I could feel the wind on my face and it rumbled in my ears asI traveledbackwards and forwards on the swing. On the up-swing my feetstretched up andalmost touched the darkening sky, and on the back-swing I rose sohigh that I wasin danger of flipping over the top and completing a revolution. Inthe west, thesun finally sank below the horizon, but the sky still glowed warmand orange andochre.
I was on the swing in the middle of the garden looking downtowards thehouse, and in the picture frame of the kitchen window I saw myparents. They hadthe light on and it shone like a beacon, a wash of light flowingthrough thedimming dusk. My mother stood over the sink washing-up. She wasdressed forgoing out; her earrings caught the light and sparkled, her hair wasperfect ina tight perm. My father wore a tuxedo, and he looked proud andcrisp. He wastaking the dripping plates and cups from my mother, drying themwith a cloth, andsetting them to one side ready to be put away. My mother passedhim a long, wideblade, with a huge carved handle. He looked at it and held it upto the light. The sharp, serrated edge glistened. My parents turned and waved tome, but Ididn't dare wave back. I was swinging down so fast I would surelyfly the seatoff if I let go of the chains with even one hand.
Everything was familiar. My parents, my house, my garden, theplace thatI played, the place that was safe. The borders of the lawn werepicked out withbeautifully trimmed rose bushes, floribunda, and blue moon. Theshed behind me,which held a wealth of toys and games, was cradled in the arms ofthe hedge sohigh that even my father had to use a ladder to trim the top of it.The chainsof the swing creaked and the palms of my hands felt sore fromholding on sotightly. I opened my hand and saw the indentations of the linksacross my palm. When I looked up again, there were clouds of big black birdswheeling above,silent and swift. There was no sound but the evening inhaling andexhalingaround me as I ticked off time with my pendulum swing. And thenthere was Timmy.
I didn't hear him moving up behind me, but I sensed he wasthere. He livedbehind the shed at the bottom of the garden, and he never usuallycame out. OnlyI knew he was there. In the old days he used to parachute downinto the garden. I would stand for hours looking up into the sky waiting for theumbrella of his'chute to open, and for him to waft down to play. Only I couldever see myspecial friend. But Timmy had turned strange. One day he told methat he wasgoing to live behind the shed from now on, and he just moved in. He wouldn'tcome out to play with me when I asked him, and after a while hedidn't speak tome anymore. So it was a shock to see him that night, when I lookedback over myshoulder, as the darkness fell around me like a blanket. He glidedout frombehind the shed--glided because he had no legs--and he hovered overthe ground. He was dressed as a pirate: the striped shirt, the eye-patch, thekerchief tiedaround his head. Instead of hands, Timmy had hooks. I wasfrightened of Timmy,his face was mean and angry. I knew he wasn't my friendanymore.
I let go of the swing and flew out into the sky. The birdswere all aroundme flapping and pecking, cawing wildly. I floated up high into theair beforedescending gently back into the garden. I tried to run to thehouse, but my feetbarely touched the ground and there was no purchase to move meforwards. Myparents stopped what they were doing and stood frozen, watching metrying to run,my mouth flapping with the silent dream-state cries of distress. I began to moveslowly towards them, while the light caught the huge knife that myfather stillheld. The door was a second away, but Timmy was suddenly in frontof me, betweenme and safety, and he was grinning madly. I couldn't move, Icouldn't cry out. I knew what he was going to do because it was my dream. He raisedthe hooks. At the top of the sickening arch, they paused. I heard the swingcreak, emptyand spinning. Timmy brought down the hooks, and I watched withdetachment asthey pierced my arms, pinning them to my body.
* * *
I am hot, the room is stuffy. Something on the bed isheavy andstifling. The sheets are tucked tightly around me to stop me fromnight-walking, and I even have difficulty turning over. I open myeyes andsee what the problem is.
On top of the sheets, blankets, and eiderdown, someonehas placed alayer of some old green, black and gold cushion covers that myparents threwout years ago. They're laid edge to edge completely covering thebed. Imanage to release my arm from the shackles of the sheets, and Ireach out totry and throw them off. It's an unsuccessful attempt. My armsfeel weak andtired, and they hurt where Timmy has hooked me. About to give in,I amencouraged to see the gentle hands which appear, bathed in milkylight, andwhich take the corners of the eiderdown and fold it into quarters. It istaken to the far corner of the room and placed on the floor. Thecushioncovers are neatly tucked inside it. I mumble my thanks and returnto mysleep.
* * *
It was in dense woodland that I walked. Beams of sunlightlancedthrough the trees where squirrels sat on the high branches lookingdown on me. In a clearing ahead I could see an old tree stump. It had been cutinto stepsand sitting at the top was a man who, although I didn't recognizehim, I feltI knew. He beckoned to me, and I stepped out of the shadows intothe ring ofsunlight in the clearing. He stood, tall even without theelevation that thestump gave to him. He smiled. His hair was like burnished bronzeand hisbeard was copper wire. His hands were large and powerful as hereached downand pulled me up to where he stood.
"Were you afraid of Timmy?" he asked me, his voice warm andthick liketreacle.
I nodded, and he took me by the shoulders. I could feel thewarmth ofhis hands through my shirt. He bent towards me so that his facewas levelwith mine. His eyes were like emeralds.
"Don't be frightened," he told me. "If things are bad and youaretroubled, I will look after you."
"I know you, don't I?" I asked, hesitantly.
He smiled slowly, until his whole face was a smile. He reachedinto hispocket and pulled out a small silver key. Turning my hand over helaid itgently in my palm. Gently he folded my fingers over it until itwas safely inmy grasp.
"This is my promise," he said. "If you get frightened, youwill find adoor. Put the key in the door and turn it."
I stepped off the stump and moved up through the trees. Upand up Irose, the wood falling behind me. The squirrels ran along thebranches andgrabbed at my hands trying to take the key. I looked down but theman hadgone, as had the clearing, and all that I could see was the lawn oftreesspread below me. My ascent stopped and I tipped horizontally andbeganswooping and wheeling through the sky. I bounced off the billowingclouds,shot through the gaps in their clusters, sported with eagles, andspan withthe wind.
* * *
From my bedroom window I sometimes watch the childrenplaying out in thestreet. Some wheel about on bicycles. Others are playing tag. Two girlshave drawn a grid in the middle of the road, and they are playinghop-scotch. They throw a small stone and bounce to the square in which it lies.Theirlegs take curious angular shapes as they hop down the chalk-drawnpath. Theylaugh and squeal sometimes; at other moments, as they prepare topitch thestone, their faces are set in concentration.
My breath fogs the window, and I wipe it with my sleeveso that I cansee out again.
* * *
I was sitting on the roof of my home watching the sunbeginning to rise. There were the early people: the newspaper delivery boys and themilkmen, thepostman turning the corner into my street. I slid through thetiling, inthrough the loft space, and down into my room. I saw myselfsleeping, tuckedtightly into my bed, and in the corner was the eiderdown folded andneat. Iopened my hand and the key had gone. I'd lost my promise, and Iwould be atthe mercy of my night-rides once again. I looked at my sleepingself, rockingmildly, murmuring, groaning. Outside, the sun was lighting thefront of thehouse, creeping up the wall ready to push in at my window. Ilooked aroundthe room and checked under the bed, but there was no sign of thepromise orTimmy. My night-time was over, and I lifted myself up into theair, becomingvapor and shade, and slipped back into the ear of my sleepingbody.
Late afternoon sun filters in through the window andlights the floorwhere I am at work. I fit together the parts of the machinewithout botheringto throw the dice or move the game pieces. It takes more than oneto play thegame properly, but I can still make the machine work. When I amdone I crankthe handle, the bucket tips, and the metal ball rolls down thechutes. At theend of its journey it drops onto the see-saw, and the green man islaunchedinto the tub. The red plastic cage rattles down the pole.
"Mousetrap," I say.
* * * I was in a room and the floor was amoving carpet of mice. They wereclimbing the walls and the curtains, squeaking, scrambling. Therewere somany of them. Getting mad that they were all over the place, Istarted tostamp on them. I could feel their bodies crunching and squelching,and myfeet were getting bogged down in the mouse jam that I was creating.There hadto be another way. A mouse ran up the door of the room and Igrabbed it in myhand. That achieved I stood calmly with its wriggling body quickand alive inmy grasp. I didn't know what to do with it. I had to think. Themouse grewcold and hardened in my hand. It felt like the chain of theswing.
I could feel the wind in my face and it rumbled in my ears asI swungbackwards and forwards. And there was Timmy again. I flew intothe air andlanded softly on the ground. This time I made it to the back doorof thehouse. My father in his tuxedo held the glistening knife. Timmyslippedbetween me and the safety of the kitchen. I checked my pockets andI lookaround on the ground. I needed the key, I had lost thepromise.
"I have it! I have it!" Timmy cried gleefully, and as beforehe sankthe hooks into my arms.
* * *
The children in the street are playing soldiers. Theyhide behind thecars and stalk each other, leaping out and filling the air with thecrack oftheir cap guns. One of them, pretending to be shot, rolls out intothestreet, writhing and screaming while the others laugh. He juddersto a finalstillness. His head is lying in the ghost of the hop-scotch grid. Numbereight. Instead of skipping to the square where the head lies, theboys firetheir guns into the air in triumph.
* * *
There was a man in my bedroom, sitting on mybed, holding a gun. Helaughed softly at me.
"What do you want?" I asked calmly, curious rather thanthreatened. Helaughed again.
"You just stay there in the corner," he said. "You do asyou're told."
I could hear the kids out in the street playing on theirbikes, theirskates, their boards. In the kitchen below my room my mother movedaround,the clatter of crockery, the smell of baking. It was safety, justout ofreach.
I concentrated really hard and managed to put some aspects ofthe dreamon hold. The man froze, the gun tipped away from me. I silencedthe noisesfrom outside the house. Sidling to the door, I called to mymother. Istrained my voice shouting as loudly as I could, but the kitchensounds wenton without pause, and my mother didn't come to help me. I turnedto the walland walked through it. I was on a hillside and the golden strangerwas thereagain.
"I lost the key," I told him, ashamed.
He smiled and shook his head.
"They took it from you," he said. "If you want it back, youmust go andfind it. Next time you have it, you must hold onto the promise. Things willget worse, you'll need it." He walked over to me and put apowerful armaround me.
"Go and find it," he said, and kissed the top of my head.
We both lifted up into the air, but I got caught in a treewhich stoppedme from following him. From where he had kissed me, a warm glowspread downthrough my head, my shoulders, my chest and back, and my legs. Mytoes curledwith happiness. I fell from the tree onto my bed. My legs achedand I criedout. It was a dull, throbbing pain that I couldn't ease. Therewas only onething that would help.
* * *
My father, wrapped in his dressing gown, comes into myroom and turns onthe bed-side light.
"What is it?" he asks kindly. "Is it growing pains inyour legs again?"
I nod and moan. He pulls back the sheets and takes myspindly legs intohis soft hands.
"It's the Air Show next week. Would you like togo?"
I nod, sleepily.
"We'll go on Saturday," he says. "I promise."
Gently he rubs my shins and my knees. It doesn't reallymake the painany easier, but it's comforting to have him there to give me abreak from thenight-flight. After easing my legs back beneath the sheets, hetucks me invery tightly. He sits with me and I close my eyes.
* * *
I saw my father sitting on the side of the bed watching mesleep, myeyes twitching in dreams. He leaned forward, swept my hair from myforehead,and breathed a quiet prayer over me. From my position high above,I could seethe gunman beneath the bed, and Timmy peeping out from behind thecurtains. Icouldn't understand why my father didn't do something about themice that werepouring up out of my bed, forcing their way past my sleeping bodyand spillingout from the tucked-in sheets.
To escape them, I went up through the ceiling and onto theroof. Thesky was black and pin-pricked with stars. I could hear the gunmanrootingaround in the roof space trying to find me. There were a few miceup there,but they didn't bother me. Maybe they knew what the goo was cakedto my feet. I could see Timmy Hooks-for-Hands torturing small animals in thegarden. There was a crack of light opening in the sky. It was time to go. Below meTimmy wheeled in smaller circles; in the shadow of the house thelightwouldn't reach him for a few more moments. He was playing withsomething. Heheld it up in the air for a second and it glinted in dawn's finger.He hadthe promise threaded over one of his hooks.
Hurried by the dawn, I slipped through the roof and down intomy room. The bed was warm as I insinuated myself back into my breathingshell oncemore. I was determined and sure. I would find the promise andclaim it backfrom my once-valued, once-real friend.
It's daylight and I'm not dreaming. I'm home fromschool, proudlybearing the new pictures that I have drawn. I drew Timmy.
"What a scary pirate," my teacher Mrs. Hatfield said whenI presented itto her.
I place the pictures carefully down on the kitchencounter. Through thekitchen window, I can look down the full length of the garden andI see theshed, cradled in the elbow crook of the hedge. My mother comesinto the roomand picks up the pictures.
"These are really good," she says. "Who is it?"
"It's Timmy," I tell her. She knows about Timmy, becauseI used to tellher about the plane flying overhead, and about him parachuting outto come andplay with me. She said that she saw him too, but I know that shedidn't.
"I thought he'd gone," she says. "Timmy hasn't come toplay for a longtime, has he?"
"No."
I haven't told her that Timmy has become nasty. Mymother fills thekettle to make some tea.
"Can I go out into the garden for a while?" Iask.
"Of course you can," she replies. "I've just got someironing to dobefore I get the meal ready. Okay?"
"Great."
I go out into the garden. There are a few hours of lightleft. Maybehe sleeps during the day. I'll have to chance it. I walk to theswing andsit on it so that I am looking at the shed rather than the house. I start toswing backwards and forwards. A group of black birds suddenly flyup out ofthe hedge. They wheel up into the sky and disperse. The sun seemsto besinking faster than usual. I have to swing higher and higher tomake it seemfurther above the horizon. Don't go, I plead, don't go. On areally highcurve I let go of the chains and I am launched into the air. Mybody feelsheavy, and the air doesn't hold me as it does in my dreams. Theleap is overin seconds and I am tumbling forwards onto the hard ground. I situp rubbingmy arm with satisfaction. Good, I am definitely not asleep, soperhaps I willbe safe from his hooks.
Nervously I make my way to the side of the shed andsqueeze between itstatty wooden side and the hedge. Instantly I am covered in cobwebsand deadflies. I summon up my courage and thrust my head forward. Theback of theshed is moldy and rotten. The hedge is brown and brittle where thesun can'treach it. More cobwebs. No Timmy. Easing myself around, myclothes catchingon stray twigs and branches, I manage to get into the hollow. Hehas to havehidden it here somewhere. I kick around the dead leaves anddebris. There isso much to look through, and the promise is so small. The sleeveof mysweater gets stuck on a particularly tenacious branch. I reacharound torelease myself and find that I am caught on a half-moon of wood. It lookslike a hook. Threaded over it is a small silver key.
* * *
I could feel the wind in my face and it rumbled in my ears asI swungbackwards and forwards.
"Okay, Timmy. I'm ready," I muttered between my teeth.
The wind rustled the hedge, or maybe it was Timmy coming forme. Iallowed the swing to slow to a stop, my legs tucked back under theseat. WhenI was going slowly and low enough, I dragged my feet on the groundto bringthe pendulum to rest. It was important not to hurry, to show thatI was incontrol. The kitchen light was on, but there was no sign of myparents. Iwas on my own. Stepping from the swing I walked slowly towards thehouse. Icould feel Timmy breathing on the back of my neck. The door wassteps awayand still he hadn't stopped me. I put my hand on the handle andturned it. It was locked. Turning, I looked right into his snarling face. His eyes werelike dark, smoldering coals.
"Do you want to play?" he sneered, waving one of the hooks infront ofmy face.
"I'm going inside," I said.
"How are you going to get in?" he mocked. "Little boy islocked out. He'll have to play with Timmy now." He laughed, his mouth pink andwet. There was an appalling smell on his breath, like old cat food.
I reached inside my cheek and produced the promise from itshidingplace. It had been resting in my mouth, safe and hidden. As soonas he sawit, Timmy began to fade. The laughter caught in his throat and hebegan tochoke on it. It came out of his mouth like black bile, pouringdown his chinand over his chest. He clutched at his throat with his hooks andsucceeded inpiecing his own neck. The laughter dripped where his feet wouldhave been,had he possessed any. High overhead I heard the sounds of anairplane. I sawthe spinning propellers and, as I put my hands over my ears toblock out theroar of the engines, I saw the trailing noose of rope. The loop ofthe lineslipped over Timmy and swept him away up into the sky. The planebanked away,looking like a flying fisherman with an obscene catch on the line. Timmy hadgone back to where he came from. On the floor in front of me, apool of hislaughter still bubbled and spat, but, as I watched, it sank intothe groundleaving a faint stain.
I still held the promise, the silver key, and I pushed it intothe lockof the door. It turned easily and I entered the kitchen. Thefloor was amoving carpet of mice, but this time I knew what to do. Tucking thepromiseback inside my cheek I grabbed a mouse as it scuttled up the door. I couldfeel it struggling in my hand, but I had my plan. I walked to thesink,pushed in the plug, and turned the taps full on with my free hand. It filledquickly and noisily. The mouse seemed to have given up thestruggle, perhapsknowing that its fate was unavoidable now. Plunging my hand intothe water Iheld the mouse under the surface until it drowned.
The water against my hand started to move, the pressure gentlypullingmy fingers apart and taking the mouse from my grasp. The breeze onmy facewas warm and moist as I tipped my head back under its caress. Isat in a boatwith my hand trailing in the river of mercury. It was a sunny andbright day,the willows bending, touching the water like drinking animals. Frogs sat onthe lily pads, throats bulging and expelling, eyes unblinking andinscrutable. I was not alone in the row-boat. My father pulled the oars gentlyand we slidthrough the water.
"How are your legs?" he asked.
I looked down and saw my legs thin and ropey, coiledunderneath me ascables are on ships. I smiled at him.
"They're fine," I said. "Just growing pains."
The sun circled the sky like a balloon and we descended theriver,passing rapids and waterfalls as if they were minor bumps in asmooth road. My father never broke the easy rhythm of the stroke, and I layback, my legsin coils, my hand dragging in the silver river.
* * *
"I am really sorry," my father says. "I have to go towork."
"But we were going to the Air Show today," I say, vastlydisappointed.
"I know, I know. I said I was sorry. This is important,though. We'lldo something tomorrow instead." He pats me on the head, andcollects hisbriefcase from the hallway.
I watch his car drive away from the front of the house,scattering acrowd of pigeons that had settled in the road. The birds reconveneon a cableswinging between two poles. They all sit with their backs to me.
* * *
We were in a forest, but stillsitting in the boat. It wasn't myfather, it was the man with the hair of fire.
"Do you have the promise?" he asked me.
I checked with my tongue and nodded.
"Good," he said. "Then we may continue."
He stepped out of the boat and lifted me up. My legs, whichwere ropes,trailed along the ground as he carried me out of the trees and intoa field ofbright yellow grasses. He set me down in the middle and uncoiledmy legs sothat they stretched from corner to corner of the field. He tiedthen to theposts of the fence.
"Hold the promise," he told me. "You are not dreaming."
Instead of the fence posts, my legs were tied to the foot ofmy bed, andI was back in my room. The gunman held the gun to my head. Iheard thechamber click into position as he pulled back the hammer. My armswere pinnedto my sides. He had threaded them to my body through the holesthat had beenleft by Timmy's hooks.
"You just stay there," he said. "You do as you're told."
I needed to get the promise from my mouth, but I couldn't usemy arms. The gunman sat on my chair and watched me. He had amouse's eyes. I couldhear my mother in the kitchen, as before. I had to think calmlyand maybe Icould make things happen--but I could only do that in dreams, andthe man withfire in his hair had told me that I wasn't dreaming. I didn't knowwhat wasreal anymore. If I was dreaming, I could get out of this mess; butif I wasawake and this was real, the gunman would kill me. I got scared. If Ithought about the gunman shooting me, and I was dreaming,then surely he woulddo it. It would be my dream.
I saw the milky hands outside the window approaching throughthedarkness, and then they were tapping gently on the glass. They hadcome tohelp me, but couldn't get in.. With my tongue, I slowly eased thepromise tothe front of my mouth. I drew in as much breath as I could, andthen spat thekey towards the window. It flew across the room as if it wasforcing itselfthrough a gelatinous mass. The key hit the glass and the linesspread outfrom the center of the impact to the edges of the frame. With amighty gust,the windows shattered and the air was sucked out of the room. Clothes andpapers flew everywhere; it was like a hurricane. The gunman washorizontal,parallel to the floor as he clung to the wardrobe. Against theforce of thewind the hands came to me and untied my bonds. They took my armsand freedthem, and then I was whisked through the window and out into thenight.
I sat on the roof and the hands stroked my hair. They weregentleloving hands. They were the hands of a happier, more innocenttime. Theywere Timmy's hands, lost when he had grown the hooks. They signedto me, andI understood he loved me, but that he had to leave. The right handopened andI saw the promise lying in his palm. I reached out and took it. The handstouched my face and my lips and then they linked their thumbstogether andflew away like a bird.
* * *
I still see the stranger with the fiery hair and thegolden beard somenights. He greets me as I slip from my ear, and takes me to a newdoor. Hesays, "Have you still got the promise?"
I nod and indicate where it is tucked into my cheek. Hesmiles and thedoor is opened.
On the other side of the door there is no Timmy, there isno gunman,there are no mice. There is no father, there is no mother, thereis no riverof mercury. There is a garden and in it there is a swing, and onthe swing Isit and I slip through the air, to and fro. I can feel the wind onmy faceand it rumbles in my ears as I swing backwards and forwards.
I am not dreaming.
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