Night Visits by Ron ButlinLeadtext: For the few weeks before his tenth birthday Malcolm saw the world only through his reflection''s eyes.One evening he''d been watching the first snowfall of the winter while click-click-clicking his fingers to the new chartbuster straight in at number eight. Usually at this time he would have been looking out the window for the builder''s van that brought his dad home. Their meal in the oven to keep hot, he and his mum would have waited and, except for each flick as she turned over a page of her magazine, nothing would have happened. He''d have stared and stared into the darkness until finally the van came roaring up the hill, its lights sweeping the village cross where it braked to a stop just long enough for his dad to jump out, slamming the door behind him. At once he''d have turned and rushed out of the kitchen to be at the gate to meet him. But now, with his dad ill in bed, everything in the house happened differently. The snow was getting heavier.
He couldn''t see Stuart''s Hill any more and Robson''s Farm had started drifting in and out of sight. Swaying, almost, as the snow around it held and fell with each sudden gust of wind. ''Close the curtains, please, Malcolm.'' Click-click-clicking his fingers louder he pretended not to hear. ''Dreaming, are you?'' His mother laughed, then came across to the window. She gave the curtains a quick tug and half the village was gone. In the next-door cottage, with its porch light a steadiness between the separate flakes, Sonny was probably playing with the new Gameboy he''d been given. Maybe Malcolm''s dad would recover in time to give him one for his birthday? Or maybe he could get his mum to drop a big hint the next time she was on the phone to Aunt Fiona, to save her buying him a book again or another jersey.
His mother had closed the other side, then straightened the curtains where they met.That was that: the night shut out. Like giving up all hope until tomorrow that his dad would get any better.''We''ll be eating soon. Hands washed?'' He nodded. A double finger-click to hurry the record on, he wanted to sing along with the DJ''s jingle if it ever came. Jingles were the best part: short and loud. Just like himself, his mother was always saying.
She had started laying the table. ''Give''s a hand, Malcolm.There''s a good boy.'' He pulled open the drawer of the sideboard where the forks and knives lay neatly, each piece in its correct compartment, with the napkins folded on one side. ''Your dad and all, mind.'' ''Is he getting up?'' Even after being in his bed for weeks his dad still seemed to be getting older-looking and sweatier every day, and he coughed all the time. Above the sideboard was an oval mirror that showed the room behind him, with his mother putting the cups and plates silently on the table. If he could go into the mirror would it be completely silent, like when he dived into the swimming pool? In there everything was exactly the same but when he leant closer, the glass was turned into soap water colours or a rainbow along its edge.
When he stepped back the colours became clear again. He stared straight into the eyes looking back at him. What would it feel like actually being his reflection? The same as looking into the room through a window, maybe? He waved a fork, and his reflection was already waving it back. He laughed, stuck out his tongue. ''Come along, Malcolm.The tea''s nearly ready. Doctor Marshall told your dad he should try getting up for his meals.'' He turned away from the mirror and in a sudden rush made two low-altitude bombing raids on the table: ''Forks away!'' followed by ''Knives away!'' Crouching to remain unseen by the enemy, he crept from cover to position the UN plane drops exactly on target: three places all set, the sauce-bottle and salt standing in the centre.
Now for the moment he never liked: going into his dad''s room. ''I''ll call him, will I?'' ''You''ll go in and tell him properly. If he''s not up to it yet, say I''ll bring him his dinner on a tray, same as usual.'' He''d better hurry. The record was nearly ending and he didn''t want to miss the jingle.Anyway, what was wrong with giving him a shout? His dad wasn''t deaf, just ill. Having crossed the small lobby, he paused outside the door. Behind him the record was swinging into the last chorus.
He''d have to be quick. Because of the cold the window was never opened, so his dad''s room always stank of clothes-smell. And bed-smell and illness-smell.A pity there was no letter-box to shout through. He knocked. But not too loud, in case his mother heard and would know he''d not gone in as he''d been told.He waited, then bent down to the keyhole and whispered loudly: ''Dad, Dad!'' A faint light showed, so he must be awake. One last try at knocking, one last whisper: ''Dad!'' But it was no good.
He touched the door-handle as lightly as possible. Its metal surface felt greasy and disgusting, making him shiver all over. He turned it quickly and gave the door a push. Half open. The loud tick-tick-tick of the wind-up alarm clock; the sickly yellow of the bed light; the heavy furniture that filled the rest of the room like darkness. And the smell. Getting worse by the second. It was like sticking his head under water, and into very dirty water at that.
Before going in he leant back into the corridor to take a deep breath, then pushed the door open wide: ''Dad, your tea''s ready.'' His father was sitting up in bed looking directly at him as if he''d known he was going to enter the room exactly at that moment. His hands rested on the covers and, as usual, he was wearing his pyjamas with a vest on underneath.The grey stained vest he never seemed to change. When he came through for tea he''d probably just put on a pullover and trousers on top. The rest of his message delivered, Malcolm stood waiting.Then he repeated it: ''If you want, Mum said she''d bring your dinner through. Okay?'' Had his dad gone deaf suddenly? Or dumb? Well, he couldn''t hold his breath any longer.
A swallow of the underwater stink, then he went further into the room. He reached out and tapped him lightly on the shoulder: ''Dad?'' He waited a moment, then nudged him harder. All at once, without even turning to face him properly, his dad began sliding slowly towards him.Then falling. Malcolm tried pushing him back: his dad was supposed to be ill, not playing games. ''Mum''s waiting.We should go for tea. Come on.
'' Even trying as hard as he could, he couldn''t hold him from slippingfurther. Not his whole weight. There was a loud crack: his father''s head hitting full-force against theedge of the bedside table. ''Dad! Dad!'' Suddenly his mother was standing in the doorway; staring, whitefaced. She screamed. He pushed past her, rushed out of the room and a moment later was back in the kitchen where the Chartbuster Show had started to play the new number five and the table was laid for tea. He heard her scream again. The room was exactly the same as before but through the rasping tear in her voice he could feel his father''s stubbled cheek still scraping his own, and the boniness of his jaw.
Quickly, before another scream came, he covered his ears. He was standing rigidly still in the centre of the room, facing the silence of the sideboard mirror where there was no screaming, no weight pressing on top of him. Nor the terrible crack his father''s head had made as he fell.In the mirror everything was ready for them to sit down and eat tea as usual. He went up to the sideboard and looked closer. Taking his hands away from his ears, he reached towards the glass where his reflection''s hands were already reaching towards his. Their fingertips touched. After a moment''s hesitation he pressed harder, breaking through into the silence underneath.
His reflection and himself together, looking out for the first time. As though seeing the room through his reflection''s eyes: Everything in the kitchen happening as it should do.The plates laid out, the chairs in position, the two-bar fire, and you standing by yourself in front of the mirror.You can still hear your mother''s screams but as they are on the outside now, they can no longer hurt you. It is time to take your seat at the table and wait for her return.