You'd Have Killed Me
You’d Have Killed Me
“You sure kid” the barber says, arranging the towel on my shoulders and staring hard at the picture.
He thinks I’m mad, the way he’s peering at it, turning it upside down and twirling his neat little moustache.
I nod, grinning at my self in the mirror as he begins to shave my head. I can’t keep still, so it zigzags unevenly as I fidget in the chair.
“Make sure it’s exactly like that” I say, the words burning my throat. I want to be sick, the shop’s too hot and my t-shirt’s sticking to me. I know I’ll be in trouble, my mum certainly didn’t mean this when she told me to get a hair cut.
You’d have killed me.
You told me once that the only way I’d be getting a tattoo was if it was your name. That’s next on the agenda, after I get my hair exactly the way yours was that day. I never liked the barbers as a kid; I was always scared he’d drive the razor straight into my head. But now, I don’t think I’d care. My hair’s starting to take shape; I’m practically bald at the front, apart from a few long strands which run past my ears. I can see the barber in the mirror, rolling his eyes, obviously wondering why anyone would willingly make themselves look like a tiger’s mauled them. And I’m not about to tell him.
“All done now kid” he says sighing, “I better shut up shop before your Mum comes round and kills me”
I run my fingers over my sheared head and swallow hard. The room is spinning and my knees are shaking, but I fish in my pocket for the money I’ve stolen from my Mum’s purse.
“How much do I owe you then” I croak
The barber stares at me for a few seconds, his thin eyebrows raised.
“Nothing” he says at last, “Can’t charge you for that mess, not when I know your Mum’ll have dragged down here by the end of the week paying me to put it right”
I mumble my thanks and shuffle out the door, heading towards the park. There’s nothing else to do, I can’t go home. Not yet, not when I know that the house will be full of people, bustling around and trying to organise everything for tomorrow. Not when I know that I’ll have to try on my new suit for the tenth time and persuade Jakob to do the same, even though all he wants to do is hide under his duvet and cry into his teddy bear.
It’s all I want to do too.
It’s starting to get dark, and I can see four or five people in the park, swigging from cans and puffing on cigarettes. I ignore them and sit on my favourite swing, the wind whipping the straggling parts of my hair. The drinkers laugh loudly, shouting drunkenly to each other until my head throbs and my vision blurs. I feel drunk myself, unsure if the swing’s going backwards or forwards. Then it stops suddenly, and I slide forwards onto the ground.
“Tut tut tut” one of the drunks slur, “You hashh been dwinking, hasn’t you?”
I scramble to my feet, edging away from him.
You always said you hated those kids who hung around parks at night, and you’d go mad if you ever caught me becoming one of them.
You’d have killed me.
I run, vaulting over the gate I closed on my way in, and tearing down the lane. I can hardly breath and it takes me five minutes to realise it’s not because of the drunks in the park. It’s because of tomorrow.
“Get yourself a haircut” my Mum said this morning, “Your Gran will got nuts if you turn up at the church like that”
It’s my Mum that’s going to go nuts when I go home.
I feel in my pocket for the photo I showed to the barber what seems like a lifetime ago. It swims in and out of focus as I give into the tears I’ve held back all week. My face is flushed from running, so they sting painfully as they trail down my cheeks and splatter on to the picture. I sit down slowly on the muddy ground, watching the thick muck wash ooze over my new jeans.
You’d have killed me.
I stay there for a while, staring up at the sky as it turns from dull to a rich black, dotted with stars. I mentally join them to create pictures, like you used to do with me when I was little. We used to find dinosaurs and aliens, but now all I can see is the church, looming above me like a demon. I screw my eyes shut to block it out, only to find it burning in the blackness under my eyelids. I can’t escape it.
The mud soaks through my t-shirt, making me feel like I’m being pulled downwards into the centre of the earth. And just for a moment, I hope that I am.
Eventually I get up, my whole body stiff from lying perfectly still. I know I should go home now, but I can’t bring myself to go back there yet. I know where I really want to go, and yet something about the place still scares me. I would never walk by it as a kid without holding my breath, but now I’m running faster than I’ve ever ran in my life to get there. Its strange how things work out, two years ago I would have refused to set foot in the place.
When I finally arrive, the gates are chained shut for the night. Without really thinking, I hoist myself onto them, scaling the enormous structures like Spiderman. Once I’m over I look around, half expecting zombies to stagger from their graves after me. But all is still and quiet, like a dream. I choose a path at random, tearing past dozens of headstones and statues. And then I stop as I come to a place I’ll be standing tomorrow, a six foot hole in the ground.
The sign beside it reads, ‘Prepared for burial’ and tomorrows date. I tear it up; knowing the person going to be lowered into that hole tomorrow would have hated having a label like that. I turn away from it, facing the neighbouring grave and smiling.
Mable Greenlaw
1945 – 2002
“You’ll have company tomorrow Mable” I whisper into the dark.
After a while I realise the inevitable, I have to home. Thankful I’ve avoided the interfering neighbours and countless great aunties I’ve never clapped eyes on before, I clamber over the gate again. The whole world seems silent. Slowly I make my way towards the house, my shoes scratching loudly over the uneven ground. When at last I reach home, my stomach stirs as I reach for the door handle. It’s the middle of the night; I’m going to be in trouble.
You’d have killed me.
The door is wrenched open before I can think of an excuse, and my Mum has her arms around my before I can utter a word. She closes the door, locking out any wandering spirits who might have followed me home from the cemetery.
“What have you done to your hair?” she asks, “It looks like a sheep’s been grazing on it”
I wordlessly stuff the photo into her hand, and she looks from it to me.
“Your Gran gave your dad a good slap when he done that” she said, “And she’ll probably give you one tomorrow”
I smile running my hands through it.
“Dad would have killed me” I say.
He thinks I’m mad, the way he’s peering at it, turning it upside down and twirling his neat little moustache.
I nod, grinning at my self in the mirror as he begins to shave my head. I can’t keep still, so it zigzags unevenly as I fidget in the chair.
“Make sure it’s exactly like that” I say, the words burning my throat. I want to be sick, the shop’s too hot and my t-shirt’s sticking to me. I know I’ll be in trouble, my mum certainly didn’t mean this when she told me to get a hair cut.
You’d have killed me.
You told me once that the only way I’d be getting a tattoo was if it was your name. That’s next on the agenda, after I get my hair exactly the way yours was that day. I never liked the barbers as a kid; I was always scared he’d drive the razor straight into my head. But now, I don’t think I’d care. My hair’s starting to take shape; I’m practically bald at the front, apart from a few long strands which run past my ears. I can see the barber in the mirror, rolling his eyes, obviously wondering why anyone would willingly make themselves look like a tiger’s mauled them. And I’m not about to tell him.
“All done now kid” he says sighing, “I better shut up shop before your Mum comes round and kills me”
I run my fingers over my sheared head and swallow hard. The room is spinning and my knees are shaking, but I fish in my pocket for the money I’ve stolen from my Mum’s purse.
“How much do I owe you then” I croak
The barber stares at me for a few seconds, his thin eyebrows raised.
“Nothing” he says at last, “Can’t charge you for that mess, not when I know your Mum’ll have dragged down here by the end of the week paying me to put it right”
I mumble my thanks and shuffle out the door, heading towards the park. There’s nothing else to do, I can’t go home. Not yet, not when I know that the house will be full of people, bustling around and trying to organise everything for tomorrow. Not when I know that I’ll have to try on my new suit for the tenth time and persuade Jakob to do the same, even though all he wants to do is hide under his duvet and cry into his teddy bear.
It’s all I want to do too.
It’s starting to get dark, and I can see four or five people in the park, swigging from cans and puffing on cigarettes. I ignore them and sit on my favourite swing, the wind whipping the straggling parts of my hair. The drinkers laugh loudly, shouting drunkenly to each other until my head throbs and my vision blurs. I feel drunk myself, unsure if the swing’s going backwards or forwards. Then it stops suddenly, and I slide forwards onto the ground.
“Tut tut tut” one of the drunks slur, “You hashh been dwinking, hasn’t you?”
I scramble to my feet, edging away from him.
You always said you hated those kids who hung around parks at night, and you’d go mad if you ever caught me becoming one of them.
You’d have killed me.
I run, vaulting over the gate I closed on my way in, and tearing down the lane. I can hardly breath and it takes me five minutes to realise it’s not because of the drunks in the park. It’s because of tomorrow.
“Get yourself a haircut” my Mum said this morning, “Your Gran will got nuts if you turn up at the church like that”
It’s my Mum that’s going to go nuts when I go home.
I feel in my pocket for the photo I showed to the barber what seems like a lifetime ago. It swims in and out of focus as I give into the tears I’ve held back all week. My face is flushed from running, so they sting painfully as they trail down my cheeks and splatter on to the picture. I sit down slowly on the muddy ground, watching the thick muck wash ooze over my new jeans.
You’d have killed me.
I stay there for a while, staring up at the sky as it turns from dull to a rich black, dotted with stars. I mentally join them to create pictures, like you used to do with me when I was little. We used to find dinosaurs and aliens, but now all I can see is the church, looming above me like a demon. I screw my eyes shut to block it out, only to find it burning in the blackness under my eyelids. I can’t escape it.
The mud soaks through my t-shirt, making me feel like I’m being pulled downwards into the centre of the earth. And just for a moment, I hope that I am.
Eventually I get up, my whole body stiff from lying perfectly still. I know I should go home now, but I can’t bring myself to go back there yet. I know where I really want to go, and yet something about the place still scares me. I would never walk by it as a kid without holding my breath, but now I’m running faster than I’ve ever ran in my life to get there. Its strange how things work out, two years ago I would have refused to set foot in the place.
When I finally arrive, the gates are chained shut for the night. Without really thinking, I hoist myself onto them, scaling the enormous structures like Spiderman. Once I’m over I look around, half expecting zombies to stagger from their graves after me. But all is still and quiet, like a dream. I choose a path at random, tearing past dozens of headstones and statues. And then I stop as I come to a place I’ll be standing tomorrow, a six foot hole in the ground.
The sign beside it reads, ‘Prepared for burial’ and tomorrows date. I tear it up; knowing the person going to be lowered into that hole tomorrow would have hated having a label like that. I turn away from it, facing the neighbouring grave and smiling.
Mable Greenlaw
1945 – 2002
“You’ll have company tomorrow Mable” I whisper into the dark.
After a while I realise the inevitable, I have to home. Thankful I’ve avoided the interfering neighbours and countless great aunties I’ve never clapped eyes on before, I clamber over the gate again. The whole world seems silent. Slowly I make my way towards the house, my shoes scratching loudly over the uneven ground. When at last I reach home, my stomach stirs as I reach for the door handle. It’s the middle of the night; I’m going to be in trouble.
You’d have killed me.
The door is wrenched open before I can think of an excuse, and my Mum has her arms around my before I can utter a word. She closes the door, locking out any wandering spirits who might have followed me home from the cemetery.
“What have you done to your hair?” she asks, “It looks like a sheep’s been grazing on it”
I wordlessly stuff the photo into her hand, and she looks from it to me.
“Your Gran gave your dad a good slap when he done that” she said, “And she’ll probably give you one tomorrow”
I smile running my hands through it.
“Dad would have killed me” I say.