by Shadows
And there, at the end of that trail of light, at the very centre of the garden, there was the fountain. And now the fountain was on. Water was gushing out of Ian’s stone mouth, thick and steady; I could see now how his posture had been so designed, with his little hands bunched up, and pressed tight against his chest, to suggest that he was forcing out the water, as if his insides were a water balloon and he was trying to squeeze out every single last drop.
There was nothing even now so very untoward about that. If the fountain was on, so it was on. But I changed the direction of my gaze, I looked out at the garden through the central pane again—and there the fountain was dry once more, the garden still, the pathways impossible to discern in the dark.
I’m afraid I must have stayed there for a few minutes, moving my head back and forth, looking through one pane and then through another. Trying to work out what the trick was. How one piece of the window could show one view, the other, something else. I’m afraid I must have looked rather like an idiot.
And I tried to open the window. I wanted to see the garden without the prism of the glass to distract me, I wanted to know what was real and what was not. The catch wouldn’t give. It seemed to freeze beneath my fingers.
Then there was a knock at my door.
It brought me back to myself; rather, it wasn’t until then that I realized it, that I was on the verge of hysteria, or panic at the very least. I don’t know whether I had cried out. I thought I had been silent all this while, but perhaps I had cried out. I had woken the house. I was ashamed. I forced myself to turn from the window, and as I did so, with it at my back, I felt like myself again. I smoothed down my pyjamas. I went to open the door. I prepared to apologize.
Lisa was outside in a white night dress. She came in without my inviting her to do so, smiled, sat upon my bed.
“Hello, John,” she whispered.
I said hello back at her.
“Did you never want children of your own? I’m curious.”
She began unbuttoning her night dress then. I decided I really shouldn’t look at what she was doing, but I didn’t want to look through the window again either, so I settled on a compromise, I stared at a wholly inoffensive wardrobe door. I said something about not really liking children, and that the opportunity to discover otherwise was never much likely to present itself. I was aware, too, that something was very odd about her arrival and the ensuing conversation, but you must understand, it still seemed like a welcome respite from the absurdities I had glimpsed through my bedroom window.
She seemed to accept my answer, and then said, “Would you help me, please?” Her head disappeared into the neck of the night dress, its now loose arms were flailing. I gave it a tug and pulled the dress off over her head. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled, turned, pointed these two bare breasts straight at me.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Are they better than you were expecting?” I endeavoured to explain that I had had no expectations of her breasts at all. She tittered at that, just as she had when she’d curtseyed to me in the driveway; it was a silly sound. “They’re new,” she said, and I supposed that made sense, they seemed too mirror perfect to be real, they seemed sculpted. And they didn’t yet match the colour of her chest, they were white and pristine.
I wanted to ask her about the view through the window, but it seemed suddenly rather impolite to change the subject. What I did ask, though, was whether she was quite sure she had the right bedroom? Didn’t she want the one with her husband in it? And at this her face fell.
“Max hasn’t told you, has he?”
I said that he hadn’t, no.
“Oh God,” she said. “Bloody Max. This is what we. . . This is why. God. He’s supposed to tell. Why else do you think he brought you here?”
I said that we were old friends, and at that she screwed up her face in contempt, and it made her rather ugly. I suggested that maybe he wanted to show me the house and the garden.
“Max hates the fucking house and garden,” said Lisa. “He’d leave it all tomorrow if he could.” She grabbed at her night dress, struggled with it. “Bloody Max. I’m very sorry. We have an agreement. I don’t know what he’s playing at. This is the way I cope.” She couldn’t get her arms in the right holes, she began to cry.
I said I was sorry. I asked her whether she could hear running water anywhere, was it just me?
“I’ve always liked you, John,” she said. “Can’t you like me just a little bit?”
I said I did like her, a little bit. More than, even.
“Can’t you like me for one night?”
I tried asking her about Max, but she just shook her head, and now she was smiling through the tears. “This is the way we cope. Can’t you help me out?” I said, yes. I said I could help her out. I said I was puzzled by the fountain outside, but by this stage the night dress was back over her head again, maybe she couldn’t hear.
She said, “Now, don’t you worry. I’m not going to do anything you won’t like.” Then she climbed on top of me and gripped me hard between her thighs. She let her long hair fall across my face, then she whispered in my ear. I expected her to say something romantic. She said, “I won’t get pregnant, I’ve been thoroughly sterilized.”
I hadn’t touched a woman in years. Not since I was at school, not since Max had discovered girls, and had started touching them, and I had touched them too so he wouldn’t leave me out.
But even accepting my unfamiliarity with the whole enterprise, I don’t think I did an especially good job. To be honest, I let Lisa do all of the work, the most I contributed was a couple of hands on her back so that she wouldn’t fall off and sprain herself. And I listened to the sound of the fountain outside; sometimes the mechanical grunts of Lisa would drown it out, and I’d think maybe it was over, but then she’d have to pause for breath, or she’d be gnawing at my neck with her lips, or she’d be sitting tall and gritting her teeth hard and screwing her eyes tight and being ever so quiet, and I could hear the fountain just as before.
At length she rolled off, and thanked me, and kissed me on the mouth. The kiss was nice. I grant you that, the kiss was nice. She curled up beside me and went to sleep. Then she turned away from me altogether and I was alone, so alone.
The curtains were still open, but there was no light spilling into the room, it was just black and bleak out there. And from my position I couldn’t crane my head to see whether there was any light coming through the pane on the bottom left.
I didn’t want to wake Lisa. I got out of bed very gently. It was cold. My pyjama trousers had got lost somewhere. I’d have had to turn on the bedside lamp to find them. I wasn’t going to turn on the bedside lamp.
I went straight to the pane. I looked out.
As before, the pathway to the centre was lit by sparkling pebbles. But this time the snow was falling in droves, big clumps of it, and every flake seemed to catch the moon, and each one of them was like a little lamp lighting up the whole garden. The flowers were in bloom. It was ridiculous, but the flowers were in bloom—the blanket of red and white roses was thick and warm, and the snow fell upon it, and the roses didn’t care, the roses knew they could melt that snow, they had nothing to fear from it. I looked out at where Lisa had planted the hyacinths and the tulips—it was, as she’d said, like a wave of blue breaking upon a brightly coloured shore.
And at the fountain itself. Ian was throwing up all the water he had inside him, and he had so much water, he was never going to run out, was he? But I would have thought his face would have been distressed—it was not distressed. The worst you could say about the expression he wore was that it was resigned. Ian Wheeler had a job to do, and he was going to do it. It wasn’t a pleasant job, but he wasn’t one to complain, he’d just do the very best he could. And the flowers were growing around him too, and vines were twisting up his body and tightening around his neck.
Over the sound of the fo
untain I heard another noise now. Less regular. The sound of something dragging over loose stone. Something heavy, but determined—it seemed that every lurch across the stone was done with great weariness, but it wasn’t going to stop, it might be slow, but it wasn’t going to stop. And I can’t tell you why, but I suddenly felt a cold terror icing down my body, so cold that it froze my body still and I could do nothing but watch.
And into view at last shuffled Max. He was naked. And the snow was falling all around him, and I could see that it was falling fast and drenching him when it melted against his skin, but he didn’t notice, he was like the roses, he didn’t care, he didn’t stop. Forcing himself forward, but calmly, so deliberately, each step an effort but an effort he was equal to. Further up the path, following the trail of sparkling pebbles to the fountain. Following the yellow brick road.
I tried looking through the other panes. Nothing but darkness, and the snow falling so much more gently. I only wanted to look at that garden, at that reality. But I could hear the sound from the other garden so much more clearly, I couldn’t not hear it, the agonized heave of Max’s body up the path. The flow of running water, the way it gushed and spilled, all that noise, all of it, it was pulling him along. I had to look. I did.
Once in a while the bends of the path would turn Max around so that he was facing me. And I could see that dead face—no, not dead, not vacant even, it was filled with purpose, but it wasn’t a purpose I understood and it had nothing to do with the Max I had loved for so many years. I could see his skin turning blue with the cold. I could see his penis had shrunk away almost to nothing.
And now, too soon—he had reached the statue of his dead son. At last he stopped, as if to contemplate it. As if to study the workmanship!—his head tilted to one side. And maybe his son contemplated him in return, but if he did, he still never stopped spewing forth all that water, all the water there was in the world. Then—Max was moving again, he was using his last reserves of energy, he was stepping into the freezing pond, he was wading over to the stone angel, raising an arm, then both arms, he was reaching out to it. And I thought I could hear him howling. He was, he was howling.
I battered at the window. I tried again to open it. The catch wouldn’t lift, the catch was so cold it hurt.
But Max had his son in his arms now, wrapping his arms about him tightly, he was hugging him for dear life, and he was crying out—he was screaming with such love and such despair. And then, then, he fell silent, and that was more terrible still—and he put his mouth to his son’s, he opened his mouth wide and pressed it against those stone lips, and the water splashed against his face and against his chest, and yet he kissed his son closer, he plugged the flow of water, he took it all inside and swallowed it down.
The window gave. The rush of cold air winded me. I called out. “Max!” I shouted. “Max!” But there was nothing to be seen now the window was open, nothing but dead space, dead air, blackness.
“Darling,” said Lisa.
I turned around. She was awake.
“Darling,” she said. “Darling, close the window. Come back to bed.” She patted the mattress beside her in a manner I assumed was enticing.
I closed the window. I looked through the pane once more, I looked through every pane, and there was nothing to make out, the moon was behind the clouds, the darkness was full and unyielding. I went back to bed. I did as I was told.
I had fully intended to go to church the next morning. I had made a promise, and I keep my promises. But when I woke up the house was empty. Max and Lisa had gone without me. I made myself a cup of tea, and waited for them to come back. Eventually, of course, they did. All smiles, both looking so smart, Max in particular was very handsome in his suit. “Sorry, matey,” said Max. “I popped my head around your door, but you looked like you needed the extra sleep! Hope you don’t mind!” And Lisa just smiled.
Neither of them said a word about the adventures of the night before, and neither treated me any differently. Lisa had told me she’d cook a big peasant’s breakfast, and she was as good as her word—bacon, eggs, and sausages she said were from pigs freshly slaughtered by a farmer friend she’d made. Then we settled down in the lounge, and shared the Sunday newspaper, each reading different sections then swapping when we were done. It was nice.
Some time early afternoon, though, Max looked at the clock, and said, “Best you get back home, John! I’ve things that need doing!” And I hugged Lisa goodbye, and Max drove me to the railway station, and we hugged too, and I thanked him for the weekend.
We drifted apart. I don’t know who drifted from whom, I doubt it was anything as deliberate as that. No, wait, I sent them a Christmas card, and they didn’t respond. So they’re the ones who drifted. They drifted, and I stayed where I was, exactly the same.
That would be the end of the story. I had heard from an old school friend that a couple of years later Max and Lisa had separated. It was just gossip, and I don’t know whether it was true or not, and I felt sorry for them just the same.
That was maybe six months ago. Recently I received a letter.
Dear John,
You may have heard that Max and I have gone our different ways! It was quite sad at the time, but it was very amicable, and I’m sure one day we will be good friends.
But sometimes when something has died, you just have to accept it, and move on.
I still have the house. Max was very generous, to be fair. All he wanted was half of the money, and the fountain from the garden. We had to dig it up, and I’m afraid it has made the garden a bit of an eyesore! I tried to tell Max it won’t work, it was specially designed to fit with all our underground piping, but as you know, there’s no talking to Max!
I’m going to rethink the garden. I’m sure I can make it even better.
All the locals have been very nice, and they’re attentive as ever in their own way. But I don’t know. I think perhaps they liked Max more than they ever liked me.
If you would like to stay again, that would make me very happy.
Maybe I shouldn’t say this. But that night we spent together was very special. It was a special night. And I think of you often. Sometimes I think you’re the one who could save me. Sometimes I think you could give me meaning.
But regardless. Thank you for always being such a good friend to me and Max, and for being best man at the wedding, and any other duties you took on.
Best regards,
Lisa Howell (once Briggs).
I haven’t written back yet. I might.
HIDDEN IN THE ALPHABET
CHARLES WILKINSON
The auteur has been tripped up on the pavement outside the Acme Hotel. He’s just come through the revolving doors, down the marble steps and turned in the direction of the main thoroughfare. It was not the tip of the sole of his right shoe (chestnut gleam of leather on the upper) catching an uneven paving-stone. And no, it has nothing to do with an occasional weakness of the knees, allowable in a man of seventy years, or even a failure to adjust to his new bifocal spectacles, which lie broken (spider-cracks in both lenses, the frames askew) six inches away from his outstretched right arm (hand marked with chalky grazes, a droplet-chain of blood). It is as if someone’s curled a foot, or the curved handle of an umbrella, around his ankle and jerked his leg violently upwards.
Later, he will tell himself that he lost consciousness for several seconds, although now as he levers himself upright, blood dripping from the side of his chin, he is not aware of having done so. But this will be his only explanation for the fact no one is anywhere near him on the street.
The pigeon (iridescence of wing-glaze, white mark on the throat) perched on the roof of a derelict warehouse is not an adequate witness to what happened, though it knows the south side well: has flown many times through the open windows of buildings that glass has forgotten; alighted on chimney tops tufted with wild grass; hopped under bus shelters to insp
ect abandoned Chinese takeaways; examined crisps wrappers with a critical eye. It has an excellent view of the Acme Hotel: the marble steps, washed every day; the brass glint of the revolving doors; the shafts and arrowheads of black railings; the orange-red brick of the façade; the Gothic windows in all storeys but the sixth, from which you can see the gleaming towers of the second city’s centre, though not the ring road that ropes them in.
The pigeon may have noticed the auteur, his silver hair and white linen jacket bright in the sunshine of a waning summer, when he pushed the revolving door, walked down the marble steps and into the street (just as a blue van was passing, too quickly for the driver to witness what happened next) and he could have observed a man or the shadow of a man or a shadow from a nest of English shadows, slipping out from an abandoned factory, or a shop with shuttered windows, where no one has been served for thirty years, and coming up swiftly behind a man leaving a hotel on his way to a meeting with the son, his only child, that he has not seen for a quarter of a century.
As the man brushes himself down (an action he immediately regrets as a streak of blood appears on the right pocket of his linen jacket) and hobbles back to the Acme Hotel, the pigeon flies off in the direction of a café, where there will be the crumbs of croissants and sesame seeds, left over from de luxe burger buns.
Cotton wool, commiserations, antiseptic cream and directions to the nearest optician have been provided by the staff at the Acme Hotel. The auteur has phoned his niece and asked her to postpone the meeting. He must not appear in the restaurant (expensive, central, overlooking a canal) with sticking plaster on his hands and chin. As he will be unable to see further than his own table, the other diners will be indistinct blobs of colour, the details on the menu squashed insects on a white background. It is most important that he should meet with his son. There are questions he must ask. He will need to observe his reactions closely.
