Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

‘Well, Mac’s convinced you’re on drugs,’ I said. ‘Can’t say I blame her.’

He seemed amused by this, but did not answer.

‘Please tell me you aren’t involved in all that.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, raking a centre parting in his hair. ‘Did it look like I was having any fun to you?’

‘No.’

‘There’s your answer, then. Who wants to take a drug that makes them miserable?’ His legs were folded now and he was rubbing at his feet. ‘Honestly, I’ve been wandering in my sleep since I was a little kid. Our next-door neighbours would find me in their basement when I was eight or nine. Sometimes, I’d make it all the way to Hampstead on my bike. Even crawled into a skip once — nearly got crushed by a load of skirting-boards. I see the insides of a lot of cupboards, that’s for sure.’

‘And are you always in the nude?’ I said.

The boy gave his customary snicker. ‘That’s kind of a recent development. At least I don’t wet myself any more, eh?’ As he surveyed the room, he must have noticed my workbench, the muller and slab, the canvas swatches that lay in wait for me. ‘I interrupted your work, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I should go.’

‘Stop apologising.’

He moved to get up.

‘Sit down. We’re having tea. I’ll paint later.’ There was no use in telling him that the mushrooms he had trampled in the closet were my work, or that his roving feet had set my progress back several days.

‘Thanks for this, Knell. For not being—’ He trailed off. ‘You know what I mean. People get angry. They start looking at you funny. They think you can control it, so they end up resenting you. Don’t mean to, I suppose, but that’s what always happens. . I had a doctor who said I should tie myself to the bedpost at night. I asked him if he’d chain his own kids up while they were sleeping. He looked at me like I was mad. Anyway, I gave it a try, just to see what happened. Made everything ten times worse. It’s not like I went anywhere, obviously, but the dreams got more and more intense and I nearly broke my ankles. So that just shows you what doctors know about anything.’

The kettle clicked off. ‘What sort of thing do you get up to, then, inside that head of yours?’

‘I’m always trying to find my way out, to wake myself up. But it’s impossible. Sometimes I’ll imagine a new room I’ve never been in before. Sometimes I’ll hear a voice or music in the distance and try to follow that. I’ll find some old film playing on mute, or dream up a whole library and sit there, flicking through the books, hoping there might be an instruction to help me escape, a map or something. It’s like, every time I go to sleep, I get moved back to the first square on the board — does that make sense? And a few moves in, I realise I’ve played this game before, you know? I recognise those ladders, and all those snakes look familiar. But the game never finishes.’

It sounded like absolute hell, and I told him so.

‘Yeah, but it has its good points, too.’ He mused on this for a moment. ‘You’re going to think it’s weird how much I talk about my granddad, but, for some reason, he’s been on my mind a lot since I’ve been here. I used to stay with him on weekends when my parents were away. He had a gammy foot, so he couldn’t walk far, and he hardly left the flat. So we used to just stay in and listen to records. Always the same ones. Old ragtime bands, comedy programmes, silly songs, “The Laughing Policeman”, stuff like that. His taste was quite narrow. We’d sit there listening to the same records over and over again. I got so bored of them, but there was nothing else to do. He hated modern radio, and he didn’t have a garden, and I wasn’t allowed to go out on my own. He loved the comfort of it, hearing the same old stuff every day. So I had to sit there with him, listening to it all, pretending to enjoy it. I couldn’t wait for my mum to get back and take me home. But then, once it got to the middle of the week, and I was stuck on my own at school again, I’d start wishing I was with my granddad. All those hours I must have spent with him — sitting there, hearing those same records all day — I wouldn’t swap them for anything. They made me who I am today. And I suppose I feel the same way now, about my dreams.’

‘It must be hard to go to sleep, though,’ I said. ‘Knowing what might happen.’

He shrugged. ‘Feels harder to wake up, believe me.’

The old tea leaves still had some life in them. I swirled the hot water around in the pot. He watched me with slatted eyes. ‘It’ll be weak, but that’s how I like it. I can let it steep, if you prefer.’

‘No, weak is fine.’

I rinsed two cups and poured the tea. It was almost colourless. The boy examined it, took a sip and cringed. ‘Woah, you weren’t joking.’

‘My mother’s fault. We had to reuse all the tea leaves in our house. Wartime mentality — or maybe just a Scottish one. Now I can’t drink it any other way.’

‘You don’t have much of an accent.’

‘Everything gets softer as you get older. Trust me.’

He almost laughed.

‘I’m not sure they’d take me back in Clydebank now. It’s still in my blood, but I just don’t feel part of it any more. And I’ve never really been drawn to painting it — not like London. It doesn’t fascinate me in that way.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your work. I know.’

It was uttered so bluntly that it caught me unawares, and all I could do was waft my hand, as though to cleave the very suggestion from the air. ‘Come on now, I thought we were having a nice conversation.’

The boy dipped his head. ‘I only said that because—’ He thought better of it, gulping. Then he got another burst of courage. ‘I can’t help it if I know who you are. Your stuff was up in the Tate—’

‘Please. Let’s not do this.’

‘I had to copy it once, on a school trip. The teacher made us buy the postcard.’

‘Shush, shush, enough now. You’re making things worse. Please, let’s change the subject.’ I frowned into my cup, disregarding him. I was not sure what I was most afraid of: being recognised for who I was, or pitied for who I was not. ‘I think I made this too strong. Does it taste a little bitter? I must have swilled it about too much.’ I went and dumped the tea in the sink. I stayed there, facing away from him. ‘In fact, it’s probably time I got some work done. Would you mind going back to your own place now, if you’re feeling better?’

I heard him put his cup down and climb to his feet. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, OK?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ When I turned, he was already going for the exit. ‘I feel really bad — you’ve been so nice to me and everything.’ He had shifted the blanket and tucked it tight around his waist.

‘It’s all right.’

‘Don’t be upset with me. I’m not good with people — I tried to tell you.’

‘I just need to work, that’s all.’

‘OK. I get it. OK.’ The door was still sealed up and would not open when he pulled it. He questioned it with his eyes, following the line of it around the frame. ‘Where’d you get this stuff — supplies? It’s pretty strong. I could use something like that.’ There was a full roll left on my workbench. I had plenty stashed away, so I told him he could take it, as much to ease my conscience as to please him. ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he said, spinning it round on his fingers. ‘This’ll be perfect.’ He moved for the door. ‘Now, how do I—?’

‘Just pull.’

He turned the handle and yanked hard at the door until the tape ripped back and the studio lights spilled onto the path. As he stood halfway into the night, the streaks upon his torso became gently luminescent. ‘I don’t see my clothes out there. Bad sign.’ He shuffled into the darkness, each stride hindered by the blanket. I wanted him to stop, and turn, and tell me he was mistaken, that he did not recognise me at all. But my will could no more influence a boy and his behaviour than it could stop him dreaming.