‘They don’t allow aminals.’
Do I imagine it, or does Herbie look at him?
‘Ok. Duckies?’
He nods. I should have brought bread. No more ‘should’s – another nugget from the meetings. It’s the ‘should’s that set up shame, which leads to self-flagellation, which leads only one way. Sounded so reductive and simplistic in there, but out here I’m clinging to anything that might keep me on the straight and narrow. We sit on a bench, the rain soft but drenching, Tommy swinging his feet. How I’d like to whip those absurd trainers off and throw them in the pond.
Marmie is hiding under the bench, Herbie seemingly staring into space, the stench coming off him, his own special wet-dog waft.
‘Herbie? Come here, boy.’ I pat the space beside me, between Tommy and myself, inviting him to climb aboard and soak up some of the awkwardness. He doesn’t move.
‘It’s raining,’ Tommy says, pronouncing his ‘r’ as if he’s been taught perfect RP at RADA.
I check my phone for messages. Nothing.
‘Shall we move to the bandstand, Tommy? It’s not raining under there.’
He gets up, satisfied with this plan, and shuffles off on his own, leading the pack.
Will we ever be a pack again? In the bandstand, I dance an Irish jig: a haon, dó, trí, ceathair, cúig, sé, seacht, a haon, dó, trí, a haon, dó, trí. ‘Come on, Tommy,’ I whoop, grab his hands; a misstep, as he backs away from me.
He has moved to the far edges of the railings and is staring at the pond, his back tense. ‘Can we go back to the house now?’ he says. I notice that he doesn’t say ‘home’。
I can’t go back to the confines of those claustrophobic rooms; need to be wind-whipped, rain-lashed, need space, perspective. ‘In a bit, Tommy, ok?’ He doesn’t answer. I tie the animals to the railings, tell Tommy to mind them, and step off the bandstand into the rain. Start to jog, building into a run, lose sight of Tommy for a moment as I loop the circumference of the park. My imp is there in the bushes, little bitch. Increase my speed, blinkers on.
On my third lap I see Tommy standing in the centre of the field, holding on to the two drenched creatures. One more round. I wave. No one waves back. My heart. I complete two more laps, my tendons aching, shin splints hurting, lungs busting, pulse throbbing in my neck. I stop, do a little puke, feel momentarily better, then walk back towards the trio.
‘Right, let’s all go home, shall we?’
I catch Tommy throwing his eyes to heaven. I turn and start to weave my way dizzily out of the gate. Despite my physical exhaustion, a bolt of raw fury shoots through me. How dare they take my son away from me and replace him with this sanctimonious, little-green-man-obeying, eye-rolling stranger? I begin to run, and don’t look back to see if they’re all following. Strike out on to the slippery road, not waiting for the traffic lights to change – when did I ever wait for the little green man? – and continue running until I reach the front door. Turn then, see them all trailing behind me in a line. Swallow. I have to battle a desire to get on my knees and throw myself at their feet.
Once inside the hallway, the four of us freeze and size each other up. Tommy makes a soft tip-of-the-tongue-to-the-palate click, mobilising the animals to follow him. They move as one into the kitchen, the sound of the tap running, cupboards opening and closing. I follow them and see him standing on the worktop, reaching for a bowl.
‘Tommy?’
He pretends he doesn’t hear me.
‘Tommy? That’s too high. Let me…’
As I reach past him, he flinches. I lift him off the counter, place him on the floor, fill a bowl for the animals, his plastic cup for him. He turns his back on me.
A whole-body lovesickness burrows inside me, biting and scraping. I find myself moving towards the front door, grabbing my keys, my wallet. Slam the door. The white witch has me in her thrall. I sit in the car, start it, rev it. This is it, the moment of unconscious surrender, but there is some other part of me watching: angels, good and evil, battling it out. Hear voices from the meetings: cunning, baffling and powerful. Ask for help, something outside of yourself, a Higher Power, something in nature, a tree, a member of the group, doesn’t matter who or what, just ask. Get humble. Sister Anne? Please help. The Man Above just won’t do it, the Divine Mother too abstract, the angels too ephemeral… too… insubstantial. Need something solid, something real to hold on to, need to hear a voice to interrupt my own. I take my phone and swipe, overriding my last sense of him. The line connects. ‘Can you come over?’