This story was first published in Cheval 12 (Parthian Books, 2019).
The cupboard’s getting too small. It’s like one of those priest holes Mum’s been teaching me about when we do history. Catholics had to hide their priests when the Protestants wanted to burn them at the stake. Mum calls me her little priest. I’ve got to hide like them, which is stupid cause I’m not Catholic. I’ve never seen a cross at home, in here or the bit of hallway that leads to the bathroom. When I go there, Mum closes all the curtains and I run as fast as I can.
The cupboard used to be a toilet, but Mum took it out. Still smells. All my stuff’s on shelves above my head. Loo-ming, which is a word I like cause it sounds scary. My camp bed squashes a bit at the end which used to be fine but now my feet push against it every night. Mum says it’s cause I’m growing into a big strong lad like my brother David. He’s the best. He comes in to read with me or to chat. We can’t play video games in case we make too much noise.
“You’re better off reading anyway,” Mum says. “I’m not having you left behind cause of me.”
Mum couldn’t have me. It sounds weird, but when you get money from the gov-ern-ment (a spelling Mum wants me to learn), you can’t have more than two kids. That’s the rules.
But Mum says some rules are made to be broken. So I stay in the cupboard and get lessons from her. Mum’s great at teaching, so great she wanted to be a proper teacher, but she never got the qua-li-fi-ca-tions (I can spell that one backwards) cause she had Sarah. I’ll get them though, one day, and we’ll never need money from the gov-ern-ment again.
“Then you can have lots of babies,” Mum laughs when I tell her. “Get a good job and have as many as you want.”
“No. Babies are icky.”
Sarah’s getting married and Mum says I can share David’s room! And go to proper school. Only thing is I have to say I’m her nephew and my parents died so she’s looking after me now.
I’m ready for the wedding before everyone, so I practice looking sad in the living room. If anyone asks me about my parents, I’ll look convincing. There’s lots of photos of Mum, Sarah and David. Girly giggles from Mum’s room. David trying to sing along to his rock music. I taste the perfume and Lynx from here. Spit out the taste in my hands.
Looking sad’s getting boring and it’s hard when everyone’s so happy. I’ll see what Outside looks like. Three grey blocks coming out of the ground, with balconies. The little glass towers far away are cooler, like spaceships. I’ll work in one of those when I’m older.
Some policemen walk past the window. Without the curtains closed.
Into the cupboard. I make myself small in a corner. They’ll burn me like the Catholics. Bang. Yelling through the walls. I’ll be smaller.
“What’s going on?”
“Where’s Sam?”
“If they come in here, I’ll kill them.”
Running past the cupboard. Mum says a bad word in the living room. She runs back.
“Sam? Sam!”
“I’m here!”
She crawls in the cupboard and hugs me tight. She puts her hands over my ears, but the yelling still goes on like I’m underwater. There’s something wet in my hair.
“They’re not here for you, baby, they’re not here for you,” Mum mumbles.
There’s a ghost above us. I scream but the light turns on and it’s Sarah in her wedding dress.
“Mum, it’s ok. They’re gone.”
“I thought…” Mum says.
“David’s watching to make sure, but I think it’s just next door. Dragged the kids off.”
“All of them?”
She nods. “In demand, aren’t they?”
That means when you want something really badly. But if we can’t have kids, who wants them?
“We have an honoured guest for our debate today,” Mr Smith says. “Students, please welcome Bexleyheath and Crayford’s Member of Parliament, Mr Hensley.”
I straighten my tie and stand with the others. I still feel crooked, slouched. Don’t know why; I passed Eleven Plus like everyone else. A boy from Hackney across the room (we catch the same Tube to school) tenses too, then sees me. We grin.
Everyone sits when the MP does. Dust specks drift between our teams in a slant of sun.
“Today’s motion; ‘The two-child benefit cap should be repealed.’ Discuss.”
The cap. We talk about it all the time, in citizenship class and in history. It’s like my life’s being chucked on the table for discussion. If I get too upset about it, the teachers might ask questions. When Mr Smith put me on opposition I nodded. Keeping quiet keeps me safe.
Opposition starts, and we talk such shit. Not enough money to go around (bet some of them have), who needs more than two kids (the girl who said that is one of four). The worst one is when someone suggests the kids would be better off with different parents. Yeah right. I went into primary two years ahead of everyone cause of Mum.
Affirmative team isn’t doing better. There’s stuff about the economy growing and human rights, but nobody talks about kicked down doors and screaming kids. Not being allowed to exist. The Hackney boy says something about estate rumours, like the stuff Sarah believes. It’s bad enough as is, never mind if the kids are being turned into glue.
It comes back to the opposition. To me. I stand. Mr Smith said the hardest part of debating is when you’ve got to argue for something you’re against. I can’t stay quiet. Sorry, Hackney.
“The rumours addressed by the speaker are spread to disincentivise people from breaking the law. It’s an advantage of the system. The children aren’t punished like their parents.”
Mr Smith’s head bobs up and down, to me then the MP. He mouths; good student. One of my best.
The MP’s forehead shines like he’s cooking. He shakes his head and walks out.
“You’ve got to try this, lads.” Andrew taps his fingers on the bar as the bottle clunks down. “Asian giant hornets brewed in vodka. It’s an aphrodisiac, which, if you listened in Biology like a good boy, means you can be a very bad boy later.”
“Think you need a girlfriend to benefit from that,” I say.
The lads shake on their barstools, hooting with laughter.
“Alright, calm down, Scholarship,” Andrew says, but he grins.
Andrew’s friend pushes away the dish of cricket gambas. Poor sod’s the only vegetarian in The Roasted Snail. Everything’s made from insects.
“Sam, you’ll have a cricket, won’t you?”
“Course.” A spicy crunch between my teeth. “Not like there’s anything else to eat.”
“I mean…” the vegetarian says.
“I meant meat.” I laugh. “Wait till I’m a solicitor. I’ll get fat off the stuff.”
“Not even then,” Andrew says. “I haven’t had meat since Christmas. Father could afford a whole herd, the cheap bastard.”
A ‘chef wanted’ sign on the chalkboard. I text the details to Mum’s boyfriend. It’s a bit far, but the family might like it better in Oxford. Better life for his two kids and he can come off benefits. So could Mum, with the salary he’d be getting here. No more kids in the cupboard.
“But you’ve had meat?” I say to Andrew.
“I forget sometimes you haven’t.” Andrew sighs, elbows on the bar. “Pork and beef and all sorts.”
The lads get his look.
“Sausages wrapped in bacon.”
“Please tell me you’ve all had lamb.”
“But you know what the best is…”
“Should we really be talking about this?” The vegetarian looks at me. We’re on our first pub and he already looks sick.
“I’m fine. They’re not rubbing it in. Andrew, which did you say you liked best?”
The vegetarian picks up a cricket. A crack between his forefinger and thumb. We, and the cricket, stare at him.
“If I ate this cricket right now, will you buy my drinks the rest of the night?”
Andrew grins and reaches into his pocket.
“Only if I can film it.”
Cicadas for starters. A glazed pile, ringed by cucumber and lemon slices. Like shit dressed up. It won’t offend my boss if I refuse. But only having champagne makes me look like I’m here to get drunk. Everyone else from Highdale Solicitors has a glass in one hand, cicada in the other.
“It’s the shells that get me,” I say to my boss, waving away the tray.
“I understand. Insects can be irritable. The stuff we’ll put in our mouths! But the main course…” He takes a slow sip. I do the same. “Will be red meat.”
Saliva coats the inside of my mouth. “It’s kind of you to get it in for us.”
“I wanted to celebrate. It’s been a good year, especially with the trainees. Some I’d bring onto the firm straightaway if I could.”
He gives me a look. I’ll eat every tray of cicadas if that means what it means.
His wife comes over and smiles at us. Her perfume hints at lilies but the smell from the dining room is the biggest hint at luxury.
“Looks like dinner’s served. I’ll see you in there.”
I go to the toilet before dinner starts. Quick, so I don’t return to bones. I’ll phone Mum later. A job in sight. Red meat. Everything I’ve worked for starts here.
The downstairs toilet is bigger than my childhood cupboard. When I’m a solicitor, I’ll get Mum a bigger place. Now I’m alone I can turn my phone on. Caleb smiles back at me, blue eyes from Mum’s boyfriend, matching the jumper I sent him. It’s stupid of Mum but it doesn’t matter now. That benefits cap will never hang over us again. That cupboard will stay empty.
Fifty missed calls from David.
“David?”
“Where the fuck you been?”
“Firm’s policy. Work phones only during the day.”
“What, you been sleeping there? I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday.”
Yesterday I worked till midnight on a case.
“God, I’m sorry. I’ve been working on my training contract.”
“Mum’s killed herself.”
I hold the phone from my ear. Tears spill over. “Why. How. What about…”
“She jumped off the balcony. The police cuffed her, but she ran…”
“Police?”
“Someone tipped them off about Caleb.”
God. I grip the sink. Champagne sways in my stomach.
“She said she knew what they’d do to her boy. She couldn’t take it.”
“I can do something. Challenge the council in court. It’s too late for Mum…” I rip off some toilet paper. Wipe my eyes. Down a sob. “But we can get the kids back.”
“Sam. It’s too late.” Laughter from the dining room. “Where are you?”
“Boss’ house. We’re about to have dinner. I’ll make an excuse and go.”
Everyone’s joking and chatting as I enter. I catch my boss’ eye.
“I’m sorry, there’s been a family emergency.”
“I can see from your face. Take some food with you, you’ll pass out.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’d rather be going as soon as - Stop.”
Boss’ carving knifes hover above the roast. Crouching on a silver platter. Crispy skin puckered from flesh. The smell. Sweet, like Mum say babies smell. She was right.
“Davidson? Was there something you wanted to say?”
Closer. Blue glass eyes. Caleb’s shade. His smile gone, lips curled in like rinds.
“Davidson, you don’t look well. Have some meat.”
All my saliva, my anticipation, my meals from the days when I could’ve saved him on the floor. Tongue choking. Shaking.
“By God, is he drunk?”
“Well, if you’re not used to champagne…”
Spit the last bits of vomit. It doesn’t reach my boss’ shoes.
“Davidson! Someone help him up, call him a taxi.” A whisper. “Someone clean this mess.”
Arms under my pits. Down the hall. One of the staff; I smell the kitchen on their apron. Can I walk? Would I like water? They understand, they’ve seen the cook’s face blanch whenever he orders red meat in. He gives the babies eyes to remind them back there what they’re eating but they never care. Non-disclosure agreements but everybody knows.
I still hear them in the dining room.
“That’s going to put me off my dinner.”
“Now that’s unfair. Andrew said he’s from the East End. It might be his first time drinking champagne. He’ll get used to it. Anyway. Leg or breast?”