Tunnels

Sometimes I'd hear voices.

When I was small, I thought it was evidence of fairies. I'd squat down near the skirting for ages at a time, listening for them. I tried leaving little bits of food, but Mum cleared it away.

"What are you thinking, Nathan!" she tutted. "You're going to attract ants!"

They never told me to do anything. Nothing like that. They weren't even talking to me, as far as I could tell. It sounded like snatches of conversation I could almost (but not quite) understand. Ordinary. Like someone asking have we any laundry soap left? or close that door, there's a draught.

Time marched by. Age soured the magic. I was convinced I was crazy. Pills, hospitals, therapists...

Do you know what finally cured me? I moved away. The voices stopped! If only I'd known it was so simple to be rid of them, years before. I even forgot about them for years... Can you believe that? They had been a central part of my life (of me) for so long.

I didn't even think, while I was busy living my life (socialising, dating, securing my career as a writer) that I'd never silenced those voices at all. I'd just left them behind. They were still there. With my parents. I didn't give the voices another thought.

When Dad died, Mum needed help at home. I was unmarried, childless, and lucky enough to have a job that didn't glue me to any one place. It made sense to be the dutiful son. I packed up some things, and moved back home.

Gone was the brisk woman who had marshalled me through my childhood. Who was this vague wisp with a faraway look in her eyes, always so distracted and scattered? As if she were listening for something on the edge of hearing. Her hair all white now, slippered feet shuffling.

She put a saucer of milk by the skirting, though she had no cat, and I knew. In a way, it was like the years in between hadn't happened; the memory of those voices slamming back to me, fresh and raw.

A thought, hot on their heels: I should never have come, except to take her away. Somewhere safe.

I shook that idea away at first. The whole reason I came back was so that Mum could stay in the family home longer. She didn't want to go into some facility. She wanted to be here.

Her absent-mindedness bothered me. The way she trailed off in the middle of a sentence, head cocked, and then, when prodded, apparently forgot what she was talking about. The way she mumbled at the walls.

I was right about this much: when I suggested we leave, all her wispiness sharpened into shrewd edges and hard refusal.

Over dinner one night (I'd ruined a packet of pasta, and served it with some past-its-best salad), I broached the subject again.

Mum seemed more lucid than usual. She pushed the salad around her plate, chewing on her lips so that criticism didn't escape.

"Mum, I don't think it's a good idea to stay-"

"Nathan, why did you dish up this salad? It's good for nothing but pesto, at best."

"Mum," I tried again, "I really think-"

She sighed. "Is that about me going in a home, again?" she snapped.

"No, Mum, of course, we could sell this place and rent a flat in town, or-"

She glared at me.

"I've told you, I'm not leaving this house. That's the end of it."

The years fell away again, and I was just a little boy, and her word was law.

No! I'm a grown man, and it's my job to look after her, now. We can't stay here. It won't be good for either of us.

She went to bed early without saying a word. I could feel her anger, her frustration at my inability to listen. More accurately, I could feel my own anger and frustration at her.

I got up early in the morning and made her tea (strong tea, with tea leaves, like Gran used to make) and soft-boiled eggs. I arranged my peace offering on a tray, and took it to her room.

When I tapped on her bedroom door, there was no answer.

"Mum?"

Her bed was neatly made and all her belongings were in their proper places. She'd taken no coat, no cash, no key.

Had she left? Or been taken?

Police were dismissive, looking sceptical when I insisted she was vulnerable.

I went home, and fetched some of Dad's tools out of the shed.

Ears pricked, I trod softly along the edges of each room, hefting the mallet in my hands.

#

I didn't hear the banging at first. When I wasn't swinging the hammer, I was leaning down, hands on my knees, and yelling at the skirting.

At first, they tried to coax me away with reason and gentle voices.

"No," I said firmly. "I need to find my mother. I think they've taken her."

"Why are you destroying the walls of your home, Nathan?"

I frowned. Can't they see? It's obvious.

"Because that's where she is," I said slowly.

They looked a little nervous, and kept glancing at my hammer. I laughed and set it aside. I shouldn't have done that. They'd have stayed back if I held on to it.

It had long since gone dark out. As they led me away, I caught my reflection in the window: hair sticking out at all angles, eyes wild and bloodshot. I guess I do look a little crazy.