Whatever happened to little William Watkins&;#063;

Whatever happened to little William Watkins?

one

William stood wide-eyed by the window in the departure lounge watching
giant aeroplanes dropping out of the sky. Others heaved themselves
lazily along the runway before magically lifting off up into space. He
watched them become dots in the distance, smaller even than the birds.
He pressed his nose against the glass.

Behind him his parents had serious faces.

"William, drink your drink, darling" said his mother. She gulped down
some coffee, spilling a drop on her white blouse. She tried to wipe it
off with a serviette but the stain had already soaked into the
material. William continued to stare out through the window until a
particularly heavy breath steamed up the glass in front of his eyes
making the sky blurred. He turned around to face his parents.

"William, how are you feeling?" asked his father. "Are you
scared?"

"Michael!" his mother burst out disapprovingly. Her narrow eyes glared
across at her husband. William looked at them both.

"Are you tired?" his father asked him, picking his words with care.
William shook his head.

It had been a long day for William and he was actually quite tired,
although he would never admit it. The morning, waking up deep in the
Sussex countryside, now seemed long past. All day people had been
asking him hushed questions and talking to him like he had some fatal
disease. He knew what was happening. He was going on a holiday to
Venezuela to visit his Auntie Margaret and they were all worried about
him. He was going to build castles on white sandy beaches. And his
parents were staying at home.

They looked hard at each other across the plastic table. Aeroplanes
passed slowly by the window like tired lorries on a motorway. Michael
watched them as he put a cigarette absently in his mouth and lit it.
Betty's eyes fidgeted with the objects on the table, and glanced back
at her husband.

"Margaret's a sweetie, he'll be fine with her." She didn't sound very
sure.

Heavy spots of rain flickered the big window suddenly, distorting the
busy runway outside. William tried to look between the streaked spots
but there were soon too many. His father just looked out of the window
blankly, like he was watching a silent movie. The sound of the tanoy
announcing flight 309 to Caracas ran up along Betty's back and echoed
in her ears. The faint throbbing in her head sped up.

"They're calling him," she said quietly.

They paid for the coffee and gathered William's things onto the airport
trolley. All around them people were talking and laughing in foreign
languages. They hurried off towards the boarding gate, walking too fast
for William, who lagged behind, keeping his eyes tightly focused on his
mother's skinny legs. His ears heard only the clicking of her heels
above the echoed murmur of the airport.

William Watkins, aged seven, took hold of the air hostess' hand. It was
the softest hand he'd ever touched. As he walked towards the silver
metal door he turned and waved goodbye to his parents. His mother was
madly blowing kisses, his father stood beside her and smiled sadly. The
nice man in the blue and gold flying jacket grinned as he held open the
door. William walked through.

He felt suddenly strange, like he was only half there. The air hostess
pulled him along. Her long thin hand looked suddenly old.

William walked on, up the steps and into the padded aeroplane. He
couldn't hear what the air hostess was saying to him through her big,
face-wide smile. He sat down and she tightened the seat belt across his
stomach, squeezing his breath. He looked out of the tiny window. The
sky was grey. There were people talking all around him. His heart was
beating like a train.

Back in Sussex the rain rattled on the windows of the houses. Michael
looked across the kitchen table at his wife. She looked down into her
coffee.

"I wonder if he's there yet," she said.

High above the ocean William sat watching cartoons on a small screen
folding out from his armrest. Wyle Cyote was chasing Roadrunner across
the desert. When the cartoon ended William sat up straight and looked
around him like he'd just awoken from a deep sleep, trying to remember
where he was. There were strange, tired faces, yawning, eating and
talking all around him. The engines hummed outside the little round
windows running up along the insides of the aeroplane. He saw his
parents standing at the airport waving to him. He wanted to wave
back.

One of the air hostesses came over to him.

"Hello, William. Did you enjoy the cartoons?" she said cheerfully,
almost gleefully. William nodded silently. She tied his seat belt
tighter explaining how they would soon be there. William just
nodded.

The British Airways flight 309 landed in Caracas at 17:36 local time.
As he stepped out of the aeroplane William was surprised by the warmth
of the air. The bright sun blinked in his eyes. He was lead across the
runway by the same air hostess who had taken him from his parents in
England. She pointed out the mountains with her spare hand. They lay
there silent, teeming with forest, below a heavy, brooding cloud that
filled the sky with blackened grey. On the top he saw a small tower and
wondered who lived in it. He wondered if they were looking down at him
being dragged across the melting tarmac.

He was taken to a special room to wait for Margaret where he sat
watching endless streams of people walking past the doorway. He heard
strange voices through the dark glass and wondered how Margaret would
know where he was. The two air hostesses sat chatting and laughing like
chickens. William felt invisible. He heard his mother's heels clicking
past outside. He pushed the door open quietly and sneaked out into the
bustling terminal to look for his missing auntie. As the door clicked
silently shut behind him, the airport walls opened up big and wide and
he found himself walking inside a massive concrete hive. The
untouchable sound that filled the air bounced off the ceiling and
whirled around him like a thousand voices in a dream. There were people
everywhere. He stood still amongst the dizzying forest of legs and
looked down at his fragmented reflection in the polished marble floor.
He wondered how Margaret would ever find him.

Betty Watkins was growing anxious. She sat in her tidy little kitchen
listening to her husband whistling to himself out in the garage. The
lamp light glared in her eyes, reflecting off the plastic table. She
sipped her coffee hurriedly, looking up at the round, ticking clock
hanging on the wall opposite. Margaret should have rung. She tormented
herself with images of William being kidnapped by taxi drivers.

High up in the mountains that separate the town of Maracay from the
glistening Caribbean ocean, Margaret's house was quiet. In the kitchen
the maid was preparing Margaret's supper. She hummed quietly to herself
as she mashed the frying plantains. Outside the forest was noisy, but
it was a distant sound that didn't disturb the grey silence hanging in
the rooms and patrolling the corridors of the house.

Evening closed in unnoticed. The warm glow of the sun, painting the
walls of the house yellow, was kept out by solid wooden shutters over
the windows. When she was finished the maid left Margaret's supper on
the empty table, hung up her apron and slipped out the back door. She
ran off down the drive. The patter of her feet tapped on Margaret's
head. She sat silent beside her husband's dead body, rocking slowly
back and forth in her chair. Her eyes watched the wall opposite,
following the cracks like rivers on a map. The telephone rang endlessly
in the hallway, occasionally drowned out by the buzzing of a mosquito
in her ear. An empty bottle of rum hung limply from her hand like a
still smoking gun.

two

William ran barefoot through the streets of the Bolivar barrio. He
weaved his way past a group of old men sitting on their wire chairs,
drinking beer while the rest of the family were praying in the big
white church up on the hill. William ran hard up the steps, the
tropical sun burning on the back of his neck. At the door of the church
he stopped, catching his breath. The barrio was quiet except for the
sound of a radio across the street and the murmur of the priest's voice
squeezing itself out through the keyhole in the giant wooden door.
William listened to it but the sound was garbled like wire. He gently
opened the door and slipped inside. The air was cold and dark. He
tip-toed across the back of the congregation and then down one side
until he came to the side of a large woman sitting listening intently
to the booming words of the priest. She looked down at William crouched
beside her.

"Ven aca, William" she said, squashing him into the space beside her.
She muttered something to herself, shaking her head. William sank back
on the church pew between the soft flesh of the two fat ladies on
either side. He didn't understand the words but to him the priest's
voice seemed to fill the air like a heavy cloud. Jesus hung from the
walls above him, blood-splattered and wide-eyed.

When the priest finally ended his sermon the great doors were thrown
open letting in a tunnel of light. William had to shield his eyes from
its brightness as he walked out holding on to Maria's hand. Outside
everybody stood around in their smart Sunday clothes, talking about
friends and neighbours and babies. Maria bought William a bag of
popcorn from one of the street vendors that gathered there on Sunday
afternoons. He munched the sweet puffs of corn in his mouth, waiting
patiently for Maria who talked and laughed with the other ladies. Their
dresses rustled in the quiet breeze and William looked down at Maria's
legs. They were fat.

The air was still hot as they walked back down the hill into the maze
of streets that made up the Bolivar barrio. Small, higgledy buildings
wound their way up and down the sides of the valley. Maria stopped at
the metal door of a small, squashed house and they went inside. William
ran straight over to the television and put on the cartoons. Then he
sat down on the cool, concrete floor and drifted off into a familiar
world of imaginary cactus-strewn deserts and talking rabbits.

Betty sat silent at the kitchen table. The kettle had boiled and gone
cold. Michael turned it on again and sat down opposite her. She closed
her eyes. She was too tired to live.

three

10 years later.

William leaned back on his wire chair listening to the stories of his
friends. They sat together on the shady side of the street drinking
beer and watching the girls walk by. William looked over at the
mountains towering high above the rooftops of the barrio like giant
waves on the point of crashing down and destroying the city. Along the
narrow street came the sound of salsa music spilling out through the
windows of a small colourful bus. The driver sang along, his gold tooth
glinting in the sun. He caught William's eye for a second as the bus
whizzed by, taking the music with it down through the winding back
alleys and bus lanes. William, bored of his friends' stories, got up
and shook hands with everyone.

"Luego, William" they said as he made his way off. He strolled up past
the sweet shop to the top of the hill and pushed open the great door
into the church. It had been years since William had been to listen to
the big booming voice of the priest. Inside everything was as cold and
dark as it had ever been. He spotted Maria sitting up near the front in
the same place that she always sat. William sat down quietly on the
nearest pew. He still hadn't learnt to understand all the words of the
priest but that didn't really matter. He'd come there to smell the
cool, holy air and to get away from talking to people. He'd come there
to think about things. He was feeling old. He was eighteen. Somewhere
his parents must remember him, wonder about him. He wanted to see them
again but he couldn't remember what their faces looked like. His
memories ticked like a hazy clock in his head. The priest stopped
talking suddenly and everyone began to sing. William knew the words and
sang along absently. Outside a bus whizzed by playing salsa music. The
sound disappeared into the gentle chanting of the hymns. William yawned
as he sang.

As the great doors were flung open and the church began to empty
William sat still, hoping for someone to step up out of the shadows and
lead him off by the hand. To guide him and to listen to him. To teach
him. He knew he should try to find his parents but it all seemed so far
away. He slouched on the pew and watched Juana Pena walk past, the
prettiest girl in the barrio. She lowered her eyes and smiled at him.
Somewhere a rocket was launched to the moon. The astronauts clung
tightly to their seats, sealed inside their white padded cell. The
noise was deafening.

William took in a long slow breath, his eyes following Juana Pena out
through the door. He got up and walked outside. The sun was shinning as
always. He didn't feel like going home so he headed up to Beto's
ice-cream parlour in Plaza Milla. Jorge worked there and gave him free
ice-creams.

When he arrived Jorge was messing about with the fat girl who worked
there. William stood in the doorway watching them and grinning to
himself. Jorge had the girl's hat behind his back and she was forced to
hug him to try and get it back. Jorge was giggling loudly. William
walked over and sat down at one of the orange plastic tables.

"Hey, William!" Jorge noticed him and gave the hat back. "Que sabor
quieres, chamo?" he asked from behind his glass counter.

"De mango, con limon." William answered him loudly, slamming his hand
down on the table with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Jorge walked over with an ice-cream cone in each of his massive hands.
He sat down next to William.

"Mango con limon, si senor!" he declared, handing William a florescent
orange ice-cream. They sat there eating all night, until the stars
sparkled above the dark mountains and the air in the town became cold,
and William told Jorge all about Juana Pena, the most beautiful girl in
Venezuela.

In Devon it had been raining all afternoon.

"They say that it's the wettest July on record" said Betty. Michael
just nodded. They sat at the table in their holiday caravan playing
scrabble. Although it was still only five o'clock they had the little
buzzing light switched on because it was already so dark outside.
Michael stood up and asked his wife if she'd like another cup of
coffee.

four

William sat in his parked bus on the corner of calle twenty-six.
Through the brightly painted windscreen he watched girls crossing the
street. He watched their swaying bodies as they walked. An old man with
his beard woven into his jumper shuffled by muttering to himself. Other
drivers came up to the window of the bus, extending big, fat hands to
William.

"Que mas, chamo?" they said. William nodded that he was fine. They
joked about the girls and the old man. On the corner opposite a
tired-looking woman sat in a wooden box selling lottery tickets and
cigarettes. William put one in his mouth and lit it. Occasionally
tourists would walk by. William watched them stumbling past in the
midday heat and thought about stopping them and asking them questions.
Mostly he wanted to ask them if they'd ever been to Sussex.

He put the bus into first gear and turned the music up all the way. The
people waiting in the street started clambering on, talking excitedly
and fighting each other for a seat. The salsa rhythms made the loose
parts in the bus rattle, the super-bass pounding the silent earth
underneath.

Michael, struggling under the weight of his ruck-sac, had to bend down
to squeeze through the tiny door. Everybody stared at his awkward
movements as he tried to seat himself, caught like a cockroach on his
back in the cramped bus. William eased the clutch, flicked his
half-smoked cigarette out of the window and sped off through the narrow
streets.

He looked at Michael in his mirror.

The old foreigner didn't look out of the window like the other
tourists, but just stared ahead blankly. He didn't notice William
looking at him in the mirror. The bus bumped along the road, passing up
the hill towards the great white church. The bell was tolling out
across the valley, drowned out inside the bus by the sound of the
radio.

As it passed out of the town and through the high mountain villages the
bus began to empty. Soon only Michael was left, sitting fixed in his
seat, staring at the window, not seeing the passing world
outside.

The bus finally came to a halt at the end of the road. From there a
small footpath began ascending the mountains, shrouded in fog. William
looked back in his mirror. The old man's stare caught him like a
flaming arrow.

Betty had fallen ill. This time it wasn't just her usual bout of
self-induced influenza, giving her time to escape unnoticed into her
sadness. This time she was dying. Michael sat by her bedside saying
nothing. Time ticked by with every heavy breath until Michael,
desperate in his heart, said that he was going to find William. He'd
said that before but it was all he could think to do. All the way to
Venezuela he thought it. He didn't see anything as he travelled across
the country getting on buses, walking through towns. He never asked
anybody. He just stared ahead like he was watching William at the other
end of a long, dark tunnel. He kept on walking through boundless night
towards that single dot of light, glimmering at the other end.

He clambered blind into William's bus. The bright sun made him squint
as they passed through its bright light and out of the town, winding
their way up the narrow mountain roads. People stood outside their
houses watching the bus rattle past. He kept seeing William's young
face flash before his eyes, walking towards him through the desert.
William tweaked up the tape and sang along to himself, "La vida te da
sorpresa, sorpresa te da la vida".

He pulled the hand brake as the bus stopped by a small shop at the end
of the road. Outside the air was cold. He could get himself a coffee
here before heading back down the hill. He looked back in his mirror
and his eyes caught hold of the old man's stare. For a moment the whole
world went silent.
He sat back in his seat. He felt like he was looking over the edge of a
cliff. Far down below the ocean shimmered in the evening sun. William
took one step, and jumped.
"Sir, if may I ask, have you ever been to Sussex?" He spoke in slow,
deliberate English, turning around to look at his father.

In that moment, deep in Sussex, an old lady died quietly. She had
waited a long time for William's words to be blasted through her
husband's eyes and out into space. Only then was she left alone and for
one sweet second the chains tying her feet to the painful earth were
untied and she floated free.