Out of Heart Read online

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’

  Laila started and turned to see Mrs Matheson at her shoulder.

  ‘He works with total concentration. Like there’s nothing else here.’

  ‘He looks like he’s in a trance.’

  ‘In a way, I suppose he is,’ she agreed. ‘He’s living inside his work. It’s … wonderful to see.’

  Laila turned to look at Mrs Matheson. She saw excitement and pride in her eyes. Adam wasn’t her best student, or the most talented, but she saw something in him. ‘Do you see? He feels it. He really feels it. That’s what makes a real artist.’

  ‘Why does he sit funny when he’s drawing?’

  Mrs Matheson sat down next to Laila and smiled.

  ‘It’s not directly in front of him …’ continued Laila.

  ‘No. It’s turned to the side, almost upside down. It’s such an awkward angle to draw at, but still he manages to use it to his advantage. I think it’s the way his mind works, the way he deals with things. Positioning the paper so it's almost uncomfortable is his way of making it difficult.’

  ‘Why make it difficult? Why not make it easier?’

  She looked at Laila with gentle eyes.

  ‘Because that’s his way of getting to the answers he needs. That’s his way of seeing.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘No, it’s not clear to me either what goes through his head,’ replied Mrs Matheson, and walked away, smiling to herself.

  Laila went back to studying the dark-haired boy engrossed in his work. She’d never looked at a boy before. Not in the way she looked at him. But even now she wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Every time she looked into his eyes, whatever fire consumed him burnt any evidence that he was there with her. And yet she wanted to sit with him, would have liked to hold his hand, trace the sharp edges of his cheekbones with her fingers and hold him. Tell him that he was OK. That it was OK. Laila understood that Adam was trying to reshape the world. Trying to redraw it the way he saw it.

  ‘You bored?’ asked Adam from across the room.

  ‘No. It’s nice being here in the silence.’

  ‘A bit dull though, isn’t it?’

  Laila shook her head.

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Do what?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Try to get rid of me. Push me away.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was just saying, life’s a bit dull with me at times.’

  ‘You can be distant, but I don’t mind that. Because when you speak, you’ve thought about what you’re saying.’

  Putting down his pencil, Adam puffed out his cheeks and stared at Laila. He knew he was staring. He knew she knew he was staring. But this time he didn’t care. The light in the art room was better than in any of the other classrooms in the school. Large rectangular windows and high ceilings that let you see the sky. Adam had often wondered whether you could draw at all if you couldn’t see the sky. His eye caught the light behind Laila, making her look unearthly.

  ‘Now you’re being quiet and staring,’ she said.

  ‘I know. It’s the light behind you. It’s so …’

  ‘I know. It’s the huge windows, the light in here is beautiful. It—’

  ‘I wasn’t staring at the light and thinking it was beautiful.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Laila, looking at her hands suddenly, as Adam stopped staring and studied the writing on his pencil.

  ‘Farah, my little sister, she likes sitting in the light too. Helps her think,’ said Adam, breaking the silence.

  ‘I’d love to meet her. You said that she was quiet too?’

  ‘Very quiet, in some ways. She had an … accident, and ever since that … happened she doesn’t speak. But she’s not a quiet one,’ replied Adam. Seeing Laila’s confused look, he smiled. ‘Hard to explain.’

  ‘Is there anything about you that isn’t?’

  ‘It’s a good line to use when you don’t want to talk about something. “Hard to explain” – and then shrug your shoulders. William does it all the time …’

  ‘Who’s William?’

  Laila watched as Adam shifted in his seat and looked down at his drawing.

  ‘Erm, hard to explain?’ He replied, grinning.

  Laila smiled back. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Adam. It’s OK, I get it. You don’t have to tell me everything right now.’

  ‘I want to tell you. I’m going to tell you, one day,’ replied Adam, looking Laila in the eye again.

  Nothing about his life made sense. Farah not speaking, a guy called William as part of their family, where his dad was … But this, sitting here with her, made a lot of sense.

  She said nothing. Adam noticed her slender fingers were resting on the table. He wondered how her fingers would look entwined with his. Grabbing his pencil, he snapped it in two. The snap made Laila start. Walking around the table, she took his hands in hers, and took the broken pencil from him.

  ‘Promise me you’ll never break another pencil again. You look so beautiful when you draw, like the world has stopped and there is only you and the scratch of your pencil. I could watch you all day. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise,’ replied Adam, trembling. ‘I don’t know where to begin with all of it. There’s so much.’

  ‘No. It isn’t too much, it’s your life. I want to help.’

  ‘You do help. In so many ways. So much that it’s …’

  ‘Hard to explain?’ replied Laila, a smile tugging at her lips.

  When Mrs Matheson walked back into the room, she was surprised and pleased to see two silhouetted figures holding hands. But what really made her smile and edge back out of the doorway was to see that the room that was so full of light was, for this afternoon at least, so full of laughter.

  Adam stood in the middle of the ward. Looking down, he saw that he was in a pale green hospital gown. His feet were bare. It was dark but for the light from the corridor. A racking cough cut the silence and Adam felt his heart quicken. What was he doing here? The thrumming in his chest made him feel queasy. A few shafts of moonlight shot through the window behind him, bathing some of the patients, reminding Adam of a prison spotlight searching out escapees. Perhaps those the light fell upon were marked in some way. Adam now remembered why he called it the death ward. You could taste death on the tip of your tongue, and the sense of helplessness was palpable. Adam held out his hands in front of him. They weren’t his hands. They were old hands. Wrinkled, gnarled, nut brown. He put these hands up to feel his face and he felt hair, a short beard around and under his cheeks. What was going on?

  ‘Now, now, what’s gone on here? Do you need the toilet, love?’

  Adam looked up to see a short, stocky nurse striding towards him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you need the toilet? I can get the bedpan, or if you’re up to it, I can help you to the loo?’

  ‘No, I’m OK. What am I doing here?’ asked Adam, heart thumping now.

  ‘Come on, lovey, you’re a bit confused. It’s past midnight. Let’s get you to bed, eh.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not ill.’

  ‘That’s what they all say. Sorry, ducky, but you are a bit ill. Come on, back into bed.’

  Adam planted his legs and stood firm.

  The nurse looked at him and patiently nodded her head.

  ‘OK, ducky, OK.’

  ‘What’s my name …?’

  ‘Poor love. Look, let’s get you into bed so you can rest …’

  ‘Please. Tell me my name,’ pleaded Adam.

  The nurse sighed and held up her hands.

  ‘Your name, sweetheart, is Abdul-Aziz. Abdul-Aziz Shah.’

  Swaying, Adam held onto the frame of the bed and steadied himself.

  ‘That’s not me. That’s not my name.’

  The nurse pressed a button near the bed, and a few seconds later another nurse appeared. Together they began to gently lift Adam into the bed. Adam wanted to fend them off, wanted to move, wanted
to run. But all he could do was helplessly push against the nurses. They swaddled him in sheets and tucking him in secured his weak limbs to the bed.

  ‘There you go, ducky. Now, you get some good rest, and no more walkabout, you hear. I’ll come by to check on you shortly.’

  Adam watched as the two nurses bustled out of the ward, chattering with one another. He was stuck fast. Something was digging into him. Adam reached underneath his side. Feeling something there, he pulled until it came away and was in his hands. He knew what the object was. His Dadda’s prayer beads. He used the last of his strength to pull himself up. He remembered his Dadda sitting in his armchair flicking the beads and staring out of the window. He’d often thought that praying helped his Dadda to relax. Just as drawing helped Adam to feel calm. Adam pushed the beads, one after the other, and felt a tranquillity that helped compose him. The beads were textured and rough to the touch. Bringing them up to his nose, Adam smelt them. A shock of scents assailed his nose and thoughts of his Dadda flooded into his head. His grandfather had always smelt of smoke and sandalwood. His thick green cable-knit cardigan hoarding a mix of musty scents. Adam remembered rushing downstairs each morning to sit in his lap and drink milk. His Dadda wouldn’t say anything, just point to the glass and nod. After Adam had drained his glass, his Dadda would point to the remains of the moustache the milk had left behind and nod again. Adam would wipe the milk off with the back of his hand and hop off and away. When he shook his head to dislodge one memory, another took its place. This time walking into a stationer’s and wondering at all the different pens and pencils and pads and paper all around him. His Dadda had only come in to buy some envelopes, but seeing Adam’s fascination had followed his eyes and bought him his first set of pencils. No colour, perhaps he had not been ready for colour just then, but different grades of grey. He remembered gripping that box of pencils in both hands and rushing home to draw something, anything. He tried his best to remember what he had drawn first, but it escaped him. Still fingering the beads, Adam forced his eyes open and tried to clear his head. What was he doing here?

  ‘Adam. Are you awake?’

  ‘William …? What am I doing here?’

  ‘Where else are you supposed to be?’

  ‘I … don’t know, but not here.’

  ‘Adam, I have to tell you something. I have to go.’

  ‘Go where? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I have to go away. I shouldn’t have come. You have enough to deal with, and I don’t need to add to that.’

  ‘Away? You can’t, William. You came to us, remember? You can’t just leave. They both left. My dad, Dadda. All my fathers. Not you too.’

  ‘If I stay, it will complicate things for all of you. You don’t need me to remind you of what you’ve lost. I’m making it difficult for you with your community. If I’m not there, you can all get on with your lives.’

  Flicking the beads at a furious rate, Adam stared at William. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This was just a … dream.

  The sensation was one of falling again as Adam woke. The clammy bed-sheets stuck to him. Kicking them off, Adam sat up in bed. Every bit of that dream had felt real. He had been his Dadda in the death ward. He had felt and smelt and touched everything. He had spoken to William, and William had said he was leaving. Adam knew then that it was more than just a dream. He ran down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and barged into the living room. It was empty. He had left William there a few hours ago, sitting in the armchair, a blanket tucked around him and a cup of tea at his side. Climbing into the armchair and pulling the discarded blanket around him, Adam wept.

  Adam stood looking out at the closely packed trains. It was dark, and hard to see clearly, but the quiet helped, with the monotony of what he was doing, made him feel at peace with himself. Flexing his fingers, Adam carried on spraying the strips of metal. The minute he stopped, rogue thoughts would rush into his head. Thoughts about his dad, his mum, his granddad, William, Farah, Laila, everyone. Thoughts and images, words and letters, faces and clocks and hearts and everything. Until he blinked hard and shook the jumble of thoughts out of his head. Pressing down on the spray-can nozzle, Adam continued to cover his world in blood-red paint. Covering up the cracks in the grey metal strips. But there was one thought he could not dislodge. Adam dreaded the idea of meeting up with his dad. He had arranged it so hastily at the time. He had said yes to get rid of him, to make him go away. And now he was seeing him again. For what? So he could tell him to get lost? Go away? Like William? Adam slumped down on the very edge of the train roof, his back to the drop below. He felt as if he was at the edge of an abyss. Looking over his shoulder was like looking into a well. Your eyes played tricks on you, making you see the bottom, but the darkness was unfathomable. Adam leaned back a little bit more. What if he closed his eyes and fell into it? Would he keep falling forever, watching as all the parts and people of his life rushed by? It would be so easy to just lean back and …

  ‘Yo! Adam? You up here?’

  Tank’s voice echoed eerily round the yard. Sitting up, Adam composed himself and stuffed his rucksack with his spray cans.

  ‘Yep. Wassup?’ he replied.

  ‘There’s some kind of guard patrolling on the other side. He looks like he might come up here. Thought I’d warn you.’

  Adam climbed down and jumped off the train, making his way over to Tank.

  ‘Thanks. Just finishing anyway.’

  ‘You almost done?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘Still got a bit to do.’

  ‘You can’t do it simple and tag a small patch of wall like the rest of us …’ said Tank, grinning.

  ‘It’s just something that came to me. I don’t know if it’s a tag or anything …’

  ‘It’s a giant tag. A giant statement.’

  ‘I don’t know, man. It’s just an idea.’

  ‘I’ve seen you spray, cuz, and draw. You could be big on this scene if you wanted. But you’re always alone and apart. You have to try to belong to something. Or else these other crews will dump your work. They’ll think you too arrogant. You get me?’

  ‘I’m not arrogant, just like to keep myself to myself. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nuttin, man, I’m just sayin,’ replied Tank, holding up his hands.

  ‘So what’s stopping them dumpin my work now then? I’ve done bits around – it’s still up there. And this piece, some crews must know about it …’

  ‘What you think’s stopping them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tank man, I just do my thing …’

  Tank looked at Adam and smiled.

  Adam stopped what he was saying and blurted, ‘You? You’re stopping them?’

  ‘Why you think your skinny ass hasn’t been kicked yet?’

  ‘Because of you …’ replied Adam in genuine surprise.

  ‘Well, kind of. Because of me and Strides.’

  ‘Strides? He don’t even like me too much.’

  ‘He don’t talk too much, but he’s been up there and seen your work. Seen what you’re trying to do. That’s enough for him. And me.’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘For us to say you’re part of our crew, fam. That you with us. The other crews won’t dump you or your work, ya understand? Or mans will get touched, you get me.’

  ‘Man, Tank, I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Don’t say nuttin, cuz. Don’t want you to get too chatty now, do we? It’ll do my head in.’ Tank slapped Adam on the back. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. Don’t think that security guard is one of your fans.’

  Walking back together, Adam stopped on the other side of the wall and held out his hand.

  ‘Thanks, bruv. Means a lot.’

  Tank grinned and, clasping his hand, he pulled Adam into an embrace. ‘Man, look around you. We don’t have too much to keep us occupied. It’s not pretty here. If we don’t respect the talent in ourselves, what else we got? You wanna be a roadm
an? One of those chiefs teefing man’s goods? One of those wasteman robbing grannies on the high street? What else we got? We can draw, man, we have ideas about shape and colour, we can make a statement, ya understan? Who knows more about colour than us? Us that live in this black-and-white world. No need for thanks, bruv. Be true to the talent. Stay in school, drop out of school, but keep the pencil and the can close.’

  Adam looked at the short, stocky figure of Tank. He had liked him the minute he had met him. Now he knew why. There was something earthy about him, like a tree root.

  ‘OK, let’s go. I feel like Malcolm X or sumthin, all inspirational an that. Might start keeping a memoir of me thoughts,’ Tank said, chuckling.

  ‘I’d want to read that,’ replied Adam.

  Looking sidelong at him, Tank burst out laughing.

  ‘You too serious, man. Everything don’t need to have tone! Some tings are just meant to be enjoyed.’ Slapping Adam on the back once more, Tank threw a fist into the air and walked off up the road.

  Tank’s words swirled around Adam’s head as he went to meet his dad. Keep the pencil and the can close. Adam smiled as he thought of Tank as a wise old stump with a unique way with words. Be true to the talent. Adam had never thought of what he had as talent. It was just something he could do. He could replicate most of anything he could see. That’s not talent, is it? That’s being a parrot, thought Adam. A dim memory nudged at him. Something Miss Matheson had once said. ‘You’re able to draw people’s faces easily enough, a lot of people can. But you’re able to capture something about them that reveals something to us. Even if that thing is grotesque or beautiful or bland, instinctively you’re able to see it and show it. I can’t teach you that, Adam. Nobody can. You either have it or you don’t. If you carry on in this way, if you keep drawing and painting and learning about the world and about yourself, then maybe you’ll recognise it in yourself one day.’

  Adam thought about the man he was going to meet. The man who had been his father, but was now, in his eyes, just another man. Adam had a rough idea as to how a father was supposed to be. And his dad came up short at best. Each flash of memory was painful. Every remembered snippet of conversation was angry and agonising. All the blows, each one hard and hurtful. They had lived apart from his Dadda and Daddima back then, just a few streets over. But the distance had been as wide as a canyon. As time went by, Adam had learned to read the signs, had known how to prepare, had found where to hide. But that made Adam angry with himself, that he had hidden when his mum couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. He had blamed her then. For not hiding, for not backing down, for making him feel embarrassed that he couldn’t protect her. He was just a kid. What was he supposed to do? His mum had taken the blows, absorbing them into herself like a sponge, but Adam knew she had cried the tears too. Angry tears squeezed out through a clenched fist.