29 April 1989
Jim spent hours in his room, looking at photographs from when he was a child, back in Dublin, in the hope that he will catch a glimpse of what he lost. He studied the slightly grainy pictures, memorising the way his mouth curved into a smile with such childish ease and trying to emulate it in the mirror. But no matter how many times he tried, there was something wrong in his expression – something missing. His eyes were too old for the rest of his face, and he held himself with a kind of eerie self-awareness that wasn't normal for a boy his age. The expression on his younger face simply didn't work on his face now, because he'd seen too much. Every time he tried to copy the smile, it looked forced and fake, like he was being patronizing. What had been there then, that wasn't there now? Was it some kind of innate goodness that he'd lost when he came to Brighton? Or just the careless happiness that all children have, and inevitably lose?
He opened his bedroom wardrobe and pushed aside coat hangers and neatly-ironed blazers until he could see the mountain of old clothes he'd shoved to the back and never thrown away. Whether it was because he was nostalgic or lazy – Jim had never decided – he'd kept his jeans and shirts. They were all screwed into a ball and hidden away behind his new clothes, but they were still there. Faded short-sleeved shirts and vest jumpers had been abandoned first in his slow purge, because they had revealed his bruises and the fact that he did his top button up was a constant source of ridicule.
To be on the safe side, Jim had then gotten rid of all of his button-down shirts. That had left him with an arsenal of long-sleeved shirts and corduroy trousers: the trousers were a good defence against the gravel when he was pushed over, and the shirts were thick enough to soften the punches even a little. But of course they were the clothes from his past – they belonged to some stupid little kid who couldn't stand up for himself; who needed to get a spine.
Looking at the pile of clothes, he remembered times he'd worn them. That was the shirt he'd worn to his first school swimming lesson, and those were the jeans he'd gotten from his mum for his ninth birthday, when he'd carefully unwrapped all of his presents in silence because of course nobody had come to his party, but Eva was pretending that everything was fine. He'd looked down at the gifts she'd gotten him, which must have put her severely out of pocket, and not even thanked her. She was so stupid, he'd thought bitterly. What kind of mother puts on such a pathetic show, even when nobody's looking?
Even Jim wasn't so ridiculous as to keep up his act when he was alone – he allowed himself a few moments respite from being James Moriarty. When he was alone, sometimes he drew his legs up to his chest, putting his forehead on his knees and holding his arms over his head in an emulation of an airplane crashing position. On those occasions he wondered if he would ever be able to be okay again, if he was up to the challenge of sitting straight and standing and continuing like everything was fine. It was like a wave crashing over him, and there was nothing he could do but ride it out and wait it for to be over – for his breathing to go back to normal and the weight in his chest to lift and the echo of Carl's voice to fade in his head. Of course, he always got over it.
But he felt like Eva put up a twenty four hour mask, for her own sake as much as his. If she let herself slip for just one moment, the whole thing would come tumbling down and she wouldn't be able to pretend anymore. As much as he thought it stupid, Jim had to admire her dedication to the cause. Yes, she would say to herself, my son is an ordinary little boy. And then, when it got too painfully obvious to ignore anymore, she would change her tune: yes, my son is a sociopathic murderer, and it is none of my business. But he couldn't help wondering if she had drowning moments too, when she wondered where she'd gone wrong and if it was too late to fix it.
Not that he ever thought that. Not once. Not even for a second, lying alone in the middle of his bedroom, clutching his stomach because he was surrounded by things from his old life but he was irreparably changed, and the little boy who wore those dorky clothes had no idea what he'd become, but if he had he would have stepped into the path of oncoming traffic. Because little Jim, the skinny foreigner with the thick accent and embarrassingly long hair, knew what present-day Jim had forgotten: having everything you want does not make you happy. Carl was gone, his mother was leaving him be, the kids in his class were scared of him. And yet; and yet; and yet –
He reached out and yanked at a random item of clothing –a short-sleeved round-necked shirt, an awful shade of grey that he wouldn't be caught dead in now. He knew even as he slipped his button-down white shirt off and let it fall to the floor that the old shirt wouldn't fit him. It was slightly too small, so he had to pull too hard over his head and squash his nose and ears to make it fit. The collar was close around his neck, choking him slightly, and the material clung so tightly that he could see every contour of body underneath it, like it was a second layer of skin. His arms stuck out awkwardly because it dug under his armpits, but even that didn't make him more comfortable.
"You look ridiculous," he whispered to his reflection hatefully.
"I know," a voice replied, which was unnerving because his mouth hadn't moved, and the voice didn't even sound like his own. It sounded like Carl. His expression disturbed him so much – that strange hybridisation of disgust and pity –that he turned away to stare at the photos which lined his chest of drawers.
The young boy in the pictures had some kind of joy that Jim couldn't see in his reflection. His eyes were bright with genuine happiness, not wicked intent, which was strange because he didn't remember being a particularly happy child. Even back in Ireland, all he could recall was throwing rocks at cats and sitting alone in the classroom, several academic years ahead of his peers. And yet the younger version of himself seemed carefree, smiling with such abandon that it looked like a completely different person. That's me, Jim thought. Or so he believed, because he didn't remember going to the beach where that photograph was taken, or remember anything about that day at all. Who was to say that was really him? It certainly didn't look like him.
His eyes slipped from the photograph of himself to another one – one he hadn't taken any notice of in the longest time, so much so that it had just become part of the room. His mother was leaning against an exposed brick wall, staring into space beyond the camera, her expression dreamy and far away. She was wearing a pink floral dress with small black buttons down the front, and her hair was curled and hung over her shoulders, its dark colour contrasting nicely with the brightness of the flowers. Her subtle make-up made her eyes look wider and a more intense shade of brown. She looked so unburdened, thoughtless, and he wondered what had captured her attention so thoroughly that she couldn't look away. Her face wasn't haggard beyond her years, nor were her eyes heavy with sadness. Of course he had to allow for the fact that she was younger, but there was no denying that she looked happier there, in that picture, than he'd ever seen her look. He had done that to her.
Jim had a vague memory, from so long ago that he wasn't sure if he had dreamed it or if it had actually happened (isn't it strange how half of our childhood could be made up and we would never know? It's impossible to distinguish life from dreams when you're young, so every memory takes on a nostalgic glowing quality.)He remembered riding his bike along a country lane in Dublin, with rickety stone walls separating the road from the endless fields. The civilised met the rural on the horizon, where he could see the silhouette of the village of Glendalough, veins of rivers intersected between the grassy verges around the edge of the buildings. The sky was cloudless and bright blue, but the day was warm. Eva walked along beside him, wearing a flowing white top he'd forgotten she owned, and black jeans. She was smiling at him, and he pedalled slowly so they could stay together.
They hadn't done anything special – they hadn't gone anywhere except the lanes, walking for what felt like hours past fields and neatly clipped hedgerows. He had ridden and she had walked until they got tired and found their way back home, climbing over a stile and running across a farmer's land, laughing at their recklessness. Jim pulled his bike along with him, bumping it over mole hills and panting hard from the excursion of it. "Run, Jim, run!"His mother cried, breathlessly. They had reached the fence and she clambered over it, pulling his bike after her, before turning back and gripping his wrists and hauling him over the fence.
After that, they had walked in companionable silence, broken only by the spokes of his bike creaking against the tarmac. They had gotten home – he assumed, because he couldn't remember – and she'd probably gone into the garden, or the living room, and he had gone into his bedroom to read. They hadn't talked about the fun they had – the wild moment of childish abandon as they ran through the field, the calm quiet of their walk. It hadn't been uncomfortably silent, but rather the gentle silence of two people completely at ease with one another's company. Eva had promised to walk him as far as Glendalough, but they never did it. There was no reason: they had many afternoons after that one in which to do it. They just never got round to it. And then it just became one of those things that never gets done, because tomorrow never comes, and they had moved from Dublin to Brighton.
Going to Glendalough suddenly seemed stupidly important to Jim, standing in his room staring at his reflection. Maybe it was because it represented his childhood in some way, or just because it was something he'd promised himself he'd do and never done, and he always liked to follow through on his plans. Or perhaps it was because he looked so laughable in the too-small shirt, trying to recapture something he'd lost when he'd looked a boy straight in the eyes as he died. Whatever the reason, he turned away from the pictures and headed for the door. He remembered the ridiculous shirt at the last second, but figured that it didn't matter. It was sort of apt, really, for this random nostalgic mood that had come over him.
As it always was, the house was silent. Jim spent so long in his room with the door shut that he often forgotten that his mum shared the building with him (it hadn't been a home for a long time – it was just a place where they both lived). He had no idea what she was doing with her time, or what interested her. Did she read, or watch TV? Was she listening to the radio? For a long time, he stood in the threshold of his room and deliberated going down to see her. What would be the point? She probably wouldn't remember anyway.
But something made him go down. Whether it was Carl's mocking voice in his head – you scared, Irish? –or his own challenge to himself, because he didn't think he could do it and so, of course he had to. If he didn't he'd only be losing to himself. And that would be a totally loser thing to do, wouldn't it? He couldn't make a promise to himself and then not fulfil it:
Taking a deep breath, Jim walked down the stairs two at a time. He listened carefully to the sounds of the house, but nothing could be heard. Odd – she wasn't watching TV, or even listening to the radio. His steps were light, almost like he was complicit in a crime he didn't want to get caught committing, like coming out of his bedroom was some kind of sin.
When he reached the living room, he paused at the threshold and peered through the crack in the door. Eva was sitting on the sofa staring listlessly at a photo album. Wasn't that funny? She was looking at pictures, and so was he, and if he hadn't gone downstairs he would never have known. He didn't recognise the little boy in the photos: he had long chestnut hair and eyes so dark they were almost black, but they were shining with naïve happiness.
"Mum?" Jim asked, pushing the door open and walking in. His movements were cautious, not the confident strut that was wont of him. His voice was softer than usual. She looked up, and she looked so surprised that it stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes were wide and shocked, like she'd been caught been doing something terrible. For a second he could have sworn she looked confused, as if she didn't know he was, but that expression faded to an accommodating smile.
"Yes Jim?" She replied. Her smile was so bright and false that he couldn't at her. He stared at the photos instead, which were lying in her open palms – stacks of Polaroid's of a kid who looked like him, but a happier him. It was easier to address them, so he talked and looked at them.
"Do you remember Glendalough?" Jim had no idea what made him ask, or what made it so important, but suddenly it seemed like the centre of his universe. This was simple. If Eva could remember walking through the random lanes in Ireland, worrying about nothing, the whole world out there for the taking, then he could accept that it had happened, and he hadn't just made it up.
She was silent for a few seconds, and he could see out his peripheral vision that she was looking at him. But he didn't look up.
To Eva, this was a different Jim. This was a stranger, but not the kind of awful invader that she'd grown accustomed to. No, this stranger was a pleasant surprise rather than an unwelcome alien. The kind of nice stranger who she wouldn't mind getting to know. She wanted so hard to make him stay, the way one coaxes a wild animal closer with fake promises of food. But try as she might, she had no idea what he was talking about. Glen… where?
Careful not to let her question show on her face, she answered: "Of course I do." The smile in her voice was so jolly that she wanted to blush for her overacting. She'd never been one for falsities. That used to be fine – he had wanted nothing more than an obedient doll of a mother. However, this new Jim wanted something more; something she couldn't give.
To watch his face was to watch a study in transitions. His eyes were so wide and hopeful, but he wasn't looking at her, like he couldn't dare to expect anything. He was staring at the photograph of his younger self as if he wanted something from him, desperately needed something from him. His stance was tense, ready to flee at the slightest sight of danger. And then, when Eva spoke, she watched his gaze slowly recede and turn cold. Whatever she'd seen in his expression closed off, and his eyes shuttered. The tension in his pose relaxed to the usual lazy stance that he donned whenever he was around – she actually saw the stiffness in his muscles melt away. Finally, he tore his gaze away from the pictures and glared at her.
His voice was emotionless when he answered. "You're lying."
Eva would have continued the pointless lie, but he looked so angry that she didn't dare anything. She just watched him mutely, her mouth open a little, as he turned away from her. He headed for the door, and this reminded her so much of his admission a few weeks ago that she swore she was experiencing déjà vu. That time too, he had left without another word, after getting angry. But this time, she didn't call his name to stop him. Jim simply left, taking the stranger who'd looked like her son with him.