Last Bus to Everland, page 13
I stop by a huge pile of hardbacks. There are cookbooks, plays, pictures books, anthologies of fairy tales . . . a proper mountain of them, at least ten-feet tall. Some are so well worn, the spines are falling off. I pick up the one closest to me – what looks like a Russian gardening manual – and flip through it.
‘How many of these have you read?’
‘Not enough. I could come here every Thursday till I’m ninety, and I still wouldn’t have time to read them all.’ She picks up a hardback book with Arabic letters stencilled on the cover and runs her fingers down the spine. ‘Still, it’s something. I’m doing an apprenticeship to become an electrician, and at the weekends I help my parents out in their shop. I hardly ever have time to read in the real world.’
She leads me through another room and up the stairs, past wobbling stacks of medical journals and knee-high piles of Mills & Boon. Jake would love this place. He somehow manages to get through three or four books a week, most of them brick-sized tomes about politics or international relationships. My tastes are a bit more limited: since Peter Pan, I’ve read a few books for school, a couple of sci-fi things my gran gave me for Christmas, and all the Harry Potter books five times each. Jake used to go on and on at me about branching out. That’s probably what put me off.
After a few more turns through the maze, Kasia walks into what could be a bathroom, if it wasn’t filled with books: the tub and sink are overflowing with picture books, and there are stacks of newspapers piled up on the shelves. She fishes through the books in the bath and pulls out a blue hardback.
‘Here it is,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘I thought you might like this.’
I brush a layer of dust off the cover. There are vines of golden ivy around the edges, with fairies and swallows dotted between the leaves, and a delicate illustration of a boy, a crocodile and two mermaids around the title. Written in the centre, in bright gold lettering, are the words Peter and Wendy, J. M. Barrie.
I look up at Kasia. ‘How did you know?’
‘Well, you have a cat named Tinker Bell. That was a clue.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a first edition. Signed and everything. Makes me wonder if the author brought it here himself.’
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I carefully turn to the opening page. All children, except one, grow up . . . Just reading that first line brings the story flooding back to me: the Lost Boys, the pirates, the ticking crocodile . . . Wendy sewing on Peter Pan’s shadow, Tinker Bell sacrificing herself for Peter, then being brought back to life by kids who believed in fairies. For a few seconds, I’m five years old again, chasing after Tink and demanding Mam put the DVD on for the thousandth time.
‘I used to love this,’ I tell Kasia. ‘I practically knew it off by heart.’
‘You should keep it. Belated Christmas present.’ She sits on the edge of the bath, then reaches over to pick a large, tatty atlas from the shelf to her right. ‘There are millions of books in here. No one’ll miss it.’
‘Are you serious?’
I don’t know how much first editions go for, but it must be a fair bit. Probably more than what Mam makes in a month. I stammer out a thanks. Kasia nods, but her smile has disappeared. She opens the atlas, absent-mindedly thumbing the dog-eared corners. For a moment, I think she’s forgotten I’m here, but then she begins to speak.
‘Did Nico or Zahra ever tell you about Magda?’
I look up, surprised. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’
‘Yeah. Well, my ex now.’ She turns the page, and her eyes haze over as she stares down at a map of the Middle East. ‘I found Everland two years ago. We were both going through a bit of a rough time. Magda has really bad anxiety, my dad kept pushing me to leave school and get a job, and my mum wasn’t over the moon about me coming out as a lesbian. I don’t know why or how I ended up on Calton Hill that night. It was like I was being pulled towards the door . . . Like it was calling me.
‘I brought Magda here the next week. For the first few months, everything was perfect. You know what this place does to you: it makes everything in your real life feel like it’s behind glass, like it can’t really touch you. We went every single Thursday, stayed as long as we could. But then it started to . . . leak into real life.’
She turns the page of the atlas to a map of China. Her hands look older than her eighteen years: they’re pale and bony, with bluish veins that poke out below her knuckles.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask.
‘She couldn’t concentrate on anything. She was spaced out all the time. You’d be talking to her, and she’d trail off in the middle of a sentence, just staring at nothing. Magda was never that academic, but after a while, she couldn’t even focus enough to write more than a few words – I had to do all her homework for her. Her parents thought she was on drugs or something. They even took her to the doctor for tests, but obviously they didn’t find anything. The only time she really seemed present was when we were on our way to Calton Hill, and she was only her normal self in Everland. I should have known she would decide to stay.’
I lean back against the wall. ‘Stay in Everland?’
Kasia nods. ‘It happened four months after we started coming here. We were sitting up in the hills when the tug started, that feeling that it was time to go home . . . but when I went to leave, she didn’t follow me. I fought with her, obviously – I even tried to physically drag her away, but I could feel the door starting to close. I had to leave or I’d get stuck myself. So I left her behind.’
She falls quiet again. I can tell it’s hard for her, saying all this. Reliving it.
‘So . . .’ I pause, working it out. ‘That means she was missing.’
Kasia nods. ‘She was gone for a whole week. Her parents were freaking out. Especially after her weird behaviour – they were scared she’d hurt herself or overdosed or something. I had to lie to them, to the police. Nobody believed that I didn’t know where she was. Her mum kept phoning me, crying and begging me to tell her the truth. But if I had, they’d have thought I’d lost it. Or that I was trying to cover up something even worse.
‘When I finally went back the next Thursday, I was ready. Nico and I rounded up a couple of people from one of the squares and got them to help us carry Magda to the green door. It took four of us, and she kicked and screamed the whole way, but eventually we managed to push her through. It was like she was possessed – she almost shoved me down the steps of the monument trying to get back through the door. Even after it had disappeared, she kept pushing at the pillars, trying to find a way back in.
‘She still had her phone on her, so I turned it on and rang my own number to make it look like she’d called me – I knew the police were going to ask how I’d found her. Then I called her parents. By the time they arrived on Calton Hill, Magda had stopped fighting, but she still wasn’t right. She seemed terrified: she kept saying she didn’t know where she was, that she wanted to go home. I remember her dad running towards us, shouting her name . . . Magda looked at him like he was a stranger. Totally blank.’
My stomach lurches. ‘She didnae recognize him?’
‘Or her mum. It was like she’d forgotten her real life altogether.’
Kasia tilts her head to stare at the ceiling. Forcing her tears back. I don’t know what to say. It makes me think of the first time Dad had a panic attack: all the confusion about what was happening, all the fear. I know how it feels to watch somebody come apart like that.
‘God,’ I mumble. ‘That’s terrible.’
Kasia sniffs and looks back at me. ‘Yeah. It really was. Her parents had to take her to hospital. They wouldn’t let me come, but they called me later demanding to know what she’d taken. Even when the tests showed up negative, they still blamed me. Eventually they had her sent to a psychiatric hospital. Her parents haven’t let me see her since. Her friends keep me up to date, and apparently she’s doing better now. Most of her memories came back, but there are still blanks.’
She falls quiet again, flipping through the atlas. The pages move down through Asia and into the South Pacific, but judging by the haze in Kasia’s eyes, she doesn’t see any of it.
‘I think . . . I think it happened because I brought Magda here,’ she says quietly. ‘When I came to Everland, it was like I was being drawn here. Like it was calling to me. It was the same for Zahra and Nico, and everyone else I’ve asked about it. It wasn’t like that for Magda.’
A cold feeling comes over me. ‘So, what? You think Everland was punishing her or something? You think she didnae belong here?’
She pauses for a moment, thinking. ‘Not punishing her. I just think she couldn’t handle it. Most people know when it’s their time to stop coming here – like Dani did. If I hadn’t forced her out, Magda would have stayed in here forever. Before you, and the other people Nico brought here, she was the only person I knew who hadn’t found Everland on their own. There has to be a connection.’
Blood starts to pound in my ears. Kasia’s gaze remains impassive, knowing, and for a second, my sympathy for her is replaced with a blaze of rage. This is my place. I know it is. It gave me the band, didn’t it? I feel more like myself in here than anywhere else. She can’t tell me I don’t fit.
‘You just want rid of me,’ I snap. ‘You’ve been trying to shove me out since the first night I came here.’
Kasia’s eyebrows rise. ‘I’m telling you this because I like you, Brody. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.’
My hands clench around the copy of Peter and Wendy. It feels like a bribe now; a souvenir from a too-short holiday. As if a book could be a fair trade for what this place has given me. I toss it towards the pile of books by the sink, but I miss, and it slips down to the floor, bending the pages in the middle. Kasia winces.
‘You’re wrong,’ I tell her. ‘I do belong here. Just as much as you.’
I storm out of the bathroom. Kasia follows me down the corridor, calling my name. When I turn around she’s holding Peter and Wendy in her hands, straightening out the folded pages.
‘Look, I’m not saying you have to leave. I just wanted you to know the risks.’ She holds out the book again. ‘It’s up to you. Just promise me you’ll tell somebody if you start to feel weird. If you start to feel like real life is . . . slipping away.’
Her grey-blue eyes are wide and worried. She’s doing what she thinks is best. The anger dims a little, but it doesn’t completely disappear. I’m sick of people trying to make decisions for me.
‘Fine. Whatever,’ I say. ‘That’s no gonnae happen though.’
Kasia presses her lips together. ‘I hope not.’
Reluctantly I take the book from her. I flip through the pages as I walk back through the valley towards the band, but after Kasia’s story, the gift has lost some of its sheen. Reading about Neverland isn’t enough any more. Not now that I have the real thing.
We have to borrow a cat carrier from the Frasers on the second floor to take Tink to Amir’s after New Year. Unsurprisingly, he hates it. Our flat isn’t big, but it’s much better than being shoved into what’s basically a shoebox with holes and dragged across Edinburgh on a double-decker bus. He screeches the entire way up Leith Walk, only shutting up when I take a bag of cat biscuits out of my backpack and push some through the bars.
‘Amir’s mum’s already bought a cat bed and one of those scratching poles,’ Jake says. ‘I think Tink’ll like it there, you know.’
As if Jake has any idea what Tink likes. Other than shoving him off the sofa or swearing when he gets under his feet, Jake hasn’t paid him any attention for years. I don’t answer, and eventually he shrugs and goes back to listening to his podcast.
We get off the bus in Morningside and walk up a long street of posh houses, most with a rotting Christmas tree dumped at the foot of the drive. Their gardens are massive: ponds and flowerbeds, trampolines and tree houses, all sprinkled with a faint coating of frost. I’m suddenly acutely aware of my ancient muddy trainers and my shabby jeans. Jake, on the other hand, strides along the street like it’s his own. Not surprising, really, given how much time he spends at Amir’s. His family even took him skiing in Switzerland last year. Switzerland. I’d be lucky to get to the dry slopes at Hillend.
Amir’s mum is waiting on the front steps when we arrive, rubbing her arms to stave off the cold. She’s got neat black hair cut in a sharp bob, a heart-shaped face, and bright eyes that crinkle at the edges when she smiles.
‘Hi, Mrs Shah. Happy new year,’ Jake says. His accent always changes when he’s around his friends from school or their families. Like our gran when she answers the phone.
‘Happy new year, Jake. You must be Brody. Lovely to meet you,’ Mrs Shah says to me, smiling. She leans towards the door of the cat carrier, her hands on her knees. ‘And you must be Tink! Let’s get you out of that box, shall we?’
It’s only when she puts her hand out to take him that I realize I’m really, really not ready for this. Still, I hand the carrier over. Mrs Shah sets it down on the floor and opens the latch: Tink darts out, skeets out across the rug, then comes to a halt by the stairs, peering around at the shiny wooden floorboards and the mahogany chest of drawers covered with family photos from weddings and holidays.
‘He might take a while to get used to you,’ I say. ‘Don’t take it personally.’
Mrs Shah laughs and drops into a crouch, holding her hand out and making a high-pitched whistling noise. A tall kid with boy-band-neat hair and slightly protruding ears pads through from the kitchen eating a sandwich.
‘Oh, hey. Hi, Brody.’ He holds up the sandwich in a semi-wave. ‘I’m Amir. I think we met at our awards ceremony in S4, didn’t we? Man, you two look even more alike now than you did then,’ he says, looking from Jake to me and back again.
‘You think?’ Jake smiles at him. ‘Don’t see it, myself.’
Amir asks if we want anything to eat, but I hardly hear him; I’m watching Tink explore his new home. Mrs Shah has moved over to him and is stroking his back a little harder than he likes. I want to tell her to lay off a bit, and about the cheese and the toothbrush and all his other quirks, but my throat seems to have closed up. Tink slips out from under her hand and goes into the next room to check it out. Just a flash of ginger, and he’s gone.
I swallow.
‘Right. Well, thanks for taking him.’ I force a smile. ‘Uh . . . bye, then.’
I don’t know if that’s directed at Tink or at Jake or at Amir and his mum.
Mrs Shah stands up, brushing cat hairs off her sleeve. ‘You don’t want to say goodbye?’ she asks. ‘There’s no rush! Stay and have some lunch.’
I shake my head. ‘Nah, I’m all right. Thanks.’
‘Oh. OK.’ She looks to Jake, a wee bit flustered, then back to me. ‘Well, you can come back to see him whenever you like.’
Amir swallows another bite of his sandwich. ‘And Jake’ll let you know how he’s doing, too. We can email you some photos, if you like.’
I force a smile. They’re nice. Tink’ll be happy here. He’ll have more space, and there’ll be no Leanne and Michelle around to kidnap him when they’re bored. I should be relieved. It’s ridiculous that I’m feeling like this, anyway – it’s not like I’m giving a baby up for adoption. It just sucks. And no matter how much they offer, I know I’ll never come back here. Who goes to a stranger’s house to hang out with their former cat? Too weird.
After another thank you and a goodbye, I hurry down the steps and along their driveway. Jake follows me out, closing the door behind him. He calls my name a few times before I turn around.
‘Why are you running off?’ he asks. ‘You should say goodbye to Tink properly.’
‘Why? It’s not like he understands. He’s just a cat.’
But he’s more than that, too. He’s a link to my five-year-old self, that kid who loved Peter Pan and liked to dress up in fairy wings and named his kitten after Tinker Bell. He’s a symbol of who I was before all those parts of me became tangled up with shame and embarrassment. Since Everland, I’ve felt like that knot inside me is slowly coming undone. But I still don’t want to let him go.
Jake wouldn’t get any of that. He’d probably tell me to man up, stop being such a drama queen, something like that. He looks at me for a moment, his lips pressed together, then shrugs.
‘OK. If that’s what you want. I’m going to stay here a while, work on some stuff for school.’
‘All right. See you.’
I start to walk away, but he shouts after me again. When I turn around, his eyes are shiny.
‘I did try to get Mam and Dad to change their minds, you know. They wouldn’t have done this if things weren’t really bad.’
His voice cracks the tiniest bit. I can’t tell if he’s putting it on, and it doesn’t matter: it sends another burst of anger surging through me.
‘Why is it never you who has to give anything up? I don’t see you volunteering to stop rugby or your violin lessons—’
‘That’s different,’ Jake says. ‘The school pays for all that; it’s part of my scholarship.’
‘The school didnae pay for you to go to Cambridge for your interview, though, did they? How much did that cost, the trains and the hostel? Enough to pay another term of Keira’s theatre classes, I bet. Enough for a bit of cat food.’
He gawps at me. I turn on my heel and walk away, fingernails cutting into my palms. After a moment, Jake’s footsteps follow.
‘What do you want me to do, Brody? You want me to turn down all the opportunities I’ve had because you and Keira don’t get the same?’ He grabs my arm and spins me round to face him. ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t get a scholarship, OK? I’m sorry you weren’t smart enough.’
His face falls as soon as he says it. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘Aye, you did.’ I shrug him off, slide my hands into my pockets. ‘And it’s true. I wasn’t. I’m not. But that doesnae –’
I stop. I don’t know how to finish that. But that doesn’t mean I deserve any less? But that doesn’t mean I am any less? I think all of those things, but I walk back down the road and leave them unsaid. Because though I might know otherwise deep down, right now, it doesn’t feel like they’re true.
