The Codes of Love

by Hannah Persaud

  ‘You’re hurt,’ he says to break the weight of silence. He points to the shin of her left leg, where a long scratch drags itself from ankle to knee.

  ‘A hazard of the forest,’ she smiles. ‘Too many trees.’ He strokes her hair. ‘It was inexcusable,’ she says, ‘my—’

  ‘Shhh.’ He presses his finger against her lips. ‘We’re both culpable.’ He imagines her moving through the forest past where the dead walker had lain before. Among nocturnal animals; long limbs lean and glowing caught by the moon. The wild tangles of her hair as she snapped through branches and brambles. She is covered in scratches the breadth of a needle.

  ‘That reminds me,’ she says, ‘I need to call a rescue centre. I found a fawn down by the water. It may be too late.’ Pulling herself out of bed, she throws on her leggings and his T-shirt that’s discarded on the floor. ‘I won’t be long.’ He imagines her down by the quarry lake, skin goose bumped and icy among the slate heaps. The splash of her as she dives into the blue, sluicing him from her skin, pulling herself against the bottomless water.

  He hears the creak of the cottage as the door opens. The brief wail of the weather as it attempts to enter. He tests his bad ankle. Today it is back to normal size and the ache is dull. Not broken. In the kitchen he makes a coffee and hums while he puts away the crockery. Maybe they can get out for a walk later, if Ada wants. He is uneasily calm and wonders if he is missing something. In the shower he turns his face to the scalding water and opens his mouth, feeling the water run through his hair and eyelashes. In the mirror his cheeks are pink and shiny and his eyes bright. Dressing quickly, he puts his jacket on and leaves a note for Ada on the table, Gone to the shops, back soon. Outside he puts the key in the key safe, snapping it shut with a click. The car revs into life beneath his fingers and he accelerates quickly through the gate, which she has left open, not wanting to lose momentum and skid against the new road, which streams with water from the mountains. A pool is forming by the gate.

  In between the gates he drives with the windows open and the air whistling around his ears. Sheep graze the edges of the road and startle as he rounds corners; one refuses to move as he swings open a gate. For a moment he thinks that it might charge him, but it scampers away at the last moment. Six miles, but it may as well be triple for the time it takes and still he doesn’t mind. The landscape is devoid of humans, as if he is the last man on earth. He doesn’t see a single person until he reaches the town.

  He wonders if Emily would like it here.

  In the supermarket he pushes the trolley slowly, lost in thought.

  ‘Hello there.’ He looks up to see a middle-aged lady smiling at him. ‘Gywneth,’ she says by way of explanation. He scans her face and now he remembers. She is their second closest neighbour, a big old farmhouse on the bend of the road between the fifth and sixth gate, perched on the edge of the hillside where the forest breaks, revealing the estuary and Snowdonia beyond. A sheepdog that runs outside, barking as he passes.

  ‘Of course.’ He smiles and puts out his hand. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘How’s it going down there? Are you in yet?’ she says, shaking his hand. He remembers Ada saying that it was Gywneth who recommended the plumber they used.

  ‘Yes, thanks for your recommendation – you’ll have to come and visit,’ he says.

  ‘That’d be lovely, you’re here for a while this time are you?’ she replies. He is reminded again of what a small community this is, reassuring and unnerving in equal measure.

  ‘Just a few days this time, but back in a month – we’ll knock on your door.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘We never go far. I promised your wife some eggs. I may pop them by when you’ve left next week; she’ll be glad of company, no doubt. Not sure I’d want to be down there alone.’ Ryan starts to move away, then stops.

  ‘What do you mean, alone?’ Ryan asks. Gwyneth looks up from the eggs that she’s inspecting. ‘What do you mean she’d be glad of some company?’

  ‘It’s remote down there, poor love. I felt sorry for her when her car wouldn’t start that time. She was drenched through by the time she made it to our house to use the phone.’ He disguises his confusion, inspecting the sell-by date on a carton of cream.

  ‘Yes, of course. Thanks,’ he says quickly.

  ‘What are neighbours for?’ She smiles. ‘Have a good day. The weather’s supposed to break – could be in for some sun.’

  The checkout lady recognises him too.

  ‘Welcome back. Here for a while?’

  ‘A week, but it’s almost over.’ Ryan puts the milk, wine and eggs on the counter.

  ‘Horrible business up near you, wasn’t there recently? That poor woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ryan replies, resisting the urge to run. If London is the city of anonymity, this is the rural antonym. He counts out his change carefully. ‘Awful. I’ve only just heard.’

  ‘Puts us back on the map, though not in a good way,’ she says, smiling sympathetically as she places the items in the bag. ‘It’s not the first time that there’s been tragedy round you, though the other stuff was before your time,’ she adds, passing his receipt.

  ‘I couldn’t comment,’ he says, knowing that he is being cruel by denying her this chance to gossip. He turns to leave, but as he does so she calls out.

  ‘Some say it’s the fault of the forest, you know.’ It’s inevitable that folklore and myth carry more substance here.

  ‘Well, it is a dark and dangerous place; a hazard for lost walkers, for sure,’ he replies.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ she says. ‘There’ve been lights and voices. The farmers have seen them. They stopped for a while but now they’re back. They say the dead come back to claim the living.’ Ryan clears his throat and reaches for his phone from his pocket.

  ‘Is that the time? I must get back.’ The woman stands upright and folds her arms, her smile back in place.

  ‘Good luck with it all. Give my regards to your wife,’ she calls as he pulls open the door. Outside he scuffs the dirt on the pavement, puts the bag in the boot. They’ve been careful to avoid too much interest, protective of their peace. Now the death of the hiker has flagged their presence all too strongly and the whole community is talking about them.

  Halfway back to the cottage he realises he’s forgotten the bread, the whole reason for his trip. He remembers a Texaco garage closer to Fairbourne; it’s worth a shot. Branching right off the main road, he navigates a further four gates and descends a perilously steep one-lane road, berating himself for his forgetfulness. What did Gwyneth mean? They always come together, bar once when Ada came to meet with the builders. She hadn’t mentioned her car breaking down, or walking to the neighbour’s house. This time he remembers the bread and throws in some croissants for good measure.

  ‘How was the land of the living?’ Ada asks when he walks back in. She is in the armchair beside the fire, which is unlit. The sun that Gywneth mentioned is forcing its way through the window and creeps its way across the flagstone floor.

  ‘Great.’ He leans to kiss her head. This is how it will be, civility and smiles, tiptoeing around one another cautiously. It’s no bad thing. ‘Did you get through to the rescue centre?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ll send someone down to take a look, see if it’s still there. I thought I’d take a shower and then we could walk – if your ankle’s up for it?’

  ‘Sure. I think I can manage a gentle stroll,’ he says knowing full well that Ada has never taken a gentle stroll in her life. Ada stands.

  ‘I’m going to shower,’ she says, stretching.

  ‘Ada?’

  ‘What?’ She turns.

  ‘Have you ever visited here without me?’

  ‘Why would you ask that? Of course not.’

  ‘I bumped into Gwyneth and she was saying something about your car breaking down …’

  ‘You know how the locals are, Ryan, always looking for something to talk about. She must have got confused.’

&n
bsp; She walks over to him and drapes her arms over his shoulders. ‘Why would I be here without you? I’d be so lonely.’ She kisses him on the lips. While she showers, he unpacks the food and heats the croissants in the oven. Why would Gwyneth make something like that up? Why would Ada lie? He lays the table and is slicing through the thick shell of the farmhouse loaf when she reappears.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, you know, if you had come here alone,’ he says.

  ‘Are you still going on about that?’ she says, and now she’s defensive. ‘I told you, she must have been confused. What is this, a cross-examination?’ She crouches down and rearranges the logs beside the hearth. ‘Shit.’ She throws the wood she is holding on the floor and squeezes her hand.

  ‘Let me look.’ He holds her hand to the light and sees the shadow of the splinter outlined beneath her skin, the size of a grain of rice. ‘Wait here.’

  In the bathroom he rummages through the cabinet for the tweezers that he knows she keeps there and finds them behind the pills. Back in the lounge Ada is pale and seated. It is unlike her to be squeamish.

  ‘I’ll get it out,’ he says, crouching beside her, though his ankle has started to throb again. He digs the sharp point of the tweezers into her skin and she flinches. ‘I need to break the skin,’ he explains, ‘it’s in too deep to find the end.’ She grits her teeth and closes her eyes and he digs deeper, a spot of blood appearing. He moves quickly and fishes into the now open wound, where he can see the dark point of the fragment. He pushes the tip of the tweezers into her flesh, feeling it give beneath the pressure of his fingers. She flinches.

  ‘Got it.’ He holds the tweezers aloft triumphantly. ‘Ada?’ She is leaning forward, elbows on her knees and head between her hands.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says eventually, all the colour drained from her face.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you ill?’ He asks, thinking of the pills in the bathroom. He passes her a glass of water and she smiles weakly.

  ‘I have a thing about splinters. The way they sneak under your skin.’

  ‘Brave enough to face the Welsh wilderness alone but floored by a splinter.’

  ‘Don’t mock me,’ she says. ‘It’s a real thing. It’s got a name and everything.’

  ‘Really? Well, it must be legit then!’

  ‘We’ve all got our weaknesses,’ she snaps and turns away.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ he says. ‘What’s going on with you?’

  He’s had enough of the tug of war. He’s exhausted. Standing at the table, he continues cutting the bread. Ada walks over to the table and fidgets with the jams that he has laid out.

  ‘I found out something when I was away,’ she says. The knife sticks and he saws harder. The loaf deflates in the centre under the pressure and the air that took so long to expand it squeezes out. She continues. ‘I was right – there was a fire here. Someone died here, a child,’ she adds. He thinks of the neighbour who knows her better than he thought and the checkout lady in town.

  ‘How do you know?’ He asks.

  ‘I felt him in the forest,’ she whispers, ‘along with someone else. Marlena.’ A chill runs up his back. He hasn’t told Ada about the walker they found dead. How could she know? Ada starts coughing, her face flushing and her body convulsing with the effort to breathe. He grabs her hand and pulls her to the kitchen. He tugs open the oven and pulls out a tray of crisp, dark shells, dumping the forgotten croissants onto the side. Smoke pours into the room. He turns the tap on and leads her to the sink. She turns her face sideways to the water and drinks.

  Afterwards he takes her upstairs and she lies pale and diminished on their mattress, face turned away from him. How on earth did she know about Marlena when he hasn’t even told her? Back in the kitchen he throws the burnt croissants in the bin. Breakfast is ruined. Sunlight retracts back across the flagstoned floor like oil back from heat. There’s been lights, and voices. The farmers have seen them. They stopped for a while but now they’re back. The checkout lady from this morning. Did Ada really feel something?

  She’s still resting when there’s a knock on the door. He opens it.

  ‘Huw?’ He remembers this at least, the man with the sheepdog who rescued them when they were lost all those months ago.

  ‘You’ve settled in, then. Nice to see you dressed.’ Huw winks at Ryan’s trousers.

  ‘Come in. I’m Ryan,’ he says, offering his hand. Huw chuckles.

  ‘Thought it was Ben.’ Ryan recalls the names that Ada gave him back when it felt like a game. Huw grins.

  ‘Don’t worry, I get it. I’m good at keeping secrets.’ Huw’s hand is tough and dry, the lines and grooves folding around Ryan’s fingers like roots.

  ‘Can I help?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘It’s Ada I was looking for,’ Huw replies, stepping inside the door. ‘I bumped into her a couple of weeks ago and she was asking about the history of the cottage, told me to swing by.’ He removes his jacket, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs. ‘I didn’t realise that you’d be here.’ There’s a scratching at the door that Ryan has just closed and he opens it, jumping aside as the sheepdog runs in. It growls at him as it makes its way to its master’s feet, where it sits upright, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘She’s sleeping. Can I help?’ She never mentioned bumping into Huw, and the last time they were here was a month ago. Still, Huw’s elderly, could be his memory going. Ryan’s irritated by the insinuation that there’s something private between Ada and Huw. He’s old enough to be her uncle.

  ‘Don’t wake her, there’s not much to tell,’ Huw says. Then why come? Ryan wants to ask.

  ‘Huw, you’re too sweet.’ Ada appears at the top of the stairs and leans over the bannister. Ryan wishes she would go and put some more clothes on. Her shorts and vest seem insubstantial. Huw stands, removing his cap.

  ‘Ada, did I wake you?’

  ‘I was just waking up when you arrived. Ryan, I was asking Huw—’

  ‘I heard,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk, Huw, and you can tell me what you found?’

  ‘Well, I—’ Huw says, and at that moment the sheepdog bounds up the stairs to the crog loft, his growls erupting into barks. ‘Sorry, don’t know what’s got into him – he’s not usually like this,’ Huw apologises and the barking continues.

  ‘Why don’t I make you a cup of tea?’ Ryan offers, ‘I’d like to hear what you didn’t find out.’

  ‘Really?’ Ada says. ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘That I’d be interested?’ Why is it that Huw always brings out the petulance in him?

  ‘Tea would be great,’ Huw answers. The dog runs back downstairs and follows Ada. In the kitchen Ryan can hear her talking quietly to Huw.

  ‘Thanks, Huw, I didn’t expect you to remember.’

  ‘How could I forget when you asked me so nicely,’ Huw replies with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘They were asking about you the other day at the Crown, wondering when you were coming round again.’ Ryan stops pouring the water, his ears peeled. They’ve never been to the Crown.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ Huw is saying as Ryan walks in with the teas. ‘This cottage has been empty since I was a lad, and anybody who knew anything worth telling has gone. Some people think this place is haunted, but I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘But something must have happened for them to think that,’ Ada says, leaning in, excited.

  ‘There’s a rumour that they left in haste, but that’s it,’ Huw says.

  ‘So there wasn’t a fire?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘There were always fires back then,’ Huw says, ‘Fire regulation is a recent thing, but you’d know that as architects.’ He winks at Ryan, who doesn’t remember telling him that they were.

  At the table Ryan watches the way that Ada nibbles at the bread, breaking it off in small pieces. He swigs from his coffee. Ada watches Huw, who looks around the room.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ Huw says looking around appraisingly, ‘I didn’t th
ink you’d stick it out. But don’t get too comfortable: the land has a way of reclaiming its own. Everything is borrowed for a short time. These mountains and lakes will outlive us all and our worldly sins.’ With this he looks at Ryan.

  When Huw takes his leave the sheepdog utters a final bark towards the ceiling. Ryan watches them walk across the field and disappear into the forest. He can hear Huw whistling long after they disappear from sight.

  ‘So you’re none the wiser,’ he says, turning to Ada.

  ‘It was nice of him to come,’ she replies. ‘But something did happen here. I sense it.’

  ‘He’s a character.’ Ryan scoffs.

  ‘Don’t be mean,’ Ada says. ‘He’s wise.’

  ‘Outlive us all and all our worldly sins? Come on, Ada, he’s a fruit loop. Don’t try and pretend that he’s not.’

  ‘He saved us that day we got lost, if it hadn’t been for him—’

  ‘We’d have got a little bit colder but we’d have been fine. And if he hadn’t rescued us then we probably wouldn’t have found this cottage either,’ Ryan says. Ada fixes him with a withering look.

  ‘And that would have been a good thing because?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m just saying that just because he happened to be in the right place at the right time doesn’t mean that we owe him a debt of gratitude, or that we should trust him,’ he adds.

  ‘You’re such a cynic sometimes, you know that?’ She grabs her book and marches outside, slamming the door behind her.

  Later, they walk along the Mawddach Trail. They don’t mention their conversation about Huw. They’ve been meaning to explore the trail for ages and the route, though flat, is beautiful, tracing the disused railway track along the southern edge of the estuary. Ada delights in discovering abandoned pieces of equipment now overgrown with bushes along the edges of the track, leaving Ryan alone with his thoughts. He is grateful. He thinks of the marble rolling across the floor. Dislodged from hidden spaces.