then I looked away. Then I looked back at him and used my front tooth to flick my thumbnail in the direction of the mirror, in the direction of his reflection. My right hand hurt where I had hit him in the side of the head without closing my fist properly.
