Kevin Brooks - Born Scared

Everything wasn’t fine, though. I didn’t leave my problems behind. And by the time I was talking well enough to express my feelings, there was no doubt what was wrong with me.

‘I’m scared, Mummy.’

‘Scared of what, love?’

‘Everything.’

The Santa in the passenger seat of the stolen Land Rover pulled down his stringy white beard and cursed again as he scratched his unshaven chin.

‘This is killing me,’ he said, flicking angrily at the beard. ‘It feels like it’s made of asbestos or something.’

‘Put it back on,’ the Santa in the driver’s seat told him.

‘I don’t see why –’

‘Put it back on.’

The driver’s voice was calm and measured, but there was a chilling edge to it that his companion knew better than to ignore. He’d seen at first hand what his partner could do to people who didn’t take him seriously, and although they were partners – of a kind, at least – he knew that didn’t make any difference. Partner or not, if the man sitting beside him wanted to hurt him, he wouldn’t think twice about doing it.

‘I was only saying,’ he muttered, pulling the elasticated beard back up and refixing it to his face.

‘Yeah, well don’t, okay?’

The Santa in the passenger seat shrugged sulkily then turned away and gazed out of the window.

It was 11.42 a.m.

They were taking the back way to the village, driving across the moors, and the Santa in the passenger seat knew this area like the back of his hand. He used to come up here with his friends when he was a kid, happily ignoring the KEEP OUT! MILITARY FIRING RANGE warning signs to search for anything the army had left behind after their manoeuvres the night before – spent rifle shells, burnt-out flares, even live ammunition, if you were lucky. He knew that on a clear day you could see for miles up here, all the way across to the distant Hambleton Hills, but today the snow was so thick and heavy that visibility was practically nil. The raw moorland wind was blowing so fiercely that great sheets of snow were gusting horizontally across the desolate landscape, and he could feel the car struggling to stay in a straight line.

As he rested his head against the cold glass of the window, he wondered once again what he was doing here. Why do you keep getting yourself into these things? he asked himself. I mean, what’s your problem? What’s so difficult about saying no?

His name was Leonard Dacre. Most people called him Dake.

The driver’s name was Carl Jenner.

‘When this is all over,’ Jenner said, breaking the silence, ‘you can go out and buy yourself the most expensive Santa Claus costume in the world.’ He glanced at Dake. ‘Solid gold buttons, silk trousers, a snakeskin belt . . .’

‘A beard made from polar bear fur . . .’

‘Yeah.’

The two men grinned at each other, and the Land Rover drove on through the snow.

I don’t like hiding things from Mum – it makes me feel like I’m betraying her – but I learned a long time ago that sometimes it’s best for both of us if I keep certain things to myself.

Like Ellamay, for example.

I was about four years old when I first realised that I had to keep Ellamay to myself. The Doc had been round to see me, and afterwards – while he was talking to Mum – I was sitting on the floor looking through one of my favourite picture books, and it just so happened that Ellamay suddenly came to me.

Are you all right, Elliot? she asked. What did the Doc say this time?

‘He wants me to see a special doctor,’ I told her.

What kind of special doctor?

‘A brain doctor.’

Why?

‘To stop me being frightened.’

‘Elliot?’

It wasn’t Ellamay’s voice this time, and for a second I didn’t know what was happening. Then Mum spoke again.

‘What are you doing, Elliot? Who are you talking to?’

I looked up at her. ‘It’s Ellamay.’

‘Who?’

‘Ellamay.’

Mum looked puzzled, and as she turned to the Doc I could see that she was worried too.

‘Who’s Ellamay, Elliot?’ the Doc asked me.

‘My sister.’

‘Your sister?’

I nodded.

The Doc turned to Mum. ‘Ellamay?’

Mum shook her head, and I could see now that there were tears in her eyes. ‘He didn’t get it from me . . .’ she muttered, her voice catching in her throat. ‘You know I couldn’t bear to give her a name . . . he must have made it up himself . . .’

‘Have you heard him talking to her before?’

‘I always thought he was just talking to himself.’

She was crying now, tears running down her face. I got up and went over to her and put my arms around her neck.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s not your fault . . .’

But it was my fault. Who else’s fault could it have been?

And ever since then I only talk out loud to Ellamay when we’re alone.

Another thing I learned not to say out loud was ‘monkem’. Monkems are all the people in the world except for Mum, Auntie Shirley, and the Doc. They’re called monkems because they come to me in my dreams as horrible scary things with hairy monkey bodies and long grasping arms and bandy legs and little human heads with vicious grinning mouths with their lips pulled back over nasty big monkey teeth . . .

That’s what other people are to me.

Terrible things that want to rip me apart and eat me.

Monkems.

The first time I said it in front of Mum she told me I mustn’t say it any more.

‘Why not?’ I asked her.

‘You can’t call people monkeys, Elliot.’

‘Mon kem s,’ I corrected her. ‘Not mon key s.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she said (which made no sense to me at all), ‘but people might think you’re saying monkey, like I just did, and they might think you’re being horrible to them.’ She gave me a look. ‘You don’t want anyone to think you’re being horrible to them, do you?’

I told her I didn’t, and since then I only ever use the word when I’m on my own or with Ellamay. Not that it makes any difference. The way I react to monkems – screaming my head off and running away in terror – they must think I’m mad anyway, so what does it matter if they think I’m horrible as well? And besides, even at that age – three or four years old – I was very rarely seeing anyone else apart from Mum and Shirley and the Doc, so the chances of me upsetting a monkem by calling them a monkem were virtually non-existent.

I wish this was easier. I wish I could just lay my hands on your head and transfer what’s inside me to you. I wish you could be me, if only for a moment, so you’d know exactly how I feel.

But that’s not going to happen, is it?

Wishes never come true.

shake it . . .

like this

It’s twelve minutes past three now and I’m back in my room. Still hatted and booted and gloved, still sticky-skinned from the drying cold sweat, and still sick to my bones with fear.

What are you doing, Elliot? Ellamay says, sounding confused and slightly frustrated. I thought we were ready to go. I thought we’d –

‘It’s all right,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve just remembered something, that’s all. I won’t be a minute.’

I cross the room and go into the bathroom.

Oh, right , Ellamay says. I see.

She thinks I’m going to the toilet.