Guilty One

by Lisa Ballantyne

  He didn’t know how long he was crouched in the wardrobe, but after a while he heard someone on the stairs. They were walking from room to room shouting, ‘Is anyone in here?’

  Daniel wanted to find out where his mother had gone, but when he walked into the passage a man grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall. The man was only a little taller than Daniel. He was wearing a white vest. Daniel could smell the man’s salt sweat over the charred smell of the house. The man’s stomach pressed against Daniel as he held him to the wall.

  ‘What the hell are you doin’ in ’ere?’ the man said. ‘Scram, go on.’

  ‘Where did me mam go?’

  ‘Yer mam? Who’s yer mam?’

  ‘She lived here, her clothes’re still here.’

  ‘The junkies burned the place down, didn’t they? Out of it, all of them. They didn’t even know the place was on fire. I had to call the fire brigade. The whole bloody row could’ve gone up.’

  ‘What about me mam?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about yer mam. They took them all out on stretchers – still bloody out of it probably. One of ’em were burnt to a crisp. It were right disgusting. Couldn’t tell if it were man or woman.’

  Daniel twisted away from him and ran down the stairs. He could hear the man calling after him. He started to cry on the way down and then he slipped and fell down a few of the steps. He scraped his arm, but he didn’t really feel it. He got up and ran out of the door and through the grass, stumbling again on the traffic cone. His feet slapped on the pavement. He didn’t know where he was running, but he was running as fast as he could. His satchel must have fallen off somewhere, in the wardrobe or on the stairs, and he felt light and fast without its uneven weight. He ran right down Ponteland Road.

  It was dark and he was sitting on the kerb on the West Road when a policewoman came up to him. He didn’t look at her, but when she asked him to go with her he went because he was tired out. At the station they called his social worker and she drove him back to Minnie’s house.

  *

  It was after ten by the time they arrived in Brampton. The town seemed so dark, the green of the fields black against the night sky. Daniel’s eyelids felt thick and he tried to keep them open as he looked out of the car window. Tricia was talking to him about running away and about borstal and how he would be going there if he couldn’t stay put. He didn’t turn to look at her as she spoke. The smell of her perfume hurt his nose and his head.

  Minnie was standing outside her front door, with her big cardigan wrapped round her. Blitz ran up to Daniel when he got out of the car. Minnie reached out to him but he twisted away from her and walked into the house. The dog followed him. Daniel sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them to come in, playing with the dog’s ears, which were like squares of velvet. Blitz lay on his back so that Daniel could scratch his stomach and even though he was tired he got down on his knees to do it. The white hair on the dog’s stomach was dirty from the yard.

  He could hear Minnie and Tricia outside the door. They were whispering. School. Mother. Police. Fire. Decision. Although he was straining, these words were the only ones he could hear clearly. He had asked the police and his social worker about his mother. The police didn’t bother to try to find out, but Tricia told him in the car that she would look into what had happened to her and would tell Minnie if she heard anything.

  ‘Why are you going to tell Minnie, why won’t you just tell me?’ Daniel had shouted at her.

  ‘If you don’t behave yourself, you’re going to be in a Youth Custody Centre next year and that’ll be you until you’re eighteen.’

  Minnie closed the door and stood looking at him with her hands on her hips.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look like you’ve had a hard day. Let me run you a bath.’

  He thought she was going to say something else. He had prepared himself for harsh words. He went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat as she agitated bubbles in the bath. The mirror steamed up and the air smelled clean.

  She took a face cloth and soaked it in the hot bathwater.

  ‘Your nose is looking pretty nasty. Let me wash away some of that blood before you get in. Bit late, but we’ll put some ice on it. We don’t want you to have a squashed boxer’s nose, do we? Not a good-lookin’ lad like you; wouldn’t be right.’

  He let her tend to his nose. She was gentle and the cloth was warm. She rubbed away the dried blood and then washed around his nose.

  ‘Does it hurt, love?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re a brave soul.’

  He could smell the gin on her breath when she leaned close to him.

  When she was finished, she ran her hand through his hair and rested her palm on his cheek.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You went to find your mother?’

  ‘She wasn’t there.’ His voice thickened.

  She pulled him into her gently, and he felt the rough wool of her cardigan against his cheek. He started to cry again, but he didn’t know why.

  ‘There,’ she said, rubbing his back. ‘Better out than in. Tricia’ll let me know what they find out about your mum. You’re going to be all right. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I could tell from the first minute I met you that you’re a very special boy. You’re strong and you’re bright. You’ll not be little for ever. Whatever anyone else tells you, being grown-up’s a lot better. You get to make your own decisions and live where you like and with who you want and you’ll be grand.’

  The bathroom was wet with steam. Daniel felt so tired. He laid his head against her stomach and cried. He put his hands round her hips. His hands couldn’t meet in the middle, but it felt good resting on her stomach and feeling the rise and fall as she breathed.

  He sat up and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  ‘Come on. Get in there, and get warmed up while I make you some supper. Just leave those dirty clothes on the floor. I’ll bring your pyjamas down.’

  When she left, he undressed and stepped into the bath. It was too hot and he took some time lowering himself into it. The bubbles whispered at him. His arms were a right mess: grazed from the stairs and bruised from the kicking. He had bruises on his side and his ribs too. It felt better once he was in the bath. He lay right back and let his head slip under the water, wondering if this was what it felt like to be dead: warmth and silence and the lap of water. He felt the pressure in his lungs and sat up. He was wiping the bubbles off his face when Minnie came in again.

  She put his pyjamas on the toilet seat for him and then placed a towel on top. There was a stool by the side of the bath and she leaned on the sink and lowered herself down on to it.

  ‘How’s your bath? Are you feeling any better?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You look better, I have to say. What a fright you gave me with all that blood. What happened to you? Look at your arms. You’re covered in bruises.’

  ‘Got in a fight at school.’

  ‘Who was it? I know them all in Brampton. They buy my eggs. I can talk to their mothers.’

  He inhaled. He was about to tell her that he got a kicking because of her, but he decided against it. He was too tired to fight with her and he liked her, just a little bit – just right then, for fixing his nose and running him the bath.

  ‘You’ll be hungry.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I had stew for dinner. I still have yours in the fridge. If you want I’ll heat it up for you.’

  He nodded again, touching his nose to check if it was bleeding again.

  ‘Or do you just want cheese on toast since it’s so late? Cup of cocoa.’

  ‘Cheese on toast.’

  ‘Right you are then. I’ll get it started. You should get out soon. Stay in too long, you’ll get a chill.’

  ‘Minnie?’ He put one hand on the edge of the bath as she passed. ‘You know the butterfly – why do you like it
so much? Is it worth a lot of money?’

  She pulled her cardigan around her. He wasn’t being cheeky. He wanted to know yet he could sense her withdrawal.

  ‘It’s worth a lot to me,’ she said. She started to leave, but then she turned at the door. ‘My daughter gave it to me.’

  Daniel leaned on the side of the bath so that he could see her face. She looked sad for a moment but then she was gone and he heard her sighing as she made her way down the stairs.

  Later, in his bedroom, listening to the creaks as the house fell asleep, he checked that his mam’s necklace was still there and his knife was still under his pillow.

  7

  Daniel pushed his shoulder blades back into the driver’s seat as he drove up the M6. He drove with the window down and his elbow out. The noise of the wind almost drowned out the radio, but he needed the air. Driving north, he felt an almost magnetic pull. He had not planned to go up for the funeral but had spent a restless weekend, his mind tormented alternately by thoughts of Sebastian and Minnie. He had woken up with a headache at six o’clock in the morning, showered, dressed and got straight into the car. He had been on the road for nearly four hours, driving in a mindless way, looking forward and remembering, letting his foot fall heavy on the accelerator.

  He imagined arriving in Brampton and being slowed by the unrepentant green, the smell of manure threading the air. He imagined pulling up at her house and listening to the barks of her latest pound-dog. It would come running towards him: a boxer, or a mongrel, or a collie. Whatever trauma the dog had experienced, it would still stop in its tracks and heed her when she called for it to stop barking. She would tell the dog that Daniel was family and there was no need for the racket.

  Family. The kitchen floor would be unwashed and the putty around the windows would be pecked by the chickens. She would be half drunk and offer him one and he would accept and they would drink gin in the afternoon, until she cried at the sight of him, and wept for his loss. She would kiss him with her lemon lips and tell him that she loved him. Loved him. What would he feel? So long since he had been close to her and yet the smell of her would be familiar. Even though he was angry enough to hit her, the smell of her would bring him comfort and he would sit down with her in the living room. He would enjoy her company and watching the way her face flushed when she spoke. He would feel relief to be near her, listening to her lilting Irish voice. It would be baptismal and deliverance would flood him, soak him like the northern rain, and leave him clean before her and ready to accept all that he had done, and all that she had done. He would forgive them both.

  He pulled into the service area.

  I’ll never forgive you, he had screamed at her once, so long ago.

  I’ve never been able to forgive myself, lad. How could I expect you to, she had said, later, years later, over the phone – trying to make him understand. She had called often after he moved down to London, less as the years went by, as if she had lost hope that he could forgive her.

  I only wanted to protect you, she would try to explain. But he would never hear of it. He had never allowed her to explain, no matter how hard she tried. Some things could never be forgiven.

  Daniel bought a coffee and stretched his legs. He was only twenty miles from Brampton now. The air was cooler and he thought he could already smell the farms. He set his coffee cup on the roof of his car and put his hands into his pockets, pushing his shoulders up to his ears. His eyes were hot from the effort of concentrating on the road. It was nearly lunchtime and the coffee was like mercury in his stomach. He had driven halfway up the country and now that seemed inexplicable. If he had not come so far already, he would have turned back.

  He drove the last twenty miles slowly, keeping to the inside lane, listening to the friction of the air against his open window. At the Rosehill roundabout he took the third exit, wincing at the turning signposted Hexham, Newcastle.

  After the trout farm he saw Brampton ahead of him, set among the tilled fields like a crude gem. A kestrel hovered by the side of the road and then disappeared from view. The warm smell of manure came as he had expected and was instantly calming. After London, the air tasted so fresh. The red-brick council houses and neat gardens seemed smaller than he remembered. The town felt primitive and quiet as Daniel checked his speed and drove right through it to the farm he had grown up in, high on the Carlisle Road.

  He parked outside Minnie’s farm and sat for a few minutes, his hands on the wheel, listening to the sound of his breath. He might have driven away again, but instead he got out of the car.

  He walked very slowly towards Minnie’s door. His fingers were trembling and his throat was dry. There was no mongrel barking, no hoarse cockerel or clucking chickens. The farm was locked, although Daniel thought he could still see the impressions of her man-boots in the yard. He looked up at the window which had been his bedroom. His hands made fists in his pockets.

  He walked around the back of the house. The chicken run was still there, but empty. The door of the shed swayed in the wind, scant white feathers clinging to the mesh. There was no goat, but Daniel could see the impressions of hooves in the mud. Could it be that the old goats had outlived her? Daniel sighed as he thought of the animals leaving her and being replaced, like the foster children she had raised and then let go, time and again.

  Daniel pulled out his house keys. Alongside the key to his London flat, he still had Minnie’s house key. The same brass Yale that she had given him when he was a boy.

  The house smelled damp and quiet when he opened the door. From its depths, the cold reached out to him like elderly hands. He slipped inside, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands to warm them. The house still smelled of her. Daniel stood in the kitchen, letting his fingers move from crowded work surface to sewing kit, to the boxes of animal feed and the jars of coins, buttons and spaghetti. The kitchen table was piled high with newspapers. Mindful spiders scuttled from the floorboards.

  He opened the fridge. There wasn’t much food but it had not been emptied. The tomatoes were shrunken, wearing furred grey hats. The half-bottle of milk was yellow and sour. Lettuce wilted to seaweed. Daniel closed the door.

  He went into the living room, where the last newspaper she had read was lying open on the couch. It had been a Tuesday then, when she had last been in the house. He could picture her with her feet up reading the Guardian. He touched the paper and felt a chill. He felt both close to her and distant, as if she was a reflection he could see in a window or a lake.

  Her old piano was open by the window. Daniel pulled out the stool and sat down, listening to the wood strain under his weight. He pumped one of the pedals gently with his foot, letting his fingers fall heavy on the keys, the notes discordant under his touch. He remembered nights as a child when he would creep down and sit on the stairs, the toes of one foot warming the other as he listened to her play. She played slow, sad, classical pieces that he did not recognise at the time but which he had learned to name as he got older: Rachmaninov, Elgar, Beethoven, Ravel, Shostakovich. The drunker she became, the louder she would play and the more notes she would miss.

  He remembered standing in the cold of the hall, watching her through the half-open living-room door. She was heavy on the keys, so that the piano itself seemed to protest beneath her. Her calloused, bare feet pumped the pedals as strands of her grey curls fell over her face.

  Daniel smiled, sounding single notes on the piano. He could not play. She had tried to teach him once or twice. His forefinger found the notes and then listened to the sound of them: cold, shuddering, lonely. He closed his eyes, remembering; the room was still thick and heavy with the scent of dog. What had happened to the dog when Minnie died, he wondered?

  Every year he had known her, on 8 August she drank herself into a stupor listening to one record over and over again. It was a record she wouldn’t let him touch. She kept it tight in its sleeve except for that one day of the year when she would let it spin and allow the fine needle of the s
tylus to find its fingerprint threads. She would sit in the half-dark, the living room lit only by the fire, and listen to Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G Major. Daniel had been in university before he knew the name of the track, although he had memorised every note well before then.

  Once, she had let him sit with her. He had been thirteen or fourteen and still trying to understand her. She had made him sit quietly, turned from her and facing the record that scratched its way into the music as she waited, her chin bobbing up and down slightly in expectation of the notes and the pathos that would find her.

  When the music started, he had turned to watch her face; surprised at the effect the music had on her. It reminded him of his mother injecting heroin. The same rapture, the same devout attention, the same bewilderment, although she would seek it out again and again.

  At first Minnie would seem to follow the notes with her eyes, her breath deepening and her chest rising. Her eyes would water, and from across the room Daniel would see the sheen of them. She was like a painting: a Rembrandt – lucent, rustic, there. Her fingers on the armchair would mime the notes, although he had never heard her play this piece. She would listen but never, not even once, did she play it.

  And then the discordant notes, the A# and B. As they continued to sound and sound again, a rare tear would form and fall, flashing across her cheek. Dissonant but somehow right: sounding out what she felt.

  She seemed to seek out the discord, as a finger finds a wound.