And then Nicholas was back on the shore and she scooped him out of the dinghy, wrapped him in a towel and held him close. He was shivering from cold, his chattering teeth rendering him speechless. He buried his head in his mother’s chest and she pulled the towel right up over his head, like a hood, protecting him, holding him. Then she turned and saw the young Spanish man and the English dad swim out to Jonathan, who had been left behind. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to get back to shore. He was flapping his arms, pushing down at the sea. It was all in slow motion.
People were speaking to her in Spanish, kind voices, smiling, stroking Nicholas’s head, happy at the rescue of this little boy. And then the English mother pressed against her ear and whispered:
“Don’t let him see. He mustn’t see.” And a few of them gathered round to screen Nicholas’s view of the beach. Catherine turned to see Jonathan’s body being carried from a boat. A speedboat had come but too late to help and she watched as Jonathan’s body was laid out on the sand. Then she looked away. She shielded Nicholas.
“You’re hurting me,” were his first words.
She hadn’t realised how hard she had been pressing her son against her. Other mothers had gathered round, forming a barrier to protect the child from seeing the body of the man who had saved him.
“You should take him back to your hotel,” said the Englishwoman, her hand on Catherine’s arm. “Where’s your stuff?”
And Catherine pointed to her towel and bag and the woman went and gathered them up and Catherine put a T-shirt on Nicholas, and took his hand.
“Shall we go and see if the hotel will do you a hot chocolate?” She was shocked by the calm in her voice.
“Yeah,” he said brightly, and he picked up the rope to take the dinghy with them.
“Let’s leave it here, Nick. We’re going home tomorrow. We won’t be able to take it on the plane. Someone else can play with it.” She braced herself for tears, but he was fine about it. Forgotten already. The novelty worn off. He didn’t mention it or the incident again. Ever. She waited for it. For the memory of his fear, of the realisation that he was too far out and she wasn’t with him, that the sea was too rough, that he had been rescued, but it never came. He never said a word about it. He was freezing, he had said that, but he never said that he thought he would drown. He never said he was scared. Perhaps he hadn’t been. He’d been cold and he’d wanted to get back to the beach, but then someone came and got him. Simple as that. He had never really feared for his life.
As they walked up the steps from the beach, Catherine looked back one last time and saw Jonathan lying on the sand, covered in two towels. Dead. She knew he was dead. And what did she feel? She presses herself. What did you feel?
43. SUMMER 2013
A story has been playing on the news all day, a story of children who have died of shame, unable to tell their parents about pictures they have posted on the Internet to predatory adults who pretend to be their friends. Some of these children are as young as eight. This has been the sound track as I have pored over photographs of Jonathan as a child, the news story running through my head as I search for the picture which best captures my son, the one which shows him as I wish him to be remembered. If Jonathan were a child today, I don’t believe he would have become a victim of those monsters. He would never have died of shame because he knew he could always talk to his mother. He knew he could tell her anything and she would never love him any less. They were as close as a mother and son could be.
So close, that it was Nancy, not me, who was the one to tell him the facts of life.
His mother, not his father. You’d think it would have been easier for me, but it was Nancy he listened to, Nancy he talked to. When I tried to tackle the subject with him he’d stuck his fingers in his ears and la-la-laad so loudly he’d drowned me out, and Nancy and I had laughed about it afterwards, how funny he was, how silly. He’d hit puberty early, he was only eleven, but he needed to know what was what so she said she’d do it and I remember thinking, good luck, he’ll be even more embarrassed listening to his mum talk about sex. But he wasn’t.
She’d sat him down and made him look her in the eye and told him there was nothing to be frightened or shy about. It was natural. One day he would meet the right person and then his uncomfortable urges would make sense. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he should feel free to explore his own body, in fact she encouraged him to do so and told him that if he was ever worried about anything he could always talk to her. I remember a few occasions when I walked past his closed bedroom door and heard the murmur of their voices. He knew he could trust her and I knew not to intrude on them. Jonathan could be sure that no matter what he did his mother would always understand. Our son would have been safe from Internet predators like me.
I have lied about my age to lure someone younger than me into being my friend. I have pretended to be someone I am not.
Last night I posted up the rest of the photographs. No child should have to see their mother like that. What would it do to you, seeing your own mother exposed like that, everything on show, the shame, the filth? I doubt whether he’ll ever be able to erase those images from his mind. But there’s no going back now. We are on a mission.
Little Nick. He is waiting for me — he wants to know more about the photos. Who took them? And so I tell him. Then I post up the picture I have chosen of Jonathan. A little boy age ten, wearing the sweater his grandmother knitted him for Christmas. He looks as pleased as punch, chest out, showing off the Ninja turtle she’d stitched into the front. And I add the words:
Jonathan Brigstocke
6 June 1974–15 August 1993
A perfect stranger who died saving your life
It will take him a while to get his head around Jonathan’s death — his young friend who never was — to get his head around everything I have posted up for him. The book will help him — I have given him page numbers so this time there’ll be no chance of him failing to recognise her or himself. Nancy must have her say too. Perhaps he can come up with some answers to her questions.
Why didn’t she help her child? How could a mother turn her back on her child and leave him alone in the sea? A child who couldn’t swim. No armbands, no rubber ring. How could any mother in her right mind do that? Was she out of her mind?
She would have watched her child drown — she said that she’d wished Jonathan hadn’t done it. Those were her actual words. Was her passion for Jonathan greater than her love for her child? Little Nick. Is he such a devil of a child that even his own mother didn’t think him worth saving?
Up it all goes, the extract from Nancy’s notebook, my last post. I feel as if I have stuffed a kitten into a sack and dropped it in the canal. I can hear it mewing but there’s nothing I can do to save it now. Sink or swim, it is up to him.
44. SUMMER 2013
Somebody grabs his arm and pulls him to the door. Finish up now, finish up. Somebody pushes him out onto the street, bolts the door, locks him out. He starts to walk but trips. Is pushed? No, trips. Better sit down. Sit it out. And he sits on the ground, back against the wall. He’s still holding the book. Flicks to the end. Wants to read his mother’s death. He laughs. Pure fucking fantasy. Good luck to them trying to get her under a train. Go back, go back, go back further. Find the sex. Mum sucking the nineteen-year-old’s cock. How fucking weird is that. Shit. It’s working on him too, can’t have that, and he stands up, drops the book on the ground, and pisses on it. Greasy, cold beads of sweat ooze from his pores as he urinates; his piss spits back at him. He presses his hands against the wall, steadying himself, and kicks the book as hard as he can, watches it scuttle along the pavement. He slides back down the wall, sits down. Shuts his eyes. But it’s in there. It’s in his head and he can’t get it out. He digs his fingers into his scalp wanting to prise the images out of his brain but he can see them so clearly.
Mummy’s love. Lost at sea. She watched him die. Poor old Mummy. A flip of a coin but Nick won the toss. Saved when he should’ve been lost. Someone should help her; give her a hand throwing herself under a train. He closes his eyes and a red and yellow dinghy bobs by: a little speck in the distance; a little speck bouncing off the edge of the world.
Numbers swim in front of him. A two or a seven, no, two. Two twos, twenty-two. Then nothing. A blank house. Boards instead of windows. But there is a bell and his fingers squabble for it, his ear presses the door. He’s hot, then cold, nauseous. He can’t remember getting here, but he’s here now. This is where he wants to be. Hasn’t been for a while, has resisted the urge, but it’s where he needs to be. A buzz, a distant buzz. And then the door opens and he falls through. Aah, the familiar smell of dog shit. He’s sick into his hands — tries to catch it. He’s tried that trick before; it never works, bits escape. His cupped hands overfloweth, but no one cares. Clean yourself up, mate. He is inside, makes it up the stairs. Just needs to close his eyes for a minute, then he’ll be all right. He curls up on the floor, a giant foetus, and listens to their low murmur. He doesn’t need to know what they’re saying, he just wants to hear the sound. It’s enough to know he is in their midst — a fellow traveller.
He imagines a different story for his mother: a tragic heroine who lost her only child in an accident at sea; she would have made a full recovery from that loss; she would have played that part well — would have suited her better than being the mother of a low-key, low-energy, underachieving worthless shit.
He rolls onto his back and opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. A face peers down at him and smiles. “You all right?” And he smiles back. He feels better. A bit better. Makes it to the bathroom. Washes the sick off his hands, washes his face, swills his mouth with water, spits. His phone vibrates in his pocket. Dad. Fuck off. But he calls his mum. Is that his voice? Is he leaving a message? Something comes out.
“You okay?” from outside the door.
“Yeah,” he croaks, staring at his lips moving in the mirror. He tears himself away, and opens the door. A girl is standing there. A pretty girl.
“You all right?” She looks over his shoulder into the bathroom. “Who’s in there with you?”
He stands to one side and she looks in.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“You were crying.”
“I was being sick,” and he grabs her hand, wanting her to come with him, but she pulls away. He stumbles back into the main room and sits down on the sofa. It stinks, someone’s pissed on it, and springs dig into his spine. But he doesn’t want to move. He never wants to leave this place. This is where he can be his best self.