‘Balance.’
‘What thread?’ Carl asked, a strange look on his face.
Without replying Jennifer began walking again, leaving them standing behind her. As she reached the second bend she saw Roland making his way up the road’s hill. And above him, stretching from north to south, Jennifer saw a black thread. She shivered as a cold wave passed through her. A moment later the sky was once again normal, dark and colourless.
Leaving the road, Jennifer hurried across the playground. Barking dogs greeted her as she entered the yard and ascended the back porch steps. She kicked her runners off just inside the door, walked down the hallway and entered the dining room.
Her father sat at the table, eating dinner. A bottle of beer waited beside the plate. Stopping, Jennifer sneered. ‘Down to drinking them one at a time, eh?’ She walked past him. ‘Well, good for you, Daddy. Where’s Mom? Let me guess. You beat her to a pulp and threw her in the kennel, right?’
‘Jennifer, don’t,’ her father croaked.
‘Go to hell, Daddy,’ she replied sweetly as she went to the doorway that led to the kitchen.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked behind her.
‘Just one little tab of gelatin since lunch,’ Jennifer said. ‘But I’m not hungry so you just go ahead and finish it all off. It’ll give you something to throw up later.’ At the refrigerator she decided on an apple – it was true: she wasn’t very hungry, but she knew she’d need something or else she’d wake up with a headache.
Without another word to her father she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs to her room. Outside, the dogs continued barking. Entering her room, yet another shiver passed through her. Jennifer drew a deep breath. ‘Fuck,’ she hissed.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
He’d taken a bullet below the stomach, and now crouched with his back against the crumbled limestone ruin of a Roman temple. The wind, hot and dusty, carried taints of the Mediterranean to him like the smell of corruption. Inland, the sounds of gunfire and shelling continued, but it now seemed a million miles away.
Corporal Hodgson Fisk was the last member of the squad left alive. All around him, baking in the Sicilian sun, lay his friends – the men he had known since the very beginning. Most were missing limbs: the shell that had landed in the midst of the firefight had taken out everyone who hadn’t already been brought down by gunfire. Scattered among Fisk’s friends were the remnants of strangers. Germans. Not that it mattered, he told himself. The flies covered everyone, so that apart from the uniforms there was almost no way of distinguishing friend from foe.
And now rats and mice had crept out from the tumbled limestone wreckage to join the carrion fray. They explored empty sleeves; they licked blackened blood and scurried among spilled entrails. They fought with the flies and maggots.
‘Lots of little wars,’ Fisk mumbled through cracked lips. He watched a mouse crawl from the mouth of one of his friends. ‘Little wars.’ The bleeding from the hole in his mid-section had stopped. A cool numbness had pooled around it. He kept his hand over it to keep the flies away.
Had it been hours, or days? Maybe years. He remembered the landing – he remembered all the landings. Dunkirk, El Alamein, and now Sicily. ‘Madness, then death,’ Fisk whispered, then coughed as a wave of pain crashed through him. ‘Madness.’
He gasped. Something was coming up. Something was pushing through his throat. Gagging, he leaned forward. It was coming up. Madness. He felt it tear against the sides of his throat, and his stomach convulsed. It crawled into his mouth, clawed his tongue, gripped his teeth and pushed outward.
Fisk screamed. Wet fur wriggled against his lips. And then it fell into his lap. Eyes wide, he watched the mouse scurry away.
Choking, Fisk bolted upright in his bed. He reached out and found the lamp switch. Blood covered his chest, red-yellow streaks trickling around the beads of sweat. He had bitten his tongue, and his mouth was filled with bitter, warm fluid. Pushing the tangled sheets away with his feet, Fisk rolled on to his stomach. His head over the bed’s edge, he opened his mouth and spat out the blood.
Slowly, the trembling faded from his muscles. The roar inside his skull lessened. Taking deep breaths, he blinked the brine from his eyes. After a moment, he rolled on to his back and then sat up.
His room and all its furnishings had become a mass of grey uncertainty; though he squinted, he could make out no details. I might as well be sleeping in a cave. Memories of the nightmare returned to him. He shivered. It had been years since he’d had that dream. Decades. Why had it come back? Why now?
Fisk pushed himself off the bed. He crossed through the grainy fuzz of his room, opened the door and entered the hallway. It seemed to lengthen as he walked down it to the bathroom, as if he had somehow found himself in an endless tunnel of half-darkness. In the bathroom he flicked on the light, then stood at the threshold, staring at his face in the mirror. Blood and spittle had smeared his lips and jaw, giving the lower half of his face a glossy sheen. The veins seemed prominent all across his face, blue-green branches that throbbed. On his creased neck he saw the pulse of his jugular.
Fisk went to the sink, watching the face in the mirror getting closer, and turned on the hot water tap. He waited until the steam obscured it, then he shut the tap off and sank his hands into the water. Though most of his fingers had nerve damage, he could still feel the scalding heat sinking into them. Swirling the water, he cupped his hands and then splashed his face.
It had been a splash in the face that had pulled him from unconsciousness that day almost thirty years ago in Sicily. An English medical officer and a squad of Gurkhas had found him in shock and almost dead. Back in Evac, it had been a source of astonishment that Fisk had survived to see proper treatment and a hospital bed. And the day he had been carried aboard a ship that would take him home, there were those who spoke of the departure of a miracle.
A small miracle, Fisk smiled to himself as he dried his face with a towel. You sit there in your own blood, watching the flies and the maggots and the rats eating your friends, and it comes to you that you don’t really give a damn. Because they’re dead, and you’re alive. And you’ve got a choice. You can live – for years, for ever – or you can join your buddies.
So I left them there, and they’re still there, waiting for me. Waiting for the mouse to crawl out of my mouth. Fisk spat into the sink.
He left the bathroom and made his way down the hall towards the back door. He could hear a wind outside, rattling the cages, moaning against the sides of the house, joining the chattering chorus. He walked out on to the porch.
The moon cast a pallid glow on the earth and a glimmer on the pools of water in the field, throwing shadows against him as he strode to the steps. The cold wind shifted and he could hear the bare branches of the trees at the far edge of the field crackling and rattling. Beside the maypole the mound of mink remains was a smeared, faintly luminescent pile of white ash. Three days of rain in the last week had diminished it.
Although it was late, Saturday’s dawn was still hours away. How long will I have to wait? Fisk frowned at the maypole. Sometimes, especially after all these years, it was easy to lose sight of the purpose, of the goal. Dying should be easy, shouldn’t it? He shook his head – look at that man, Louper – he’s dying. Makes it look simple, effortless.
Fisk couldn’t drink alcohol – the bullet in his gut had taken care of that. He’d bring up anything he swallowed. But he knew that, even if he could drink, dying that way would be wrong; it would be a coward’s act. ‘It’s gotta be natural,’ he said aloud. I’ve given up a long time ago – I’m ready for the flies and the maggots. So why is it taking so long?
The wind shifted, came swirling around the house, carrying with it the stench of the mink in their cages. Fisk smiled. It doesn’t smell so bad, does it? Just half-eaten meat, shit and piss. He laughed as a thought came to him. ‘We’re all waiting to die here, aren’t we?’
He turned to re-enter the h
ouse. ‘All waiting for the hand of God, eh? His, and mine – makes no difference to you, makes all the difference to me.’ He opened the door and strode into the darkness.
II
There would be no sleep for him this night, Sten realised. Grimacing, he sat up on the couch. The wind outside was howling, and so were his dogs. But neither was so unusual. The old season was reluctant to yield its grip on the earth, and the dogs had howled every night since Max’s death.
I need a beer, Sten told himself. He climbed to his feet, tottered a moment before regaining his balance, then shambled into the kitchen. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, so the moon’s light was sufficient for Sten to find the refrigerator. Taking a bottle from the case inside, he turned and walked into the dining room. At its edge he stopped.
The far end of the dining room had been the only place to put the piano, since anywhere else would block a window. Jennifer was now sitting on the bench. Sten was certain that she hadn’t heard him.
She’s just sitting there. Sten frowned at the realisation. She’s not moving. He took a soft step forward, wondering what to do. Jennifer was dressed in a pale pink nightgown, her hair tied up behind her head. Both of her hands lay on the covered keyboard, unmoving.
Sten hesitated, then whispered, ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep?’
Jennifer’s head snapped around. ‘What do you want?’ she hissed.
He shrugged. ‘I was just looking for the bottle opener.’
She gazed at him for a moment, most of her face hidden by shadows, then she said, ‘You disgust me.’
Sten winced, stepped back. He looked down at the bottle in his hands. ‘I know,’ he mumbled.
Jennifer rose and stepped around the bench. ‘Oh, you know, do you? And that makes it all right, does it?’
He shook his head, watched his hands trying to hide the bottle.
‘Nothing to say?’ Jennifer sneered. ‘Nothing to say for the fucking mess you’ve made – the fucking hell you’ve dragged us all into? Oh yes, I forgot: you know. Well, now we’re all saved, aren’t we?’
Sten gazed at her. She stood in front of the piano, her small hands balled into fists at her sides, her face twisted with hatred – it had to be hatred. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. She glared at him, then, with something like a snarl, she whirled away and hurried from the room. He heard a torn gasp come from the stairs, and then nothing until the slam of the door to her room.
Sten stood rooted for a moment longer, then his eyes caught the glint of the bottle opener lying on the table. He walked towards it, then stopped.
‘Yes, I know,’ he whispered.
Outside the dogs continued howling. Sten set the bottle down. It was hopeless, he knew. He would have to return to it sooner or later; it was all that lay between him and madness. All around me is hatred. My daughter. My wife. And that leaves only one place of escape. He listened to the plaintive moaning outside.
The wind hissed through the torn screen of the back door. Sten opened it and stepped on to the porch, the wood creaking beneath him. The dogs fell silent, and he watched their black shapes pad up to the front wall of the kennel. Descending the steps, he strode towards them. He heard a soft whine.
‘Cut it out, Caesar,’ he muttered, unlatching the gate. ‘Get back, damn you,’ he snarled, pushing the dogs back as he entered the kennel and closed the gate behind him. ‘Get back. Don’t crowd me, and stop your bloody whining, you bastards.’
Tail wagging, Kaja pushed against him, and he staggered back. ‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ he shouted, raising his fist. Kaja cowered at his feet. He struck her across the shoulders and she yelped, sinking lower.
Sten heard a low growl behind him and he turned to see Caesar moving forward, ears back and teeth bared. Their eyes locked. Sten stepped backward and tripped over the still-prostrate Kaja. Falling heavily, he had the breath knocked from his lungs, leaving him lying helpless, unable to move, unable to scream. Through the stunned rush of blood in his ears he heard snapping and growling. A body slammed sideways against him and he felt claws gouge into his thigh. The body moved away.
And then sweet, cold air filled Sten’s lungs. Gasping, he rolled over on to his hands and knees. It was an effort to lift his head and look around. His three dogs stood off to one side. Shane was between Kaja and Caesar, his black tail lowered and waving fitfully and his head turning from mother to brother and back again. Kaja watched Sten. Caesar watched Kaja. Only the wind made any noise at all apart from Sten’s ragged breath.
He climbed to his feet. ‘Bastards,’ he hissed, wiping the muddy sweat from his face. Suddenly racked with chills, he staggered over to the gate. The dogs backed away, all three watching him now. He ignored them, fumbling with the latch. Moments later he was outside, locking the gate with shaking hands.
Back inside the house, Sten hurried to the dining room. He leaned against the edge of the table, opened the bottle of beer and quickly brought it to his lips. He let the beer pour down through his mouth and throat and into his stomach without pause. In seconds the bottle was empty, and the bitter burning along his throat fell away to numbness.
Suddenly dizzy, he pulled out the chair and sat down. Elbows on the table, he held his head in his hands.
‘The bastards,’ he whispered. ‘They wanted to—’ He shook his head. No, it was just an accident – it was dark. Caesar got spooked. Frightened. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he mumbled. ‘My dogs—’ They were terrified of him. Somewhere inside his head he heard the chuckling of monsters. ‘Their master, all right. Master, yeah, right! Tyrant.’ Oh, God. It’s hopeless. ‘No fuckin’ point to anything.’ The monsters concurred, applauded. ‘It’s you and me, Dad,’ he mumbled. ‘Claw your way back up, Dad. Come on, come out of the grave. It’s only a garbage bag and some dirt. It’s you and me, now.’ And us, chittered the monsters. ‘And them.’ And the booze, too, they added.
Sten slowly pushed himself to his feet. He reeled, then made his way into the kitchen. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, sure.’
Outside, the wind and the dogs howled.
III
Elouise pulled the sheets up against her chin as the slamming back door indicated Sten’s return to the house. She heard him moving around in the rooms below. Heart hammering, she stared up into the darkness, certain that in moments she would hear his footfalls on the stairs.
The wind in the branches outside the window cast a keening dance of shadows across the far wall, like cavorting figures. Elouise sucked air in through the wreckage of her mouth, the cool, dry breath soothing the throb of pain. It had become impossible to move her jaw at all now. Any question of choice had disappeared – she knew she would have to visit a doctor in the morning
And without a driver’s licence, her only means of making the trip to the clinic in Riverview was the bus. Sten might drive her, but the thought of that turned her stomach to ice. She knew that, should she ask him, he might hit her again. He might kill her. Even if, by some bizarre twist of his mind, he agreed to take her, there was still the highway drive – Sten hadn’t been sober in weeks: he wouldn’t be sober tomorrow. And if they somehow managed to arrive, there awaited the questions, the looks, the whispers and the suspicions. No, it would be better all around if she went alone; if Sten didn’t know anything about it.
With a big enough bandage, the nature of her injury wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone on the bus, or in the clinic’s hallways and waiting room. And that just left the doctor, and maybe a nurse or two. She would have to think of a story to tell them, even though she knew that they’d be unconvinced. So long as they don’t cause trouble. Then I don’t care what they think.
The house had fallen silent. Maybe he’s fallen asleep. She hoped he had. There was a patter of rain against the window. The dogs had stopped their moaning – the shriek of the wind seemed to fill the world. Its cry echoed in her skull. The shadows no longer danced – she stared at them – they writhed against the wall as if nailed there. Unable to escape – voiceless, they couldn’t e
ven plead.
Pulling the sheets closer, Elouise closed her eyes. Silence was a good thing. Above the howl of the wind there was no way to hear her own inner screams, and it was this, more than anything else, that made her feel safe, insulated.
So long as he slept.
Like a faint whisper from beyond the walls came music – from Jennifer’s room. Holding her breath, Elouise listened. Brahms. Piano concerto No. 2. She remembered buying that record for Jennifer’s tenth birthday, along with a half-dozen others.
The music was cut off abruptly. Elouise began to wonder if she’d imagined it. Like an old echo lost in the house for years, only now reaching her. She became aware of all the silent rooms surrounding her, of the silent chambers familiar with darkness and regret. It had become, she realised, a house whose rooms sighed the breath of memories, and all the memories were painful ones. The house bled silence – but no, she could hear a voice, and it was Sten’s, coming up from below as if from a pit.
‘Master, yeah, right!’ Muttering followed the exclamation, and then she heard: ‘It’s you and me, Dad. Claw your way back up…’ The words dropped off again.
Elouise moaned. Dad. The old man’s face took on blurry definition in her mind’s eyes. She saw, once again, the snarl twisting his lips, the feral rage flaring in his red-shot eyes. She watched his battered fists bludgeoning his son, Sten, rocking the young man’s head – the son, whose ears bled and whose eyes were glazed with dull incomprehension, whose cut and split mouth hung open, a red rose glossed with saliva. The son, who had made no attempt to defend himself, who had said nothing, not once crying out – who had just stood there, taking it.
And now … It’s you and me, Dad.
So simple, after all. So logical.
Another moan escaped her bruised lips. Elouise rolled over and gently rested her aching head on the pillow. He wouldn’t be coming up. She was safe; there was no more need to fight off her exhaustion. She would let her room join the others. Bleeding silence, breathing memories.
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