Feathers

The first time I saw him he was standing by the doors holding a plastic bag with feathers poking out of the sides. I saw him on the bus every day. He sat at the front of the bus wearing a puffy orange coat that had scuff marks over it. He collected the loose papers others had left, smiling when he found a fresh one. He smiled at everything. He had a problem but I didn’t know what. All I knew was he smiled all the time. Didn’t seem like a bad illness to have where we lived, to be honest. But it was the bag of feathers I remember most.

So I saw him on the bus each day. He had his helper, a woman who was sweet and stern when she spoke to him and sat a few rows down to let him enjoy the ride. She directed him and looked after him. And he needed looking after. I’d seen the boys from my class pick on him when he was out on the streets. I’d seen the older boys in our school go beyond teasing. It’s how I found out what the word ‘torture’ meant outside of history books. I kind of blamed the woman sometimes; I mean if a guy’s messed up in the head, a full blown man and Asian to boot, why let him wear an bright orange jacket on top? You may have stuck a target on him with a bulldozer on his ass.

And then I saw him one day without his helper. I was sitting on the bus already and feeling tired from school, the shift at the bakers afterwards. I was tired because Elaine McFadden hadn’t looked up to me when I’d served her again. I was tired. So when he stepped on I didn’t look up. I didn’t even take much notice when some of the people on the bus started to mutter and laugh, looking at him when he started collecting his papers. It wasn’t until the old lady hit him with her newspaper and shushed him away like a dog when he looked over and touched the tip of the page she was reading I looked up.

I looked round for the helper woman. I double checked and then for some reason began to panic. I looked around to the other people who were all nervously chattering, getting ready to complain to the driver. And if he got chucked off around here, then the older boys would pick him off and leave him somewhere in the night far from where he lived I knew that much. But I was only a teenager and had no need to act. And then he dropped his bottle of pop and that all changed.

It rolled down the aisle making a long slow looping sound. I could feel the heat rising up to the neck as the driver looked into his mirror, shaping to speak out. I don’t know why I did, but I put my foot out and stopped the rolling bottle. I picked it up and rose out of my seat and walked from the corner where I always sat, over to the man. I handed him the bottle, looking into the mirror as I did. The driver had known my dad and half nodded to me when I got on each day, the way adults do when they admit to knowing someone young without wanting to actually speak to you. And then, rather than go back to my seat, feeling the eyes of twenty odd disapproving adults, I sat next to him and began to talk.

“Where’s you friend today? The lady with the long hair?” I heard myself say, suddenly aware of my voice out in the open, in public.

“Sarah. Where’s Sarah gone?” He said. His voice was quieter than I was expecting. He asked me the question like I should know the answer.

“Yeah. Where’s Sarah today?” I said. I could feel myself beginning to sweat and I suddenly had no awareness of where I was or where we were headed. It was just a white noise tunnel and the man next to me.

“Sarah’s dad is dead. Fun and eral. Map to walk me home.” He said, suddenly pushing a piece of paper into my hand. For a second I jumped and pulled my hand away, imagining the chicken bag, all those feathers. Then I reached back, took the map and made myself look down at it. I recognised the route, the big landmarks Sarah was using to help him. I nodded.

“Well we’ll ring the bell for the next stop and start from here. This is your usual stop, isn’t it?” I said, pointing down to the map and then looking over to him. But he was looking straight at me and nowhere else. “Do you want to ring the bell, or should I do it?” I said. I only said it because I was scared and thought it was something the woman might have said. And he broke out into a wider smile than before and pulled himself out of the chair and went looking for the bell.

We stepped off by the library, leaving behind the twenty sets of eyes that followed us as the bus disappeared round the corner. I looked down to the map and saw it zig zagged across the town. I figured it was a kind of treasure map to make it fun for the guy. But then as we started walking I realised it was avoiding all the main roads. Safer for the guy and perfect for me to get ass raped in some remote alleyway. Great. I looked over and he’d already zipped up his coat and began walking. I almost waved him off there and then he seemed so purposeful. Then I remembered seeing him in the park with three older boys, pushing him into a fence. I’d heard later they’d tried to make him eat shit. I’d felt sick then, thinking if I’d told someone, hell if I’d walked over, besides the ass kicking, I could have done something to stop it. My stomach rolled then thinking about it. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked after him, looking down at the map and working out where he was going to turn next.

We walked in silence for the most part. Sometimes he would stop and point out the landmarks she had written down on the map; the church steeple, the war memorial. It might have even looked like an older and younger brother out on a field trip if it wasn’t for the whole black and white thing. Each time he pointed something out, he looked round and looked for me to nod, or acknowledge what it was he’d said. So each time I nodded, or said ‘that’s right’. And we walked on and I wondered if he even knew the difference between me and Sarah, or if I was just the set of hands and toes steering him back to where he needed to go.

After a while we walked off the town circle and began the walk through the field to The Home. I’d known of it, of course, like everyone did at our school. Your mum and dad lived there when you flunked a maths question; your girl/boy friend lived there when you wore cheap clothes one day, or patches where the holes had got too bad. And finally you lived there when you had a bad haircut or stared for too long out the window during classes. I’d been caught out on the last one so many times I started to look out the window for longer wondering what it would be like to actually live in the Nut House.

Then there was Halloween. Each gang went at separate times depending on your age, but we all went. It was our local pilgrimage. Outside of Halloween, I always thought it was an excuse for all of us to go there, justify ourselves, think no matter how screwed up we were, how bad our families turned out, at least we weren’t buried at the bottom of the heap. The real screw ups in our school who beat everyone and got beat twice as bad when they got home, celebrated it most of all, on account of it being the only time they could spit that little further down from where they were lying. So we all went there, peaking at the gates, then later hurdling the gates, then finally getting inside the building itself, if your believed the stories, and mingled with the freaks.

But then here I was now. Doing what the older boys bragged about and it was about the most peaceful time I ever had. Walking with a ‘freak’, pointing out the prettiest places in our shit heel town. It was like an antidote walking the guy, because everything was so black and white; pretty or ugly, I found myself getting in the mindset of it. I saw how pretty the flowers by the old bar were; how striking the steeple was when you really looked at it. I walked along and imagined it would be pretty nice walking with the freaks in the grounds of the nut house, each one of them seeing something beautiful where a straight set of eyes would have missed it and getting your attention drawn to it.

I looked up from the map. He’d started to veer from the path in the field, off to the left where the thick brambles were, the oak trees. I called out but he didn’t stop and for a second I lost him amongst the thicket. I swore and then stepped inside the pathway, the building just in view and just out of reach. I folded the map and went inside. I found him standing opposite the biggest scarecrow I’d ever seen. The guy must have been six foot and this thing was twice that, easy. It didn’t have any legs as such, more a fan that grew smaller to the waist. Then it branched out again, until it reached a head, with an old straw hat resting on its brow at an angle. But it was the arms I remember the most, again fanning out the further they reached out to you. And on each one a thick, delicate finger, and on each finger hung a hundred small things that made it shimmer over the shade of the trees.

He stood facing it, looking up to the face and began to talk. I didn’t listen to what he said at first, on account that I was making any way over to one of the hands, the left one. I peered over and saw ring pulls, condoms, love letters, necklaces. I looked closer and saw tissues with dried blood, a birthday card, a swipe card for entrance into the building, a dozen at least, Polaroid photos, speared through the branches. I backed away, trying to decide if it was the creepiest or prettiest thing I’d seen and I started to listen to the guy as he talked.

He was confessing. Or not quite that, but retelling what he’d done in his day. Where before he’d only spoken in a few words, now the words poured out of him. It wasn’t any B-movie possession crap, more just that he felt comfortable speaking in the quiet, I think. He spoke well, too, like a teacher reading to a small, peaceful class. I stood there for a good minute listening to him, not really taking in the words as much as the rhythm of how he was talking, the sounds of it bouncing and circling round in the cove. Then all of a sudden he stopped and turned round to me, began nodding, edging from me to the scarecrow, waiting.

“You want me to talk?” I said. I edged closer to it, still looking at him, eating to know when to stop, where was closer enough.

“Sarah speaks. Secrets.” He said, walking away, over to the hand. He jammed the pop bottle onto its thumb, began wrapping the wrist with the newspaper from the bus. I nodded and turned back to the scarecrow, the dark and empty face and began to speak.

I don’t know how long I spoke for. I remember feeling uncomfortable obviously, then forgetting to be scared and talking until it felt like I couldn’t stop. I talked about my family. I talked about the secret. Then I talked about the school and how I dreamed of burning it down same as everyone else. I talked until my throat ran dry and I felt the dust and the seeds from the brambles blew down into my throat. I turned and saw he was waiting for me. I shrugged, blushing and then started to walk away. He put my hand on my arm, strong enough to make me flinch. He jerked his head over to the outstretched hand. I walked over there and pulled out a text book, a stick of gum. I speared them to his hand and turned and walked away, following the guy, his orange jacket making sense for a few second, lighting the way for us to escape the dark.

We walked out of the thicket and back onto the path. The building was over the last hill and actually looked quite pretty in the twilight. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the map. I reasoned he would be okay from here and I didn’t want to be collared by the nurses and have to ask questions. I called out to him, watched him look over without stopping. I offered him the map, but he still kept walking. So I jogged up to him, reached out to stuff the map into his pocket, getting ready to explain what he was to say if anyone asked him about his walk home.

He kissed me. At first I thought he was bumping his head against mine reaching for the map, but then he reached closer, out teeth colliding and his cheeks pressing heavily against me. I jerked back, lost my footing and fell to the floor. And I just sat on my ass. I knew I should react, get up and scream and holler. Maybe throw a punch. It was a fact I was fourteen and was nervous that I’d never thrown a punch. But instead I just sat still. He looked at me for a long second, for the first time not smiling, then turned and started to walk away from me to the building. And I just sat there, still and silent, watching him turn into a shadow against the falling sun.

I started to run. I don’t know why. I ran until I made myself stop and then shouted. Just a noise, nothing else. I looked around, thinking that from out of nowhere someone I knew, someone from school had seen us. A wave of cool, cold panic rode over me imagining school the next day. I bowed down, rocking against my knees. I felt the map in my hand, balled up and ruined now and stuffed it in my pocket. I put my hand against my cheek; felt the rawness of it where his stubble had pressed into my skin. I felt like I was beginning to cry but there were no tears. Instead I began to walk, following the path back to town, trying to forget and remembering everything that had gone on in those last few hours.

I went to school and everything stayed the same, right down to the spit marks by the bus stop. I explained the marks on my cheek away to grass burns playing football, sat
in my classes and did not look out the window. When the bus pulled up after work I let it run past me and caught the next one. Afterwards I took to offering to locking up the shop so my pattern was changed from that day on. School broke and it was all over. Word was that the nut house was being pulled down and being made into flats. One day a gang of us gathered and watched it being bulldozed. We cheered as we sat on the hill watching the destruction with a crate of beer.

They all made their way home but I stayed. I stayed long after the building was gone and it was just hours of dust and constructions lights and noise. I watched wondering about that day; wondering if I was the only person that guy was ever going to kiss in his whole life right up until he died. It probably was. I wondered if he’d ever tried to kiss Sarah, if she’d ever let him. What secrets she told the scarecrow and if she ever shared them with anyone else; a lover, or a sister. Or whether it was just the three of them sharing and no-one else. I watched for a long time and then walked off the path. I found the scarecrow soon enough. There weren’t any more jewels on his fingers. This field was going to be cut away within the week; the scarecrow would be dead before Halloween. I pulled out the map, flattened it the best I could. But instead of his fingers I stepped closer and reached into where his heart would be. I flinched for a second, imagining his insides would be thick and wet, but they were dusty and dry. And I left the map in the centre of him, folded back the flaps so the hole was patched up. And then I turned and walked away into the dark, no orange beacon to guide me, but instead just the dark and the sound of the machines destroying everything close by.

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Chris Castle wrote this.