by Peter Benson
I tried to sleep. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I had one of those nights where nothing seems or feels right for the night. When I woke up, I went back to intensive care, sat with Sam for half an hour, said goodbye and told her I’d be back soon. I collected my stuff from the ward, signed a form, and a man drove me back to Ashbrittle. He tried to talk to me as he drove, but I didn’t have anything to say. I just stared at the streets and houses, and when the streets and houses turned to hedges and fields I stared at the hedges and fields. I still felt heavy and lost and smoky, but other things had added themselves to these feelings. Here was fury and here was rage, and they were walking with grief and the nagging idea that none of this was real, that I was simply drowning in a dream of my own making. A stupid idea, and I chased it out of my head with a stick, beat it to death in a corner and turned my back on it.
Mum had my old room ready for me. For a moment I thought I was going to get a lecture. I waited for her to tell me that the signs had been in the clouds or the song of birds or the tracks of rabbits, but she said nothing except that I should go to bed and she’d bring me a cup of tea. I did as I was told for half an hour, but I couldn’t rest or keep still. When she came up, she asked me about Sam, and I told her everything I knew. She tried to reassure me, and told me about someone she’d read about in the newspaper who fell out of a window and banged her head and the doctors thought she’d never recover, but she did, and now she was a concert pianist. “They do miracles these days,” she said.
“I know.”
“And I’ll think of something that might help.”
“What sort of thing?”
She tapped the side of her nose. “I’ll tell you when I’ve thought of it. But in the meantime you’re not to worry.”
Not to worry? I drank the tea and stared out of the window at the village green and the familiar cars, but I did nothing but worry. It was impossible not to. It took chunks out of me, chewed me, spat me out and took another chunk. I got up and went downstairs. I stood in the kitchen, and the cat came and rubbed itself against my good leg, then went to look for a patch of sunshine. My bike had been collected from the field, and was leaning against Dad’s shed. I went outside and stood over it. The front wheel was buckled, the tank was dented and the wing mirrors were smashed. I didn’t know where to start, but I thought that I should try and mend it. I went inside the shed to look for some tools.
Dad’s gardening tools hung on the back wall, flower pots and a bag of compost were stacked behind the door, and a work bench stood by the window. Random jam jars were filled with nuts and bolts, nails and screws, cup hooks and washers, and some hand tools were arranged in a rack. I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I picked up a wooden box, opened it and looked at a small collection of metal brackets, coils of wire and string. For some reason I was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness, a sadness that took me by the hand and begged me to weep. I suppose it was the way Dad had saved and collected stuff he’d never use, and the idea that one day it would be my job to come to this shed and gather the same stuff up and throw it away. Why had he saved a rusted water tap, two cork tiles and a bicycle bell that didn’t work? Or a single boot with a hole in the sole, a small bag of bottle tops and a hardened paint brush with a piece of twine wrapped around its cracked handle? The force of nostalgia or the promise of potential? I didn’t know, but I did care. Everything in the shed was part of Dad, like his eyes or hands or his voice. I could smell him in everything I touched, feel his wishes and dreams.
The shed was his place, and he didn’t like other people rummaging through his stuff, so when I saw him coming down the garden path I stepped outside. And before he could have a go at me, I said, “Sorry Dad. I was looking for a spanner.”
“What for?”
“That.” I pointed at the bike.
“Oh don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be as good as new.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. It’ll be a project for me.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Oh, and Mr Evans called. He said you’re to take all the time you need.”
“He’s a good old boy,” I said.
“And you’re to listen to your mother,” he said. “I know sometimes she says things you might not understand, but there’s a lot going on up there.” He tapped the side of his head.
“I know,” I said, “and I do listen to her.” And when he went back to his lettuces I left the garden and walked up to the churchyard and the yew.
The yew. I’ve heard it whisper and cry, and I’ve heard it hum and sing. There are stories about it, stories about the old religions and the roots of the tree drinking blood while its branches made patterns in the air. Once, the warm guts of living men were nailed to its trunks, and the men forced to walk around the tree, unravelling their entrails, bees humming, women laughing and yelling to their mad gods, children in lines singing pretty songs and waving ribbons in the air. Gods looking on, laughing back and nodding satisfaction and waiting for the next man to be brought for slaughter. The blood running, dogs howling and waiting to eat, sick smells in the air. Music played on instruments people smashed and burned a long time ago. Purple. I believe it was purple in those days, but now the colour was green, and it was cool in its shade like a still draught, and birds chirped in the branches. Someone had put a posy in a crack in the bark, little yellow and blue flowers that had faded now. I touched them: petals dropped away, and the church clock began to chime the hour.
The yew’s trunk is hollow and split into six smaller trunks, and even now people bring sick babies to its shade and pass them through the trunks, and the babies are healed. I sat in its hollow, rested my head and looked up at the branches. The bark was flaked and pale and running with ants. I suppose I was thinking that the tree gives itself to anyone who believes, and maybe it could help me. That if Sam’s head died, but her body lived, I could bring her here and thread her through these trunks. That Spike could be made to change if he slept beneath these branches. That violent men could be calmed by its sight. Or maybe not.
I sat for an hour, and when I stood up I did feel stronger, my leg felt better and my thoughts were running straight and easy. I walked to the far end of the churchyard, left by the top gate and stood outside Pump Court. I was going to knock on the door, but I couldn’t. I was trapped between guilt and fear. Sam’s parents would have called her friends, they’d have told them the news. I couldn’t tell them anything more. I walked down the road towards the green and the telephone box.
I stood in the box for a couple of minutes, holding the receiver in my hand, listening to the buzz. It started beeping. I put the receiver down, picked it up again and called Pollock.
“Where have you been?” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you. What’s been going on?”
“I had an accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
I explained. I told him about the chasing car and the crash and the hospital and Sam, and as I talked I heard him light a cigarette and take a long, deep drag. When I’d finished, he said, “You’re all right?”
“I’m OK. I can walk.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because we’re ready to move.”
“When?”
“We have to meet.”
“You’ll have to pick me up. My bike’s fucked.”
“All right. I’ll be over. This afternoon?”
“OK.”
“Tell me where.”
“I’ll walk to Tracebridge, at the bottom of Ashbrittle Hill, and wait on the bridge. You can’t miss it. You’ll feel the place before you see it.”
“What?”
“Never mind…”
“I’ll feel the place?”
“Forget it…” I said, and I could hear Pollock’s silence. He was wondering something. Eventually he said, “Half-two?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he said, and t
hat was that.
After I’d hung up, I waited in the box for a couple of minutes, then crossed the road and let myself into the house. Mum was in the kitchen, Dad was in the garden. I went upstairs and lay on my bed, stared at the ceiling and listened to the familiar sounds of the world. There was comfort there, and pleasure and familiarity, and I let myself float in it while I could. I felt held and loved and wanted, and thought that my visit to the yew tree had given me a greater power. “Yes,” I said to the ceiling, and I let the single word bounce back at me like a ball and settle on my forehead.
An hour later I was waiting on the bridge. The river was weak and slow, and the trees were high. Wood pigeons were making their sounds and, in a field above the valley, sheep were making theirs. A light breeze was twirling through the leaves, and the sun was strong, but the sense of malevolence the old witch had left at the place was there, and gave the air a chill. I tried to find a pocket of warmth, a place where the sun broke through and couldn’t fail, but there was none. So I waited behind a tree, hid myself there and watched.
I watched a magpie, a single chattering bird that hopped from branch to branch to branch and back again like the evil shadow of its own image. Mum always told me to salute the magpie, but I wondered; are the old superstitions simply reflections of our fears, and do we make the superstitions real by acknowledging our fears? Sometimes I surprised myself with the things I thought. Another magpie appeared. Joy. And then another. A girl. How did it go? And how did it end? Eight is a kiss, nine is a wish, ten is a chance never to be missed. I waited. I didn’t see more than three.
Pollock arrived on time. He was alone. I stepped out from behind the tree and walked to the car, and for a moment he looked a bit surprised. Surprise faded to nonchalance. He leant across, opened the passenger door, said, “Get in,” and I did as I was told. He turned the car around and drove back towards Apply Cross, down through Greenham and up to the main road. We headed towards the Blackdowns, and when he’d found a quiet spot beside a dry stream, he pulled in and let the car settle. As it clicked and cooled, he turned to me and said, “You’re a lucky man, Elliot.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Very.”
“I don’t feel lucky. And my girlfriend’s in intensive care. They don’t know if she’ll live.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be OK.”
“How do you know that?”
“Faith, Elliot, faith. Have some. It’s easy. There’s plenty to go around. And all types. Hard, soft, chewy, melt-in-the-mouth…”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. I shrugged.
“Believe me,” he said, and he reached around to the back seat and picked up a folder. He opened it, took out a sheet of paper and said, “OK. We have a plan.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. And you’re part of it.”
“Great.”
“I’m only going to tell you what you need to know: there’ll be things that go on that I won’t tell you about, but that’s because it’ll be safer that way.”
“Just tell me what I have to do.”
“Good lad.”
Apparently it was a simple plan, and Pollock said it had hands and feet and legs and was ready to stroll down the street with a flag – whatever that meant. I had no idea, but I didn’t say anything. Dickens was going to find out that I was selling the smoke to a man from Bristol, and I was so desperate that I was ready to take any price just to get rid of it. As long as I got enough to buy some peace and quiet I’d be happy. The man from Bristol was “someone you’ve already met”.
“Who?”
“Inspector Smith.”
“The bloke who came with you last time?”
“You’re not stupid, are you?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask my friends about that.”
At half-past ten on the day after tomorrow, I was to drive the smoke to a transport café on the A38, between Taunton and Wellington, park and wait. I knew the place. I’d been there before. They did good breakfasts. Two sausages, two rashers, hash browns, tomatoes, heaps of beans and mushrooms and as much toast as you could eat. Ketchup in squeezy plastic bottles the shape of tomatoes and tea in heavy mugs, all served on sticky formica tables. But I wasn’t to be tempted. I was to sit tight and still and stare at my fingernails and the torn posters of foreign places that hung on the wall. A canal in Venice. The Taj Mahal. The Eiffel Tower. I was to listen to the bad music from the crackly speaker over the counter, and smell the old oil as it wafted from the kitchen. Inspector Smith would meet me. He’d be dressed like a big-time dealer, and have a bag of pretend money. There’d be other people there, but I wouldn’t know it. I’d be in the dark. Dickens would meet me too, but he wouldn’t recognize Smith or be expecting anything unexpected. “He’ll have a couple of heavies with him, but you’re not to worry. We’ll have you covered.”
“You sure about that?”
“Cast iron, Elliot, cast iron.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll take the bastard down.”
“You sure about that too?”
“Oh yes.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Faith, Elliot.”
“But if you don’t?”
“Elliot. This has been worked out. Every detail. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“Nothing?”
“Guaranteed. We’re not taking any chances. We can’t afford to. A lot of people have been waiting a long time for this.”
I stared at Pollock. He stared back at me. I don’t know who he thought I was or who I reminded him of, but he reminded me of someone I’d seen in a film. I don’t know who that someone was or what film it was or where I saw it, but his face was lined, and there were tiny spots on his forehead. His lips were thin, and his eyes were honest and big, and I think he liked me. Maybe I was naive or maybe I was just stupid, but at that time I had no choice. I was trapped in the dark, and the dark folded its wings over my face. I had to believe him. I had to nod when he told me the plan, and as he drove away from the quiet spot and rolled back towards Ashbrittle, I watched the road, and the road became a still and peaceful place where wishes could lie down and dream.
Wishes lie down and dream? Now there was an idea, and when I thought about dreams, I wished I could go back to the time when my dreams were simple and quiet, and the worst they could do was leave me with a dry mouth. When I got home, I sat on the bench beneath the kitchen window and watched the sky and the swallows and swifts, the passing birds of the English season. They filled themselves with flies, they cut the sky to ribbons and wounds and left it crying, and as they sang they left me with my head in my hands and my bad leg throbbing. And what did I do? I sat and waited, and when Dad got in from work I fetched him a beer and opened it and watched him drink and wipe his face of his clean and innocent sweat. And when Grace came back from college, she sat next to me and hugged me and I thanked her for being my sister. “I’m lucky,” I said, and I almost meant it.
“You bet,” she said, and she kissed me on the end of my nose like you’d kiss a pet rabbit, or the back of an envelope before you post it to someone you really love.
“Grace?” I said.
“What?”
“You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“I wanted to check.”
She looked at me as if I was mad. “What are you talking about? Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“And I do too,” I said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “And when I’m dead I’m going to haunt you.”
“What if I die first?”
“Then I’ll haunt you in your grave. I’ll dig down and stand in front of you and make weird moaning sounds until you wake up.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, it’ll be my pleasure,” she said, and the way she looked at me made me think that she was telling th
e truth, more of a truth that anything I’d heard all day. And when Mum got back, she ran to me and hugged me and put her hand on the top of my head and I tasted earth in my mouth. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll make your favourite.” So Grace and Dad and I followed her into the house, and we sat at the table while she fired up the oven, fetched sausages from the fridge and mixed up a bowl of thick batter.
20
In the morning, while the cat played with a ball of wool and the village cockerels chased their hens into the shade, Mum said she’d thought of something, and if I had the gifts she had, and a talent for the old charms, then it was a thing that would work for me. She told me it had done for her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother back then, and who knew how many mothers before them.
“So what do I do?”
“First,” she said, “you have to have faith. You take your faith and swallow it, and then you pick an apple.”
“An apple?”
“Yes. And you take a bite from it while thinking of the one thing you most want to happen in the world. It’s got to be from our garden,” she said, “and the thing you think of mustn’t have anything to do with something you want to happen to you. Think about someone else.”
“And then what?”
“You bury the piece you’ve bitten off outside her house.”
“Her house? Who’s she?”
She squinted at me, shook her head and said, “Oh please Pet. This isn’t a game.”
“And?”
“You keep the rest in your pocket.”
“What if I haven’t got a pocket?”
“You’ve got to take this seriously, Pet. If you don’t, it won’t work.”
What could I do but do as I was told? I went to the apple tree, picked an apple, polished it on my shirt and thought about Sam. I thought about her brain and how it sat inside her skull, the blood vessels and sponge bits and the nerves. And I imagined the apple as her brain, and when I bit a piece out of it I imagined it as the damaged piece of her brain with the memories swilling, the thoughts gone and the ideas dead. And as I carried the bitten piece up the road to her cottage, I asked the thing that gives Mum her power or insight or whatever it is to look down on Sam and do whatever it could.
