There’s writing on the wall. It’s illegible, but there’s an arrow going from it, pointing to a crude drawing of what looks like a penguin. It’s been there ever since he’s had this bed, and he knows its every line and angle. Every last piece of graphite dust. He doesn’t know what the picture means, but that’s irrelevant. It’s a distraction. It’s something for him to look at, something for the mind to concentrate on while he tries to block out the sobs of Teddy Tomlin. Even at his age, he knows what those sobs mean. He’s heard them many times before and he’ll hear them many times again.
He knows what it’s like. He’s been there himself, not so long ago. They have to show you who’s in charge, have to make it perfectly clear that they’re doing you a favour and giving you food, warmth and an occasional smattering of comforts. And they’re doing it because no-one else will. Because you’ve got no other option. Because your parents didn’t love you enough to keep you. Because you’re a bastard child. Because your mummy and daddy were too selfish to stay alive.
The whitewashed brick walls should be cold, firm, unloving. But to Daniel they’re the warmest part of this whole place. They feel so warm because they signify the outside; the big wide world that he’s going to be allowed out into in just a few years’ time. They won’t let him out now, because he’s only seven years, three months and fourteen days old. Tomorrow he’ll be seven years, three months and fifteen days old. One day nearer his sixteenth birthday.
Even though this is all he’s ever really known, he’s certain that the outside world will be kinder to him. It’ll present opportunities, direction. It’ll be free from early-morning bell calls, free from nuns floating innocently down corridors, free from whitewashed walls.
He doesn’t remember much from before. Nothing, really. He thinks it’s because he was very young at the time, but the Mother Superior says it’s because God is protecting him. He isn’t sure if he believes in God, but he doesn’t have a choice in a place like this.
It’s very odd, he thinks, how he’s being told that he’s here because he’s godless, because God has punished him, yet God is protecting him. He’s a funny bloke, God. A strange mix of anger, benevolence and whimsy. It reminds him rather of Mr Duggan, who comes to visit the home occasionally. The Mother Superior tells the boys Mr Duggan is a very important man, but he’s not sure how. Whenever Mr Duggan comes to visit, a couple of the boys are sent to see him. Sometimes they go one at a time, sometimes in pairs. The boys are never very happy when they come back from seeing Mr Duggan. Some of them are quiet; some of them cry. Some of them have faces filled with hurt and anger. Most of them seem confused.
Daniel’s been lucky. He’s never been sent to see Mr Duggan. He’s not quite sure why, because some boys have been sent twice, three times. They’re the ones who are quiet when they return. They don’t look angry or hurt. They just look empty. They’re the ones who have given up.
It’s Thursday tomorrow. Thursday means games. It means getting outside in the fresh air and running around for an hour or two. It means letting off some steam. It builds up and starts to eat away at you from the inside if you’re not careful. That’s why you need things to look forward to. Like games. Like your sixteenth birthday. Eight years, eight months and fifteen days. November the sixteenth is the next big milestone. His eighth birthday. He’ll be exactly halfway there. Halfway to the first day of his life.
Teddy Tomlin’s sobbing has quietened down a bit. Daniel daren’t ask him why he’s crying. He knows why he’s crying. It’s the same reason boys throughout Pendleton House are crying right now. Even in his formative years, he knows that the most painful truths are truths unspoken. Truths that everybody knows but nobody dares speak.
He pulls Percy, his stuffed bear, closer to him. Percy’s his only link to before. He’s the only thing Daniel came here with. The bear’s starting to get a little scruffy around the edges, some cotton threads starting to fray and come loose. Much like Daniel himself. But he’s going to keep on hugging Percy every night, well aware that this comforting act will put more pressure on the bear’s fraying threads and loose seams, helping the inner stuffing ooze out through the gaps.
The moonlight coming in through the window is a pretty shade of blue. It gives some colour to the wall and the pencilled penguin. It won’t last long – the light will move to the other side of the room by dawn and Teddy Tomlin will be greeted by the warm morning’s sun on his face. It’s the way it’s always been, and it’s the way it always will be for another eight years, eight months and fifteen days. But he doesn’t mind that. He’s counting down.
The radiators clatter and gurgle as the central heating winds down for the night. Not that it does a particularly good job of heating Pendleton House when it’s on, but its daily death rattle signifies the end of another day and the impending dawn of another day closer to the big day.
In the silence, he registers that Teddy Tomlin’s sobs have become a gentle snore. He rolls over as quietly as he can and squints against the moonlight. The reflection from the whitewashed walls allows him to see the dried tears on Teddy Tomlin’s cheeks, belying his peaceful, sleeping face.
Daniel decides to close his eyes and do the same.
4
It’s the dreadful, bland food I’m not especially looking forward to as I get dressed and head downstairs to the restaurant. There’s no-one on reception as I walk through, which is nothing new, and I wonder where Jess might be.
Despite it being fairly early, there are still two families in the restaurant with screaming bloody kids. It’s almost like they’re trying to outdo each other. I say restaurant, but it’s more like a cross between a McDonald’s and a farm. Another put-you-up identikit gastropub designed to make hotel guests feel at home wherever they are. If home happens to be an abattoir, that is.
The barman tries to engage me in conversation. He asks me if I’m staying here for business or pleasure. Both, I want to tell him. I’m screwing that little receptionist you’ve probably had your eye on for the past couple of months. ‘Business,’ I say. ‘I work in TV.’ I immediately regret saying it, as those two letters inevitably draw people into conversation.
‘Oh cool!’ he says, his voice rising an octave as his shoulders bob and he tucks a long strand of hair behind his ear. ‘My brother’s a runner on that programme. The one that’s on in the mornings.’
‘This Morning?’ I ask, more than a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. He wants to get into presenting at some point. That’s how quite a lot of them get started, apparently.’
‘Apparently.’