Ghost Boy Read online

  But the one thing I wished for more than anything as I sat strapped in a seat, powerless to tell anyone about what I knew would soon happen to me, was for someone to look at me. Surely then they would see what was written on my face? Fear. I knew where I was. I knew where I was going. I had feelings. I wasn’t just a ghost boy. But no one looked.

  36 LURKING IN PLAIN SIGHT

  Similar things happened in other places too, where children and adults were too weak, silent, or mentally defenseless to tell their secrets. I learned that the people who play out their darkest desires on us, however fleetingly, aren’t always the most easily recognizable. They aren’t bogey men or women; they are ordinary, forgettable people. Maybe they are even entirely blameless until the chance to use a seemingly empty vessel encourages them to cross a line they might otherwise never have dared breach.

  Sometimes it was nothing more than a feeling, as if an invisible line had been overstepped, which made me feel unsafe. I couldn’t explain it properly because even though I was a young man, there was so much I didn’t understand.

  “Kiss, kiss,” one woman whispered in a breathy voice that no one else could hear as she bent her head towards me. She sounded flirtatious, like a girl tempting an embrace from an unwilling suitor.

  On another occasion, the mother of a child I knew came into a room as I was lying alone and naked from the waist down, waiting to be changed.

  “What’s this?” she said as she scratched my penis gently.

  The incident was over as soon as it began because a caregiver came back to the room. But it made me feel confused, unsure, and I didn’t know what to make of the troubled feelings that filled me.

  It wasn’t always like this though. Sometimes it was only too clear what was happening and fear would wash over me as I realized I was being attacked in a way that I could never defend myself against.

  “Look at you,” a caregiver once said as she bathed me.

  The next day I watched silently as she looked around the empty room, lifted up her dress, and straddled my hip before rubbing herself against me. I lay unmoving, unblinking, unseeing, until I felt her weight rise off me. I was left with the gnawing fear that she might touch me again but she didn’t.

  What was I to these women—a perverse fantasy long held and buried or a moment of madness? I can’t be sure. But to another woman who also abused me for several years, I know I was never more than a thing, an object to be used as and when she wished before being dropped again.

  Solitude was the oxygen that gave life to her behavior: she always found a way for us to be alone. The first time she touched me, I knew with absolute clarity what she was doing as I felt her hand push questioningly at the crotch of my trousers. It was as if she was afraid, uncertain, and the incident was brief. But she was bolder the next time, as her hands lingered on my penis. Soon she had become even braver, as if realizing that opening the door to this darkness wasn’t as terrifying as she’d thought it might be.

  Sometimes she would wrap her legs around my body and thrust against me harder and harder until I heard her gasp. Or she would stand behind me as I lay on my back and pull my arms above my head so that my hands rested against her thighs. As my fingers trembled uncontrollably, just as she knew they would, I would hear her breathing become ragged as she pushed my fingers against her sex.

  She was usually silent when she took her fill of me. Sometimes it would go on for what felt like forever as she rocked and pressed herself against me, her body jerking mine in time with hers, until she was finally still. But each time, I would try to lose myself in the quiet, closing myself down inside. I could feel my soul freezing over. It was only later that feelings of shame filled me.

  If she spoke to me at all, it was as a child would speak to a doll she knows isn’t really there.

  “Let’s fidget,” she whispered once as she pulled me out of my wheelchair.

  The one thing she always made sure of was that I could never see her.

  “You shouldn’t be looking,” she said as she turned my head to face away from her. But it wasn’t me she spoke to: it was herself.

  It didn’t happen all the time. Sometimes weeks or months went by before she touched me again, and then it would happen on several consecutive meetings. It was worse that way because I never knew what she was going to do or when. Nothing made me feel more powerless than waiting for her to come for me again. Anxiety about what she might do when I saw her next would build up inside me as I wondered whether I would escape this time or not. Fear threw a veil across my days. I knew I couldn’t stop her or speak out. I was just an unresponsive object that she used as and when she wanted, the blank canvas onto which she painted her black appetites. And so I would sit and wait, listening until I heard her voice again, knowing that the moment I did, I’d never more desperately want to run.

  “Hello, Martin,” she says with a smile as she looks down at me.

  I stare at her. My stomach turns with nausea. I can feel a scream unfurling inside me like a flag snapping in the wind, but I can’t let it out.

  “Off we go,” she says and I feel my chair begin to move.

  She takes me into a room where no one will see us and lies me down on a bench. Lifting one foot off the floor and resting it beside me, she keeps her other foot on the ground as she lifts her skirt. She lowers herself down, pressing herself against the big toe of my left foot as she starts to move rhythmically against me. I try to disappear.

  Later I lie unmoving as she sits down beside me. She reads a magazine, flicking through the pages absent-mindedly while picking her nose. Eventually she looks at her watch and stands up. But just as she prepares to leave, she turns again. She has remembered something.

  I watch as she drags her finger slowly down the arm of my T-shirt, wiping herself off on me. A trail of mucus glistens on my sleeve. Her contempt is complete now.

  Sometimes she lies beside me, at others on top of me. Sometimes she touches herself, at others she touches me. Whatever happens, I’m nothing to her, forgotten until she decides to come for me, but at the same time she never leaves me. She is an ogre residing in my dreams, chasing me and screeching, tormenting and terrifying me. Night after night, I wake up sweating and terrified after she’s come to me again as I’ve slept. She is a parasite that has wormed its way into my soul. As I lie in the dark, I wonder if I will ever be rid of her.

  37 FANTASIES

  It was at this time more than any other that I needed to rely on my imagination. If my fantasy world had one recurring theme it was escape, because I could be anything I dared to be and more: not just a pirate but a pilot, a space raider or a Formula One driver, a merman, a secret agent, or a Jedi warrior with mind-reading powers.

  Sometimes I’d sit in my wheelchair in my classroom at the care center and feel myself shrinking as I left the world behind. As the chair got bigger and bigger, I’d shrink until I was as small as a toy soldier, so tiny I could fit into the jet plane waiting for me in the corner of the room. To everyone else it might look like a toy, but I alone knew it was a fighter jet and the engines were running, ready for me.

  In my dreams, my body was always strong. I’d leap up out of my wheelchair before looking around as I listened for footsteps. If someone saw me, they’d be shocked. I was ready to fight back. They might think that I was a trick of their imagination, but I wasn’t; I was real. Throwing myself off the edge of the chair and landing on the floor with a soft thump, I looked down to see that my t-shirt and shorts had disappeared, and I was wearing a gray flying suit. It rustled as I ran over to the jet, climbed up the steps, and wriggled in behind the controls as I put on my helmet. Engines growled and lights flashed in front of me, but I didn’t worry. I understood why they did this because I was a trained fighter pilot.

  I pushed a lever forward, and the plane started to move. Faster and faster, it raced across the linoleum floor of my classroom before lifting into the air and flying into the corridor. Marietta was walking towards me, but I sped around he
r head. I was too fast and small for her to see as I pulled the lever again, and the plane shot forward.

  I was thrown back by the G-force as a trolley reared up ahead of me, and as I darted to miss it, I knew that one wrong move would clip my jet’s wings and send me crashing to the ground. But my hand stayed steady. Bam! I flew out the other side of the trolley towards the doors leading outside.

  The doors were closing as I approached them, so I flipped the plane on its side. The jet rushed cleanly between them as they creaked closed, and I was free. The sky above me was blue, and the outside world smelled of dust and sun. I nosed the plane upwards, knowing that soon I would be high enough to look down at the earth below me: splots of green and splashes of brown rushing past. I pulled the lever back as far as it could go—full throttle, sonic thrusters on max—and the jet shot up into the sky in a corkscrew. It spun me round and round.

  My head was dizzy, but I felt light. I started laughing.

  Roger and out—I was free.

  Below, the highway was filled with cars and people going home from work. I knew where the roads would take me if I followed them—home.

  When I lay in bed at the care home in the country I’d think of the train tracks nearby and imagine myself stealing outside, running through the long brown grass of the Highveld. In the distance, I’d see a train pulling faded brown rail cars behind it, some covered in tarpaulins, some open and filled with glistening black coal. Running towards the train, I’d grab onto the last car just before it disappeared down the line. I didn’t know where the train would take me. All I cared about was that I was leaving.

  Water was another thing I loved to dream about, fantasizing that it would rush into whatever room I was sitting in, lift me up, and bear me away on the crest of a wave. In the water, I would duck and dive, my body free and strong. Or I’d imagine that my wheelchair had grown James Bond wings, and I’d soar into the sky as the care staff stared up, open-mouthed, unable to prevent me from flying away.

  In my fantasy world, I was still the child I’d been when I first fell asleep. The only thing that changed as I grew older was that I started to imagine myself as a world-famous cricket player because I’d cultivated an interest in the sport as I watched Dad and David enjoy it.

  My brother was very good at cricket and would tell Mum, Dad, and Kim about his latest match when he came home. I so wanted to share something with him. David always made me smile by telling me jokes, talking in funny voices, or tickling me, so I started listening intently whenever the cricket came on the radio or TV.

  Soon I could lose days and weeks in matches that I imagined going on in my head. Each one would start with me sitting in a silent changing room as I laced up my shoes before stepping outside into the sunshine. As I walked across the pitch, I’d rub the ball on the edge of my shirt before checking to see if it was shiny enough, and I’d stare at the batsman as the crowd hushed. I didn’t feel scared by all the people watching me. All I could think of was running down the wicket and feeling the ball, round and solid in my hand, before I flung it at the batsman.

  A flash of cherry red would fly through the air as the ball shot out of my hand, and I heard the soft click of bales flying off the stumps as the crowd roared. I wasn’t always a sure shot, though. Sometimes I’d miss the batsman completely with a ball that went wildly off course, or I’d be bowled out for a duck, which meant I’d walk off the pitch knowing I hadn’t done so well that day. But somehow it didn’t matter because I was a sporting star. I lived in matches like these day after day as the South African team’s most famous all-rounder, who saved the game more often than he lost it. The games became almost endless, over after over of balls were bowled and wickets were won or lost as I retreated from reality.

  The one person I talked to was God, but He wasn’t part of my fantasy world. He was real to me, a presence inside and around that calmed and reassured me. Just as North American Indians might commune with their spirit guides or pagans look to the seasons and the sun, I spoke to God as I tried to make sense of what had happened to me and asked Him to protect me from harm. God and I didn’t talk about the big things in life—we didn’t engage in philosophical debates or argue about religion—but I talked to Him endlessly because I knew we shared something important. I didn’t have proof that He existed, but I believed in Him anyway because I knew He was real. God did the same for me. Unlike people, He didn’t need proof that I existed—He knew I did.

  38 A NEW FRIEND

  The noise is like a train gathering speed in the distance. It gets louder and louder until suddenly it explodes into the room—a ball of yellow fur, a huge red tongue, and sodden paws that leap onto the sofa, drenching it in seconds. A huge tail wags frenziedly, and big brown eyes stare around the room.

  “Kojak! Down!”

  The dog takes no notice as he carries on looking around before finally taking a flying leap off the sofa towards me. I could swear he’s smiling.

  “Kojak! No!”

  The dog doesn’t listen to a word his owner is saying to him. All he wants is to say hello to the strange man sitting in the strange chair.

  “Get down!”

  The man drags the huge yellow Labrador off me and wrestles him to a sitting position. But even pinned to his master’s side with a firm hand on his collar, the dog keeps moving. He waves his head around wildly and wriggles his bottom. His tongue lolls out of his mouth because even his breath can’t keep up with him.

  I look at Mum and Dad. I’ve never seen them look scared before.

  “So this is the dog that you’re looking to rehome?” my father says in a neutral voice.

  “Yes,” the man replies. “We’re moving to Scotland and want to find him a new family. He’s such a loving dog. I’m sorry he’s so wet. Kojak just loves the swimming pool!”

  Horror steals its way onto my mother’s face like a blind being drawn down a window. I know that she dares not let herself speak.

  “He’s had all his shots and we’ve done some obedience training with him,” the man continues. “Obviously, he’s only eight months old, so he’s still full of energy.”

  As if on cue, Kojak wrenches against his master’s grip as a volley of barks explode from him. I almost expect my mother to start screaming.

  “What do you think, Martin?” Dad asks me.

  I stare at the dog. He is too big and boisterous, obviously deaf to any kind of command, and will wreak havoc in my parents’ neat home. In four months of searching, I’ve never seen a dog like him, but even so, something tells me that he’s the one for me.

  I smile at Dad.

  “Well, I think Martin has made his mind up,” he says.

  “That’s great news,” Kojak’s owner exclaims. “You won’t regret it.”

  I look at Mum. I think she’s trying not to cry.

  39 WILL HE EVER LEARN?

  I’ve never forgotten Pookie, which is why I want a dog so much. I’ve always remembered the bond we shared, and I want a companion just like her. I want something to care for that isn’t aware of all my limits and defects. Despite my enthusiasm, my mother doesn’t like the idea. She doesn’t want something else to look after, let alone a huge dog that will trail hair and mud in its wake.

  Kim was the one who, in the end, came to my rescue when she was home on a visit from the UK earlier this year. She quickly saw that I was working harder than ever—literally day and night at times—and sometimes getting just four or five hours’ sleep as I tried to keep up with everything.

  It’s now April 2005—almost four years since I was first assessed—and in that time I’ve never stopped working. It’s as if I can’t allow myself to let go of life for a second after being given a chance at it. I don’t have a social life or hobbies. All I do is work as I struggle, not just to keep up, but to carry on improving. Because I was static for so long, I want to keep moving forward. I still can’t believe that people are giving me opportunities. I constantly feel afraid that I might be found out as inexperienced at
life, so I work hard to make up for what I believe I lack because I feel like a fraud.

  After being put in charge of redesigning the communication center’s website, I was transferred from my job there to a scientific research institute where I helped create disability-related Internet resources. It opened up a new world of possibilities for me, and I left my job at the health center. I’m now working three days a week at the communication center and two as a computer technologist at the scientific research institute.

  Outside office hours, I continue to raise awareness about AAC, and I’ve joined the executive committee of a national organization for people like me with little or no functioning speech. I took my first-ever flight in January to do a whistle-stop tour of five cities nationwide for a charity fundraising event. It made me wonder why birds ever come down to earth because my body felt so free when the plane took off.

  If I’m not doing paid or voluntary work, I’m studying.

  But all this activity is why Kim knew something had to change when she came to visit. She could see there was little else in my life other than work, so she talked to Mum and Dad, who agreed I could get a dog.

  “You’ll have to take care of it, though,” Mum warned. “Feed it and clean it. I’m already looking after four people in this house, so the dog will be your responsibility.”

  “I won’t ask you to do a thing,” I told her, although I had yet to understand just what taking an enthusiastic young Labrador for a walk from my wheelchair would really mean.

  That was how the search for Kojak started. Although people wanted me to get something small, my heart was set on a yellow Labrador because they seemed to me to be the happiest dogs of all. I looked at some litters but saw many puppies that were too sickly while others had some physical characteristic that told me they hadn’t been bred correctly. I couldn’t afford a top of the range pedigree dog, so I waited several months to find the one that would be the perfect fit for me. I then got a tip from a breeder about one she’d sold that now needed a new home. The moment I saw Kojak, I knew he was meant to be mine.