The Things We Thought We Knew Read online

  The murders caused a panic throughout the city, rabbit owners withdrawing pets from outside and heightening security measures. Many other Germans were alarmed by the massacre, fearing where the killer might move next. As for me, I remained indifferent until the day Amma decided to update me about the matter over a curried-lentil breakfast.

  ‘Fussel was just three years old when he met his horrifying fate,’ she read from the newspaper spread over her lap. ‘The pet rabbit was snatched from his cage in the western German Ruhr Valley along with his sister Marianne. Both were decapitated and bled dry. Their lifeless bodies were left behind for their distraught owners to discover the next morning.’

  If I’d been using a fork, I would have dropped it. Instead, blobs of yellow dripped from my hand and splashed back into the dish as Amma, oblivious to my shock, continued to scan the newspaper for more horrifying news.

  The rabbit had been called Marianne, a ridiculous but true fact that had disturbed me to the point of making me tremble. It had been years since I’d heard the sound of your name, never in connection with such barbaric acts. My mind began reconnecting history like pieces of a broken jigsaw, cramming them together whether the picture matched or not. The day you disappeared in December 1999 you’d fled the country, gone into hiding in the form of a German rabbit, found sanctuary with a kind-hearted buck named Fussel who agreed to be your replacement brother, living a happy, carroty life together. Then, one night you’d been pulled from your refuge and slaughtered by a satanist. Fussel had sunk his bunny teeth into the ankle of the perpetrator but he too had his head chopped clear off his body.

  I blame repeated viewings of Watership Down for my imaginative reworking. Although technically a children’s cartoon about bunnies it was the most brutal and realistic film we’d ever been exposed to. As I imagined heads being ripped from fluffy bodies, I comforted myself with the image of your black, rabbit-shaped soul bouncing over the hills as Art Garfunkel sang ‘Bright Eyes’.

  But even Garfunkel couldn’t stop the nightmares that night. Bunny heads lying across my bedroom carpet and rolling around the sheets. Blood from their severed necks seeping into the white of the bed linen as their large, black eyes stared out at the wall.

  Stop! you yell. Enough with the decapitation and blood!

  I mention this all for a reason.

  This morning I had the same dream about decapitated rabbits’ heads, except this time there were also cats. Not decapitated but full-bodied ones lying on their sides with knives stabbed into their guts. Around them the birds in the wallpaper were squawking and flapping their wings. Their flapping was so vigorous they looked ready to attack the corpses, every beat of their wings promising the possibility of escape from their paper prisons. It was only when I woke up, the noise of them still ringing in my ears, that I knew to dismiss it as a nightmare. But then a memory of Sandy Burke made me realize that the dead cats were not completely plucked from the ether.

  Memories pretend to leave you but they’re always there. Always ready to catch you off guard, to remind you that life is never as simple as what you happen to be dealing with at the time.

  There is always the past, waiting to pounce.

  The Constellation of Phagol Betty

  It took us a while to realize Sandy Burke was smitten with your uncle. She had a strange method of courtship that involved being snide and distant whenever Uncle Walter was in her presence. It was only on the day of the stabbing that we realized the truth.

  To teach us survival strategies, Uncle Walter had been pretending to be a bear in your living room. Since we’d discovered he was a survival expert he’d taught us the basics of how to escape killer bees and what to do when lost in the desert.

  For our lesson about bears we’d moved all the furniture to make him a den and put on our hunting gear, which consisted of fishing hats and green poster-paint smeared over our cheeks as camouflage (Amma had screamed when she saw me later, mistaking me for a goblin). We’d crouched behind the coffee table as your uncle pretended to be asleep, scratching his belly and itching his nose with the back of his hand as he held a jar of honey in his arms. Whenever we crept up to his cave, he began to toss and turn with a loud grumble, making us jump back and return to the safety of the coffee table. Then, when we got close enough to reach out for the honey, your uncle would wake up and roar with such viciousness that we instantly fled, holding on to our hats as we squealed like animals caught in a snare.

  ‘No, no, nooo!’ he said in alarm. ‘You don’t run away from the bear unless you want it to run after you.’

  ‘But it’s so hard not to run away,’ you said from behind the coffee table.

  ‘It’s instinct,’ I added.

  Your uncle shook his head. ‘Do you want me to chase after you?’

  We both agreed that we didn’t.

  ‘Then you need to lie down and be still. Remember, lie down and be still.’

  When we attempted the reconstruction again, I was the first one to scream and run. Your uncle chased us around the living room in large, plodding steps. He scooped us up by the waist, dangling us upside down as he roared, ‘LIE DOWN AND BE STILL!’ We could feel the rumble of his chest as he bellowed, quickly repeating the words ‘LIE DOWN AND BE STILL!’ until eventually he released our chuckling bodies and returned to his makeshift cave to begin the whole process again.

  It was during this bear-hunting activity that Sandy Burke came knocking at the door. Jonathan, who had confined himself to his room because of ‘all the stupid racket’, emerged with a smug grin.

  ‘Oi, bear, are you going to answer that door or what?’

  Uncle Walter uncurled himself from his sleeping position.

  ‘All right, Mr Grumpy Pants,’ he said, before hauling himself to his feet and making his way through the living room.

  It always took a long time for Uncle Walter to walk anywhere, not just because of his weight but because of the unfortunate angle of his head, which meant he could see very little in front of him. When he walked it was belly first, legs, then head. It was as though each body part was testing a different layer of the room, checking for any items he might trip, bump or knock into. By the time he made it to the door Sandy Burke was banging it like a drum, but Uncle Walter still looked through the spy hole. He’d been tricked by Bradley Patterson and his bicycle goons one time too often, opening the door to have them hurl abuse at him before running off in hysterics.

  ‘Fat bastard!’ they’d cry. ‘Marshmallow Man! Flabber jabber!’

  When Uncle Walter eventually inched the door open, Sandy was quick to push her way through, balancing the twins in her arms as they lay in their carriers.

  ‘Did you hear?’ she cried, voice gasping. ‘Did you hear about the stabbing?’

  Each strand of her afro bounced up like exclamation marks on her head. Mascara had stained her sunken cheeks with grey trickle marks and her skeletal body was shivering so forcibly we could hear the chattering of her teeth. She looked at the chaos of our living room and temporarily broke out of her panic.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said, as Uncle Walter walked past her and pulled the overturned sofa back into place.

  Sandy shoved one carrier into your arms and the other into mine, and didn’t wait for an answer as she sat on the sofa and blubbed. We placed the babies on the floor and rocked them back and forth as we crouched down in front of them. They were round and plump as tomatoes, dressed in a ridiculous pale pink, floral headbands placed over their wispy hair. But even the cherubic faces of the twins could not distract us from Sandy’s disturbing news. It had been she who had found the body stretched out behind the rubbish bins, a kitchen knife punched into the belly.

  ‘I was just walking to the shops when I saw it,’ she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Just to get some milk, that’s all I wanted. I wasn’t expecting it. I know it’s rough round here but no one expects to see that. Right there in front of me, a furry black tail sticking out from the bins.’
/>   It took us a moment to compute.

  ‘An animal?’ Jonathan said. ‘Is that all?’

  Sandy Burke’s shrivelled neck whipped to the side as she eyeballed Jonathan.

  ‘Animals are people too,’ she said with a mild hiss. ‘I thought your mother would have taught you that.’

  Jonathan opened his mouth to object but Sandy produced a look so vicious that he snapped it closed again. Sandy Burke was the only person who could shut your brother up. I never knew if it was because of your mother’s friendship with her or because of the tattoo of Death on the side of her neck.

  ‘It gives him the willies,’ you told me once, sticking your palm out for the handshake of secrecy. I would have given anything to have rubbed the fact in his face but when I shook your hand the secret was locked away.

  As Uncle Walter brought over a box of tissues and patted Sandy Burke on her bony shoulder we listened intently, waiting for the gruesome details.

  ‘It was a cat. A black and white tabby. Poor little sod. I can’t stop thinking about it, Walt. What if they go after my cats next? What if they don’t stop there? You know this is how serial killers start, with small animals? It could be the twins next. Lord knows, it could be any of us.’

  Despite Jonathan’s blasé attitude, you and I were petrified by this news. We’d never known anyone to be murdered before, and the fact that a cat was the victim made little difference. As Sandy sobbed into your uncle’s chest, you looked over at me with genuine worry.

  ‘What if they go after Stanley?’

  I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t worried about that disgusting fat slug but the yellow eyes of the Soul-drinker. I didn’t tell you at the time but I was convinced he was the culprit. He had begun his spree of soul-catching and I was the only one who knew.

  We waited for Sandy to give us more information but as she clung on to your uncle her thoughts seemed to wander.

  ‘I don’t know if I can take it, Walt,’ she said, squeezing her arms around the mounds of flesh that made his belly. ‘This is just like what happened to Bobby.’

  She began rubbing her hands all over your uncle’s torso. His back stiffened, his face flushing raspberry red as he glanced over at us.

  ‘We shouldn’t talk about that,’ he said. ‘It’ll only get you upset.’

  She looked up at him with blinking eyes.

  ‘But I can’t help it, Walt. It was done in the exact same way, wasn’t it? Knife to the gut.’

  To demonstrate, Sandy clenched her fist and punched it into her lower abdomen. I watched as her hand bounced back up, imaginary blood spurting across the room.

  Uncle Walter began to squirm, the folds of his body jiggling up and down.

  ‘We shouldn’t be saying this in front of the kids,’ he said, nodding towards us.

  Considering the fact your uncle had told us about the electrocution of his own mother, we were surprised by this statement and opened our mouths to protest.

  ‘You’re right,’ Sandy said. ‘Why don’t you kiddies go to Jonathan’s room and play with the girls, eh?’

  Jonathan scowled. ‘Why my room?’ he asked.

  Sandy raised her chin, the hooded image stretching tall along her neck. When we got into Jonathan’s room he flopped on his bed and crossed his arms.

  ‘Stupid cow,’ he murmured. ‘Who does she think she is?’

  At first we heard very little from the living room and were quite happy to play with the twins. Even Jonathan got involved as we swapped their headbands and asked him to guess who was who. Eventually we swapped so many accessories that nobody could identify them. We began calling out their names, as if they were puppies, seeing if they would respond.

  ‘Hooope … Faaaith.’

  They were as confused as we were and it was only when we heard the yelling that we tore our attention away from their lopsided bows.

  ‘Typical! Bloody typical!’ Sandy cried.

  We heard her flat feet marching across the living-room floor. There was a mumble from Uncle Walter followed by a grunting noise from Sandy.

  ‘When are you going to be ready? I’m a woman, Walt. I have needs … And to think I’ve been trying to defend you!’

  We crept back downstairs, placed the twins in the hallway and got down on our knees. Crawling to the living-room door we prised it open and arranged our heads along the gap. As we peeked through, we saw Uncle Walter sitting on the sofa with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, his hair ruffled into a bird’s nest. Sandy was leant over him, the zip of her hoodie pulled down to reveal a fuchsia push-up bra beneath. She dropped her voice and began pointing at him.

  ‘There’s been rumours, Walt. You’d be stupid to think there wouldn’t be. Louisa Cartwright came up to me the other day and told me she had full intention of calling the social services about Elaine running off like that. She said you shouldn’t be allowed to look after the kids, what with your problems.’

  Uncle Walter began shaking his head. Sandy pressed her finger in her chest.

  ‘You know what I did, Walt? I lied. I said she hadn’t run off, was just on holiday while you took care of the kids. I said she’d told the council all about it, that it was all legit, and the stories she’d heard about you weren’t true anyway.’

  Uncle Walter was now muttering under his breath, eyes blinking like a flickering computer screen on overload. Sandy gripped her hipbones.

  ‘And why did I lie, Walt? For myself? For that two-faced cow of a sister of yours? No bloody way! It was for your sake. For you. Lord knows, I wish I hadn’t bothered now!’

  Sandy tossed her head back before getting to her feet and charging towards the totem pole of our eyes.

  ‘Sorry, kiddies,’ she said as she pushed the door open, toppling our bodies to the floor. ‘Apparently I’m not welcome here.’

  She began muttering to herself as she grabbed hold of the two carriers. As she stood tall I could see that the New Labour bumper stickers once plastered across the back of the carriers had been ripped off, leaving a trail of teeth-shaped paper remains glued to the blue plastic.

  ‘Not ready?’ she cried back at the living room. ‘You’ve never been bloody ready for anything in your life, Walter Dickerson!’

  She slammed the door behind her, making the banister in the hallway shake. We looked at each other then ran into the living room.

  ‘What the flip happened?’ you said, then froze at the sight of your uncle sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands.

  He was rocking back and forth, wet patches circling his shirt. When we got closer we could see beads of sweat all over his clammy skin and hear rapid muttering.

  ‘But I didn’t mean to … You can’t do that … You can’t!’

  ‘Uncle Walter?’ you said.

  He carried on rocking.

  ‘Don’t say that. No, please, no!’

  ‘Uncle Walter?’ you said again, voice getting high.

  He only seemed to become more panicked, his skin freckling with white spots. Suddenly his hands were punching at his gut the same way Sandy had punched at hers.

  ‘Bobby, no! Bobby—’

  ‘HEY, WALT!’

  Jonathan’s voice roared so loudly it made us all jump, including Uncle Walter. His head snapped up, his whole body sitting upright as though jabbed in the back. His eyes searched wildly around the room, swimming round his sockets like fish pulled out of the water.

  ‘Uncle Walter?’ you said for a third time, but he didn’t seem to hear. He wasn’t mumbling any more but his eyes were still searching.

  You turned to look at me. Your tanned forehead crinkled with worry.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ you asked.

  I looked over at Jonathan, eyes wide behind his glasses. I hoped he might know what to do, but he only looked back at me with a shrug. I stepped forward, knelt down on the floor and grabbed your uncle’s hands.

  ‘Remember your survival strategies,’ I said, squeezing deep into his palms.

  Uncle Walter’s eyes foc
used. I could see ripples of brown weaving through the emerald of his irises as his pupils locked on to mine. He squeezed my hands back, then sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘Survival,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘Survival.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ you said, kneeling down beside me. ‘Remember your survival strategies!’

  Uncle Walter carried on sucking as though he’d come up for air from a deep-sea dive. Beside me I felt Jonathan crouching down on the floor with us. He didn’t say anything but the blood drained out of his fingers as he gripped on to his knees.

  Uncle Walter let go of my hands and flopped back on the sofa. He sat there panting for a while but when he looked up, his eyes were no longer searching. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and began patting his wet skin.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Everything’s OK now.’

  We carried on looking at him sceptically. He cracked a small smile.

  ‘Thanks, kids,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Amma comes into my room with her ‘I know everything’ smile. She seems different somehow and it isn’t until she pats the bun at the nape of her neck that I realize the white streaks that normally flow in waves down her scalp have been replaced with the matt darkness of burnt wood. It isn’t flattering, this dyed hair; in fact, it emphasizes Amma’s wrinkles. Suddenly her skin is saggy, her eyes less vibrant against this mock-colour that is so fake it makes her look as if she’s wearing a wig.

  ‘Why have you gone and done that?’ I ask.

  Amma’s smugness is replaced with a stern surprise that makes her chin stretch low, cheeks hollowing in.

  ‘I never taught you to be rude, Ravine,’ she says with a coolness that instantly shushes me.

  Amma rarely gets cross with me and as soon as I see her expression I know I’ve overstepped the line. I sit quietly as she reads me the junk mail and say nothing about the black stains on the tips of her ears.