He has too many words. There didn’t use to be this many

and Ned was never this big and he never came to church and the church was not made out of hands but he has hair like fire so he must be

the boy.

I used to splash in the puddles with Ned when I walked him back to the farm. Love your neighbour, Dad said, but Mum said everything has its limit. He has a family, she said. He has a family of his own.

And this isn’t him at all. I know that now. They want me to think so. Them. Always playing tricks. I don’t want to play anymore. Give me back my hands.

This boy’s not the right one at all.

29 March 2004

Alex

On the bus into town. The engine and the natterers in front drowning out the music. I should get some better headphones. We stop. The doors hiss and I wait for everyone to get out before sliding off the seat and saying cheers to the driver. Fresh air. The pavement speckled white. I can’t tell whether it’s meant to be like that or if it’s just chewing gum spat out and trampled down.

He’s there before I have time to change direction, right in front of me in his dirty sleeping bag. Back against the wall – paint peeling onto him like he’s a permanent fixture. Matted hair, scruffy dog. All I have to do is walk past. I could cross over but the bus is pulling out. He won’t speak to me. He won’t. He doesn’t. Doesn’t even look up and I walk past feeling like shit anyway.

Ned would know exactly how to handle these situations. I imagine him like me but better. Like me but with posture and muscles and social skills. He carries extra fags and energy bars and his pockets jingle with spare change. He can hand these things over and not be a dick about it. That’s why people want to be around him. That’s why Nan’s face changes when she realises I’m not him after all.

Town is heaving. If Mum hadn’t taken the car I’d be at the supermarket or the retail park. Anywhere else. There are too many people. Push my way through Marks and Spencer’s, past the fluffy dressing gowns and big knickers. Pick a card, any card. Pick something out of this line-up – something for less than a tenner. It’s all generic mum stuff. As though spawning another human being means you’re instantly drawn to knick-knacks and spotty tea towels, mugs with slogans so meaningless it makes me want to vom. Ned would know what to buy. He has excellent taste. He probably makes his own gifts.