Tom Houghton (13 page)

I released a small chuckle. ‘You're not such a baby,' I said as if we hadn't quarrelled. ‘You'll always be my girl, Kathy. No matter what happens, you need to know that.'

I'd grown increasingly restless down in Connecticut, the debates with Dad had grown too numerous and too heated. Perhaps this was why my childhood tic was slowly creeping its way back. What was it niggling just beneath the surface of the relationship between Dad and me? I suppose I just wasn't interested in privilege. I longed for exploration, foraging through the great unknown. All I ever read were books about explorers, men founding civilisations where no white man had been before. Most days now I was off on my own and only occasionally would I remember to include Kathy in one of my escapes from the family. My most recent play had been set in Africa and Kathy had been smeared with boot polish, playing a savage who longed to leave his village and return to England with his conqueror (played by me). In New York I knew so little and this lack of understanding thrilled me, physically goose-pimpled my flesh.

That afternoon the whole street was abuzz with news of the robbery of the jewellery store on Bleecker Street. Four men had held up the proprietor and shot him in the arm and face, escaping on foot and running right past Auntie's dear friend Bertha's front door. Kids from all about the neighbourhood were ignited with excitement and I was desperate to see a piece of the action for myself. We missed seeing the police corner the bandits on Greenwich Avenue by minutes and I complained bitterly to Kathy that we'd done so.

As we sat on the sidewalk talking about life in New York compared with life back home, my leg jiggled with a mind of its own and the movement vibrated through Kathy's whole body, she said, causing a poison of annoyance to course through her veins.

‘The life of a criminal,' I said, ‘would sure be a darn sight more exciting than the one we have.'

‘Why don't you just run away then?' Kathy said in a huff. ‘You may as well ask to die.'

•  •  •

That evening, Auntie took us to see a movie. It was all for me as I was clearly her favourite, not the spider-like Kathy. It was a filmed version of one of Mark Twain's lesser-known books but it was Twain nevertheless and I had long regarded the author as a personal hero. Kathy came along happily enough as there was no real alternative to going though I bet she would have preferred to stay home reading one of her books.

The movie was a farce, really, with its time-travelling hero and the almost embarrassing sight of knights in armour atop motorcycles that detracted from the lavish competition scene. But there was a scene in the dark and morbid dungeon where the queen has her slaves beaten. It really got to me, that scene, forcing me to shut my eyes, and on the way home I kept imagining that darkened shadows were demons out to get me.

Clearly, I wasn't acting myself, as Kathy asked if I was feeling peachy.

‘A little spooked,' was all I said so as not to let her too far into my mind.

I really cannot say why this movie affected me so. Kathy and I had acted out violence and murders in our own plays from time to time; we'd heard all about Dad's boyhood trickery in pretending to lynch Negroes. I knew none of it was real and yet I didn't want to be alone up there in the attic that night, couldn't stand the thought of those shadows out to get me.

But I did make it through the night – a fraught voyage between waking and drifting that never made its way to slumber; every noise a malice, every movement not my own. In the morning I refused to let Kathy see me so shaken. She idolised me – how could I shatter that image of hers and admit to being scared and vulnerable when she thought of me as her knight? I did my best to hide my exhaustion and the day passed with more sightseeing chaperoned by our Uncle Lloyd. Lloyd took us to the Battery, where we explored the parklands and enjoyed the aquarium and while Kathy begged to spend more time in the gardens, I got my way and drifted off, reading the various memorials and monuments.

Over lunch at a discreet underground restaurant on Broadway, we shared our enthusiasm for the next landmark on our itinerary – the tallest building in the world. It was the first time all day that I'd begun to feel like myself again and I could barely contain my excitement, even refusing to order pie, but Kathy never turned down an opportunity for New York baked treats. On the street we could not comprehend that we were unable to see the apex of the Woolworth Building and would be riding an elevator some fifty-seven storeys to the observation deck. As the small car rose ever higher inside the bowels of the structure, I felt giddy at the thought that one rope held us safe from doom and again my damn leg shook uncontrollably. We were all just so minuscule. Instinctively, Kathy reached out to hold my hand and our fingers brushed for a moment but a glance from Lloyd sent my own hand firmly inside my trouser pocket.

The view from so high up was, quite simply, unimaginable. Kathy could not venture too close to the edge but I fought through my nerves and showed her I was strong enough to do so.

It was an awe-inspiring day altogether and we thanked our uncle with hugs and kisses and incessant chatter as we chose to walk the mile or so back to Charlton Street. Lloyd saw us to the door of Auntie's house but did not enter, choosing to leave his charges to the noise of the house filled with people. Auntie's mother and sister were home, Bertha had come for a visit, and a whole raft of their friends were enjoying laughter and chatter.

I said hello to the small crowd, raced upstairs and hurriedly packed my suitcase and laid out my travelling clothes for our trip to Connecticut the following day, before returning back downstairs to the group of women and their one or two syrupy male guests. Ignited by the atmosphere of Auntie's gathering, I was coaxed into playing them some tunes on my banjo as they sat around the open fire.

‘Oh, you're such a romantic,' a few of the women cooed.

‘He's rather deft with those hands,' one of the men said and winked at me. Again my damn leg began to tremble.

Around ten, Auntie suggested it was time for bed and we said goodnight to the women who remained, now sipping brandy in the reading room. Kathy went on ahead upstairs to her room, while I stayed behind to thank Auntie again for taking me to the movie.

‘This visit has been the most pleasant experience of my life,' I said and kissed her on the cheek.

I walked up the stairs to Kathy's room and hesitated. I should go up to the attic and straight to bed, but those night-time demons still awaited me. I walked along the hall to the bedroom where she slept and, to my dismay, found she had locked the door. I tried it again, certain it must be some trick of the contraption, but there was no denying its status. My own sister had forcibly locked me out.

‘Kathy?' I whispered, mindful of Auntie downstairs. ‘Please won't you open this door? Please, Kathy.' Only silence from the other side. I felt as empty as a shoe abandoned by the side of the road.

‘I just want to know,' I continued whispering through the door, ‘that you'll always be my girl, Kathy.' Nothing. ‘That's all.'

I tried desperately to talk myself out of my terror. The world was closing in. The feelings I had inside disgusted me, I wanted to carve them out of my soul with violence. I had turned into an abomination. Why was nobody here to help me, why would nobody be able to understand why I trembled so and why had this darn shaking returned now that I was on the verge of becoming a man? Weak and pathetic, that's what I was, growing ever weaker with Kathy inching away from me day by day, becoming a woman and no longer my girl, only mine. Kathy was all I could think of. How disappointed she would be in me, and hadn't she already started showing signs? Keeping just those few further inches apart, forcing a sense of the taboo between us. I locked the door behind me and faced the steeply ceilinged attic once more.

And then something came over me and started acting for me, I was stepping through the motions without thought. I stood beneath one of the rafters – it was barely taller than me, it wouldn't do. Not enough height. I took one of Auntie's muslin bed sheets and tried its silkiness around my throat. Yes. I unravelled it and tied one end tightly around the beam. I pulled on the knots with all of my weight – it would hold. The other end made a comfortable noose, an easy slipknot. I sank to my knees and the knot tightened – again I saw Kathy's face. I refused to allow myself to become a man of whom she would be frightened. With all of my weight I pulled against that knot. I was trudging through waist-deep snow; I was pulling myself out of this life and into nothing. It was a relief, pure and simple. Relief.

W
hen I woke on Monday morning I was no longer Tom Houghton of Seven Hills. I was never meant to be that Tom Houghton. So quaint, so horrifically suburban. My school, the bullies, our backyard and those stupid chooks. It all meant nothing. Pure vacuous, paltry shit. It was all a lie and I had finally uncovered the deception and now it was up to me to put it right.

‘I am not meant to be here,' I wanted to call out to the world. ‘This is all a twisted mistake.'

I put the pieces together upon waking. Thomas Houghton. Like me, a lover of drama, someone with tics that drew taunts just like those I received at school. A boy confused, yet knowing the complete desolation that was his due, just as I knew mine. A violent death. One of struggle, not only emotional, but also the act of wriggling finally, drawing frantically for breath despite no longer wanting it.

After he died, at home none of the Hepburns ever spoke again about Tom. It was as if his decision that night had wiped any trace of his existence from history. He was buried in the family cemetery and each of the siblings was forbidden from ever visiting. This ripped Kathy to pieces but instead of protesting, of insisting that she keep the memory of her brother alive by speaking about him at any chance she got, she reacted in the most fantastic way: she became him. When she returned she took on his interests, telling anyone who would listen that she should be called ‘Jimmy'. She pursued most vigorously all of the interests Tom had excelled at: sports, music, the arts. Especially drama and the theatre – these were his destiny and now she eased herself into his empty space as though it had been designed specifically for her own boyish frame. Without Tom the four-time Oscar winner would never have existed. And oh, what an actress! But what about Tom? It wasn't just the Hepburns . . . no one ever spoke of Tom.

My body flushed hot with this secret discovery. I could not even comprehend why it felt so momentous, so otherworldly. This boy, with my same name and my same birthday. Tom Houghton. November 8th. He was the one who deserved to be the star. It struck straight at my heart. Hepburn had served as the revered embodiment of what should have been. Tom would have dropped the Hepburn surname, clear of his father's influence and the name Tom Houghton, my name, should be known by all. I wanted to write to Katharine Hepburn and tell her that she had done enough now, she could rest. I was Tom Houghton, the true incarnation of the dead boy, sixty-five years later, here to reclaim what was rightfully ours.

And I knew then that this was my destiny. Everything was falling into place; the sense of purpose I felt was overwhelming. I felt whole, I felt bigger than everything surrounding me. I just needed to bring the realisation to light, prove once and for all that I was undeserving of those school-yard taunts, and I would turn them into deafening applause.

•  •  •

My teacher, Mrs Nguyen, pulled me aside before class. ‘I'm sorry for your loss, Tom. If you need to talk, you just ask. If any children harass you in any way, you tell me immediately. Otherwise, let's just get you back to being you. Yes?'

I
was
out of sorts. Now Thomas Houghton Hepburn and I were one and the same, being there, stuck inside with the other kids, was inane absurdity. I could not get the image of Tom out of my mind. I could see myself there with him in that attic at Charlton Street and I knew that only I had the power to convince him to stop, save him from such a horrific end. And this was it, at the end of the day; the only thing I now longed for was saving Thomas Houghton Hepburn. Since that was physically impossible, then I had no other choice but to save myself.

I ignored the entire morning's lessons, consumed with how to bring about the turnaround. I looked around the classroom and wondered how many of the other kids had seen a dead body . . . and how many of the other boys had discovered what I'd inadvertently done in the money room. Simon Harlen, surely, with those wiry rough legs of his. But life threw me something strange that day at school, something I could never have anticipated. It formed the beginning.

Mrs Nguyen announced that to celebrate the end of the school year, we would be doing something very special. Here she smiled fondly in my direction and bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement – or so it seemed to me, at least.