Another station. This time, a new passenger boarded Fergus’s carriage. He was heavy-set, fat even: the checked cotton of his shirt strained at the point where it disappeared under the waist band of his jeans. He slung his holdall onto the rack above Fergus’s head.
‘Is this free?’
He indicated the seat opposite Fergus with a dip of his head, and was already sliding in between chair and table by the time Fergus had completed his acknowledgement. Fergus did not feel much like talking and, although such unfriendliness troubled him, he was thankful when the newcomer, having settled, busied himself with his mobile phone.
After Penrith, the mountains rose in the distance to the west, some still snow-topped, growing ever-nearer. Soon they were joined from the east by the Howgills, which closed to form a narrowing valley. The train burst from a tunnel to reveal a landscape that for a moment gave Fergus to believe that he was already on his way home, nearing Mallaig. But soon the earth flattened and the fattening sun to the west broke the day dream. Disconsolate, Fergus stared through the ghostly reflection of the man in the window, whose eyes seemed to stare directly, fixedly into his own. In them, Fergus could see only distance, a still sadness, a looking deep into the past in search of what was lost and far into the future, but not far enough, in fear of what is to come. The open country rippled beyond the grimy window, laid out in grand scale. The landscape revealed in its sparse farmsteads and hamlets the tentative grasp of humans on the surface of the world, even here.
Arrival at Preston shook the sleep from his lolling head. The man was gone; he stood with his bag by the end of the carriage, waiting while the glass door slid repeatedly into his shoulder. The landscape had disappeared completely and the train was indoors, under a vast roof, surrounded by walls. The day’s light was beginning to fade and the electric lamps of the shops and cafes within the station burned with an angry phosphorescence, the glare smearing into the gathering darkness. People milled on the platform, clustered at the doors, as the entire carriage emptied save for Fergus. Old men in rain coats and young women in light cardigans all danced an anxious dance as they waited in line along the aisle, fearful of being stranded, unable to disembark. Fergus watched as his fellow passengers filed out from the train and into the swirl of the station.
No sooner had the carriage emptied than new neighbours began to funnel in. There were more now, and most carried bags: tiny suitcases with wheels, rucksacks and holdalls, larger cases with ribbon tied to the handles, surreptitious labels of ownership. As the train filled and the doors were piped shut, a young woman smiled at him. She had a rucksack on her back and was holding a small red plastic plant pot, home to two seedlings.
‘Is it alright if I sit here?’
Again, his new companion indicated the seat opposite with a tilt of the head, but this time she waited for his agreement. Placing the plant pot gently on the table, she began to wrestle her rucksack onto the overhead rack. Fergus watched her for a moment too long, such that she had all but secured it by the time he had got to his feet offering help.
‘Thanks, that’s really kind of you. Think I’ve got it though. Ought to – shouldn’t carry a bag I can’t handle on my own, I always say. I pack it, I carry it. But thanks. That was sweet of you, anyway.’
The smile again, but broader now. Fergus was still standing next to her, useless. Another passenger, with a brittle ‘Excuse me’, pushed past, hurrying along the aisle towards an empty seat.
‘I don’t know why everyone is in such a rush. They change the train crew here. Going be sat here for a bit yet.’
With that, she slipped off a leather jacket, embellished with padded elbows, and threw it up onto the rack next to her bag. As she slid into the seat, Fergus thought that the jacket, along with her boots, made her look as if she rode a motorbike. But no helmet would comfortably fit over her hair. While it was cropped in closely to about an inch above and behind her ears, the rest was still long and was pulled up into what his mother would call a top knot. This created a sharp V at the nape of her neck, while a short, severe fringe connected the groove above her ears. Inside the V, the top knot was dyed red; not red like copper or carrots or ginger, but red like her lips. She looked up, directly into his eyes, and Fergus felt ashamed. But instead of scowling, she smiled once more, holding his gaze.
‘Which side do you want?’
He did not understand her question. She pointed first at the aisle seat and then the one beside the window, her amusement playing on her face.
‘I was on the window side, but I don’t mind really. Whichever you feel more comfortable in. Your choice.’
The train jolted into life and Fergus grasped the seat back to maintain his poise. The smile rose again, this time for herself. She slid over to the window seat, taking the plant pot with her: the seedlings trembled with the trains gathering speed.
‘What are they?’
Fergus was sitting now, nodding towards the red plastic pot.
‘Tomatoes. Well, they will be. My mum, she grows all sorts at home. Proper green fingers she’s got. Thought I’d try to grow some down in London. You been home for the holidays too?’
Ruby leant in closer as Fergus explained his purpose in travelling south, her eyes flitting over his face as he spoke; wide brown eyes that drew Fergus into ever-more animated explanation. She laughed in pleasure when he said ‘butterlump’ and grew solemn when he recounted how Miss Carmichael had lost her job in his unwitting service. She asked questions without fear or conceit, prompting him gently to colour the landscape of Hinba for her, so that she might smell the breeze upon the heather.
By the time he asked her how he might get from Euston to Elephant and Castle, had asked whether that was somewhere near where she lived, the evening had encased the world beyond in a slippery darkness, streaked with points of yellow light. Their reflections looked across at them, exaggerated, uncertain.
‘Not really. I’m in Stepney. It’s convenient for Queen Mary’s. Nice too, in an east end kind of way.’
‘Queen Mary’s what?’
Ruby failed to smother her laughter and Fergus’s confusion turned to hurt. Her hand rested upon his for a moment, a reassurance, an apology. It was the merest of touches, yet Fergus could weigh the time it lingered, feel the warmth of its arrival and the chill of its departure. Then it was gone, and Ruby was telling her own story as gravity shifted in the approach to Milton Keynes.
Ruby walked with Fergus up the long ramp from the platform. The wide, bright space of the concourse was filled with people moving under the distant roof in seemingly random agitation. Ruby led him through the crowd with weary assuredness. When they reached the top of a set of stairs descending beneath the concourse floor she stopped.
‘Right then, Fergus. This is the tube. Get yourself a single zone one ticket and take the Northern Line down to Elephant. You’ll have to find your own way from there: I’m not a south London sort of person. Remember, the Northern Line. The black one. And it’s the Bank Branch you want. That’s important. The Bank Branch, southbound. There’ll be signs.’
He counted each instruction into his memory, so that he would not misplace a single piece. The swirling city was too unstable to be without these certainties. Fergus lurched with a sudden giddiness.
‘You’re not coming with me? At least as far as the train?’
‘Sorry, but I take a bus. Goes straight to my door. And it’s cheaper. But you’ll be fine. Just remember Bank Branch. Southbound. Northern Line. And good luck. With everything. I hope you find your butterlump and take it back to your island. It’s been really nice to meet you. The journey flew past.’
Ruby gave him a brief embrace, her hand fluttering at his back.
‘You too. And thanks for all your help. It’s been great. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again?’
She was walking away by now, but turned to smile over her shoulder, shouting ‘Maybe’ back to him. Then she was gone, out into the darkness of the city, and Fergus felt very alone.<
br />
He waited for a break in the flow of people joining the escalator until he realised that there would be no break. He slid in as unobtrusively as he could and was surprised that no-one seemed to take offence, even to notice him. The machine was so clogged with bodies that he had no choice but to stand and wait while he sank beneath the ground.
The ceiling was lower here, although still twice his height, and the crush of people seemed more condensed. Steadily he made his way to the end of the queue for the ticket office and only then did he start to take proper notice of the other passengers. Some moved with purpose, while others meandered, buffeted in the slipstream of those more determined. In the middle of all this convection, a woman and a man shared a fleeting kiss before they peeled apart, their eyes already turned towards their separate lives.
Within a few minutes, Fergus had a single zone one ticket in his hand. Warily he followed the flow of people moving towards the yawning tunnel that sank down and out of sight, into the belly of the city. At the barrier, he slid his ticket into the gate and walked into its jaws.
Part III
Here Be Dragons
21
It is a small village, but it grows around you. Each element presents itself demurely, keeping itself to itself, never quite coalescing into the whole. You know that this is a village but you do not know how close the war memorial is to the duck pond, or even whether the two stand on the same green triangle. You have a memory of its edges, the boundary seen on the horizon as the fields and roads and streams slipped beneath you, the greens and greys and blues blurring as you sped towards the slender spire that punctured the bright sky. The buds of crisp white cloud hung over you then as they do now, here beside the pale grey stone of the church.
People are milling by the doorway to the church. All are dressed in their finest clothes; some are in uniform, others in top hats, in bonnets, wearing long gloves or jackets or waistcoats. These people, congealing by the porch, are strange to you, known yet unknown. In their murmuring, there is a hint of threat, their lost words a cause for unease.
The memorial service is about to begin and everyone is anxious to be inside the church. There is pushing and the crowd seethes as far as the solemnity of the occasion will allow. For every one that manages to squeeze through the felt-backed door, another two emerge from among the gravestones to join the back of the throng, the congregation growing uncontained.
None of the mourners pay attention to you as you slip ever more tightly among them. In the crush of oblivious bodies, you sense antipathy in them even as they ignore you. You are steered, cajoled, and your escort carries you, closes around you, covering the route you have taken.
When the bodies surrounding you withdraw, there is the room. The walls are painted to a grey-beige sheen. In the centre stands a table, a long oval of burnished wood. Around it sit twelve figures. The table is set as for dinner, but there is no food, no crockery, no cutlery, no candelabra, no glassware, no salt, no pepper pots; only black silk napkins, one in each place. You take the one vacant seat, sinking into the pale green upholstery that sucks you down into its voluptuousness.
Facing you across the table, a child lifts its head and stares into you. He is followed by all the others seated around you, and the trial begins. You do not know the charges, and do not understand the process. The voices are gibberish in your ears. You know that you are innocent, but can find no way to make your case; your mouth is tight shut, your hands immobile.
All eyes turn towards one end of the table, where a woman, dressed in dusty lace and crinoline, is speaking. Her ivory gloves reach up to and beyond her elbows, and when she speaks, her mouth widens to reveal her toothless gums. At the other end of the table, a man, round as a ball and wearing a colourful school cap and satin blazer, licks his lips as he watches her. Abruptly, a man dressed in uniform begins a fiery response. The sound that pours from his static open mouth simply rumbles, makes the table quake, and yet his meaning is clear in the absence of words.
The general completes his deposition with a sharp salute. The child facing you bangs his tiny fist on the table and the others scurry from the room. As they leave, they throw their napkins into the air and they swirl and spiral in the disquieted air. Now there is only you and the child, who is covered in the black silk shroud. An oscillating sound rises from under the silk, climbing until it becomes an abrupt shriek. You long to cover your ears to keep out the sound, but your arms do not respond.
And then the charm is broken and the hands that had clasped you to the chair have gone. You are free. Hurriedly, you retrace your steps, but you cannot find the door. Once, then twice, you pass your flat palm across the slickness of the room’s enclosure, an anxious circuit of the child draped in black silk that crouches still in the centre of the empty room, shrinking, collapsing, until nothing remains except a dark absence on the ground.
The walls are different now. The stones are rough and haphazardly laid, rising far above you to the sky. Unfamiliar plants, gigantesque, twist through the broken flagstones; gnarled vines and angry rasps. Above you, suspended from a bar raised high above the coping of the garden’s walls, are twelve grotesques, dangling at the end of elastic lines. They spring and bounce on their leashes, descending ever nearer to you, their faces venomous and their arms extended, hands hooked into claws, talons; twenty four cruel eyes intent upon you.
One is enclosed within in a silvered bubble, studded with long spikes. His armour makes him heavier that the others and he draws more forcefully on his elastic, coming closer and closer with every extension of the line. His dull shouts and blunt syllables cascade down towards you without direction. Yet you see the needle-point of the spikes seeking out your flesh, anticipate the puncture of you milky skin, the oozing of your life blood. The plants can smell it too and strain at their roots; the walls groan with expectation and crowd in, narrowing around you.
Knowing that you cannot run, you instead float upwards, rising between the agitated bodies churning around you. They come so close that you can smell their breath, feel the whisper of air as they pass within inches of you. You hold your nerve, and continue to rise.
22
For a time, both worlds merged, the fluid and the concrete, and only slowly did he pull himself from the stew of sleep. From the other world, hands still clamoured for him, holding him down, preventing his flight. At last, sticky slumber peeled away to reveal an unfamiliar room. Numb, he waited for the world to find its focus, simply wondering if he should open the curtains. But elsewhere, the shouting continued and, uncertain of its origins, he was wary of disturbing the uneasy equilibrium, much less of drawing attention to himself. Hesitantly, he reached out of the covers for his watch. The movement unleashed a musty aroma into the air, and he swallowed heavily, his mouth clamped shut.
It was seven twenty. Maybe it was too early, but he no longer wanted to stay in the room. Its strangeness was oddly jarring, and the smell was as unreliable as it was unpleasant. He struggled to place it, knowing only that it was organic in origin and that it was something to do with the bedding within which he was still wrapped. Could something have died in there with him?
The sheets belonged to Jamie’s flatmate; the room too. As the last wisps of sleep lifted from him, Fergus climbed from the bed and, naked but for his boxer shorts, stood on the grainy carpet, swaying gently. The shouting stopped abruptly and somewhere in the building a door slammed: the air quivered for a moment while the bricks regained their composure. The stillness brought a fragment of relief but soon wrapped Fergus in chill. He took up his clothes to dress.
There was no living room. His bedroom door gave onto a small, dark corridor from which in turn led four other doors. He knew that the furthest was the front door, through which he had entered the night before, shortly before nine. He had found Mannion House eventually, despite the blank looks of the bored man at the tube station. Without lifting his chin from his hand, he had merely pointed in the direction of a map attached to the station wall, over
by the entrance. A howl of traffic had greeted him as he emerged beneath the white towers that he assumed must be the castle after which the place was named, and he had picked his way around the edge of its turbulence. He had passed a looming mass of darkness, a fallen megalith of concrete, a remembrance of some distant faith, before turning from the main thoroughfare and into the narrower streets, quiet and poorly lit.
When he had arrived, Jamie had ushered him into his own room to drop his bag, before suggesting that they pop out for a pint and something to eat. The room had been large and comfortable: Fergus realised now that it had once been intended as a living room. There had been a bed, and an arm chair had faced a tidy desk, on which the screen of an open laptop was filled with an explosion frozen in time.
The door nearest to him was the bathroom, where he had first begun to regret Jamie’s unquestioning hospitality as he had brushed his teeth cautiously despite his mild inebriation, unwilling to touch the many greasy surfaces the room contained. Only the final door was mystery. However, it was ajar and no sound came from beyond it. Fergus inhaled and passed through into the kitchen.
The room was less unpleasant than he had imagined. There were dishes still in the sink, but the water was relatively clear. Crumbs besieged the toaster, but the table was not tacky to his touch and he dropped his notebook with confidence. While the kettle boiled, Fergus flicked through his recent entries: four short accounts of troubling dreams, to which he would shortly add a fifth. As he wrote the day’s date beneath the last entry, he wondered if he would make it back to Hinba before the end of the week. Even if things went well, it seemed unlikely: between Mannion House and home were two days travelling.
The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga Page 13
