Henry Stennett

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Nobody’s Home

I was fifteen when I started wrapping my head in clingfilm. It was my last six weeks’ holiday, six days from my sixteenth birthday. Of course, I didn’t celebrate birthdays back then. Or anything, really. There was this solemn event around Easter each year when we’d be told in lurid detail about what Jesus went through before he died. What it felt like to have your forehead pierced by thorns, how having your arms nailed above your head made it impossible to catch your breath. Then we’d pass round a paper cup of red wine and a plate with Ryvitas sliding all over it. No one ate or drank anything.

I can still see the packet in my mind’s eye. INVICTUS^™ CLINGFILM, it said, in huge scarlet letters. There was a sticker you could peel off with

CLINGS TO ANYTHING,

KEEPS EVERYTHING OUT

written on it.

I stuck it on the inside left pocket of my suit jacket, so it would knock against my heart. Well, I was a teenager then. You can excuse a little sentimentality.

The plastic shrieked as I pulled it out. Colours shimmered along its surface. You know how petrol on a wet road looks like a rainbow? I was entranced. After staring at the sheet for a few minutes, tilting it to catch the light through our kitchen window, I pushed one of my fingers into it. Christ, what a feeling. I think I gasped. It was like the stuff they spray you with at the dentist’s—my skin felt totally numb. Immediately numb.  I pushed my finger further in. All the colours smoothed out, the browns and yellows of my skin, the raw pinks at the sides of my fingernails. Even the ragged edges of my nails softened. I don’t know how to explain it, my finger just looked… perfect, somehow.

Next thing I knew, I was pushing my face through. The plastic wrapped my nose, my cheeks, my eyes. It twisted my lips into a grin. And the numbness spread like bliss across my forehead, all along my jaw. All the tension dropped away.

Until I tried to breathe.

#

Now why, you might be thinking, why would you wrap your head in clingfilm? Where’d you get a dumb idea like that from? And I can see your point—well, not literally these days, with all this stuff over my eyes. But those were different times.

You know what they get away with now? Standing in the street, just standing with a—listen. Next time you’re out and about on a Saturday afternoon, keep an eye out. You’ll see them, huddled somewhere out of the way. Outside a train station or beneath the eaves of a supermarket. One or two Brothers or Sisters, their long coats buttoned up to their chins, staring resolutely into the middle distance. They don’t try to catch anyone’s eye or smile or anything. Where’s the effort? That’s what gets me. I’ve never seen anyone approach their literature stands. Makes me kiss my teeth, man. There’s no effort.

In my day, you had to be a grifter. Effort was everything. Imagine crunching up a long gravel drive, past an ornamental pond, two or three four-by-fours—crunch crunch crunch—painfully aware that every step is grassing you out. Somewhere, in one of the wings of the country home you’re approaching, the master of the domain is loading his shotgun for all you know. You pray—actually pray, through the name of Jesus and his ransom sacrifice and everything, amen—they don’t have a dog. By the time you reach the front door, it’s a miracle your legs haven’t folded up. Your palms are wet as you grip the brass knocker. It bangs like it’s bringing down the walls of Jericho. You barely moved it. Barks, scrabbling. Two dogs, big ones. Your skin goes cold.

“Coming!” sings a voice.

You run a fingertip along the gilt edges of your Bible. Stare at the magazine in your fist. There’s a drawing of a family—mum, dad, daughter, son—crouched in a bomb shelter, the parents’ arms wrapped around their kids. They look weirdly calm. The dad has a Bible in his hand, just the same as yours. Outside the shelter, people are screaming, running, dying on the ground. A few soldiers and men in hoodies sneer in the background. There’s a mushroom cloud on the horizon.

The door opens. Noses and teeth press through the crack. German shepherds.

“Oh, don’t make such a—Wagner, Leibniz, come away this instant! Silly boys!” The door closes for a moment and when it reopens, instead of dogs there’s a white woman’s face. It’s hard to say how old she is. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Hello there. What can I do for you?”

You look from her face to your magazine and back. Usually the Armageddon issues make your chest tight, but faced with this woman’s big straight teeth, it all feels a bit over-the-top. She probably doesn’t have any fillings. You open your mouth, but the words you’ve memorised won’t come out.

Brother Jonathan steps in. “Good morning! Beautiful morning, really, isn’t it? You’ve got a lovely garden—were those azaleas I saw? Over by the gate? Can’t get them going for love nor money in my beds!”

The householder loosens her grip on the edge of the door. Opens it a little wider. “Thank you. Yes, they’re plumleaf—you’ve got a good eye. The secret’s blood and bone. I make my own.”

“Do you? Well, that’s wonderful! I’ll have to get the recipe off you… I’m so sorry; I haven’t introduced myself! How rude. I’m Jonathan. I actually only live a little way from here; we’re practically neighbours.”

The woman’s eyes fall on the magazine in your hand. She frowns but her forehead doesn’t wrinkle.

“And this strapping young man,” Brother Jonathan continues, slapping your back, “is Leslie.”

Your skin prickles. Everyone loves Brother Jonathan. He’s a real charmer.

#

The more I gasped, the tighter the clingfilm clasped me. It shrinkwrapped my teeth and tongue, then worked its way down my throat. At first, I wanted to pull away, to retch it all up, but as it pressed against me, this cool indifference spread through my body. I felt a step or two away from myself. After a couple of minutes, I realised I’d stopped trying to breathe. I could manage without.

Now, a single sheet of clingfilm is pretty thin. Thinner than a human hair. I looked it up once: a hundredth of a millimetre. So the world doesn’t look all that different through one layer. Well, it does and it doesn’t. Just like it made my finger look a little smoother, a little better, it improved the world outside.

That’s quite a loaded phrase if you grew up how I did. The world outside of what? God’s organisation: he only has one, for the entire planet. You’re in the Truth or you’re out. There’s no fence to sit on, no halfway house. When it all shakes out, when Jesus rides back into town on his big white horse, he’ll either find you one hundred per cent devoted to the cause—knocking doors, in the front row at every meeting, with your hand up—or he’ll cast you aside with all the other sinners. And it doesn’t matter what you’ve done up to then, even if you spent seventy years pioneering before you drifted away. Crash, bang, like a thief in the night. It’s over for you.

We were taught to fear the outside world. I can’t say I actually knew much about it until I left. I’d been told the Devil controlled it: that’s why it’s full of suffering and cruelty. If you watch the news it seems that way. Wars, famine, pestilence. The thing is, even that first piece of clingfilm took the edge off.

#

I’ll take you through a typical summer holiday Saturday. My mum always signed me up to pioneer for August. That meant seventy hours of preaching for the month. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but believe me, it drags. Best case, you bash it out in ten seven-hour days, but it’s hard to find enough doors to knock. You start taking slower, smaller steps between houses. You wait for an answer long after you’re sure no one’s home.

So, anyway: up at half seven, showered, changed. Suit, shirt, tie. You scrub and polish your shoes. Leave them to dry on the doormat. From the dining room you carry the chairs, set them in a circle with the sofa and armchairs straining under their plastic covers. Push the TV back against the wall. The bailiffs have been round three times threatening to take it; somehow, Dad always finds a way. The Sky box only works for a couple months each year, when Dad gets a big job at one of the country homes. You fetch the latest magazines from the chest of drawers, fetch study books, tracts, and brochures. Lay it all out neat. Your mum and sister skitter about, emptying the drying rack, polishing the mirrors, casting the hoover around. Dad’s angling to become an Elder this year, and his family, his home, reflect on his character.

The doorbell rings—someone always shows up too early, forcing you to make small talk. Your family are all upstairs putting the last touches on their outfits. That leaves you. You pad towards the front door in your socks, skid round the kitchen’s hairpin bend. You pause before the mirror in the hall. Often you examine your face, pushing and squeezing at your cheeks, under your eyes, to imagine how you’ll look when you’ve grown up. What will sag, be hollowed out? Where will wrinkles form? You want time to speed up, to know already.

The bell goes off again. Three voices call your name.

It’s hard to say who’s behind the frosted glass. The bumps hold shards of grey and black, but everyone dresses like that. Medium height, medium build. Doesn’t exactly narrow it down. Except you know who it is. A chill creeps off the window to run its hands down your back.

Brother Jonathan.

The doorbell rings.

#

The first morning I wore a layer of clingfilm, it helped. I remember the Service Meeting gliding by—before I knew it, I was on my feet giving the closing prayer. The Elder had asked me to, and my parents’ eyes were patting at my shoulders, trying to straighten my tie.

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak through the plastic. What had we learned in GCSE Biology? I’d spent most of the lessons trying not to let the words change me. Words in videos, words in textbooks, words from my teacher and classmates. Life evolved from nothing, they said; God designed it all in six thousand years, the Elders replied on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. There was one lesson where we dissected lungs our teacher brought from the butcher’s. She’d wiggled the end in the air and made a screeching sound that sent the girls running across the room. It was from an old horror film, she said, but I knew those were demons’ work. But what did she tell us about lungs?

Anyway, I stood and laced my fingers, opened my mouth. All I could do was groan. It was a horrible sound, like foxes made in our garden after dark. I strained against the clingfilm, but it was already too tight. I kept groaning, thinking of the words I’d heard a million times in a million prayers. We’re not worthy, Lord; we’re sinful and wretched. Doomed. We fail, every day, no matter what. Take pity on us. Forgive us. Give us the strength to take your message to others this morning, to offer them salvation, too. We can’t do it without you. We’re nothing without you. Thank you, thank you. All our thoughts are bad. Our hearts. Everything we do is bad. The world of men: bad, bad. Everything’s bad, except this small safe place I’ve wrapped in plastic.

#

One evening, I was sure Dad had found out. It’d gotten pretty bad by then, the clingfilm habit. Every evening after work, I’d sneak into the kitchen, slide the drawer open—gently, gently—holding my breath. There was a thrill to it. Anticipation. All day I’d be thinking about tearing off another sheet. While I was footing ladders, rubbing at leaded windows, or squeezed between Dad and Uncle Ancel in the middle seat of the van. My head would hurt from the layers I’d added the night before, everything would be fuzzy and too close. But I knew a fresh outer sheet would make it all right again.

By this point, my head must’ve looked like a wasps’ nest. It was strange no one seemed to notice, but then it was also a relief I was getting away with it, so I didn’t question it. Gift horses and mouths, innit? Except, shouldn’t the Trojans have looked in?

Mum knew something was up. Nothing escaped her. She’d bring it up over dinner, complain about that week’s shopping bill and ask why we were getting through clingfilm quicker than toilet paper. When none of us had an answer for her, she’d chalk it up to Mr. Nobody, the same unwelcome guest who left the toilet seat up and forgot to wipe the glass after showering.

It was unusual Dad wanted to talk at all. Not that we spent all day on his rounds in silence: we’d discuss the latest United match or make plans for a game of cricket at the weekend. He was teaching me to bat like Gary Sobers. But we never spoke about anything serious. I’ll give you an example. The morning after my first wet dream, Mum suggested Dad take me for a drive. I guess she’d figured it out because I tried to change my sheets—how often do teenage boys do that? And, look, I was feeling pretty off about the whole thing because the literature kept reminding us that masturbation was a defilement of the flesh and spirit. It made me feel afraid, that despite my best efforts to stay pure, my body could betray me like that, in the night. Somehow Satan had crept into my skull and planted a dream of fornication. Had I sinned? How could I keep my guard up, even in my sleep? There were so many questions I wanted to ask. But after we got in the car, Dad turned the radio up and we just drove. Along every street of the town centre, it seemed. Past the idolatrous churches of Babylon the Great, past the bars and clubs where worldly people gave in to temptation. Past the university where students poisoned their minds with the philosophy and empty deception of men. When we got stuck in traffic, Dad tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. But, for an hour and a half, neither of us said a word. When we got back home, he gave Mum a nod as if to say, “Job done,” and put the F1 on.

So that evening, when he called my name while I was easing clingfilm off the roll, I jumped. Then I froze, my pulse throbbing in my ears.

“Leslie,” he said again, his voice even, “bring the clingfilm with you.”

He knew? I was shaking when I reached the doorway to the sitting room. Dad was at the same end of the sofa as always, one hand in a bag of Bombay mix and the other wrapped around the remote. The room smelled like bully beef; Mum had thrown the dinner she’d made against the wall again and gone to Aunt Leah’s. Dad didn’t look up, just patted the seat next to him. I sat. It was an old Arnie film on the TV, which made me remember all the late nights as a kid. The dead weight of Dad’s arm around my shoulders, his rough fingers covering my eyes for the scary bits. Now I sat, waiting, wondering if I’d have to survive another long silence.

“Tear some off for me, son.”

He knew. How did he know? For how long? I tore the plastic, so quickly it seemed to scream.

“Will you put it on for me, Les?” He still didn’t look at me. I didn’t understand. I stretched the clingfilm tight between my hands so he wouldn’t see them trembling. Did he mean what I thought he meant? I held it in front of his face, looking for a sign. Machine guns blazed in his black eyes.

I brought the clingfilm closer but before I could reach his nose, bumped into something. Invisible, but it crunched like fresh snow. His eyes met mine then. Brother Jonathan, my crushed faith, that I was leaving—as I patted the plastic down over Dad’s face, I decided to tell him everything.

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Banner Art:
Photo by Phil Hearing, Unsplash, 2020