Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

Stephen trod carefully down the stairs. Some creaked, and the sound scared him. He might fall. He went to the kitchen once he safely reached the bottom.

All the refrigerator had to offer was some soup from the day before and a piece of cheese. He’d have to go shopping but didn’t like the idea of getting wet again. But there was ice cream in the freezer section. He smiled, then sneezed again. He sat at the table, digging in. Neapolitan. Not as good as raspberry ripple.

He looked out the window. Rain was pelting down now, the sky low, very dark.

(Like the night mummy died.)

The rain was pounding the flowers on her grave and he frowned. He would have to get more as he hated the sight of the earthen mound without their pretty petals giving the ground a splash of colour. mummy had loved flowers so much. father said it was a waste. Still, he tended the grave with loving care, just the way mummy would have done.

Drip… drip… drip…

He shuddered. The tap was leaking, making hollow sounds in the sink.

Drip… drip… drip…

Watch noise again.

He rushed over to turn it off. The handle was stiff, wouldn’t turn any further, and he grumbled to himself.

Drip… drip… drip…

No! He hated the sound. Ticking. Time had no place in the house. father said so and he was always right; that’s why there were no clocks.

(I AM A FREE MAN!)

The wind rattled the window pane. Outside, a gust lifted the rain-lashed roses from the sodden earth, spreading yellow petals over the overgrown lawn.

Drip… drip… drip…

He couldn’t listen to the sound, he’d have t —

“Stephen!” father suddenly shrieked from upstairs, making him jump, making him drop the bowl of ice cream. It shattered into four pieces on the cracked red linoleum.

“Stephen!”

He ran from the kitchen.

Drip… drip… drip…

Up the stairs.

Creak… creak… creak…

His father’s face was red with rage.

“Look!” the old man cried, his long beard jerking, spittle flying from his lips as he held up one of the books, a rare copy of Fodor and Katz’s The Structure of Language .

“Look, you simpleton!”

The edges were damaged, probably as a result of dropping the books. But there was more. Worse. The inside of the back cover was marked by a stain, still damp.

“I’m… m… m… s-s-s-s-orry, f-father” Stephen mumbled, trying to control his stutter.

“Come here!”

He shuffled towards the bed, knew what was coming.

Father reached for the birch rod he kept beside the bed.

Stephen hesitated.

“Here.”

No. Not the rod. Please, not the rod again!

“Stephen! You — you cringing son of a whore.”

He stepped to the bed and extended his left hand.

The rod came down. Hard.

The first blow stung.

The second made his hand feel like it did the time he burned it on the cooker.

The third made him cry out.

“Shut up!”

father went to hit him again, and he pulled back.

“Whoreson!”

The old man suddenly pushed himself away from the pillows, his speed belying his aged frailty. The blow caught Stephen across the face. He squealed, feeling his left eye flinch with the pain.

Then father began to gasp. Deep, agonizing gasps as his asthmatic lungs tried to pull in air. He clutched desperately at his pyjama top, dropping the rod on the bed, trying to reach the respirator on the bedside table. Books, the empty glass, and the respirator went flying.

“Help… me!” father gasped.

Stephen stood still, his hand burning, his face throbbing, eye smarting from the blow.

“Help… me…” A whisper this time.

He moved, scampering for the respirator, thrusting it into father’s hands. The old man pressed the button, the oxygen hissing into his mouth as he collapsed back onto the pillows.

Stephen stood there, afraid to move, to speak, tears running down his cheeks.

The Crocodile! It was the Crocodile’s fault! It had scared him, made him drop the books.

father wheezed for a while, but his breathing eventually steadied. The old man looked at him with contempt.

“Look… look what you caused, boy. You want me to die?” Stephen shook his head — no. “You fool. I was cursed the day you crawled from your mother’s womb.” father paused. “I wanted a son, a son who could continue my work. What did I get? An imbecile. Don’t look at me with those pitiful eyes — your mother’s eyes. Not mine! Just like her — weak.” He wheezed. “The sight of you makes me sick.”

father turned away.

Stephen stood there terrified, his stomach churning with hurt and fear.

“Go.”

Stephen turned, shuffling, heading for his room. Outside, a huge gust of wind pushed against the house, and as he went down the long dark hallway he could hear the trees tapping against the bathroom window. He’d gone but a few feet when father called his name again. He went back to the bedroom.

“My books,” the old man said.

Stephen picked up the volumes lying on the floor, copies of Behaviorism , Beyond Freedom and Dignity , and Chomsky’s Language and the Mind , placing them neatly on the bed.

“Good boy,” father said softly.

Another gust beat against the house, the branches of the elm outside father’s room tap, tap, tapping forcefully against the window like the fingers of an old man seeking sanctuary from the storm. father ignored the noise, settling back into his pillows, closing his eyes.

Stephen went to his room. Stepping over the pile of magazines, he threw himself on the bed, sobbing as he crawled beneath the dirty blankets, pulled them around him as he tucked himself into a ball.

Eventually he slept.

He awoke in the dark to a steady roar of rain on the roof, rhythmic sprays against the window. His face hurt. His hand hurt. His stomach groaned with hunger. After listening to the rain until he felt totally lost like the little boy he’d read about who’d survived the sinking ship only to spend five nights adrift on the ocean, he crawled from the bed deciding to eat some soup.

Drip… drip… drip…

The tap in the kitchen continued to taunt him, but he decided he was going to eat the soup hot instead of cold and lit the gas stove. The wind continued to lash the rain against the windows, drowning out the dripping noise.

“mummy,” he said. “I wish you were here.”

Tears, silent this time, fell as he stirred the soup. His left hand was red and swollen, and his eyelid, bruised, nearly covered his eye, reminding him of the Pirate.

(Crocodile)

Dread lay on his shoulders, rounded despite his twenty years, like a heavy overcoat.

“mummy.”

Drip… drip… drip…

It was no good, the tap was too much. He poured the barely warm soup into a dirty bowl and went to the lounge where he wouldn’t be able to hear it.

The television was an old black-and-white Ferguson set he’d also discovered in the street on one of his seek-and-ye-shall-find missions. mummy and father never allowed one in the house when she was alive, but with father bedridden, he didn’t know Stephen had one. He switched it on, turning the volume up so there was no chance of hearing the tap.

BBC 1 was showing the news.

Boring.

ITV had a quiz show.

Maybe.

But BBC 2 was showing a wildlife programme. He smiled faintly. He liked wildlife programmes. mummy said they were WHOLESOME. Like those Disney films she took him to. (Crocodile)

He gritted his teeth.

(go away)

David Attenborough was in Egypt walking across sand, pyramids jutting up into the sky behind him like upside-down ice cream cones.