Читать книгу Born Scared - Kevin Brooks - Страница 10

I don’t like hiding things from Mum – it makes me feel like I’m betraying her – but I learned a long time ago that sometimes it’s best for both of us if I keep certain things to myself.

Like Ellamay, for example.

I was about four years old when I first realised that I had to keep Ellamay to myself. The Doc had been round to see me, and afterwards – while he was talking to Mum – I was sitting on the floor looking through one of my favourite picture books, and it just so happened that Ellamay suddenly came to me.

Are you all right, Elliot? she asked. What did the Doc say this time?

‘He wants me to see a special doctor,’ I told her.

What kind of special doctor?

‘A brain doctor.’

Why?

‘To stop me being frightened.’

‘Elliot?’

It wasn’t Ellamay’s voice this time, and for a second I didn’t know what was happening. Then Mum spoke again.

‘What are you doing, Elliot? Who are you talking to?’

I looked up at her. ‘It’s Ellamay.’

‘Who?’

‘Ellamay.’

Mum looked puzzled, and as she turned to the Doc I could see that she was worried too.

‘Who’s Ellamay, Elliot?’ the Doc asked me.

‘My sister.’

‘Your sister?’

I nodded.

The Doc turned to Mum. ‘Ellamay?’

Mum shook her head, and I could see now that there were tears in her eyes. ‘He didn’t get it from me . . .’ she muttered, her voice catching in her throat. ‘You know I couldn’t bear to give her a name . . . he must have made it up himself . . .’

‘Have you heard him talking to her before?’

‘I always thought he was just talking to himself.’

She was crying now, tears running down her face. I got up and went over to her and put my arms around her neck.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s not your fault . . .’

But it was my fault. Who else’s fault could it have been?

And ever since then I only talk out loud to Ellamay when we’re alone.

Another thing I learned not to say out loud was ‘monkem’. Monkems are all the people in the world except for Mum, Auntie Shirley, and the Doc. They’re called monkems because they come to me in my dreams as horrible scary things with hairy monkey bodies and long grasping arms and bandy legs and little human heads with vicious grinning mouths with their lips pulled back over nasty big monkey teeth . . .

That’s what other people are to me.

Terrible things that want to rip me apart and eat me.

Monkems.

The first time I said it in front of Mum she told me I mustn’t say it any more.

‘Why not?’ I asked her.

‘You can’t call people monkeys, Elliot.’

‘Monkems,’ I corrected her. ‘Not monkeys.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she said (which made no sense to me at all), ‘but people might think you’re saying monkey, like I just did, and they might think you’re being horrible to them.’ She gave me a look. ‘You don’t want anyone to think you’re being horrible to them, do you?’

I told her I didn’t, and since then I only ever use the word when I’m on my own or with Ellamay. Not that it makes any difference. The way I react to monkems – screaming my head off and running away in terror – they must think I’m mad anyway, so what does it matter if they think I’m horrible as well? And besides, even at that age – three or four years old – I was very rarely seeing anyone else apart from Mum and Shirley and the Doc, so the chances of me upsetting a monkem by calling them a monkem were virtually non-existent.

I wish this was easier. I wish I could just lay my hands on your head and transfer what’s inside me to you. I wish you could be me, if only for a moment, so you’d know exactly how I feel.

But that’s not going to happen, is it?

Wishes never come true.