Oskar Blows a Gasket Read online

  PE is great. We do rugby and football, and there’s a swimming pool. I can’t remember if they showed us that when we looked around that time. It’s pretty big and you can dive one end. I asked to join the swimming team. They say they’re thinking about it.

  There are two other boys who share a room with me. Did I tell you that last time? I can’t remember and you forgot to answer, so anyway, we share the room. They’ve all been here since Year Seven so that’s why they’re such good pals. They whisper a lot, probably about homework or something. I try to keep out of their way. The things they do is not bullying, though, I guess.

  How is the movie going? Say hi to Kip and the others for me, if they remember you have a kid. Did you decide whether to do the stunt movie? If you did, I guess you’re far away in Saudi, or wherever it was. Please remember you’re not as young now, and be careful. I miss you.

  Not all the boys are English. Some have stronger accents than mine, but I practise really hard. I think I’m sounding more like them for sure, especially if I keep my voice quiet. I wish I was more like them.

  Dad, I miss Bubble so much. Today I woke up and I thought I was home and he was asleep on the bottom of my bed. Sad face. I was so surprised when he wasn’t there. Will you send me some pictures of him? We’re not allowed on social media during the day, and anyway, I know how you feel about that, so I never check your pages, not very often. I don’t know why but I always think one day there might be a picture of me. Your son.

  Nothing else to say. Notice how few errors there are? This is my fifth attempt and I’ve run it through the school grammar check too. Isn’t that cool?

  Please give Bubble a kiss and lots of strokes from me, and don’t forget the vitamins as they are important.

  I’ll write again next week or maybe sooner.

  Love Gareth.

  P.S. I’m OK. I guess. Remember to stroke Bubble because cats need lots of love. And I’m sorry about the last letters. From now on, I promise to be much more mature and not cause any trouble, and then you’ll see I can be trusted to come with you when you film and that I am a son worth having.

  ****

  Oskar

  “Following us?” Bear’s face disappeared into a perfect O shape, his eyes intense pools of attention it was hard to look away from. “What do you mean?”

  “First saw him on the bus. He ran up after we did and jumped on, like he was hiding behind a car or something. A right dangerous-looking bastard.” Oskar did a pointy-face impression. Caution was necessary because the waiter appeared, carrying two steaming mugs and a cake. Anyone could be a spy, even waiters. “Thanks,” Oskar said brightly, still caught up in Bear’s eyes.

  “Welcome,” the waiter said.

  “We lost him in Halfords,” Oskar whispered from the side of his cup. Lost the guy after a quick and ankle-breaking sprint. “Someone really needs to invent heels that immediately transfer into running shoes when needed. Or wings. Why hasn’t someone done that?”

  Bear’s handsome face went through several transmogrifications, including one where his nose moved in circles. Oskar was transfixed; round and round it went in cutesexy circles. “But. What? What are you talking about?”

  “Shh.” Oskar held up one finger. The guy was clearly going to take ages to learn even the most basic of silent communication and body language. The waiter hovered, increasing the likelihood he was a trained spy and interrogator. Bear watched the finger, and once again Oskar’s dick twitched at the attention.

  “What?” Bear asked again.

  Oskar waggled the finger, waiting until he had Bear’s complete attention. “That cake looks delicious!” he said loudly, willing him to cotton on and change the subject until they were alone. There was some trick called modelling behaviour, where you could teach even monkeys to copy basic tasks. “Is that a cherry?” He nodded meaningfully and waggled his eyebrows for effect. “Hmm?”

  The waiter smiled carefully. “I like the blue Z. Very interesting. Are you a drama student?”

  “Nope. I was sent down here from another planet to study cakes.” Oskar glared. “Do you have a reason to be still standing there—putting me off my cake?”

  “Sorry! I was only looking at your—” The waiter pointed at Oskar’s face. A few seconds of frosty silence were all that was needed for him to finally slink off back to the counter.

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  “What?” Bear looked worried, perhaps a little upset. “The man had a cherry?”

  Oskar did an oh my god expression coupled with real, actual pain. “On. Your. Cake.” He spoke slowly, ensuring he met Bear’s eyes even though doing so meant further trouser trouble. “Are your eyes hazel or brown?”

  “Oskar. Are you OK?” Bear asked quietly. “I mean—do you take any medication or anything?” He leaned forward. “Are your thoughts racing?”

  “Yes!” Oskar hissed.

  “I thought so. Is it schizophrenia? Bipolar? Oh, mate.”

  Oskar had been patient, he had. Letting Bear accompany him to town and bask after a hectic time which he intended describing to Simon later as difficult… Put up with the intrepid explorer blathering on about mountains and tents in between what were frankly rude questions about his posters, and now this! He kicked Bear sharply on the leg. “I meant yes, I’m OK, Lollipop. Try to keep up!”

  “Aw! No need to kick me. That hurt.”

  “Now listen up and stop being such a baby.” He hadn’t meant to kick so hard, actually. “Some bloke followed us. He was watching and going the same way. I saw him this morning hanging around the hostel—followed us to the bus stop. He stopped when we did, holding back ’cause he didn’t want us to see him. Hopefully, Mr. Bond doesn’t realise we did. But it’s not something we can broadcast to the general public and certainly not some waiter with a god complex!” He stopped while Bear rubbed his leg. No point talking until he had eye contact. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” Bear grumbled. Again, Oskar’s gaze lingered slightly too long on that revolving nose. “You said some guy was following us. It was the cherries and cakes I couldn’t follow.”

  “And stop sulking, it doesn’t suit you.” Actually, it did.

  “Oh, wait! Do you think he’s something to do with the kidnapping and your dad? Is that what you’re saying? Sorry. I…I was thinking about something else. Someone I used to know had a stalker. But it can’t be him. He’s not even in this country anymore. Do you think it’s him?”

  “Oh? I don’t know. No. It’s more likely to be me he’s trailing.” Oskar knew about the DSS and social services following him every time he left the flat. No-one from Brinsted Gardens answered the phone and smiled with caution at anyone approaching with an ID badge. Officials—social services, schools, police—followed and then letters would appear with court dates and fines. But this was many miles from Brinsted Gardens.

  “Maybe you imagined it. Do you think you could have? I know what it’s like to feel paranoid.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” In fact, the more he thought, the more likely it seemed. After all, his nerves had been shot to shit for years, and the last couple of days had introduced new heights of stress. “Maybe you’re right. Sorry about the kick.” He waited hopefully for the nose trick. “Mate.”

  “It’s OK. We need to keep an eye out, though, in case you were right. Who knows you’re in Wales?”

  “Nobody knows.” The sad bloody truth. He sighed into his skinny cappuccino, almost breaking into a breakdance with shock as Bear took his hand, and squeezed.

  “Don’t worry, mate. I understand. You’re not alone. Being followed is a nasty thing.”

  For a few heady seconds, it seemed likely Bear would launch into a Michael Jackson song, but all too quickly reality asserted itself back into place. Unfortunately, they were still sitting in a dingy café in Bangor. Oskar drew his hand back quickly—not quick enough to prevent warm tingles creeping up his arm. “Let’s hit the shops.”

  “You think there’s an outdoor activities
shop?” Bear asked eagerly.

  ****

  The hostel kitchen was full of Stella-Artois looking lemon-faced and critical. Not one to baulk at life’s challenges, Oskar gamely tipped the plop into a saucepan and waited for it to transform into a delicious meal. He ignored her tuts and moans and blanked her rant about messy boys. “Why is there no microwave? That I can do.” Cooking was something posh people did on TV, not fingernail freaks such as himself. “Or servants? Why don’t we get servants?”

  “You’re not going to stir this slop?” Stella-Artois looked accusingly into Oskar’s pan. “You’re meant to stir.” The brown mass began to bubble. “What is it? It’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah?” Oskar slipped on his most bored expression. Actually, he didn’t know what a tin of Sunday brunch was, either. “Stir it?”

  “You’re not having any veg? That doesn’t look very healthy. And while you’re here—have you been stealing my biscuits? And whose pots were left here last night? I’m sick and tired of picking up after you two. Why don’t you clean up after yourselves?”

  “Stella, phone call!”

  “OK. Can you keep an eye on my carrots? Ten minutes.”

  “Sure,” he said kindly, feeling an inner glow. Life had a way of coming back in circles. As soon as Queen Misery disappeared, he peered into her pan full of orange disks and spat. Still aggrieved at the bossiness, he looked in the cupboard and stole another pack of biscuits from her shelf, then spat again. “What are friends for? Barf me out.”

  ****

  “Night, Dad. Nothing much to report. Bangor centre is a ghost town of shut-up shops and booze. I don’t think I can find the true Oskar Braithwaite here.” He sighed dramatically. One finger trailed around the edges of Simon’s picture. “Tell you the truth—and I mostly do—I’m having second thoughts about coming.” Second, third and fourth. Leaden twists tugged inside. “I shouldn’t have come. What are they gonna do when the rent’s not paid and nobody is there? I mean, not like me and Mum have much, but it’s all our furniture and stuff.”

  The landlord would take everything away to be thrown out like rubbish. All Mum’s photos and clothes, remnants of the past pushed into black bags then refuse sites. “I can’t do it, Simon. It’ll kill her.” Tomorrow, he’d go back home on the train. Nothing was lost. He could get back his old job in the café and ask for more hours. It wouldn’t be enough to pay the rent, but maybe he could ask for help from Knee-kicker the loan shark again. Maybe in two years, once Mum came home, he could re-apply to college and start again, the way it was meant to be.

  Maybe.

  Bear.

  He closed his eyes against the tears.

  Ten minutes later, he glided silently in bunny socks along the corridor to the hospital radio room. “Good evening! Morris and Oskar here, bringing you an extra song this week. It’s not Saturday, but who cares, eh?” Oskar sank into the chair in the disabled loo, unable to stay away. “Let’s start off with some old favourites, shall we? Takes you back, doesn’t it? Takes me back, too. Bodacious!” Back to being a kid, holding Morris’s hand and listening to the songs then running out to check the requests box.

  “I didn’t even like the music then. Not at first. Just wanted to be with you. I listened and watched, sitting on your knee, and I bloody loved it. You’re in the mix! Work the decks! Yeah. Haven’t heard that in so long. Sometimes I fell asleep for a bit—kids do, don’t they? But still, you said I was a good lad, and when we got home, Mum would say her men had lit up the hospital. She’d be proud.” He leaned against the microphone. “Well, that’s it for today. Have a great week and same time next Saturday! Remember how you said never stop looking for the sun?” He found the song, smiling a little. “Hospital radio! Good night, Morris.” A tear dripped on to the table. “I miss you.”

  Chapter 5: Make Some Noise

  Gareth

  Dear Dad,

  Hey. How are you? It seems like forever since we spoke. Is Bubble OK? I keep dreaming he’s in trouble but they won’t let me call, and I know there’s no chance of you checking email. Remember we said I’d write every week and so would you? I can’t think of anything to say and you haven’t written once. Life here is pretty much the same most days anyway.

  I’m working very hard now. Shouldn’t be too long until I’m not that far behind the other kids. Not if I keep on getting up at four a.m. I have to creep past the others in case they report me or think I’m being a swot. Isn’t it weird how kids do that?

  I took my math and English exams last week. Made me feel like an idiot because I was the oldest kid in that hall by three years, Dad. How come you never got round to my education before? I mean, I had that tutor, but didn’t you think I might need some exams?

  Does Mom know I’m here? I haven’t seen her in years, but she is still my mother, and maybe she’d like to know I’m at some fancy boarding school so you can get on with your life. Maybe she would like to write me? At least I’d have something to open like all the others do instead of being a loser. Huh? No, I’m not crying. I’ve grown up a lot since being dumped here.

  Dad, can I tell you something? My form tutor says I can tell him anything but I don’t know if you’d want that, so I say nothing. Not ever. I haven’t forgotten I have to keep quiet about a lot of stuff. I won’t let you down.

  So anyway, the thing I want to tell you is about this boy in the year above me. John. A lot of the others pick on him—or try to, but he stands up for himself in an interesting way. He kind of says what they were about to say. Here is an example. Last week, he got a haircut, and it was so fancy! It hung, like, half over his face and the other side is really short. One of the boys who I don’t like—Mike, he shouts right across the classroom, shouting, “Emo, couldn’t your father afford to cut the other side?” and everyone laughed so hard. I felt so bad for John as everyone was laughing in that horrible way. Then John stands up and crosses his arms and says, “I know, it sucks donkey balls. I mean, who wants half a haircut? The barber said he lost one of his scissors that make up the pair.” Then he shrugs, and Dad, he is so funny and sort of cute, everyone laughed with him instead of at him. Don’t you think that’s pretty cool?

  After the lesson, I hung around to see if John needed a friend, but he disappeared somewhere. I’m not sure what he’s into but I’ll try to find out. He seems to hang round with the cool kids, though. Guess I have nothing to offer guys like that.

  I miss Bubble so bad. Sorry, I miss Bubble so badly. I wish you’d send me some pictures of him. I know you don’t have too much time. How’s the movie going? Did you get to drive that racing car? I hope it worked out.

  It’s funny, but I thought I’d get used to living here. Been months now but I still wake up thinking I’m home with you.

  I better go, Dad. I try to get into bed before the other boys come in because they’re into all that jostling, and sometimes I don’t know how to answer back.

  Stroke to Bubble.

  Love,

  Gareth.

  P.S. Don’t forget your vitamins.

  P.P.S. I think they’re messing with me about the Chinese burn being a sign of friendship?

  ****

  Oskar

  “What do you mean, you’re not coming? We’re all going together. Like always.” Pink-and-White beamed. “We can meet for lunch.”

  Oskar smiled bravely. In the wake of planetary annihilation, a guy had to be brave.

  “You have to come, Oskar.” Carol Headscarf said earnestly. “To achieve your potential. If you don’t attend, you can’t graduate. Missing lectures now would be most unwise.”

  A time came when you had to stand against the crowd and ignore the easiest path, even though you really wanted to take it.

  “Think of all the work you did to get here!” Moira Ears nodded rather violently, making her glasses slip down her nose. “Would a cup of tea to ponder help?”

  “It would Moira, yes.” Oskar smiled weakly as they fussed around offering advice. “It’s not easy, but
my life has lurched from one media-induced crisis to the next. I am a child that was not meant to be, and so I am used to unselfish living.” He began to get in his stride, sniffing when tears pushed against purple mascara lashes. “I don’t know how I go on.” He was not meant for an easy life. One such as he was born to suffer and endure like the warriors of old.

  “Oh, Oskar! Please don’t leave!” Pink-and-White’s lip wobbled. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Or me.” Carol Headscarf flung a meaty arm around his shoulders. “I’m going to tie myself to the door so you can’t go.”

  “You’re so nice. But I have to think of others.” Oskar sipped the tea, trying to move away from Carol HS, who really needed to discover deodorant. “If I stay, you could all be in danger. More milk in my tea next time?”

  “Never mind about us! We’ll protect you.” Carol HS squeezed.

  “What’s going on?” Bear stood nervously by the door. Venturing into the social areas was still something he hardly ever did, preferring to hover at the edge then disappear back to his own room.

  “Oskar says he’s going home because some spy is following him with a gun.” Pink-and-White sobbed. “It’s terrible! He’s going to give up his degree for us.”

  “Might not have been a gun,” Oskar mumbled. “No need to exaggerate, Pink.”

  Bear edged in and knelt on the floor. “Going home?” He put a hand softly on Oskar’s knee and looked up with big brown eyes. The weight of his hand affected Oskar profoundly but not in ways to be shared with the group. Not anyone except Simon Le Bon.

  As Bear looked up, his throat and neck were exposed. The top of his shirt was open, revealing a tantalising triangle of chest. “Talk to me.”