Cloudwall

The only thing the children had in common was they’d all disappeared on Christmas Eve.

Isabella, at four, was the youngest. She went missing not long after the house was built – in 1844 according to the stonework over the door.

Frances, red-haired and freckled, was seven when she was last seen building a snowman in the back garden. When her grandmother called her in because it was getting dark she was gone. That was just after the First World War.

Nine-year old Gordon, the only boy, vanished seemingly without a trace at Christmas 1966. He was wearing a badge commemorating England’s World Cup victory. His mother sent him to the kitchen for more gravy and he never came back.

And then there’s me. I’m the oldest but I’m the newest as well. I’m fourteen, or fifteen, depending on how you look at it. My birthday was in August but I don’t feel any older. This will be my first Christmas since I disappeared. Almost a year behind the cloudwall staring out into my old house and my old life.

My room hasn’t changed. They’re still hoping I’ll come back. Every day they wait for me to walk through the front door. How long will they wait?

I was in my room playing my music loud while Mum, Dad and Sophie played board games downstairs – Sophie got to stay up late because it was Christmas Eve. I was sulking because I’d found out they hadn’t bought me the hair straighteners I wanted. Mum came up a couple of times to call for me to go down but I ignored her. I could hear her waiting and then going back down the stairs. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything.

The third time, she knocked on the door and got really angry when I didn’t answer. She yanked the door open and came in. She was so upset. But it was too late. I’d gone. I was here looking out at her as she searched all round upstairs, then went and got Dad and they went all round the house and up in the loft. And then outside in the street and in the garden. Then they started calling all my friends they could think of. And then finally they called the police. I was screaming the whole time but they couldn’t hear me through the cloudwall.

The cloudwall is like a one-way window into the house, my house. Dark shapes float across it, like thunderclouds in a lava lamp. Between the clouds I can see every room in the house, but no one in the house can see me. I’ve seen mum cry so many times, I saw dad lying on the floor, screaming my name over and over. I reach out to them but there’s no way through, my fingers tingle – like pins and needles – as they touch the wall.

Even though there’s no tree and no decorations, we all know Christmas Eve is tomorrow. The others are getting excited. Gordon has told me Christmas Eve is the one day each year when we can go back into the house. But we can’t stay.

I want to know if I talk to Mum and Dad? Can I hug them? Tell them I’m sorry? Gordon shakes his head. They can’t hear you or feel you even when you’re over there. Then what’s the point, I ask?

Sometimes you can make things happen, he says. Like one time, when me and my family first moved in, Gordon and Frances tried shouting at me to warn me not to stay, that it was dangerous, but I never heard them. One time, Gordon got so angry that he kicked the Christmas tree and it fell over. My parents shouted at me for that and sent me to my room even though I told them again and again that I hadn’t touched it, it just fell over by itself.

The sun is coming up. I watch as a blue light flickers over the wall, then the clouds float away, leaving a shimmer, like a heat haze. The others step through together, holding hands, but I hesitate.

In front of me Mum sits at the kitchen table, staring at the table, smoke spiralling up from the cigarette in her hand. She started again two weeks after I’d gone.

I tell myself I can’t stay here and do nothing. I close my eyes and walk forward. I feel the wall around me like a cold mist then it’s gone. I open my eyes and Mum is still at the table in front of me. I look round and see the familiar kitchen wall, the big railway clock, the noticeboard. Last year’s calendar, still turned to December. No sign of the cloudwall or the world beyond it.

Mum stares at the surface of the table, but her eyes, sunk in dark hollows, are unfocused. I wait for her to notice me and say something but of course she doesn’t. Her hair is greasy and streaked with grey. She’s so pale, her skin looks almost see-through and too tightly stretched over her face.
I go towards her but then stop. I can’t bear the thought of touching her and her not knowing. I turn and run out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Sophie is in her room, playing with her Cindy dolls. Next to her Isabella sits and watches. Gordon tears up the stairs, Frances chasing him laughing, her red hair streaming out behind her. They run into Mum and Dad’s room and I follow them in.

The big bed is untidy, clothes and shoes lie around on the floor. Gordon and Frances race past me and out of the door. Dad lies in bed, awake but still. He has lost weight, a lot of weight; loose skin hangs off his face. It’s hard to remember his annual turn as a fat and jolly Father Christmas. Like Mum, his face and skin are a sickly grey. His cheeks are wet with tears. I’d never seen him cry before I disappeared.

I sit halfway up the stairs, resting my head on my knees. Sophie is singing quietly in her room. Gordon sits in my armchair looking at my books. I don’t know where Frances is. I can hear Isabella talking somewhere downstairs. I pull myself up and go to look for her.

In the living room Mum is sitting on the sofa, the same glazed look on her face. Curled up next to her is Isabella, her arms wrapped round Mum’s waist, her head nestled on her lap. I run at her screaming and slapping at her to get away, leave her alone, she’s my mum. Isabella runs out crying and I throw my arms round Mum’s neck and sob into her hair.

She stiffens and draws back into the sofa, eyes wide. She softly says my name, as a question. “Yes,” I scream back, “it’s me.” She reaches out a hand towards me and I grip it tightly in both mine but again she pulls away, shouting for my dad.

I hear him on the stairs, running, and then he’s in the room holding Mum who’s sobbing and pointing at me. “I heard her. I felt her. I thought I...”

Dad puts his arms round her and holds her tightly. She stares towards me then crumbles to the floor, Dad trying but failing to keep her up. He sinks to his knees beside her.

I shout, “I’m here, I’m here,” over and over but they don’t look up. They lie together on the carpet, arms around each other, Dad stroking Mum’s hair and her saying she’s sorry. I back out like someone who has stumbled upon some strangers’ personal crisis.

In my room I look round at the posters I used to gaze at night after night. My bookcase, my CDs. It’s all familiar but like a set from a film I’ve seen a hundred times.

Outside the winter sky is darkening. I climb onto my bed, curl up and close my eyes. I drift off to sleep hoping that I’ll still be here when I wake up.